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Inspired by this post. 18+. mdni. oral (f receiving), obsessive!needy!valarr, possessiveness, established relationship. he's SO pussy drunk in this it's actually crazy! stay safe out there!🙏
✶ tt!au // valarr!first verse.
Valarr comes back to you on a Thursday, near midnight, and you feel him before you hear him.
You don't sleep properly when he's gone. A fact you'd never admit and which Valarr suspects and is far too clever to ever name.
You've been floating in the shallows of slumber, the duvet pulled to your chin, the apartment too large and too quiet around you. Then comes the soft, mechanical click of the front door, the murmur of him dismissing the driver, the weight of his tread crossing the dark floor toward the bedroom. Unhurried stride, familiar. The gait of a man arriving somewhere he's been thinking about for six days.
You don't open your eyes.
You listen to Valarr undress. The rustle of a jacket laid over the chair, the chime of a belt buckle, the carefulness of a man trying not to wake you and failing entirely to understand that you've been half-listening for this exact sequence of sounds since the moment he left.
The bed dips under Valarr's weight. The slate duvet lifts. And then Valarr is behind you, the warm length of him fitting against your spine. His arm coming heavy over your waist and dragging you back into him with a greed he doesn't bother to soften now that he believes you're asleep.
He buries his face in the back of your neck.
He breathes you in. A long, shuddering inhale against your nape, the kind a drowning man takes when he breaks the surface, his chest expanding hard against your back. And you feel something go out of him as he does it. Some tension he's been carrying for six days through whatever rooms full of older men he's been outmanoeuvring and charming into doing what he wanted. It uncoils.
Valarr's whole body loosens against your spine by degrees, muscle releasing muscle, a fist opening one finger at a time. The held set of his shoulders follows, the lock of his jaw next, all of it dissolving against your skin.
"Missed you," he breathes into your hair, so low it's barely shaped into words. "God, the state of me. Missed you like a limb, my love."
He kisses your nape. Warm, reverent. Then again, lower, where your neck meets the curve of your shoulder, lingering, his lips parting against your skin like he means to leave something there.
His arm tightens until there's no space left between you at all. His knees fit into the hollows behind yours. He's wound so tight you can feel it even in the way Valarr holds you, a fine tremor running through him.
You don't say anything.
You let him have it. Let him hold you and breathe you in and press those quiet kisses into your skin. Because you understand, in the wordless animal way you understand most things about Valarr, that he needs this more than he needs you awake.
He needs to arrive. To come home in his body, not merely on his calendar. So you keep your breathing even and your eyes shut. You let him pour six days of want into the back of your neck in the dark.
His breathing slows. The tremor fades little by little. The last of the week leaves him in one long exhale, and somewhere in the warm dark before you both go under, his lips move against your nape one final time.
"My love," he whispers, like a man setting down something he'd been afraid to lose.
You sleep with his arm a dead weight across your waist and his mouth still buried in your hair.
You wake, hours later, before Valarr does.
The light is grey, the first thin wash of it through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment quiet around you.
You've turned in the night. You're facing him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. Valarr sleeps on his back with one arm flung up across the pillows and the other still curled, even unconscious, toward the warm dent where you'd been.
You look at him.
You allow yourself this, in the rare grey hours when he doesn't know you're doing it: the luxury of looking at Valarr Targaryen without performance, without his mismatched eyes on you cataloguing every flicker of your reaction, without the game the two of you are always, on some level, playing.
You let your gaze move over him the way his moves over you when he thinks you aren't watching.
He's beautiful. An almost insulting quantity of it for one man to carry, the kind that made you think, the first time you watched him cross a room toward you, oh, that face is going to be a problem.
The dark hair ruined against the white pillow, falling across his forehead. The white streak at his temple that you know runs coarser to the touch than the rest of the floppy strands. The long sweep of his dark lashes. The pink mouth gone soft in sleep.
It is, perhaps, the most dangerous thing about Valarr, for what comes out of it.
Next comes the dips and lines of his trained, maintained body. Every inch of it claimed and tasted by you.
But this morning there's something else, too.
He didn't shave in Essos. Hasn't shaved, you'd guess, in four days (overrun, he'd said on FaceTime, drowning, back to back, I'll call again when I surface, love) and he never surfaced, never sent the usual photographs. The week swallowed him whole.
So the lower half of his face has darkened. A heavy shadow of stubble crowds along his jaw, his chin, above the bow of his lip, the clean architecture of him roughened and obscured, the boyish gloss sanded clean off.
It changes Valarr completely.
The golden dragon is gone.
The polished, attentive boy who brings you tea with honey and in his place is a dark jawline, a harder set of hollows beneath the cheekbones. A face with weight and shadow in it. The other Valarr. The silky dark one who slips loose when you fist your hands in his hair, when you growl low in your throat, when you push your fingers into his mouth and watch the brown eye go black. When you ask him to fuck you so hard you can't walk the next day.
The one you've spent three years coaxing into the light, luring up out of deep water inch by inch, nurturing the edge of him your father once glimpsed under all that shine and called the dragon, deep beneath. The one you love no less than the golden one. Perhaps more, in some senses, because he's the one Valarr lets no one else in the world see.
He looks, asleep with four days of stubble in the grey light, like the man who lives underneath the man.
You want to touch it.
So you do. You lift your hand and lay your palm flat against the side of Valarr's jaw, against the rough dark grain of him, and the texture catches and drags at your skin, coarse and entirely new under your fingers.
His eyes flutter open.
By degrees, unfocused at first, the blue one catching the light first. Then they find your face and sharpen. Valarr takes in your expression, whatever it is, whatever you didn't have the warning to school it into, and a deep, knowing pleasure unfurls across his features.
"Good morning, my love," he says, his voice wrecked from sleep, dropped half an octave and rough at every edge. "You're staring."
"I am."
"You like it." His mouth curves into something that isn't quite the golden boy's smile. He turns his face into your palm, drags the stubble across it deliberately, and watches you feel it. Takes in the small, involuntary thing your eyes do. "Tell me you like it."
You don't answer right away. You trace your thumb along the dark line of his jaw, learning the rasp of it. Valarr's eyes hood, his attention sharpening on you with the lazy, predatory patience that belongs to the other one.
"Don't shave," you tell him.
He laughs, low and delighted, the sound rumbling up out of his chest. "No?"
"No." You drag your thumb across his lower lip, feeling the place where smooth gives way to rough. "I want you like this."
"Like this," he repeats, tasting it. He catches your wrist, and turns his head to press his mouth to the heel of your hand. The stubble scrapes, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me what this is, then. Be specific. What is it you want, sweet girl?"
"You know what it is."
"I want to hear you say it out loud."
You hold his gaze. Neither of you blinks; you've never been the one to blink first, and he's learned not to expect it. "It's the other one," you say evenly. "The one you keep underneath. He's closer to the surface like this. I can see him from here."
An emotion moves through Valarr's face at that. The pleasure goes darker, banked-coal warm, the brown eye dropping a full shade, and his grip on your wrist tightens by a fraction that says he heard exactly what you meant.
"Then come and get him," he says huskily, and it isn't a request.
"I'm right here."
"Not close enough, my love. Nowhere near."
He's already drawing you in, his arm sliding around the small of your back, gathering you across the short distance until you're flush against the bare warm length of him under the duvet, every inch against every inch.
"Six days. Do you have the faintest idea what six days does to me?" Not a question. Valarr's mouth is already moving. Your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw, leaving that rough new abrasion wherever it lands. "I needed you in every room I walked into. Every meeting. Every dinner. I'd be mid-sentence, closing the deal I flew out there to close, and all I could think was your hands. The sound you make when I first—"
You kiss him quiet.
Valarr kisses you back like a man surfacing from underwater. Nothing careful in it, nothing of the I won't presume he gave you in year one. Just open and immediate and starving, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull and hold you exactly where he wants you.
And the stubble burns. It scrapes your mouth, your chin, the soft skin around your lips, raw and hot, and Valarr does it on purpose. You feel the intent in it. Feel him angle his jaw to grind the rough of it across your cheek, watching for your reaction even with his eyes half-shut and his mouth fused to yours. When you moan into the kiss, when the sting of him drags a low, helpless sound up out of your chest, you feel Valarr's mouth curve against yours in dark satisfaction.
"There it is," he murmurs. "I've missed that sound. I've been starving for it, sweet girl."
He does it again. Harder. Drags his jaw down the line of your neck, the burn blooming heat across your skin in a spreading wash, and you tip your head back and bare your throat to him and let him, your fingers driving up into his hair.
The sound Valarr makes against your throat is nothing like the boyish, contented murmurs you usually coax out of him in the half-dark. It's lower than that. It has teeth in it. It belongs to the other one.
"Missed your skin," he breathes into the hollow of your throat, mouthing at the pulse. "Missed the heat of you, my love. Missed every noise I can pull out of you once I stop being polite." His mouth travels down, the rasp of his jaw scoring a hot path to your collarbone and you arch into the sensation with a sigh. "I'm not doing this quickly. I've thought about it for a week. I've earned the long version."
"Val—"
"Six days," he says against your sternum, and keeps moving down, peeling off your linen sleeping shirt.
Valarr kisses the soft swell of each breast, dragging his rough jaw against the tender underside until you arch off the sheets and gasp. He works lower, open-mouthed and wet down the curve of your ribs, the trembling plane of your stomach.
He's leaving that scrape everywhere he's been so your whole body lights like a struck match, nerve by nerve. Valarr's hands settle on your hips and spread wide, thumbs hooking into the points of bone. He kisses one, then the other. Then rubs his stubbled jaw against the soft inner skin of each thigh, back and forth, watching your face the entire time. Until you're squirming under the weight of his hands, slick and aching, your breath frayed into ragged uneven pulls.
Then he settles between your legs and lifts those shadowed eyes to your face.
"Hands off the sheets," he say, low, certain, your golden Valarr momentarily away. He takes your wrists and sets your hands in his hair himself, deliberate, then flattens his palms over your hips and pins you to the mattress. "Hold on to me instead, sweet girl. I want to feel it when you come apart for me."
The first stroke of Valarr's tongue tears a sound out of him that's worse than yours.
A deep, broken, drowning groan against your core. The noise of a man tasting the only thing he's wanted for a week and finally being allowed to have it. He moans into you. He keeps moaning into you. The flat of his tongue, then the point of it, slipping between your folds, relearning you as though he's been kept from this for years and not days.
He's drunk on it, you can feel him going under, the careful man dismantled by the first taste of you, leaving only this: a starving creature with his face buried between your thighs, breathing you in like he can't remember how to do it any other way.
And he uses the stubble. The calculated contrast of his hot, soft mouth and the raw burn of his unshaven jaw against the most sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He sucks on the nub, pressing his cheek against the crease of you, pleasure and sting braiding into something so acute you cry out and your fists clench in his hair.
He won't let your hips move. Every time you try to chase more friction, Valarr presses you flat down, holding you precisely where he wants you, making you take it at the pace he's decided on. His eyes stay on your face through all of it: fevered, drowned-dark, drinking down every helpless thing it does.
"Valarr—"
He hums against you, low and ragged, the vibration bowing your spine off the bed. "I know," he slurs, kissing the swollen folds gently. He sounds raspy, half-pained "I know, sweet girl. God, I know. Let me—just let me have you. I need you."
And then he goes deeper into you. You feel him slip the last of his composure like a coat dropped to the floor.
Whatever was left of the boy is gone; what surfaces is the dark thing he keeps buried, the worshipful animal at the bottom of him, and it doesn't kiss you so much as it adores you.
He noses against you, dragging his open mouth through you bottom to top. Valarr's tongue twists, slower now, then ravenous again, no rhythm any more, only hunger. There's nothing elegant about it now. It's wet, his tongue working you furiously, your arousal dripping into his awaiting mouth.
Valarr keeps making sounds against you, low and broken, sounds that aren't meant for you to hear, the unguarded noises of a man undone by what he's tasting.
"My love," he breathes against you, reverent, dazed. "The taste of you... I've been parched—"
And that's when you feel it: Valarr starting to rut down into the mattress beneath him, helpless, instinctive, grinding the aching length of himself against the sheets because the want has overrun him entirely.
Because eating you out has reduced him to something primal and shaking. He doesn't seem to know he's doing it. His hips move on their own, a slow, shameless grind he isn't aware of. His fingers dig harder into the flesh of your hips, and his whole body has gone fevered and greedy for more. Lost in the taste of you with four days of stubble searing your thighs and both pupils blown to black.
Valarr drags his mouth back just far enough to speak, chin slick, lips swollen like your cunt, eyes barely focused. "More. Give me more. Pull—pull my hair—please, I need to feel it—"
You fist both hands in his dark hair and you yank. Hard enough to sting.
Valarr groans—wrecked, grateful, half-feral, the sound vibrating straight through you and making you clench—and the pull snaps something loose at the core of him.
He drags you back against his mouth and goes after you with a renewed, ravenous greed, his jaw working, the stubble searing. Valarr's tongue turns relentless and exact, and the edge comes rushing up faster than you can brace for.
You tighten your fists until the dark strands strain through your fingers, and you arch off the bed. Your insides clench, coiling, and he takes you over the edge with his hands pinning you down and his mouth never once relenting.
You come apart with his name torn out of your throat and the rough burn of him branding the inside of your thighs, your whole body drawn taut as wire and then breaking. Valarr makes a sound against you that is purely starving, a deep desperate groan as the first wave of you hits his tongue, and he laps at you, parched, greedy, refusing to miss a single drop.
He licks you through it like a man drinking after days in a desert. His tongue working slow and devout against the slick of you, gathering every shudder, every pulse, every spill, drinking down every last thing your body gives him. He doesn't gentle, not really. Valarr worships, drunk and patient in his devotion. Kissing where he's been licking, licking where he's been kissing, refusing to let go of you until you're trembling and oversensitive, whispering his name and he's certain he's had all of it.
Only then does his mouth soften, turning gentle, pressing one final lingering kiss to the trembling inside of your thigh.
You lie there undone, your limbs still trembling, your hands still loosely tangled in his ruined hair, your chest heaving.
"Val," you whisper, when you find your voice.
He crawls back up the length of your body, and there's something dark and unhurried in the way he does it. Almost predatory. His mouth finds yours and you kiss him deeply, holding his face to you. A wet kiss, sloppy, finesse abandoned, you tasting yourself on his tongue, the stubble blazing against your already-tender lips, and neither of you cares in the slightest.
"You're going to be raw," Valarr murmurs against your mouth, sounding obscenely pleased about it. "Every time you feel it today you'll think of me, sweet girl."
"That's the idea," you tell him, and he makes a low sound and kisses you harder.
He's hot and solid above you. He's also, you note with a slow curl of satisfaction, still achingly hard. His length presses to the crease of your hip, untouched, ignored, leaking against your skin.
You reach down between your bodies and close your hand around him.
Valarr hisses sharply through his teeth, hips jerking into your grip.
You hum, low and pleased, and kiss the corner of his mouth tenderly, working him in a firm, unhurried stroke, feeling him pulse hot and heavy in your fist. "You missed me," you say against the rough line of his jaw. Not a question.
"Yes." Valarr's smooth voice is destroyed. He says it the way the dark one says everything—quiet, certain, more dark silk drawn taut than golden charm. "More than anything. More than is reasonable. More than I—" His breath catches and breaks as your hand twists at the wet head of him. "It was a sickness. The whole week. I'd have burned the deal to the ground to come home a day sooner if I could've found good enough excuse. I lay in that hotel every night and reached for you but you weren't there and it was... unbearable, love. You unmade me from an ocean away."
The admission lands somewhere low and bright in your chest, and you bare your teeth at it, pleased to your bones. You roll him.
You roll Valarr onto his back beneath you in one clean motion, legs wrapped around him, and Valarr blinks up at you, startled. For half a heartbeat the golden boy surfaces, the reflexive courtesy, the you've only just—
"Love," he starts, his hand finding your hips. "You don't have to, you just came apart, you—"
"Quiet."
You set your mouth to his throat.
You kiss down the strong column of his neck, dragging your lips over the jumping pulse, and Valarr's protest dies unspoken in his chest. You press your mouth to the curve of his jaw, the hollow under his ear, the spot beneath his jaw that never fails to undo him.
"Val," you say against his throat, and you let him hear the raw need in your voice. "I missed you too. Every night. I kept turning over to feel for you and you weren't there. The bed was wrong and the room was wrong and I was wrong without you." You kiss the corner of his jaw. "Do you understand me? I missed you the entire week."
Valarr groans deep in his chest, a wrecked thing, and his arms come up around you immediately. Both of them, urgent, gathering you in.
He's trying to pull you flush against him, trying to fold you in close, his hand splaying wide between your shoulder blades like he means to crush you to his chest and hold you there. The dark Valarr has gone vulnerable in an instant. The hunger has folded itself around something softer.
He wants to bury his face in your hair and breathe you in and stay like that, just hold you, just have you against him, the way he held you when he first slid into bed last night.
You feel him try to pull you up.
You stop him.
You set your palm flat to his sternum and you press him back to the mattress, kissing his pulse one more time. Then you start moving down.
"Sweet girl—" his voice cracks. "Love, come up—come back up here, let me hold you, that's all I want, just let me hold you—"
"Not yet."
"I don't need anything else, I swear, I only want you in my arms—"
"I know, pretty thing." You kiss the centre of his chest. "And you'll have that. After."
You move lower. The sharp line of his collarbone, then lower still, your mouth finding one flat, pink nipple and closing over it. His hand fists in your hair, no longer pushing you off, holding you to him now, his breath gone short and uneven.
"Sweet girl, please, I'm fine, I don't need—"
"Val." You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. The blue one is glassy. The brown one is gone black. "I want to taste you too. I've been waiting six days. Let me have my turn."
The sound Valarr makes at that is wrecked. His head drops back against the pillow. His hand stays buried in your hair, holding tight.
"Fuck," he breathes at the ceiling. "Yes. Yes... anything. Yes."
You drag your open mouth down the centre of his chest, his stomach, feeling each band of lean muscle leap and tense beneath your lips. The sharp catch of his inhale, the way Valarr's whole body has drawn taut and trembling and waiting under you.
"There he is," you murmur, pleased, against his skin, giving him his own words back. "Closer to the surface now, isn't he?"
A broken sound is your response, his hand tightening in your hair.
You reach the jut of one hip bone and press your lips there. Then the other, kissing each one in turn, letting your teeth graze the bone, and you feel his stomach hollow out on a sharp indrawn breath, his fingers trembling against your scalp.
"Sweet girl," he rasps again, and there's no refusal left anywhere in it.
It's a plea, low and dark, the golden one and the silken one finally collapsed into a single, helpless want.
Type: standalone smutty one-shot with a side of fluffy feels and basically a love letter to Steve's hands
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4400
Summary:
You really, really like Steve’s hands; they’re a pair of strong, talented and tender hands and they tell a story. They are also capable of all kinds of wonderful things.
Your attention doesn’t go unnoticed. Or unrewarded.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, hand kink big time, mirror kink, praise kink (if you squint), light bondage, slightly under-negotiated kink, allusions to dom/sub and light allusions to subspace depending on how you read it, language, Steve Rogers (he’s a warning and a kink)
A/N: I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (the nowhere LINK). This is my first time writing referencing shibari, please be kind; divider by @firefly-graphics
It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.
It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.
You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:
And therein lies the problem.
You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.
Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.
You’re failing your task spectacularly.
Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.
It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.
Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.
Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.
Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.
You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.
Steve’s hands.
The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.
They are hands of a man who fights every day.
They are hands of a man who has taken lives.
They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.
The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.
His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.
You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.
The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.
The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.
You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.
“Hm?”
His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.
He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-
“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.
You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.
“Yes, of course. You done?”
He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.
“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”
I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?
You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.
Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.
Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.
You lose the battle before it can even start.
“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.
Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.
“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.
It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.
“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”
Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.
“…oh.”
When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.
“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.
You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.
Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.
He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.
His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.
Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.
When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.
“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”
You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.
For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.
Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.
You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.
You think Steve knows as much.
You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.
You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.
You love him anyway.
“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.
He doesn’t mention it.
He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.
The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.
You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.
You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.
You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.
Enjoying making things with your hands.
And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.
You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.
If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.
Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.
Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.
There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.
Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.
Deeper.
Softer.
Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.
With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.
With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.
“Yes.”
You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.
Steve is careful with you, always has been.
You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.
Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.
Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.
To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.
To you being hurt.
Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.
He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.
You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.
You always mean it.
You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.
Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.
When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.
And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.
And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.
Never with your trust.
When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.
It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.
You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.
Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.
Today feels different nevertheless.
His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.
By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.
Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.
“Is this alright, love?”
Do you still trust me?
You do.
It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.
Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.
Artistic bondage.
And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.
Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.
Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.
You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.
It’s not enough.
You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.
“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.
“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”
“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.
“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“
“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”
His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it
“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”
You do so.
He is not wrong.
He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.
You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.
Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.
You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.
Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.
Beautiful.
So good for me.
Comfortable, love?
Not too tight?
Precious.
Thank you for letting me do this, honey.
Thank you for being mine.
I’m yours, too.
I swear.
I swear you take my breath away.
All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.
When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.
The sight is divine.
His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.
You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.
So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.
So goddamn perfect at my mercy.
And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.
Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.
Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.
When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.
You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.
Love you.
Thank you for trusting me.
You’re so perfect.
He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.
It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.
You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.
He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.
“You still like my hands then, I take it?”
You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.
“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”
The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.
“And I love you. More than anything.”
S.R. masterlist // Complete masterlist
Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!
It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.
I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.
Word Count: Over 2.9k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).
A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.
Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it.
As if he could ever say “no” to you.
“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer.
He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.
His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.
So, yeah, his demeanor was much better.
“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.
Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away.
You were glowing.
A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful.
You were beautiful.
“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.
“Not at all,” his best friend replied.
You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
You and Sprout.
Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family.
Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.
And you just smiled, soft and bright.
Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”
Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.
And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.
“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect.
The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”
His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this.
His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.
He did deserve this kind of life.
“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.
“Jerk.”
You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.
Something low and careless.
“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”
The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.
But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it.
Super soldier senses really were handy at times.
Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work.
That wouldn’t happen again.
“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”
My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.
The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Not yet.
“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.
No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.
The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”
…He’s fucking dead.
Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low.
He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.
Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for.
This was his fight.
“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”
Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious.
Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you.
But he wasn’t going to stay silent.
The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately.
The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile.
“Hey, man! You-”
“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare.
The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”
Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole.
“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”
The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse.
“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”
The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”
“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”
“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.
Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood.
He wasn’t.
“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”
The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play.
Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?
“I-I really didn’t mean-”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.
Barely.
But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.
“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch.
Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.
I really do have good friends.
“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.
Good.
Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.
“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.
“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”
“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”
A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled.
As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.
Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.”
Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze.
“Move.”
The prick didn’t need to be told twice.
He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too.
The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly.
It kept him from snapping completely.
Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops.
Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.
“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.
“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”
Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”
Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”
“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.
“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”
He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.
Fucking coward.
Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
The idiot practically ran to his car.
Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.
Where he belonged.
The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically.
Still smiling, safe, and his.
He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.
They nodded in return.
You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too.
“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”
Bucky stared at you in awe.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.
Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too.
“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly.
Always thinking of me.
“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”
You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to.
“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed.
Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally.
But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you.
“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully.
It was true.
Chet was trash.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort.
Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”
The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.
He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just threw out.
“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”
He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child.
He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened.
But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family.
And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.
That was how much he loved you.
And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved.
I love you both so much.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”
We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
I need more about valarr's veiny hands brain go brrrrrrr since your post
I literally went insane writing this, so just a bunch of hdcs/moments/thoughts, some suggestive stuff 🤪 based on this post.
✶ tt!au // valarr!first verse.
first, this man has the hands of someone who's never done a day of physical labour in his life and yet they are obscenely veiny.
it's the genetics. the same genetic lottery that gave him the white streak and the heterochromia decided, for symmetry's sake, to give him those hands. long fingers, broad palms, knuckles that have never been broken, nails always neat, a tendon that flexes when he flexes and the veins running up from the back of his hand into his forearm in a way that should not be legal for a man whose hardest physical exertion is rowing class twice a week.
and the thing is, he doesn't know. at first. valarr's never thought about it. genuinely. the same way men who've been beautiful their whole lives don't think about the specific shape of their own appeal. because it's just there, it's just always been there, just one more thing about him that other people notice and he doesn't have to.
you're are the one who teaches him.
the first time you notice (really notice) is in the back of a car. autumn of year one. he's reading something on his phone with one hand and his other hand is resting loose on his thigh, splayed, and you look at the back of his hand in the passing streetlight and your whole body does a small, quiet, hm. you don't say anything. you think about it for the rest of the drive.
you start touching them on purpose after that. not in any way he could call attention to. just... your fingers brushing the back of his hand when he passes you a glass. your thumb running along the inside of his wrist when valarr reaches across the table. tracing the vein that runs up the back of his hand to his middle finger when he's lying next to you reading and not paying attention. it's small, and it's deliberate, and you're gathering information.
valarr is a cataloguer. he notices everything. he notices, eventually, that you notice. and the day he figures it out (the exact day, you can pinpoint it) is the day he starts using them on purpose.
his hand on the back of your neck under your hair when you're sitting next to him at dinner. not gripping. just there. heavy and warm, his thumb stroking idly at the top of your spine while he talks to whoever's seated across the table. you don't think he's even aware he's doing it. you're agonisingly aware.
the way valarr holds your hand in public. you've noticed he does this thing where he laces his fingers through yours and then flexes slightly, a small tightening that you'd miss if you weren't paying attention. it's a tell. it's him reminding himself you're real, you're here, you're his. the veins in the back of his hand stand up when he does it and you have to look away because you're in the lobby of his accountant's building and you can't lose your composure here.
driving. one hand on the wheel. the other resting on your thigh. fingers spread. the gold of his watch catching the light. you put your hand over his once, lightly, and he goes so still for a second that you understand, with a small clear ping of recognition, that he'd been waiting for you to touch him. waiting. you keep your hand there for the rest of the drive and his fingers slowly turn under yours so your palms can rest together and he doesn't say a word about it because he doesn't have to.
he does this thing in bed in the morning, when neither of you are quite awake yet, where he reaches blindly for you and his hand settles on your hip or your stomach or the small of your back and stays there. an anchor. valarr asleep is a man who has to be touching you somewhere. feeling you makes him happy.
and god, the way he tucks your hair behind your ear. the way he cups your jaw when he's about to kiss you. that one lethal move where he slides his thumb along your bottom lip before he leans in, his eyes flicking down to your mouth, and you can feel the faint catch of his thumbprint, can feel the warmth of his palm at your jaw, can see the veins running down the back of his hand from this close. and he does it slowly. because he knows. he absolutely knows.
a man bumps you in a crowded gallery (not aggressively, just clumsily, drink in hand, distracted) and valarr's hand is at the small of your back before you've even registered the contact. firm. fingers spread wide enough that his thumb is at your spine and his pinky is brushing your hip. he doesn't say anything to the man. he doesn't have to. the hand says it for him. mine. step back. the man steps back.
crossing the street. his hand at your elbow, then your lower back, then briefly (for one delicious second) wrapped around your upper arm to guide you out of the path of a cyclist. his grip is strong. you feel the pad of his thumb dig in just slightly, just enough that you'll think about it later. he lets go the second the street is clear and acts like nothing happened. you act like nothing happened. but something happened.
you trip on a stair once and his hand snaps out and grips your wrist with a speed that surprises you both. iron. for one second his face goes... somewhere else. somewhere harder than the boyish-charm version of him. then it smooths, and he's smiling, asking careful, love, and you nod, and you walk on, and you think about the bracelet of pressure his fingers left on your wrist for the entire rest of the evening.
the airport. crowded. he keeps you tucked under his arm with one hand around your shoulder and the other on the handle of your suitcase. when a man cuts too close to you, valarr's fingers tighten on your shoulder just enough for you to feel the security of it, and his eyes go cold over the top of your head, and the man veers off without ever knowing why.
and, of course, we have to talk about his hand on your throat. listen. listen. valarr's hand on your throat is cataloguing. it's measured the you taught him. he settles his palm against the front of your throat with his thumb on one side of your jaw and his fingers spread on the other, and he doesn't squeeze, not at first; he just holds. lets you feel the weight of his hand. lets you feel that he could, if he wanted to. and his eyes are watching your face the entire time, reading every micro-shift, learning what makes your pupils dilate and what makes your breath hitch and filing it.
the first time he applies pressure, it's because you guided his hand there. you put your fingers around his wrist and pressed his palm tighter to your throat, and you watched valarr's face go through four different expressions in half a second: surprise, calculation, comprehension, hunger.
and after that, he never needed to be asked again. he just knew. he'd come up behind you in the kitchen, slide one hand around your throat from behind, fingers spread along your jaw, and murmur something filthy into your ear, and you'd lean back into him and let your head tip against his shoulder, and the whole time his hand would stay exactly where you taught him to put it.
and the veins. christ. the veins. when he's holding you down (wrists pinned above your head, one of his hands wrapped around both of yours) the veins on the back of his hand stand up like a pressure map and you can't stop looking at them. the tendons. the way his knuckles flex when he tightens his grip.
you have, on more than one occasion, come almost entirely from staring at his hand on your wrists while he fucks you, and he's noticed this, because he's valarr, he notices everything, and now he makes it a point to keep his grip visible.
his hand on the back of your thigh, hooking your leg up over his hip. his hand splayed across your stomach when he's behind you, holding you steady. his hand on your hip with his thumb pressed into the dip of your hipbone hard enough to leave a small round bruise that he will, the next morning, kiss with deliberate, theatrical apology, knowing full well you wanted it there.
his fingers in your mouth. he discovered this one by accident. you'd bitten him during an argument, lightly, more punctuation than punishment, and his pupils had blown wide, and a week later his fingers were against your bottom lip mid-kiss, two of them, and you'd opened for him without thinking, and his eyes had gone dark, and he'd whispered my sweet girl with a kind of stunned reverence, and your whole world had narrowed to the taste of his fingers and the heat of his palm at your jaw.
and the worst one, the cruellest one (the one you think about when you're not with him, when you're alone in your own bed and trying not to) is the way he sometimes just holds you. afterwards. when you're wrecked and boneless and breathing into his chest, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your skull, fingers spread through your hair, the other hand splayed flat across the small of your back, his thumb stroking absently at your spine. the same hands that just held you down. the same hands that just left fingerprints on your hips. the same veiny, beautiful, pampered, terrifying hands. holding you like something he made and intends to keep.
he catches you looking at his hands once, when he's pouring himself a drink. he sees you watching the flex of his forearm, the lift of the vein at his wrist as he tilts the bottle. he doesn't say anything. valarr just smiles (that small dark thing his mouth does these days, the corner-tug) and pours slower.
he knows.
he absolutely fucking knows.
now we get to the silver ring on his thumb. first, understand that the silver band on his thumb is not a casual piece of jewellery. valarr doesn't own casual jewellery in general. valarr doesn't do casual anything. every single thing on his body has been considered, weighed, sourced, and probably acquired from a workshop in florence by a man whose name he won't tell you.
it's plain. that's the thing. it's plain. matte silver, slightly worn, no engraving you can see at a glance, sitting on the broad first joint of his right thumb like it was made for him. and it was, it absolutely was. it's the only piece of jewellery he wears every day apart from his watch. no signet. no pinky ring. no chain. just the thumb band, simple and substantial, and his watch, and the way both of them sit against the back of his hand makes the whole composition look like an editorial. like he stepped out of the financial times weekend section.
you ask him about it once, early on. what's the story.
he tilts his hand, looks at it like he's forgotten it's there. "my mother gave it to me." a pause. "she had it made when i was sixteen. she said i had— " a small private smile, a glance up at you, "— good hands. she wanted me to notice them."
you looked at him for a long second after he said that.
of course jena targaryen, who raised this exquisite son alone with his younger brother after his father died, looked at her teenage boy's hands and thought these are an asset, let's draw the eye. of course. it's the most jena thing you've ever heard. a quiet, elegant, devastating piece of maternal strategy that she dressed up as a birthday present.
and now you're reaping the inheritance.
the band catches the light when he gestures. you've started watching for it. across rooms, across dinner tables, across the bar at events. your eye finds the silver glint and your stomach does a quiet, traitorous flutter. he gestures with his right hand more than his left when he's talking to you specifically, and at first you thought it was coincidence, and then you realised it absolutely is not.
valarr turns it sometimes when he's thinking. spins it on his thumb with his index and middle finger, a slow idle rotation when he's reading something on his laptop. when he's listening to someone he doesn't fully trust. when he's waiting for you to answer a question he's already worked out the answer to. the ring rotates. the vein on the back of his hand stands up with the small flex of the motion. you have, on more than one occasion, lost the entire thread of a conversation watching him do this.
you start touching the ring on purpose. that's how it begins. you reach across him for something at dinner and your fingers brush the band, and he doesn't react, but two minutes later his right hand has migrated to the back of your chair, and the ring is now resting in your eyeline, and you understand what you've taught him without either of you having to say a word about it.
this man wants to be wanted. constantly. it's the deepest engine in him. he's a man who was beautiful as a boy and grew into a man who has been told he's beautiful in five languages by women whose hands shook to do it, and none of it has ever been enough, because none of it was you. hungry, with teeth, ravenous, devouring. and the moment he understood you found his hands attractive he began rearranging his life around the visibility of them.
he starts rolling his sleeves higher. not in a showy way. but the man who used to roll his sleeves to mid-forearm now rolls them to the crook of his elbow, and the rolls are crisp, three precise turns, and the veins running down the inside of his forearm into the back of his hand are fully visible, and he does it casually as you walk into a room, and you know (you know) that he was waiting for you to arrive before he did it.
he picks up objects more deliberately. a wine glass, the stem held lightly between his thumb and two fingers, the silver ring catching the light. a pen. a phone. the back of a chair he's pulling out for you. his hand wrapped around the carved wood, the vein running up from his knuckle, the tendon flexing as he draws the chair back. he could pull a chair out a thousand different ways. he does it like this now, because he's seen what it does to your face.
in the kitchen, slicing something (and god, valarr has no business knowing his way around a kitchen, his net worth has not required him to learn, and yet here we are) he holds the knife with a grip that makes the muscles in his forearm jump, and you'll come in with a glass of wine in your hand and forget what you came in for, and he'll glance up and catch the look on your face and his mouth will do that small, soft dark thing.
he wears more rolled-cuff shirts. you've noticed the rotation of his wardrobe quietly skewing. the tighter cuffs that show off his wrists. the linen ones for summer that crinkle in a way that makes the rolling look effortless. he buys, at one point, a watch with a slightly larger face. you say nothing. he says nothing. but you watched a package arrive from essos three weeks before and you understand, with the clinical eye of a woman who's been around money her entire life, that this man bought a 50,000 thousand timepiece to make his wrist look better for you.
and the worst, the most calculated of them all is that he stops wearing rings on his other fingers. there used to be, occasionally, a second band. a signet for formal events. he quietly retires them. now there is only the silver thumb ring. one piece of jewellery. one focal point. drawing the eye exactly where he wants your eye to go.
he doesn't tell you about any of these adjustments. he just makes them. and you watch him make them with the same quiet, dispassionate fascination with which a naturalist might watch a courting bird rearrange its plumage. so you begin playing with his hands, his fingers, his ring. quiet claiming that seems to please valarr so much he could sit there for hours under your grip.
you reach over while he's reading the paper at breakfast and you trace, with one fingertip, the vein that runs from his knuckle up the back of his hand to the divot of his wrist. lightly. barely there. you don't even look up at him while you do it. you're scrolling through your phone with your other hand. and you feel, across the table, the small stillness that overtakes him. the page of the newspaper stops turning. his breath goes quiet, shallow. his thumb, the one with the silver band, twitches once. valarr doesn't speak. you don't speak. you keep tracing. you do it for a full minute. you watch in your peripheral vision as the colour rises faintly under the line of his jaw.
you finally glance up, mildly. more coffee?
he says, with admirable composure, please. but his voice is half a register lower, rougher, than it was when he said good morning.
in the car. his hand resting on your thigh. you pick it up, gently, both your hands cradling his, and you turn it over and trace the vein on the inside of his wrist with your thumbnail. just the one vein. up from his palm, past the silver band, to the soft skin of his forearm where the cuff is rolled back. his pulse is fast. you can feel it. you press your thumbnail in very lightly over the pulse point and look up at him with a placid expression and watch his jaw set. he's gripping the steering wheel with his other hand harder than he needs to. you smile, and you set his hand back down on your thigh, and you don't say a word.
valarr, you say casually, ten minutes later, and his head snaps to you so fast you have to swallow a laugh.
in bed at night, before sleep, you take his hand and lay it palm-up on the pillow between you. you trace the lines of it. the long deep one across his palm, the smaller one cutting across it. the vein at the base of his thumb. the silver ring, which you sometimes turn idly with your thumbnail, slowly, round and round his finger, the ring smooth and slightly warm from his body heat. valarr, lying very still, watches you do this. he doesn't move. he doesn't speak. he's mesmerised. he's also, you can feel it through the sheets, very hard.
you pretend not to notice. you trace his thumbprint with the pad of your finger. you press your fingertip lightly to the centre of his palm and watch his hand close reflexively around it.
val, you murmur sweetly. go to sleep.
he doesn't go to sleep. he lies there for forty minutes while you do go to sleep, your hand still loosely wrapped around his, and he stares at the ceiling and thinks about you, and the whole time you can feel his pulse where your thumb is resting against his wrist, going fast, fast, fast, like a small caught animal.
on the sofa, watching something. his arm thrown along the back behind you. you pick up his hand absent-mindedly and bring it into your lap. you lace your fingers through his. you study them, pretending to be interested in the show. you trace the ridge of his knuckles. you press the pad of your thumb against the silver band. you flex his fingers gently apart and back together, like you're testing the play of a lock. valarr is no longer watching the show. valarr is watching you, with a hooded, fixed, almost feverish attention, his other hand splayed motionless on his thigh. you know he's looking. you don't look back.
after about ten minutes of this, his voice comes, low, half-rasped, a little strangled: love.
mm?
you're killing me.
am i? you say innocently, and you turn his hand over and press a slow, considered kiss to the centre of his palm, and you watch his eyes flutter closed, and you set his hand back down and resume watching the show.
he goes to bed with you ten minutes early that night. very purposefully.
we naturally have to talk about the vein, too. the one that runs down the back of his hand, the most prominent one, the one that crosses the tendon of his middle finger and disappears under the silver thumb ring on its way up to his wrist. that vein.
you discovered, by accident, that if you press the pad of your finger to it and hold (not stroke, just press, with mild steady pressure) valarr's breathing changes. you were in a meeting. his meeting. you were not supposed to be there but you'd dropped by to bring him something he'd left at the apartment, and he'd insisted you stay, and he'd put his hand on the conference room table and you, sitting beside him idly, had pressed your fingertip to the vein on the back of his hand under the table where no one could see. he'd been speaking. mid-sentence. about a deal worth, you found out later, a hundred and fifty million.
his sentence had not faltered. his face had not moved. but you had felt (through your fingertip, on the back of his hand) his pulse jump.
afterwards, in the elevator down, alone: don't ever do that to me again.
do what?
he looked at you. the brown eye almost black. the blue gone luminous. you know what.
val. you smiled. i was barely touching you.
that's the problem, sweet girl.
you did it again three days later. in the back of a car. with his driver in the front. you pressed your fingertip to the vein on the back of his hand and held it there, and you watched valarr's whole body do a small, quiet, tightly-controlled clench. his thigh tensing under the suit fabric, his other hand curling slightly into a fist, his breath going shallow through his nose. it took nothing. nothing. the pressure of a single finger.
and you thought, with a kind of clinical wonder: oh. this is a button. a private one. all mine. one only i know about and nobody else. and you tucked it away.
you start using it sparingly. that's the discipline of it. you don't overplay your hand. ever. you press the vein when he's had a difficult day, when he comes home tense and trying to hide it, when you want to tell him without words that you see him, that you've got him. that you intend, in the next forty minutes, to undo him entirely, repeatedly. you press the vein and he softens. you press the vein and his shoulders drop. you press the vein and he leans into you like a man kneeling without kneeling.
sometimes you do it just to feel him shift. you'll be sitting beside him on a sofa, and you'll trace a slow lazy line down the vein, and you'll feel his body (the whole long, lean line of it next to yours) adjust. a small inhale. a re-settling. his hips shifting incrementally on the cushions as the blood goes where blood goes when you touch him. his free hand comes up to drag absently across his jaw because he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
you're not even trying. that's the part that should worry you, in retrospect. you're barely touching him. and the man is responding like you've laid a hand on him through a wall.
you start to read the band. that's how attuned you become to him. the way valarr wears it changes with his moods.
when he's relaxed, the band sits loose on his thumb. he doesn't notice it. it's just there.
when he's working through something, he turns it. spins it. that slow rotation with his index and middle finger. you've come to understand this is the valarr equivalent of pacing. his body is still, his face is still, but the ring is moving, and it tells you his mind is too.
when he's anxious (truly anxious, which is rare, but it happens) he presses his thumb against the underside of his index finger and rolls the band against the side of it, hard enough to leave a faint pink line on his thumb when he stops. you've only seen him do this twice.
when he wants you, he stops touching the ring entirely. it's the strangest thing. all the small fidgets stop. his hands go still. they rest, palm-down, on whatever surface is in front of him, fingers slightly spread, the silver band catching the light. it's a stillness so deliberate you've learnt to recognise it. you'll glance over from across the room and see his hand laid flat on the bar top, motionless, the band gleaming, and you'll know (without his having to say a word, without his having to even look at you) that you've approximately ninety seconds before he puts his hands on you.
and one night, drunk, soft-eyed, lying on his side facing you in his ridiculous bed: what?
what what?
you're staring at my hand, sweet girl.
i was looking at the ring.
a small pause. then, with that quiet half-smile: take it off.
what?
take it off. put it on.
you stared at him.
just to see, he said softly. and his eyes were doing your favourite thing. the brown one warm and dark, the blue one pale and burning, both of them fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. just to see how it looks.
you took it off his thumb. it was warm from him. you slid it onto your own thumb (too big, of course, ridiculously too big, it sat loose at the joint) and you held your hand up to the lamplight, and you turned it slowly, and valarr made a sound in the back of his throat that wasn't a word.
he caught your wrist. brought your hand to his mouth. kissed the silver band where it sat on your thumb, then the knuckle of the same thumb, then the inside of your wrist, and his eyes didn'tt leave yours the entire time.
keep it.
valarr.
no, i—keep it. for tonight. just tonight. and he kissed your wrist again, and you felt his pulse against your inner arm where his hand was wrapped around it, going fast, fast, fast, and you understood that something had just happened between you that you wouldn't be able to undo.
you gave it back the next morning. you slid it back onto his thumb yourself, while he was still half-asleep. he opened his eyes when you did it, watched you settle the band back into place, and then he caught your hand and pressed it against his sternum and held it there, and he didn't speak, and he didn't have to.
and now, sometimes, in the middle of the day, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary moment (pouring a coffee, signing for a delivery, reaching across you for the salt) valarr will catch you looking at his hands and his thumb will twitch, very slightly, against the silver band. a small unconscious touch. checking it's there. checking it's where you put it back.
he doesn't know he does this.
you do.
an: now need someone to ask me for more nsfw thoughts aha (¬‿¬)
and he's delighted about it. oh, his love is being playful, she's teasing him, how sweet, how fun. look at that little smile you're trying to hide. valarr targaryen is a man who lives for your attention in any form it comes, and if you want to play some bit you saw on the internet, he'll play along. he's so happy. you can see it in the way his whole face goes soft, the way the brown eye warms up and the corner of his mouth twitches.
"hey, bro, can you pass me that?"
he passes you the remote with this indulgent look, like aren't you adorable, like he's waiting for you to break and laugh and admit you're fucking with him.
"thanks, dude."
still smiling. still patient. "of course, my love."
but you don't stop.
ten minutes later: "appreciated, mate."
the smile's still there but it's thinner now. he's trying to figure out how long this bit is supposed to run, where the punchline is, when you're going to drop it and call him baby or val or literally anything that isn't a term you'd use for a fucking co-worker.
twenty minutes later: "you're the best, man."
okay. okay, it's starting to chafe now.
this is a man who calls you my love and sweet girl like they're your legal names, who has, on multiple occasions, literally shut down (gone soft and pliant) when you call him pretty thing or beautiful val or my golden dragon. those words do something to his brain chemistry. they make him yours in a way nothing else can. he's pavloved himself to them. they're his.
and you've just replaced all of them with bro.
who the fuck is bro? bro is not the man whose chain you tug when you want his mouth. bro is not the man you've spent two years making yours. bro is some interchangeable guy. he is not bro. he's your val, and this is—this is wrong, this feels wrong, and he's trying very hard not to let it show on his face but you can see it anyway because you know him.
the next time you call him dawg, valarr's jaw tightens and he doesn't respond immediately. he's running diagnostics. what did he do? what cue did he miss? is this punishment? are you actually mad and disguising it as a joke? his whole brain is trying to backwards-engineer what the fuck he did wrong to get demoted from love to bro in the span of an afternoon.
"are you alright?" he asks carefully, and his voice is too controlled, which means he's not controlled at all.
"yeah, dude, why?"
something behind his eyes flinches. he doesn't answer. just nods. but the brown eye's gone darker and you can see him pulling into himself a little. that specific valarr thing where he goes contained and very polite when he thinks he's fucked something up.
by the time you call him man again, he looks like you've personally attacked him.
you take pity on him.
you cross the room, and when you reach up to cup his face, valarr leans into your palm like he's been holding his breath for the past forty minutes and you've just given him permission to exhale again.
you chuckle—soft, low, affectionate—and kiss his mouth gently.
he deepens it immediately, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, and when he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is rough and annoyed and relieved.
"you're so mean to me," he grumbles against your lips.
"i know." you kiss him again. "i'm sorry, my love. my pretty val."
the noise he makes is small and broken, so pleased it's almost obscene. he's home. you just said my love and pretty val and his entire nervous system is flooding with whatever chemical reward you've conditioned him to associate with being yours.
"never do that again," he mutters, but he's already kissing you again, and his hands are settling at your waist, and you can feel him smiling against your mouth despite himself.
"no promises, bro."
valarr pulls back just far enough to give you a look—the kind that says i will put you on your back right now—but his mouth is curving, because you're laughing, and your hand's in his hair, and he knows you'll call him my love again in the next two minutes because you always do.
because that's his.
because he's yours, and you've spent two years making sure he knows it.
but if you call him dude one more time, he's going to make you say his name properly a dozen times before he lets you up.
Valarr and ls with ls being needy? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
⎯⎯͟͟♥︎̼ fever.
gdgw!verse // valarr's pov.
you're sick, and you're soft, and valarr is not equipped for either.
Valarr is in the back of a town car, scrolling through a contract amendment with his thumb, when Matarys's name lights up on the screen. He picks up without thinking. His brother doesn't call during work hours unless someone's dead or someone's bleeding, and Valarr has learned, over the years, to answer Matarys the way you answer a fire alarm: immediately, and with the assumption that something is, in fact, on fire.
"She collapsed."
Valarr's thumb stops moving. For several seconds, so does his heart.
"In a meeting," Matarys goes on quickly, his voice careful and measured. "About forty minutes ago. She fainted. They called an ambulance but she came round before it got there. She's conscious, Val. She's okay. She's talking, it's a fever. A high one. Her assistant called me because she couldn't reach you—"
"Where."
"Val—"
"Where is she, Matarys?"
Matarys gives him the address. Valarr hangs up. He gives the driver the new destination in a voice he doesn't fully recognise. Then he sits in the back seat with his hands rigid on his thighs and watches the streets slide past, his heart doing something it hasn't done in a long time.
It panics.
He doesn't panic. Valarr Targaryen does not panic. He plans, he adjusts, he recalibrates. He's a man built for controlled responses, a man whose entire demeanour is designed to absorb shocks and redistribute them as composed, proportionate action.
He panics now. For the first time since his father's passing. There's an ugly, sickly, arrhythmic drumming in the centre of his chest that Valarr can't will into submission, and his hands—his careful, elegant, camera-ready hands—are shaking faintly against the wool of his trousers.
She collapsed.
The two words sit in the middle of his skull like a stone dropped through glass.
In a meeting.
The image assembles itself without his permission. You, mid-sentence, your mouth shaping some point and then the way your face must have tightened. Your eyes going unfocused. Your knees folding.
The sound your body would have made when it hit the floor of a conference room full of people who don't know you. who don't love you, and would not have caught you the way he would have caught you. Knowing, instinctively, to put their hand behind your head.
Valarr presses the heel of his palm against his sternum and tries to breathe.
—
By the time he gets you home, you're half-conscious and radiating heat.
Your assistant had called your doctor. Your doctor had been clear and blunt: fever, viral, fluids, rest, keep an eye on the temperature. Your assistant had looked at Valarr with barely concealed relief when he'd stalked through the door of your office and said, I've got her, as though she'd been waiting for someone to say exactly that.
He got you to the car. And you'd let him, which had alarmed him more than the fever. Because you don't let anyone steer you. You don't go limp. Don't put your head on anyone's shoulder and close your eyes and trust them to navigate the world on your behalf.
And in the car, you had put your face against his throat and gone heavy.
Now he's lowering you onto the bed in the penthouse. The sheets are cool. The late afternoon grey through the long windows.
Valarr has already kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, rolled his sleeves. He'd called Matarys back from the car—she's all right, she's running hot, I'm taking her home—and Matarys had said, do you need me to come? and Valarr had said, no, and meant: I need to do this myself, I need to be the one, please don't take this from me.
He eases you down against the pillows. The back of his hand finds your forehead, and the heat that comes off you makes his stomach clench. You're burning. Not warm. Burning. Your skin has gone damp at the hairline, the fine strands at your temple sticking to the sheen of sweat there. Your eyes are glassy when they crack open to find him.
"Val."
His name in your mouth; rough, low and scraped. You say it the way you say it when you're half-asleep. When the composure of you goes soft enough that there's only the raw thing underneath, the thing that knows his name before it knows anything else.
"I'm here, my love."
Valarr gets the thermometer from the bathroom, gets a glass of water while he's there too. He gets the ibuprofen from the cabinet with his other hand. He finds the soft flannel. The grey one you keep folded on the bottom shelf. The one he's seen you press to your face on bad headache days when you think he's not watching. Valarr runs it under cold water, wrings it, folds it.
He sets it on your forehead, and you make a sound.
A small, raw, involuntary sound. Not a word. Your eyes shut, and your face turns into the cool of the cloth, and you sigh. The sigh goes all the way through you, loosening something in the line of your shoulders that Valarr has been watching hold for three years.
"There," he says quietly. "There, my love."
He sits on the edge of the bed. He takes your temperature. 39.4. Too high, not dangerous, but the number lodges in him like a splinter. He makes a note of the time. He'll check again in forty minutes. He'll check every forty minutes until it breaks, and if it doesn't break by midnight, he'll call Dr. Essani at home and he doesn't care what time it is.
Your hand finds him.
Valarr doesn't expect it.
You're lying on your back with the flannel over your brow, eyes closed, face shiny with sweat, and your hand comes up—unsteady, half-asleep—and finds the front of his shirt. Your fingers close on the fine cotton, not gripping, not pulling. Just holding. The way a child holds the edge of a blanket.
Something in Valarr's chest fissures.
"My love?" he rasps. "What is it?"
"Stay," you mumble.
He blinks. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Stay close."
Your hand tightens on his shirt. A fraction. The pull of the cotton against his chest is so slight it's barely a force. It's nothing. It's everything. It's you, sick and stripped and burning, asking him to be near you without any of the steel you'd usually wrap around the asking.
Valarr lies down.
He lies down beside you on the bed, still in his work clothes, still in his watch and his cufflinks.
He shifts close enough that the line of his body is against yours, and you make another sound. A low, agonised little moan that isn't pain, exactly, but discomfort. The unguarded animal protest of a body that's too hot, too heavy and wants something it can't articulate... and then you turn into him.
You turn into him.
The full weight of you. Your face pressing into the hollow under his jaw. Your hand releasing his shirt and sliding instead around his side, your arm hooking at his waist, pulling yourself in. Your body finds his body the way water finds a depression in the ground, without thought, all instinct.
You burrow, pressing your hot forehead into the curve of his throat. Your knees come up, tucking against his thighs, and you make another sound—God, the sounds, the sounds—a thin, miserable, needing sound, muffled against his skin, and Valarr—
Valarr wraps his arms around you and holds on and doesn't breathe for approximately four seconds.
Because you don't do this.
In three years and four months of loving you, you've never once done this. You've let him hold you often, yes. Even seek it out yourself sometimes. You've slept against his chest most nights. You've nuzzled into his throat in the aftermath, when the sex has cracked you open enough that the soft thing underneath gets loose for an hour.
But you've never, while conscious, while in the middle of an ordinary day, crawled into his arms and pressed yourself against him and held on as if the only thing keeping you moored to the earth was the weight of his body.
You're the one who holds. You're the wolf, the steel, the steady one. The gravitational centre. Valarr orbits you. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked, and he's more than happy with it. He's never before you been happier.
He chose you because you're the strongest woman he's ever encountered and because your strength makes him feel safe and seen in a way no one else in his life has managed.
But this.
Oh, this.
You burrow deeper. Your nose drags along the line of his throat, finding the pulse point, and you settle there. Your breath comes in short, hot, damp puffs against his skin. Another sound bubbles up, and your arm at his waist tightens with a small, desperate squeeze. As though you're checking he's still solid. Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt.
"Val," you mumble again, like the last word a person says before they stop fighting consciousness, and Valarr presses his mouth to the crown of your head and holds you tighter and thinks, with a ferocity that frightens him: I would burn this city to the ground for you. I would take apart every institution I've ever built. I would ruin myself. I would ruin everything to make this go away.
The fever climbs.
At 5:00 p.m. it's 39.7. He changes the flannel. He coaxes water into you, a few sips at a time, tilting the glass to your mouth and wiping the small trickle at the corner of your lip with his thumb.
You take the ibuprofen without protest, which is another wrong thing, because you always protest. Always tell him you're fine, you don't need it, stop fussing, Val. Today you open your mouth and swallow and close your eyes and turn your face back into his throat.
At 6:00 p.m. he calls Matarys.
"How is she?" he asks worriedly.
"Fever's still climbing," he replies. "She's sleeping, mostly."
A pause. "How are you?"
Valarr laughs, once, without humour. "Outstanding."
"Val."
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. You sound like you're about to do something stupid."
"I'm managing."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Matarys says, and Valarr can hear the gentle, knowing concern in his brother's voice. The concern that says: I know what you're like when the thing you love is threatened. I know you don't have a gear between composed and catastrophic. "Call me if you need anything. I mean it. You know I love her, too."
At 7:00 p.m., you start mumbling.
Not words. Sounds. Low, restless, unhappy sounds.
The fever has put you somewhere between sleep and waking, a fitful grey country where your body can't settle. You shift against him, kicking the sheet off. You pull it back, press closer. You make a thin, grinding sound of discomfort at the back of your throat that makes Valarr's chest physically hurt.
A sound so unguarded, so stripped of your usual composure, that hearing it feels like watching a lock come undone on a door he's never been allowed behind.
"Shh," he says, stroking your hair. "I'm here, my love. I'm here."
You settle for a minute at the sound of his voice. Then the restless shifting starts again. Your leg hooks over his, hand fists in his shirt at the chest, knuckles pressed against his sternum. Your face turns, pressing harder into his throat, and you mumble something.
"Val."
His hand stills in your hair.
"Val."
You're asleep. You're entirely asleep, and you're saying his name.
Valarr stares at the ceiling. He stares at the grey evening light on the plaster and he feels the shape of his name in your sleeping mouth against his throat. Something inside him rearranges itself so fundamentally that he knows, in the way you know certain things, that he'll never recover from this.
He'll carry this. Carry the weight of his name mumbled in your fever-sleep for the rest of his life, and he'll take it out in quiet moments. Hold it the way he holds every scrap of you he's ever been given: carefully, greedily, with the hoarding of a man who's always known that the soft parts of you are the rarest currency in the world.
"I'm here," he whispers to your sleeping face, and his voice cracks, and Valarr doesn't care. "I'm right here, sweet girl. I'm not going anywhere."
At 8:00 p.m. you wake up enough to be miserable.
The lucid kind of miserable. The kind where you're aware that you feel wretched and you're too tired and too hot to perform the version of yourself that doesn't admit to feeling wretched. You open your eyes. They're fever-bright, the pupils too wide, a glassy sheen over them. You find Valarr's face immediately, as though it's the first thing your visual cortex bothered to render.
"Hi," you croak. Your voice is ruined.
He exhales through his nose, trying to keep his expression straight, thumb gentle on your damp brow. "Hello, sweet girl."
"I feel awful, Val."
He almost laughs. Not because it's funny. Because you've never said that to him. In three years, you've never once told Valarr that you feel awful, Val. You've told him you're fine, that it's nothing.
You've told him, memorably, once, to stop looking at you like that when you had a 38-degree fever and a head cold and were clearly, visibly suffering. You'd gotten up and made your own tea and come back to bed and read for an hour as though spite alone could metabolise a virus.
Tonight you look up at him from the pillow and you say I feel awful, Val with the defeated honesty of a woman who can't, at this moment, be bothered to pretend.
"I know you do." He brushes the hair from your damp forehead. "You're going to be all right."
"Everything hurts."
"I know."
"My head."
"I know, my love."
Your face crumples in a grimace. The small, compressed grimace of someone in physical discomfort who wants it to stop and can't make it stop and is, for the first time in Valarr's memory, not pretending.
"Come here," he urges.
He draws you in. He arranges you against his chest, your head in the hollow under his jaw, your body against the long line of his. He pulls the thin sheet over you both. He keeps the flannel at your forehead, pressing it gently against the heat.
You groan into him. A low, guttural, agonised sound that vibrates through his chest.
"I know," he murmurs. "I've got you, sweet girl."
"Don't go, Val," you whisper.
"I'm not going. Not ever, love. Do you hear me? Not ever."
"Val."
His name again, dragged out of you on a moan, and the sound of it nearly kills him. The way you say it. The way you have, tonight, turned his name into the only word that matters. As though his name is the perimeter of something, and inside it is safety, and outside it is the fever and the ache of being sick.
He presses his mouth to your hair. "I'm here."
You cling to him. There's no other word for it. Your arm locks around his waist, your fist twisting tighter in his shirt. Your leg pushes between his, tangling, seeking more surface area, more of him. You press your burning face into the base of his throat and breathe, and each exhale is a small, hot wave against his skin.
Valarr absorbs every single one of them.
He changes the flannel three more times. He takes your temperature again: 39.8.
He talks to you, low and steady, a stream of nothing, a current for you to hold onto. He tells you about his day. About the contract he was reading when Matarys called. About the weather, the light on the buildings at four o'clock, and the peonies he'd been thinking of buying you on the way home before his phone rang and the afternoon cracked in half.
He tells you nonsense. He tells you things he'll never remember saying and things you'll never remember hearing, and it doesn't matter, because the telling is the point. The telling is the anchor. The low, steady, golden thread of his voice in the fever-dark, giving you something to follow home.
You mumble his name a fourth time. A fifth. Each time, fainter. Each time, more asleep.
He counts them.
The fever breaks at 11:23 p.m.
He knows because he's been checking every twenty minutes for the last two hours, the thermometer warm from his grip. 39.6 at 10:00. 39.2 at 10:40. 38.7 at 11:00. At 11:23: 38.1, and dropping, and the sweat that breaks across your skin is the good kind, the kind that means the body has won its war and is standing down.
Valarr sets the thermometer on the nightstand. He closes his eyes. He presses his face into the crown of your hair and breathes for what feels like the first time in nine hours.
You stir.
Not fully. A small, boneless shift. The fever has left you wrung out, the way a storm leaves a landscape: quieter, flatter, scrubbed clean.
Your grip on his shirt loosens, your fist opening into a palm pressed flat against his chest. Your breathing goes even and slow, the deep rhythm of a body that's stopped fighting.
But you don't pull away.
That's the thing Valarr registers and catalogues and presses into the permanent record of himself like a flower between the pages of a book he'll never lend.
The fever's broken. You're cooling. The crisis is over. The lucid you, the steel you, the you that would normally surface about now and say I'm fine, stop fussing, move over, I need water—that you would, on any other night, repack herself, reset the architecture, rebuild the walls that the fever had dissolved.
You don't.
You stay.
You stay pressed against him. Your palm stays flat on his chest, right over his heart. Your face stays turned into his throat, breaths still coming in those deep, warm, even pulls against his skin. The leg stays tangled between his. Your body is heavy and open, the whole of you poured against him without guard, without performance, without the wolf.
Just you.
Just the girl under the wolf. Just the soft, warm, exhausted creature who mumbles his name in her sleep and holds his shirt like a lifeline and says don't go like you mean it. One who stays close even after the reason for staying close has passed.
Valarr holds you.
He holds you the way he's always wanted to hold you: completely, with every part of himself, his arms locked around you, his chin at the crown of your head, his heartbeat against your palm. He holds you with the full, greedy, starving gratitude of a man who's been given the one thing he didn't know how to ask for. The one thing he'd assumed was simply not available.
Not because you didn't love him—he knows you love him, he's known it since year one—but because you love him in steel, in strength, in the particular fierce, predatory devotion that doesn't bend. You love him by being unbreakable. By being the one who holds. By being the centre, the gravity, the thing he orbits.
And tonight you loved him by being soft.
By being breakable. Being sick and miserable and needy and too exhausted to pretend otherwise.
By saying stay close instead of I'm fine, saying his name in your sleep not once but five times. Each one quieter and more surrendered than the last, as though even your unconscious mind knows where safety lives.
Valarr lies in the dark with you breathing against his throat and thinks: this is the happiest I've ever been because she feels safe with me.
Not the sex. Not the dark nights. Not the filthy, electric, extraordinary things you've done to each other in three years. Not the first time you told him you loved him, or the morning in Pentos when you woke up in hotel sheets and stretched in the morning light and he'd thought, delirious with it, I get to keep this.
This. A Thursday night. A fever. You, in an old t-shirt, sweaty and sick and clinging to him because you needed him and didn't pretend you didn't.
You shift in your sleep. A small nuzzle. The drag of your nose along the tendon of his throat. The way you do in the aftermath. The way you've done exactly thrice before in three years and each time he'd memorised it, filed it, kept it.
He tightens his arms around you.
"My love," he whispers, barely audible, to the crown of your head. "My beautiful love."
You don't answer. You're asleep. You're deeply, solidly, peacefully asleep in his arms, and your hand is still on his heart.
Valarr closes his eyes, sighing.
He thinks about the first time you looked at him.
About the way you'd looked, then: assessing, frank, unimpressed by the gold of him, the way no one had been unimpressed before you.
He thinks about the first time you'd touched him, your hand on his wrist, and the small, permanent rearrangement that had occurred in his chest at the contact. He thinks about the first time you'd fallen asleep in his arms, year one, and how rigidly you'd held yourself even in sleep.
How controlled the shape of your body had been against his, how even unconscious you hadn't fully let go.
And he thinks about tonight. About the way you'd folded into him like there was nowhere else in the world you'd rather be. About the grip on his shirt. The leg tangled with his. About the small, helpless, needy sounds he'll never tell you about, because you'd be mortified, and because they belong to him now.
Valarr presses one last kiss to the crown of your head, lingering.
He sleeps with you breathing against his throat, and his arms locked around you, and his hand flat against the warm curve of your back.
💄 Leave lipstick marks on the receiver's face / neck / body. With tt! Aerion?
𓈒 ͜ ︵ ݂ ׁ war paint. tt!aerion
“Did you have fun?”
You stop dead in the doorway of your bedroom.
Aerion’s on your bed, in your father’s house, sitting at the edge of it with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands hanging loose between them. Still in the white t-shirt and worn jeans he’s been wearing all day, and his eyes are the first thing you see. They’re bright and furious in the lamplight, tracking up the length of you from your heels to your hair.
“How’d you get in here?” you ask flatly.
“Window,” he answers impatiently. “Did you have fun?”
You shut the door softly behind you. Lean against it. Toe off one heel and let it drop against the hardwood with a sharp small thud, then the other. The sound seems too loud in the quiet of the room. Aerion hasn’t moved. He’s watching your mouth.
“You went to that restaurant that opened town over, didn’t you? The new one. With the fucking pretentious menu. Tom Karstark drove you in his daddy’s truck and he opened the door for you and pulled out your chair and you laughed at something boring he said because you were being polite—”
“Aerion.”
“—and then what, he took you to the lookout? The fucking lookout, Stark. Like we’re in a goddamn John Hughes movie. Did he hold your hand on the way up? Did he put his fucking jacket around your shoulders—”
“Stop.”
“—did he kiss you goodnight? With your perfect red mouth. Tell me he kissed you. Tell me, I want to hear you say it.”
His voice has gone ragged. Not loud—quieter than usual, actually, throaty, which is so much worse because it vibrates with rage—and you can see the way his hands have curled into fists between his knees, the way the tendons in his forearms have gone taut. He’s holding himself so still on the edge of your childhood bed that he looks like he might splinter apart from the effort.
You don’t answer.
You cross the room toward him one slow, stalking step at a time.
The carpet is soft under your bare feet, and you watch his eyes track every step, watch his jaw work. A swallow moves down the long line of his throat. Aerion doesn’t move when you reach him. Doesn’t lean back or extend his hand. Just sits there with his fists balled and his shoulders bowed, his eyes burning up at you. When you put one knee on the mattress beside his thigh he makes a low, bitten-off sound in the back of his throat. Like a warning, a snap of teeth.
You climb into his lap.
His hands shoot up to your hips. Hard. Bruising. Both of them clamped around the jut of bone through the silk of your dress like he might shove you off, like he’s still deciding, but you can feel the tremor running through him. There’s that leashed thing in his chest pulling against its own restraint.
“Get off me—”
You take his face in both hands.
Aerion’s jaw is rough under your palms, unshaven, too hot, and his eyes go wide for half a breath before they go furious again, and you kiss him before he can finish the sentence.
You kiss him the way you didn’t kiss Tom Karstark goodnight.
You kiss Aerion hard and hungry, the wine-red on your mouth pressing into his, your hands sliding up into his damp silver hair to grip and angle and take, and he makes a sound underneath you that’s half a snarl, a broken sound, but his mouth opens for yours anyway. His mouth opens for yours like it always does. Like it can’t help itself.
You break away and kiss his jaw next. A hard print of red against the sharp angle of it.
“My lipstick is perfect,” you murmur into his hot skin.
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Another stain. Blood red.
“Did you notice? Not a smudge on it. Not a crack. Looked exactly the same when I walked through the front door as it did when I left.”
You kiss the hinge of his jaw. He’s still snarling something (get the fuck off me, Stark, I swear to fucking god) but his head has tipped back to give your mouth more room, and his fingers are gripping instead of shoving. You smile against his throat as you press your lips to his pulse and leave another red mark blooming there.
“Because that’s what it was for. The lipstick.” Another kiss, lower, where his neck meets his shoulder. Red, red, red. “That’s what tonight was for. An appearance. A show. My father wanted me at that restaurant where everyone could see. The Stark girl. The Karstark boy. Old money having dinner with old money, isn’t that nice?”
You drag your hands down from his hair, down the sides of his neck, fingers catching in the collar of his t-shirt.
You rip it.
You grip the worn cotton and tear, both hands, and the fabric splits down the center with a shredding sound that makes Aerion hiss through his teeth, and then his chest is bared under your hands and you press your mouth to his collarbone and leave another print.
“Not for him.”
You kiss his sternum.
“None of it was for him.”
You kiss the spot just above his heart that you’ve kissed a thousand times.
“It was never for him, Aerion.”
You sit back to look at him.
The torn halves of his t-shirt hangs from his shoulders, his chest streaked with red marks like wounds, his mouth smeared with the wine-dark colour you spent twenty minutes perfecting in your bathroom mirror three hours ago. His pupils have eaten his irises, breath coming hard through his open mouth. His hands are still on your hips and they’re shaking and you can feel him hard underneath you through his jeans, can feel his heart slamming against your palm where it rests over his sternum.
“Fuck me, Aerion.”
His eyes snap up to yours.
“Right here. In this house. In my bed. Fuck me, Aerion.”
He moves.
He moves so fast you don’t track it. One second you’re straddling his lap and the next your back hits the mattress and he’s over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still clamped around your hip, and he’s looming. All silver hair and dark eyes, bared red-stained teeth. Aerion stares down at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he hates you. Like he might eat you alive.
“You’re a bitch,” he breathes.
He kisses you.
Hard. Open. Punishing. His tongue in your mouth and his teeth catching your bottom lip, his hand fisting in your hair to angle you exactly where he wants you, and when he pulls back to breathe his mouth is smeared worse and the corner of his lip is bleeding and his eyes are black.
He kisses you again.
Slower this time. Meaner. His mouth dragging across yours like he’s painting himself with you, smearing the wine-red further across his jaw and chin until he’s wearing it like a brand, and his fingers tighten in your hair and your hands come up to grip his shoulders and your nails sink in through the torn cotton and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break, just keeps kissing you.
And again.
And again.
Until you can’t breathe through your nose anymore and your lungs are burning and your lipstick is gone—all of it—gone from your mouth and onto his, onto yours, onto the both of you. Smeared across cheeks, chins and throats until you look like you’ve been mauled, until there’s no perfect appearance left, until no one would believe you’d had a polite dinner with anyone tonight if they saw you now.
When he finally pulls back Aerion’s face is ruined.
Red everywhere. Across his mouth, down his jaw, smudged along his cheekbone where you cupped his face, painted into the hollow of his throat. His chest stained with the print of every kiss you placed there. His silver hair tangled where your fingers were. His eyes furious and starving.
“Look at me,” you whisper.
He’s already looking.
He’s already looking at you like nothing else exists in this house, in this town, in his entire fucking life.
How do the members of 141 handle reader with a high sex drive? Reader is insatiable. Can they keep up or do they tap out early? Do they beg for more or beg for rest?
requested by @/unknownbooklady
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): sexual content, oral sex, rough sex, swearing, established relationship, gn!reader
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“Trying to kill me?” huffs John, chest heaving.
Sweat-slick and naked, John runs his palm over his face, fisting the hair at the top of his head. The man is exhausted, but you said over text that you wanted to breed him, and you’re not finished now that you’re home.
Head bobbing, you bring John back to aching hardness, relentless in your pursuit of having it off. There isn’t nearly enough of John’s cum in you. Fullness is the goal. To leave him empty and you stuffed to the brim.
With a wet pop, the head of his cock bounces from between your lips, pointing toward the ceiling. “John,” you sigh, dream-drenched and heavy. “You don’t need to do anything.”
Hands slide up his hairy chest. Come back down. Fingers running over thick muscles. You take your time, curling those fingers to lightly drag your nails over his skin. He inhales sharply, and you grin.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, hips lifting as you tease him with your tongue. “You’re insatiable.”
With a mischievous smile, you shift, giving John your back. Lifting your ass, you provide him with a clear of you sliding down on him before you start to bounce.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
The room smells of sweat and sex.
“I need a moment,” says Kyle, his breathing deep. “Shit. Give me a moment.”
Kyle holds you in his arms, face nuzzling the top of your head, his eyes closed as he attempts to steady himself. You, on the other hand, are perfectly fine. As Kyle contemplates life and his sanity, you play with his dick.
“If I recall,” you begin.
“Hush, you,” mutters Kyle.
“You said you could keep up with me.”
Kyle grunts, a sliver of annoyed defeat in it. “I did.”
Hand roaming down to cup his balls, you gently squeeze them. “Are you sure now?”
A long pause, and then Kyle finally speaks. “Don’t know if I can come again that fast.”
You shrug, snuggling closer. “Sure about that?” You bring your hand back to his dick. “Feels hard to me.”
Kyle snorts and gently grasps your wrist. You cease stroking him. “I’m serious, love. Might be done.”
Drawing your hand away, you bring it to rest on his chest, placing a soft kiss on Kyle’s cheekbone. “Tomorrow?”
Kyle’s arm tightens, bringing you in until you’re smushed. “Telling Price you’re putting me on the path to an early retirement.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Fisting the base of Johnny’s cock, you give it a loving squeeze. A dribble of cum emerges from the tip, you suck it up greedily. And yet, you’re not finished. Hardly even started. Already you’re stroking him, teasing up that build until Johnny is rock-hard and throbbing.
“Oh, aye.” Johnny chuckles at your eagerness. “Want another round?”
You arch an eyebrow but don’t cease. “That a problem?”
Johnny shakes his head. Bringing his arms up, he tucks them under his head, a pleased smile forming on his lips. “No. Surprised is all.”
“Surprised?” you question, almost mocking. “Didn’t think I could fuck like this?”
Johnny snorts, clearly amused by the exchange. He’s trying to turn this around, to bring you to heel. Funny how he thinks you’ll take orders from him. A quick swirl of your tongue and the man is chocking.
“Talking about the stamina,” he manages, eyelids fluttering as you take more of him.
You head slowly ascends, lips suctioning until his eyes briefly roll back into his head. When the head of his cock pops out, you speak. “Is my stamina too much for you?”
Johnny’s gaze returns to your face. “Maybe. Won’t know unless we try.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Beneath you, the sofa shifts, imperceptibly moving with each hard thrust.
At your ear, is Simon’s voice, gruff and thick like he’s smoked too many cigarettes. “Think I can’t keep up?”
You know that tone. Simon uses it when you’re in trouble, or you’ve pushed him a bit too far and he drawn up a punishment. You hold your tongue. While you want to brat over this, to continuously poke at him, that’ll only take you further than you can go.
Simon doubles his efforts at your silence, fucking you harder. His fingers are in your mouth, cutting off your words anyway, though you could use your teeth. Simon’s brute strength severs your ability to do anything except take his cock.
“Always think you can out pace me, bird.”
He’s the one poking now, shifting the power to his hands, leaving you helpless. It’s always where you want to be with him, but the thrill is not knowing how much he’ll deal out.
Saliva pools around Simon’s fingers, dripping onto your lips and chin. Deep enough to stifle but not choke.
Simon lands a sharp slap to your ass. “This is mine. Always mine. You’ll be the one who tires.”
💦 Kiss the receiver while they slowly come down from their release. Thoughts on this with any version of either Valaar or Aerion you feel it’d go well with? Love your work
𓈒 ͜ ︵ ݂ ׁ aftershock 𓈒 gdgw!valarr
He’s still inside you when you kiss him.
Valarr’s mouth is open against your shoulder and his breath is coming hard through clenched teeth. You feel him pulsing, that last shuddering aftershocks of him spilling into you. The low, ragged sounds he’s making against your skin like he can’t quite get a handle on himself yet. His hand is still fisted in your hair at the nape. The other is splayed flat across your lower back, fingers gone white-knuckled against your spine, holding you down on him while he grinds into you.
His hips give one more involuntary jerk. Valarr groans. A wrecked sound, almost grieving, tender and starved against your glistening skin.
You sit up on him just enough to find his face.
Valarr’s eyes are half-shut, lashes wet, a flush riding high on his cheekbones in two unkempt patches. The white streak at his temple has gone dark with sweat, stuck to his forehead in messy curls, the usual floppiness tamed. His mouth rests open, bright red and swollen. Softer than you’ve ever seen it. Nothing like it gets at dinners, softer than it gets when he’s pretending to be patient. This particular softness only happens in the minute or two after Valarr comes, when the careful man he spends all day being has not yet reassembled himself.
You lean down and kiss him.
It’s a slow kiss, genuinely sweet. The type of kiss he kissed you with in his bedroom in September of year one when he still asked permission to do so. Back when his mouth was reverent and careful and trying to map you, except now you’re the one doing the mapping and he’s the territory. You drag your bottom lip along his, let your tongue brush the inside of his mouth in one lazy stroke. You taste the wine he had at dinner and the salt of your own skin, the faint metallic edge of the spot on his bottom lip where you bit him twenty minutes ago. Valarr releases a soft, hurt sound into your mouth.
His cock twitches inside you. Spent. Sensitive. He flinches when you clench around him anyway and a small fuck escapes him against your mouth.
You smile against his lips.
You pull back to look at him.
His hand snaps up from your back to your jaw.
Fast. Possessive. His fingers closes along the line of your jaw and his thumb presses into the soft give beneath your chin. He’s holding you there an inch from his mouth, and his mismatched eyes have peeled open, gone dark and fixed on you with a focus that has nothing post-coital about it at all.
The other Valarr, that edge beneath the gold of him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Same smoky lilt. Hoarse from fucking you twice already. But there’s iron underneath it now, the iron that wasn’t there in year one, that he didn’t know was in him until you put it there.
“Nowhere,” you murmur in response.
“Come back.”
Valarr pulls you down by the jaw.
His mouth opens for yours and you can feel him still trembling under you, can feel his thighs shaking against the backs of your own where you’re straddling him, can feel his heart hammering against your sternum, but the hand at your jaw is immovable. The hand at your jaw is certain. Valarr kisses you slowly and filthily, his tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s trying to taste every last thing in there, like he’s looking for himself, like he needs to find the proof of his own come on your tongue before he’ll let you up.
He finds it. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased.
“My love,” he breathes into you. “I could eat you whole.”
His other hand slides into your hair. Cradling, this time. Almost tender. Valarr kisses you again—softer this time, but no less thorough, and his thumb strokes once down the line of your jaw in that absent appreciative way he has, the way he touches things he’s worshipping.
“Stay still for me,” he murmurs. “Need you here, sweet girl. Let me kiss you, let me.”
You stay still.
You stay still and you let him kiss you through the last of his come down. The slow descent, the heart-rate slowing against yours, and the small twitches of his body losing their grip on him one by one. He keeps his cock inside you the entire time. He doesn’t soften his mouth, keeping you pinned at the jaw and tasted and held. Valarr’s tongue is lazy and curious against yours, the way only other Valarr gets. His mouth is devoted against yours, and you can feel him going from spent and shaking to something else, something steadier, something almost luxurious, like a man settling deeper into a hot bath he intends to stay in for a while.
“You taste like me,” he says against your lips. Pleased. A little wondering.
“I taste like you,” you agree softly, your nose bumping his.
“Good.”
Valarr’s thumb presses, briefly, into the corner of your mouth. He drags it across your bottom lip unhurriedly, watching it. Then Valarr leans up and licks the same path his thumb just traced, mouth open, leisurely, and you feel that drag all the way down your spine and into where he’s still seated inside you and you have to bite back a hungry sound.
His eyes flick up to yours. The corner of his mouth tugs. Not a smile. That silky, corner shape of one.
“You can’t be working up to going again,” he says, amused, delighted, a faint note of disbelief threading through it. “My love. My greedy, beautiful love.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He can feel the answer where you’re sitting on him, in the way you flutter around him and Valarr groans low in his throat.
He kisses you again. Deeper this time. The hand at your jaw shifts down to your throat—not gripping, only resting, the way he likes to rest it there, the way that lets him feel your pulse and the swallow and the small catches of your breath—and his other hand slides down from your hair to the small of your back, palm flat, fingers spreading wide.
“Give me a minute,” he says against your mouth. “Give me one minute, my love. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything you want.”
His mouth on yours. Again. Then again after a small gasp of breath. His tongue glides slowly against yours. His cock still inside you, softening after his release but already starting, with the slow inevitability of him, to think about hardening again.
“Stay here,” he tells you between kisses, urgent, almost dazed. “Stay right here. Don’t move.”
You don’t move.
You stay exactly where he put you, and Valarr keeps kissing you down through the rest of his come-down with the hungry, total focus he brings to everything else in his life. Somewhere underneath the gold of his mouth and the dark of his hand at your throat, you understand that the man who asked permission in year one is gone. That he isn’t coming back. That this is the man you made, and the man you made is keeping you.
summary: Being the outsider in a world of richness and crime was harder than she could’ve imagined—and Bucky would be better off with someone else.
prompt: “You don’t get it. People like you don’t end up with people like me!” — “The ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.”
Prompt from this post by @promptcalender
warnings: self-doubt, banter/fight, reader is depicting as being a lawyer, prompt writing, Bucky being so in love, Mob Boss!Bucky, mentions of gossip and insults, kind of proposing, not 100% proofread
author’s note: Don’t mind me over here writing another piece for Bucky.
The entire evening had been a mistake.
One failure after the other. One wrong glance stacked on the next, following her like vaulters throughout the night. Whispers behind her back that tracked her every move, always clinging to her, always taunting.
It had been a disaster, and the worst of it? Bucky didn’t seem to realize.
Not a single worry line appeared on his forehead, his brows never furrowed like they so often did, his eyes never turned into that dark and menacing stare he sometimes came home with after a particular rough day. Nothing. As if gossip didn’t touch or concern him. Well, it obviously did not, because he was James Buchanan Barnes, leader not only of New York City’s underworld but of the underworld of the entire East Coast. He didn’t concern himself with the gossip of the minor families. But she was fair game—and everyone made sure she knew.
Sometimes, YN asked herself how the hell she had ended up as the girlfriend of America’s most notorious mafia leader. She didn’t belong in this world—her family never had troubles with the law or ever even gained a speeding ticket—and yet, she couldn’t withstand the charm of one Bucky Barnes after quite literally running into him on her way home from work. He had insisted on buying her dinner because she had dropped her overly overpriced Whole Foods salad she had just gotten after working another night of grueling overtime at the law firm she had just transferred to. Usually, she wasn’t the type of woman who would agree to dinner with a literal stranger, but something of Bucky Barnes had compelled her to throw everything she knew out of the literal window. It turned out to be the most fun she had had in a while, she had to give him that after hours of flowing, easy conversation, quick banter, and lingering smiles and thrown glances.
The night had ended with his number in her phone—he hadn’t asked for hers because, in his opinion, the woman should have all the power over the matter of reaching out again or not, effectively ghosting the guy she didn’t feel comfortable with in the “worst” case—and from there, everything seemed to be history.
“You are so quiet and far away over there, love.” His smooth, soft words pulled YN right out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t bear to look over at him, sitting on the other side of the backseat of the expensive Mercedes Maybach. Usually, she would hold at least his hand, fingers laced, and his thumb would rub patterns onto her skin, only he knew the meaning of, but not tonight. Tonight, she felt like a peasant dressing up and playing masquerade in the glittering world of the filthy rich. When she didn’t answer, she heard the leather as Bucky slowly turned to her and felt his gaze watching her intently, as if she was a piece of one of the old masters he considered buying—and not to hang it in his brownstone, or townhouse on the Upper East Side, or the family home just outside the city. No, he would lock it away in some vault or another.
YN had never understood it and probably would never understand because she would never buy something this expensive in her lifetime, only to lock it underground.
Silence stretched between them, and not the companionable kind. Everything was different tonight, and it physically hurt her to think about what this could all mean. Not only for her, but for them. Perhaps he would wake one fine morning in the middle of the week and realize what a horrible match he had made with her and would just send her back into the world, fighting for herself again, finding someone of better rank and better breeding.
How she had learned to loathe that phrase ever since being his plus one for the first time.
“YNN,” he spoke again with soft urgency in his tone. Bucky knew her too well, she now realized. Blinking, her eyes watched the passing streetlights on their way home. “I’m just tired, Bucky. It was a long day.” A bullshit excuse because if she were so tired, she would have snuggled into his side the moment both of them had entered the car, falling asleep on his shoulder with his lips pressed to her hairline.
Bucky knew that, too, but didn’t press the matter. Not now, at least.
It changed when the Maybach stopped in front of the townhouse she had grown to love so dearly; it would hurt her to leave it behind. The view across Central Park on the uppermost floor and patio was breathtaking every moment of every day.
Opening the door without waiting for Bucky to round the car and open it for her, YN climbed onto the sidewalk, the noise of Manhattan surrounding her, and her heels carried her across the stone toward the entrance, passerby instinctively waiting to let the woman in the evening gown pass. “YNN. Love, wait.” He tried to be calm in public, she knew, because he wasn’t one of those people who fought openly on the streets unless absolutely necessary. But she didn’t wait; instead, she opened the door to the townhouse with the fingerprint scanner to her right, pushing the masterfully crafted iron door open and vanishing behind it, hearing Bucky huff in frustration as he closed it behind himself.
“Would you mind telling me what has gotten into you? Something clearly happened, and don’t try to sell me some sorry excuse, love.” He was angry—finally something they had in common tonight—and she huffed softly while kicking off those torturous heels she already had to wear every day when she headed to work. Even quiet nights at home on her rare nights without work had been taken from her. “Go and ask your dear friends to hear what exactly has gotten into me,” YN mumbled, pulling her phone out of the clutch she had probably strangled at some point during this evening. Notifications of work-related emails and some newsletter or another scrolled across the glass, and she wiped them all away, only to face her lock screen without obstacles.
A picture of Bucky and her at Santa Monica Pier, her sitting on the railing with Bucky’s sunglasses propped on her nose she had stolen from his only moments before Steve had taken the picture, grinning brightly and raising a hand to wave at Steve, Bucky’s arm protectively wrapped around her waist as he stood right next to her, looking at her with a smile so filled with love, it almost shocked her every time she saw it. It had been such a perfect day that not even the sunburn on her nose could ruin it.
One of his hands took hold of her arm and gently turned her to face him, a finger under YN’s chin made her powerless to look anywhere but into his eyes. They were so incredibly blue, she sometimes lost herself in them when she wasn’t careful enough. And now, they stared at her in confusion and something else. “What would they tell me, love? Hm? I would prefer to hear it from you.”
It was almost laughable how clueless he seemed to be if it wasn’t so sad. With a flip of her chin, she released herself from his hold and took a step back, away from him and his distracting closeness, because she wasn’t as headstrong if he was too close. “You know exactly what they would tell you, Bucky. It’s the same tune they have sung since the first time I showed up at one of their precious gatherings, intruding into their sacred halls, dripping and sparkling with gold no normal person would ever be able to afford. And that’s what I am: normal. Ordinary. Not of the respectable and acceptable breed to mingle with everyone.” YN took a steadying breath before she continued. “I am scrutinized whenever I dare to show my face right next to yours. Does anyone care that I was the best of my class at Yale? Or that I am one of the youngest partners the law firm has ever appointed, and that I do a hell of a job? No, of course not. Because that’s nothing they care for. All they care about is money, family, and connections. Things I cannot provide. Everything else is secondary at best.”
Bucky watched her ranting, eyes focused on her face, never letting it out of sight. And when she finished, he slowly cocked a dark brow ever so slightly. “I think you give too much on gossip, YNN,” he started to smile, making her irritated. A frustrated sound escaped her, and she slammed the phone on the sideboard lining the hallway opposite the grand staircase.
“You don’t get it. People like you don’t end up with people like me!”
And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She was no one in everyone’s eyes. Just a tiny light easily diminished if they just so much as pleased it. Just a lawyer with a fancy corner office and nothing else to her name. They never even heard of it before Bucky had tucked her into his side and turned her into something else, something seemingly important but not important or special at all, as soon as they had gathered firsthand evidence. Just a fluke. Nothing more. The older ladies with unmarried daughters or granddaughters of the right age whispered behind her back how Bucky would easily tire of her, and then their time would come, because everyone wanted a piece of the most powerful man they knew.
And that jewel had been stolen by a peasant thief.
Bucky’s soft and melodic chuckle forced YN to stare him into the ground, but his delight and love were too strong for her to budge under her gaze. He didn’t even flinch and instead pushed both his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored black slacks.
“The ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.”
She wanted to scream. “You still don’t get it, you moron! You—… The what?” Only after her little outburst did her mind process his words, forcing her to pause and blink. Had he actually said what her mind struggled to accept?
Bucky sighed softly and stepped up to her, closing the distance physically and emotionally. “You heard me right, dearest.” With that, his hands pulled from his pockets, and a wine-red velvet box appeared between his fingers. He didn’t open it, just let her take it in before her eyes jumped back up to his, staring without daring to breathe. “I couldn’t care less what everyone is talking behind our backs because I have learned something ever since meeting you and guilt-tripping you into a dinner date with a stranger.” That made YN laugh under her breath. “Everyone has their expectations of life and how they want to live it—my parents certainly had them for me, but above all, they wanted me to find real love. The kind of love you crave coming home to every day. The kind that ignites you and makes you want to become a better man. I have found that with you, YNN. And I do not doubt the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s as easy as that. And if you want that too, then I suggest you stop ruining my attempts of proposing properly to the most incredible woman I had ever the pleasure of running into, okay?”
Nodding with tears in her eyes, YN cupped his face with both her hands, coaxing him down to kiss his soft lips, and Bucky happily obliged after putting the ring box back into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m sorry if I overreacted,” she whispered against his skin and felt his strong arms wrapping around her lower back, being pulled into his strong body honed by hours of training. “Don’t apologize, my love. We just have to get you a better armor against the evil vipers in the pits of hell.” His smirk was almost wolfish, devilish even, kissing her again. “Perhaps wearing my name will help you, my dear,” followed in a whisper YN felt more than she heard before a laugh was ripped out of her when Bucky hoisted her into his arms, carrying her upstairs with laughable ease, and making sure she understood who she belonged to since the day they met.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please consider leaving a reblog, a comment, and a like ♡
hiyaya — maybe that trope with bucky where its like:
“wheres your boyfriend?” “
hes not my boyfriend.”
“does he know that?”
The sun is sinking low, orange light spilling across the lake behind the Wilson house, music playing low from a speaker someone dragged outside. You’re barefoot in the grass, nursing a sweating bottle of beer, laughing at something Joaquin just said when a voice drifts in from your left.
“So,” the guy says, leaning a little too close. Some friend-of-a-friend Sam invited. Cute in a harmless, gym-bro kind of way. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
You blink. “My what?”
He gestures vaguely over your shoulder. “The tall one. Broody. Looks like he could bench-press a car.”
You don’t even have to turn to know who he means.
You shrug, feigning innocence. “Oh. Him? He’s not my boyfriend.”
The guy pauses.
Slowly grins.
“Does he know that?”
You snort. “There’s nothing to know.”
It’s true. Technically.
You and Bucky aren’t dating. There was no conversation, no labels. Just a slow slide into something that looks suspiciously like commitment. Movie nights that turned into falling asleep on his chest. His spare hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Him showing up at your place after missions without knocking, like he belongs there.
But you never said the word boyfriend.
And neither did he.
The guy nods like he’s just been given permission. “So he wouldn’t mind if I—”
A shadow falls over you.
Heavy. Familiar.
Warm.
You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.
Bucky’s voice comes from directly behind you, low and even. “If you what?”
The guy straightens immediately. “Nothing. Just talking.”
“Yeah,” you add lightly, taking a sip of your beer. “Just talking.”
Bucky’s metal hand settles on the small of your back.
Possessive. Casual. Unmistakable.
The guy glances between you.
“Thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” he says to you, smirking.
You shrug again. “He’s not.”
Bucky goes very still behind you.
You can feel it—the way his chest stops moving for half a second. The way his hand tightens just slightly at your back.
The guy raises his brows at Bucky. “You hear that?”
There’s a beat.
Then Bucky says, voice soft and dangerous, “Yeah. I heard.”
The guy laughs nervously and excuses himself within seconds, something about checking the grill. You watch him go, amused.
Then you finally turn.
Bucky’s staring at you.
Not angry.
Not exactly.
But something is simmering there.
“You’re not my boyfriend,” you repeat, teasing.
His jaw ticks.
“Funny,” he says evenly. “Could’ve sworn I’ve been acting like one.”
You tilt your head. “Have you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Carry your groceries. Fix your sink. Sleep in your bed three nights a week. Threaten any guy who looks at you too long.”
“I never asked you to threaten anyone.”
“You never asked me not to.”
You bite back a smile.
He steps closer, crowding you just enough that your breath catches. His fingers hook into the belt loop of your shorts, tugging you in until your chest bumps his.
“So,” he murmurs, “I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Correct.”
His eyes darken.
“And you’re single?”
“Technically.”
“Technically,” he repeats, like the word offends him.
You’re enjoying this far too much.
“Why?” you ask sweetly. “Does it bother you?”
His laugh is short and humorless.
“Does it bother me,” he echoes, then leans down until his mouth is brushing your ear. “You know what bothered me?”
“What?”
“That guy thinking he had a shot.”
You hum thoughtfully. “Maybe he does.”
Bucky’s hand slides from your belt loop to your hip, gripping harder now.
“Don’t,” he warns quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Pretend you don’t know.”
Your pulse is hammering. He smells like smoke and soap and summer air. His thumb presses into your waist like he’s staking a claim he hasn’t technically made.
“You’re not my boyfriend,” you whisper again, just to see what he’ll do.
That does it.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.
“Fine,” he says flatly.
And before you can process the tone, he turns.
And walks away.
Your stomach drops.
You didn’t expect that.
You stand there, watching him retreat toward the dock, shoulders tight, hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t look back.
Well.
Shit.
You make it maybe thirty seconds before following him.
He’s at the end of the dock, staring out at the water like he’s contemplating swimming to another state.
“Buck,” you say softly.
He doesn’t turn. “You’re single. Shouldn’t be out here with me.”
You wince.
“I was joking.”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
You step closer. The wood creaks under your feet.
“You know you’re the only one I want.”
Silence.
“That’s not the same thing,” he says finally.
You swallow. “Then what is?”
He turns then, and the look on his face knocks the air out of you.
Not angry.
Hurt.
“I don’t share,” he says simply. “Never have. Don’t plan on starting now.”
“I’m not sharing.”
“You just told a guy I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Because you never asked to be.”
That stops him.
You step into his space now.
“You never said it. I didn’t want to assume. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Bucky stares at you like that possibility has never once occurred to him.
“You think I scare that easy?”
“I think you’ve lost a lot,” you say gently. “I didn’t want to push.”
His throat works.
Then, softer: “You think I’ve been sleeping in your bed, holding your hand in public, memorizing the sound of your laugh because I’m… casual?”
Heat creeps up your neck.
“When that guy asked where your boyfriend was,” he continues, stepping closer again, “I liked it.”
Your breath stutters.
“I liked that people assume I’m yours.”
You blink.
“You are,” you say immediately.
“Then say it.”
The lake is quiet behind you. The music faint from the house.
You step fully into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re my boyfriend,” you say, steady this time. “You’re my grumpy, possessive, terrifying boyfriend.”
Something in him softens.
“And you’re mine,” he says.
“Obviously.”
A ghost of a smile curves his mouth.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Then he kisses you.
A hand in your hair, the other firm at your waist, like he’s sealing something in place. Claiming. Confirming.
When he pulls back, your lips are tingling.
“So,” you say breathlessly, “does that mean you know?”
[ SUM ] — college soccer coach toji has a secret admirer. but how secret is it when most of the highlights in the school paper are photos of him, instead of the players scoring goals?
[ TAGS ] — MDNI 18+ ONLY. nsfw. piv. raw. unprotected. age gap (mid 30s x early 20s). slight exhibitionism. HEAVY CREAMPIE. FAT BULGE. spanking. CUNNILINGUS. oral f!recieving. dacryphilia. reader kinda freaky. thick dark sexy HAPPY TRAIL. nudity. SHOWER SEX. SCENT KINK. pet names. spitting. wc: 19.1k
[ A/N ] — inspired by coach!toji from my fratkuna series. I was gooning too much whenever I’d mention him soooo
photo-journalism can mean many things. at its core though is documentation and being present. it’s about recording what happens so it doesn’t vanish into the noise of the world. and that’s what you’ve been doing since you started uni.
working for the school newspaper means covering everything that matters to the university. big events, games, and when you attend a school with a division 1 soccer team, that’s ranked the top of the country, it means your weekends are spent on the sidelines of the pitch. floodlights humming overhead, cleats tearing into the turf, and the air sharp with anticipation.
everyone’s eyes are on the match, on the players, the scoreline, and the inevitable victory. everyone’s, except yours.
your lens has a habit of drifting. and it always finds him on the sidelines, the head coach.
standing just outside the white chalk lines. shaggy raven hair that never looks styled, stubble he clearly forgot—or chose not—to shave that morning. his infamous scar pulling at his lips as he shouts. he wears the same black team jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. when he folds his arms or gestures sharply toward the field, you always catch his muscles shifting beneath the fabric, veins flexing making it so impossible to ignore.
it’s just a photographer’s eye for striking subjects. for sure….
he beautifully contrasts against the chaos of the game…even if he’s shouting, or breaking his clipboard…. still, you capture him mid-shout, mid-thought, jaw clenched as he’s holding the entire team together.
and then later, when the photos run, and his photos dominate the highlights more than the actual goal, well, you pretend not to notice how often your name sits beneath them in a small, neat printed font.
he doesn’t know you. you’re just another person with a camera on the sidelines. you’re just another face in a sea of professional press badges, not just one of the universities many photographers. but you know him. you know the way his brows pinch when one of his players gets injured, the way his mouth twitches when his team scores, and the way he exhales with relief when the game ends.
and you keep clicking the shutter button—
“again?!” the head editor exclaims. “you didn’t get the goal?”
“I did!” you huff, glaring at the senior grad student who basically runs the entire school newspaper.
“not the first one, the final goal! the one scored by the universities ace! sukuna—“
“god forbid i missed a shot, I basically got everything else, plus I’m not the only one taking photos on the pitch. don’t you have other photographers?” you tsk, arms crossed.
he glares at you behind his desk, clicking through the photos you’d uploaded. “you got every single expression of the damn coach,” he mutters under his breath, clicking through one of toji shouting, then another of him spitting on the grass, then another of him scratching his jaw—
you nibble on your cheek, slouching slightly in the seat.
“you hate when we use someone else’s photos,” he adds, licking his teeth as he finally gets to your photos of the actual players. and they were spectacular. the action shots were perfect, you can see the sweat dribbling down their foreheads.
“because it’s my job,” you mutter, glancing at your editor who frowns when the photos return back to the head coach.
“unbelievable,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly as he sits back in his seat. “you’re killing me.”
your heel kicks the floor. this wasn’t a first. this happens almost every time. your lens just happens to drift away from the ball and fall on the head coach.
even with fans shouting in the stands, and the other cameras flashing in the other direction. your camera can’t help but find coach toji in the chaos. he was just as important as the team. he’s acting like toji isn’t mentioned a million times in the articles! god forbid you want him getting his flowers. but your editor wasn’t very appreciative of your sympathies.
“we’re going with these three, and taking one from the other photographers for the final goal you didn’t get,” he sighs, showing you your three photos, one of the team celebrating, another of satoru gojo sprinting across the field with the ball, and of course, the final — and in your opinion the best — of head coach toji standing with his muscular arms crossed at the start of the second half.
your editor rolls his eyes turning his screen back to him. “if you bring another folder and it’s seventy percent of this damn coach, I’ll drop you and pull noah up.”
the threat has you lowering your head and muttering a hesitate okay, because at the end of the day, you were the only photographer that worked full time for the paper, and you go to every single match. the rest are focused on other stories, or working their way to become editors.
while you liked photo-journalism more. it helped, that on weekends, you got someone to admire. and your editor was not the only one that’s noticed.
“what the hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” geto huffs, snatching the paper from gojo as he sits on the pitch. “why am I never in these damn fucking articles??” he huffs with anger
“score more goals,” gojo sticks his tongue out, just to get kicked harshly by his friend.
“I fucking scored this game,” geto snaps, grumbling even more as he flips through the paper, seeing the team celebrating.
sukuna chugs his water behind them, “my picture sucks ass,” he grumbles, spitting the water right beside their goalie making him jerk back in annoyance. “you didn’t score, but I get the shit picture?” he snaps lowly at gojo.
geto frowns, “I scored, and at least you get a picture.”
gojo chuckles, pointing at the next photo, making the entire team roll their eyes simultaneously.
“some things never change,” one teammate, yuno, mutters. his hands are on his hips as him and the rest of the team glare at the immaculate, pristine, jaw-dropping photo captured of their strict, grumpy, nicotine addicted head coach, toji.
sukuna snarls as geto looks like he’s going to fucking tear out his luscious black hair. “fucking unbelievable.”
gojo snorts even louder, snatching the paper just to wave it from his place on the ground towards toji, who’d just gotten off the phone. “coach! you’re mogging the cameras again!”
toji’s brows pinch until he notices the photo. and it’s always the same reaction from the head coach. his eyes scan over the photo, then they fall down to the same printed name underneath. “not bad,” he casually says, handing back the newspaper like it’s nothing.
but the entire team is seething, with the exception of gojo laughing his ass off.
“I finally figured out who your secret admirer is,” gojo announces, “it’s definitely the cutie with the charm on her camera and stickers on her flashlight.”
geto raises a brow “how d’ya know that?” the rest of the team immediately huddle in.
gojo clears his throat.
“for the last few games I’ve been purposely fixing my shoes or drinking water on the sidelines where they’re all huddled up. obviously I ruled out all the old farts, then I narrowed it down to the ladies. then i crossed out the outside press, but it’s hard since I can’t see all their press badges—but then i noticed,” gojo holds up the newspaper, slapping his index finger on your name beneath the photo. the entire team have basically memorized your full name by now. “she was the only one still photographing the field, BUT it was pointed at coach,” gojo points to toji.
“AND,” gojo continues, “she had this cute little charm on her camera, and this sticker. and it’s definitely your secret admirer,” gojo confidently smiles.
however, geto scratches his jaw, glancing at gojo then the newspaper. “so which one was her instagram?”
oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.
your name under a majority of the game’s photos started catching the teams attention a couple months ago. your credentials at the bottom of the article was always signed with your first and last name. however, when the team caught on to your not-so secret admiration for their coach, and neglect of the rest of team, they tried stalking you.
yet, they couldn’t find a single social media handle. not your instagram, twitter, tiktok — even your linkedIn was just the default linkedIn pfp. and the school paper website didn’t have a photo for you. either way, the team was on a mission.
“I don’t think her socials are even under her name,” gojo admits, making the team groan.
toji, silently watching the ordeal transpire, claps his hands, breaking the gossip. “enough, continue your drills unless ya wanna stay till sunset!”
once the team finally finishes practice and began packing their gear. neither one of them notices the students enjoying the nice weather on campus, or the girl that take a detours to walk past the field.
your eyes easily fall on your perfect subject. his hand cracks his neck as he stifles a yawn, kicking the soccer ball towards one of the players as they kick it up, tucking it under their arm.
it was a routine….one that you found yourself subconsciously doing on practice days. you would follow the path down from the quad, until you reach the second soccer field on campus, mainly used for practice and training.
your bag hangs off your shoulder along with your camera — the lens was downsized to your fixed 24mm and the flash wasn’t on — that’s usually how your camera is when you aren’t at events, or games.
it isn’t uncommon to watch the schools infamous soccer team practice. especially when half of them are also part of a fraternity. hell, on the other side of the field were a few girls fawning over the sweaty players.
in other words, you don’t stand out. and you’re unbothered by the hot players that glance your way as they pack their bags. well, until a certain white haired player is squinting across the field, before muttering a quiet “no way…”
geto gives his friend a look, lifting his duffle over his shoulder as sukuna wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, “what?” he grumbles.
gojo’s bag hit the grass. he locks eyes with you. then he does the worst thing imaginable. he shouts your name.
the entire team snap their necks in your direction. gojo suddenly leads the pack of six foot whatever college men across the field — their bags drop, cleats half untied, some bare foot. but all on one mission.
you.
the color immediately drains from your face. your body freezes like a deer in headlights. and when the entire team of sweaty, built, hot men crowd the waist-high fence that separate them from you. you’re ultimately stuck.
“you’re-you’re—“ slightly out of breath and pumped full of adrenaline, gojo heaves out your name. not just a first name, no—your full government name. “right!?”
you eyes lazily drag between the men, fixing the strap of your bag, your camera clinking against the side, drawing every man’s attention to the little charm gojo had just described less than an hour ago.
“yeah,” you manage to exhale, shifting your balance. “did you need something?”
“yeah,” the low voice of the hot headed team captain interrupts. he hadn’t ran with rest of the players, instead he walked up, casual and full of loud confidence. finally making his way across the field, energy drink in hand, glaring right through you as he continues. “why the fuck was my picture the only one not taken by you? it looks like shit.”
you exhale, about to answer when another one cuts in.
“why haven’t you taken one of me? the game last month was my debut and you didn’t get me going on the pitch—“
“I liked that shot you got of me when—“
“can you get my good side next time—“
“why did you—“
“can you—“
“you didn’t get my goal!” geto manages to dogpile. all the men yell complaints and compliments, overwhelming you with critiques. until you’re frowning, glaring harshly at the group of men you’d watched from a distance since your freshman year.
“I don’t work for you guys,” you finally snap. your words are cold making the men frown. “I work for the schools paper, and they choose the photos, not me.”
“and yet coach is in every single one of em?” geto bites back, and that’s when they all catch the slight surprise that crosses your face.
gojo smirks, leaning over the fence, getting close as he tilts his head. “seems like a majority of your photos have our coach. it’s like your editor can’t help but be forced to put him in.”
you feel your stomach churn, glancing between the sharp sapphire eyes. “that’s not how it works,” you mutter.
you did not expect your first interaction with the soccer team to be this. accusing you of favoritism. you can practically feel all their eyes on you, like they knew exactly who you are, even if this is your first time speaking to them.
“sure looks like it,” sukuna drawls, smirking wide when he sees you shift uncomfortably. “you like our coach or somethin?”
“of course she does,” geto’s smooth voice cuts in. “do you get all hot lookin at coach toji?”
you swallow thickly, pushing down the heat crawling up your neck to glare at the men. “you guys are disgusting,” you spit, but the men don’t falter, instead they continue gloating and poking.
“we just wanna get to know you. you’ve been takin’ our pics for months, we can’t have a chat now?” geto cuts.
they were quietly impressed with your composure. your poker face would’ve been perfect if not for the slight fidgeting you’re doing with your bag and camera strap. either way, your glare was mean, unwavering until—
“cut it out.”
the sharp voice slices through the team. then, one strong palm shoves gojo into geto, and the rest of the team topple on each other like dominos. the head coach plants himself between the fence, his team, and you.
“i forget you’re all a couple children,” toji tsks, his arms are crossed standing like a lone knight keeping a pack a wolves from a poor princess.
your heart slams against your rib cage. all your composure evaporates into thin air, struggling to catch your breath. this was the closest you’ve gotten to the head coach. you can practically smell the mixture of his cologne and natural musk. your cheeks grow hotter by the second, completely dazed and loosing all other senses, unaware that practically half the team noticed your sudden shift.
gojo elbows geto eyeing the way your pupils basically turn into bright pink hearts. even your lips look more glossy from the drool collecting in your mouth.
they’d never seen anything like it, and for their coach of all people?!
you’re caught up in gawking at the huge man, eyeing his wide shoulders, the veins straining from his compression shirt, his shirt clinging to every muscle that could break you in a blink of an eye — that you miss his short lecture towards his boys to quit scaring off a young woman, all to end with him shouting—
“ten more laps!”
the team’s eyes bulge, jaws dropping in shock, and quickly follow up with a spew of complaints.
“ya heard coach!” sukuna, the hot-headed captain, interrupts. and if the team wasn’t scared of their coach, they definitely had a reason to be with their captain. they ultimately drop their things and start their laps. however, sukuna hangs back at bit, “I didn’t even say sh—“
“you were late to practice, so you were gonna do the laps anyways,” toji cuts, earning a loud tsk from the tattooed captain. his duffle drops on the floor dramatically, eyes flicking towards yours, which — no surprise — haven’t left the coach’s profile, and with his own groan, his cleats hit the grass starting his lap.
with the entire team running laps….you’re left alone.
coach toji doesn’t move.
instead, he leans against the fence, strong arms crossing. you’re barely a foot behind him, close enough that the scent of grass and dizzy cologne reaches you when he shifts his weight. close enough that your brain short-circuits again.
then he looks over his shoulder.
it’s not rushed or sharp. it was an easy turn of his head, his dark emerald eyes flick to you with calm, assessing. and up close, he’s worse. he’s broader than he looks from the sidelines, his stubble shadowing his jaw feels unfair for a sunday morning. sunlight catches the edge of his cheekbone, and the curve of his mouth makes you stare shamelessly especially when it lifts just slightly. he’s amused by something you’re not aware of yet and you don’t even notice.
your heart stutters.
you practically forget how to stand or how to function like a grown ass adult, instead you feel like someone who’s just had their fantasy materialize directly in front of them.
heat rushes to your face, your chest tightens, and you pray, desperately, that your expression isn’t as transparent as it feels. you focus on keeping your hands still, even as your pulse flutters wildly under your skin.
and toji’s gaze lingers. he takes you in like the way someone experienced does, without staring, without shame, just a brief glance that drifts. from your fidgeting fingers, to your necklace trapped between your pretty cleavage, to the tank top that hugs your chest, to the zip up hoodie falling off your soft shoulder. to your lips, wet from the amount of times you’d lick and bit them.
and you still don’t notice it! you’re too busy trying not to melt into the grass beneath your feet. all you register is how hot the space suddenly feels, how solid he seems standing there.
from the field, a player snickers mid-lap. a majority watching the entire interaction, waiting for someone to make a move. gojo snickers as geto analyzes.
you don’t hear any of it, all you know is that the knights are real, and he’s right in front of you, and your carefully maintained composure never stood a chance. especially when his eyes meet yours and his deep, husky, voice sinks into your bones.
“been wondering who was seein’ me like that, sweetheart.”
you were gone.
s-s-s-sweetheart!?
your heart bursts, veins burning through your skin as your lips part, words falling into the void as your brain struggles to reply.
and he finds it adorable.
college girls are cute, but you, you’re a little pervert. how many photos have you taken of him? and for the past year too? he’s wondered just like his team had, who was behind all those photos. who was oogling him while the best team in the nation was playing right before their eyes?
at first, he was bothered, confused even, how big of a stalker did you have to be to take his photos for months and not introduce yourself?
but now he sees it. the way you’re struggling to find words. the way your eyes flick between his — surprised even that you’re not shying away from eye contact, but instead, struggling to just respond. like the words are right there, but your dumb brain is getting fried just by his presence. cute.
“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”
he just hammers the nail straight into your heart. your face bursts into flames as you let out a strangled hum like whine, face burning even more. unfortunately, your audience isn’t as silent. instead a few had caught your reaction and were bursting with laughter. a few whistling at their coach.
“she’s too young for ya, coach!”
“get someone y’er own age!”
“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”
the last one — somehow — snapped you back to reality. your glare cut through the field, immediately hitting one of the players making him burst out laughing along with the others around him. your face pulls into a scowl, heart hammering at the teasing you’re receiving from the team. who even are they? they don’t know anything about you!
shy?! you?!!! you scowl in annoyance, eyes rollin—
“ignore em, sweetheart. they’re just being dicks.”
fuck.
your face burns hot again, heart hammering against your ribs as you stutter out another nod, fingers gripping your bag as you glance at the head coach again. his green eyes were unbelievably dark, just staring at them, you felt like you were getting dizzy.
the scar on his lip twitches up, leaning an elbow on the fence, his eyes flick down to your camera. “what kinda camera is that?”
your eyes widen, looking down like you’re surprised it’s there. but it seems like he flicks a switch in your brain with that question, because now you’re fumbling to hold the delicate thing in your hands. then you hold it out for him.
a small puff of air leaves his nose in amusement. you’re cute. he turns, reaching his hand out, just for your small ones to place the expensive camera in his. the same one you’d deny your friends from even holding, afraid they’ll drop it.
b-but if coach toji holds it…if he wants to hold it…who…who are you to stop him!!!
your blush only breaks out across your body once you feel your hands brush his, eyes so bright and big even he can see the hearts explode from your irises, fuzzy pink flowers glowing around your head like a cartoon.
“looks expensive,” he finally takes his eyes away from you to momentarily examine the camera. it was nice, sony. “bought it yourself?”
you nod, smiling as you rock on your heels. “it was…” oh first words, toji’s eyes flick to you, eyeing your glossy lips as they part. “my first big purchase,” you glance at the camera then back up at toji as you point with your manicured index finger, towards the camera. “it’s nice…right?”
well fuck me.
toji chuckles internally. he really can’t read you. from rude (to the team), to shy, to snappy (to the team), to demure, to charming—all while looking up at him like he’s some shinning knight and not a coach, albeit for the best team in the nation, but still.
his lips curl up, his internal switch already flipped when he shooed the team away, and the smooth voice of his poured out like second nature. “very nice, sweetheart.”
you nod, enthusiastically.
god, you were a cutie.
“and you take such good pictures with it too, you’re a natural,” the sweet words just keep pouring from his mouth like honey, and you’re eating up every drop. your feet manage to carry you closer to the fence…closer to him.
you wet your glossy lips, leaning close to point at the camera, “it also takes video here…I initially wanted to do more videography, but I stuck with photos. but it’s a nice perk with the camera…and I can shoot in raw and jpeg, so I can edit them afterwards if I want, and uh and I have other lenses too. this one is a fixed one, so it can’t zoom, but I have two other ones that zoom, I usually use those ones for work…like during your….games.”
your rambling was one of, if not, the most attractively adorable things you could’ve done at this moment. especially when you’re oblivious to the light flush that settles in the coach’s stomach as he eyes you down.
his gaze flicks between your fingers on the camera, and your profile from his height. your hair lightly brush’s back from the wind exposing your neck, your perfume reaching his nose.
“can I try takin’ a pic?”
your face bursts hot, you feel like it’ll melt off as you gawk up at the head coach, before nodding your head frantically, a wide smile pulling at your lips. you try to clear your throat as you turn the camera on for him and take the lens cap off.
“good?” he asks.
you just nod again, biting your cheek feeling how wide you’re smiling it almost hurts, but you can’t take your eyes off the way his big hands handle your camera. your biggest crush ever is using your camera!
you contain a squeal as he stands straight. he brings the camera to his eye, before lowering it again, confused. your eyes widen momentarily before realizing he’s struggling and quickly stepping up again.
you lean over the fence. and toji purposely avoids coming down to your height. instead, he watches you hold the fence to stand on your tippy toes, the other gently holds his wrist to ask him to lower the camera just a bit from his eye so you can instruct him. fuck, the confidence to touch him when you were just a jittery mess a second ago.
“the shutter button is here. if you half press it, it’ll auto-focus for you—“ you move to the front of the camera flipping some switch, “jus’ turned it on. but just press down all the way and it’ll take the picture,” you say, mistakenly glancing up from where you are, just to realize that coach toji’s face is inches from yours. his warm breath fans against your cheek, his scar so close, his lips right there and his eyes….
you were beyond gone. the steam immediately comes off your face as your eyes turn into big giant hearts. you’re so easy to read it should be illegal.
you fall back on your heels, allowing toji to attempt again. what you weren’t expecting was for him to point the camera at you.
well considering the wider lens, I guess he wants to shoot something closer for more satisfaction. but it caught you slightly off guard, your cheeks flame once more, heart stuttering, but your face immediately lights up.
his lips curve up behind the camera, watching you give him a cute smile, angling your head to tip to the side a bit. people that automatically smile when a camera is pointed at them is definitely a cute trait.
he takes a few quick photos, before pulling the camera back. “how do I see ‘em?”
this time he lowers the camera for you, but keeps it close to his body so you’re still leaning over and up beside him, albeit with the fence between you both.
“ah the sun was behind me,” you realize now looking at the photos. toji hums like he knows what that means (he doesn’t) but he clicks the button to go to the next picture and same thing.
“let’s do it again,” he says, already pulling the camera back, but your finger quickly reaches out, easily flipping it back to view mode before moving back. toji watches you glance up at the sky, before moving yourself in front of the sun. “smile f’er me, sweetheart.”
you were smiling, but now—toji chuckles through his nose at your reaction. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he takes one photo, than another.
your smile turns more pose worthy, not so big, but just as beautiful. “you’re a natural,” he comments, with full honesty.
your cheeks flush, waving your hand in front of you, “don’t glaze me.”
toji snorts, “jus’ saying what I see, not my fault you pose like a model.”
a model?!
toji notices the way you bite your cheek and the way your hands fidget with your bag. “put the bag down, sweetheart.”
your heart skips again, the nickname electing a response from you every time. but you oblige, setting your bag on the ground. now without anything to fidget with, your hands carefully clasp behind your back, your navy hoodie completely off your shoulder, exposing the casual white tank top. his eyes glance at the swell of your tits that your bra pushes up. and the sliver of skin that peaks at the bottom.
the wind was like a perfect accessory, blowing a warm spring breeze in your direction brushing your hair again.
you do your best to pose casually, smiling at the camera, eyes low as you stare into the lens, heart beating erratically as you wait for coach toji to finish.
your breath catches momentarily. cheeks stinging and lips parting like a deer in headlights, because you notice it. just briefly, the way toji lowers the camera from his eye, gaze tracking down your figure, eyeing your thighs, then your hips, then your tits.
he’s definitely checking you out.
you glance away, flustered, unaware that toji was now clicking the library to view the photos he’d just taken.
“I think I’m a pretty good shot,” he compliments his nonexistent skills, but the light hits you so well.
you smile watching him look at the photos. eyes glued to his lazy smirk, stomach hot and heart fluttering at his short comments. he’s so handsome, you glance at the curve of his nose, the stubble on his cheek. he’s so so pretty.
your mind was getting dizzy, all because coach toji is in front of you, but it made you completely forgetful that if he keeps clicking next, it’ll eventually reach—
“oh.”
you first notice the slight raise of his brows, then the scar on his lip twitching wider, then the greens of his eyes darkening.
“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”
your brows furrow for half a second, then it clicks. you lunge forward.
this can’t be happening!
you immediately cover the screen and take the camera as you hear the coach chuckle. of course you’d forgotten that you had these on your sd card.
staring back at you is a photo of toji’s fat bulge from the game. you managed to catch the moment he reached down to itch himself, grabbing it. if he saw this one he definitely saw the three before this of the closeups of his lips, his big biceps, his ass when he was fixing his shoes.
your heart is beating in your ears, skin sizzling with embarrassment as your vision starts to narrow. your eyes flick up to the coach in horror, flustered beyond speech. “it’s not—“ you struggle to explain, “you weren’t supposed to see that. I was just taking one—then I someone bumped so like, the camera went down—“
the rambling was unlike the one before, this one was much more uncoordinated, fueled by your humiliation, anxiety, and desperate attempt at defending yourself to him, so that he doesn’t think you’re some creep.
“I wore that shirt from the match two weeks ago. not this one….” his head tilts, arms folded across his beefy chest. “why do you still have ‘em?”
the older man is quite unbothered. instead, his chest grew hot, and his mind wandered off imagining this hot college girl laying in her bed, staring at pictures of his crotch with her small fingers playing with her wet little pussy. his eyes flick to your chest again.
your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.
“I just forgot to format the card,” you quickly reply, pretty chest rising and falling. “I always forget, and I realize after when I’m exporting the photos or run out of storage—I delete them, i-i swear!”
he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”
you nod frantically.
his emerald eyes narrow, tongue poking out to wet his lips, touching his scar. his eyes flick to the camera in your hands. you’re quite the actor…
“okay, I’ll take your word then. you wouldn’t lie to me…?” his gaze was intimidating, the darkness of his pupils felt like a black hole pulling you in. but somehow you manage to shake your head.
“no, sir.”
toji holds eye contact, before tearing it away to reach for his phone, “good girl.”
your heart beats in your throat, threatening to tear out, but you step forward, eyes big and sad. “sorry, coach.” there’s a slight waver in your voice, the man’s eyes widen briefly, chuckling under his breath as he brings a hand up to the crown of your head.
“don’t worry about it, keep taking photos of me. ya’ make me feel important,” his comment is punctuated with a flirtatious wink, shooting another arrow straight into your heart.
you were lovestruck the entire trip home. and so unbelievably grateful.
you talked your way out of such incriminating evidence. because how could coach toji know that in truth, you have an entire album of photos just like the ones he saw, that you pull out almost every night to help you cum.
you really should be an actor, you think, blushing at the way he called you good girl. the way he looked at you, the way his fingers brushed yours on the camera —ahhhh, you bury your hot face in your hands.
you were in shock for days, heart slamming against your chest and face heating up every time you thought back to the moment.
you were so in your head that you hadn’t even noticed the two athletes walking up behind you on your way out of class, crossing the quad.
it’s like that thing that happens. when you’re finally introduced to someone for the first time, then you’re suddenly seeing them everywhere. that’s how geto and gojo felt. you’d been under their noses the entire time.
with a lecture of over two hundred students, of course they’d spot you when you entered today. gojo elbowed his friend, nodding in your direction. geto’s eyes nearly popped.
“what the hell?” geto leans forward, the two men closely watch you enter the lecture hall, walking a few rows down before slipping in. geto’s eyes narrow at the camera you carefully place in your lap as you take out your ipad.
it was like the cards were being dealt out for him perfectly.
“wait, I don’t get it,” gojo huffs catching up to his friend as the lecture hall empties.
geto tsks, “what’s not to get? I’m gonna bribe her into taking photos of me next game. I’m fucking tired of being some fucking blur—“
“you’ve gotten some photos man—“
“well i want more. ones where I’m actually scoring,” geto huffs, brushing his bang back in frustration.
once the two men hit the pavement outside, they spot you. gojo is tagging along for the fun, while geto is set on a mission. one he conjured up mid-lecture the second he saw you. it was perfect. genius—
“what?” your face scrunches in mild disgust. the two men baffle at your reaction, especially at the way you’re looking up at them with narrow, and irritated eyes. your expression isn’t hard to decipher, it’s basically screaming, why tf are you talking to me?
geto licks his teeth, exhaling through his nose, “you heard me fine, sweetheart—“
“don’t call me that.”
his jaw clenches, repeating his line without the pet name. “the next two games are the semifinals and then the finals, so I’ll give you access through our manager to join press during the media window two days before the matches—“
“I already have access to that through the school paper,” you give him a look, immediately ticking him off.
“let me fucking finish will you—“
“you’re taking forever and I’m being cornered,” you snap back, rolling your eyes at the pretentious athlete. geto bites his tongue, as gojo gasps.
“you’re not being cornered!” he states, just to exchange a look with geto as they both see that they’ve steered you off the pavement and against a tree. “no—we’re just talking.”
you exhale, glancing back at geto, “whatever, just finish.”
geto licks his lips, continuing, “you’ll also get access to our locker room strategy meeting or whatever, and behind the scenes access — you only do photos, no video or interviews?”
you shake your head, heart beating just a little quicker because now you’re starting to see the perks. bts access is the one thing university teams can deny since they don’t like any outsiders butting into their strategies or taking them out of “the zone.”
that also means you can see….coach toji.
gojo and geto both notice the realization crossing your face, especially when your lips part, much more glossy than before. unbelievable.
“but,” geto snaps you back, your eyes darting up to meet his, “you better take some good fucking shots of me during the game. if I’m not in the fucking paper and insta page, then no deal.”
you gasp, “dude, you’re literally acting like I’m the one in charge of that?? it’s my editor that picks the photos to put in the articles.”
geto tsks, “yet somehow coach is in every single one.” your jaw clenches, stomach heating up. “take more photos of me so it’s inevitable. got it?”
your lip curls in annoyance, eyeing geto, just for gojo to suddenly but in—
“but also take some of me, i look so hot in them and i like reposting them on my insta,” gojo flashes you a smile.
your frown deepens, “there’s other photographers. you guys know that right?”
“yours are the only ones they choose and they look better than whoever took sukuna’s,” gojo snorts, remembering their captains complaints.
nevertheless, geto and gojo wait for you to agree, both men standing with their arms crossed, blocking the spring sun from hitting you.
then a certain captain happens to pass by, noticing his two teammates, and frat brothers.
“the fuck are you guys doing?”
the men whip their heads as sukuna steps up, bag slung over his shoulder wearing a backwards baseball cap. and with a quick explanation from his friends, sukuna tsks glancing at you and adding.
“coach always showers before or after our games.”
and it was that one bit of information that automatically has you saying: “deal.”
—
you don’t rush setting up. you check your flash, bouncing it once off the ceiling to make sure it won’t wash anyone out. your fingers move with muscle memory, standing in these rooms plenty of times for the school paper, along with other journalists from the school paper especially for media days, post-game scrums, pre-season press.
so this isn’t new territory.
the room is packed, though. there’s national outlets mingling with campus press, and clusters of journalists already talking. you hear familiar phrases float past as you move, many talking about the teams unbeaten streak, their goal differentials, their historic season.
familiar names are easily getting tossed around. captain sukuna coming up first, always, and his leadership, and the way he commands the field. gojo’s speed follows after, and his natural talent and eye for goals, then geto’s consistency, his intelligence and composure. someone mentions scouts again, plural this time, and how a few clubs have been hovering around those three all season.
you barely react because you’ve heard all of this before, and it was impressive of course, you enjoy it. however, what does get you, embarrassingly, is his name.
every time coach toji is mentioned—his tactics, his discipline, the way he rebuilt the program and incorporated new strategies —you feel heat creep up your neck. it’s a soft and traitorous blush that you’re grateful no one’s looking closely enough to notice you smiling.
you keep your eyes on your camera, pretending to fiddle with a setting you don’t actually need to adjust, reminding yourself that he’s just part of the team. a very effective, very respected part of it.
then finally, the noise dips and the conversations fade into an expectant quiet as the side door opens.
the players file in first, with sukuna at the front, expression unreadable, gojo already grinning, geto calm and observant as ever. everyone’s cameras lift, and recorders click on. and then he steps in behind them.
coach toji, in a suit.
your face breaks into a hot mess, heart skipping a beat as you eye him through your lens. it fits him too well. dark, sharp, shoulders filling it out like it was tailored perfectly. no team jacket today, no morning stumble. no, he looked clean, with polished shoes, and authority. he guides the team forward eyes sweeping the room calmly.
your flash fires once, professionalism wavering again. how can it not when your knight is walking into the room and reminding you exactly how out of reach he is.
the entire team easily spots you in the front row for the first time. your charm hangs from your camera strap, along with the little sticker on your godox flash. they all know who you are now, so their wasn’t any hiding the way they’d purposely glance at your camera lens, giving you their best shots.
many of the questions are being directed towards the coach, your eyes focus on his reaction, lens zooming close as he rolls his dress shirt over his forearms. your camera flashes and your cheeks warm. you do this every time. acting like it’s your first time seeing the coach in a suit even though he wears one every semifinals press. but you can’t help it!
journalists throw questions without breath, firing rounds until the set time is up.
“photographers only, please.”
the room clears out fast. chairs scrape back, and laptops snap shut. you step forward instinctively, already lifting your camera. the players shift back into place. sukuna straightens, his expression resetting into something stoic. gojo cracks a joke under his breath that earns him a look. geto adjusts his sleeves, calm as ever.
toji moves standing just off to the side at first, arms crossed, smooth dress shirt crinkling over his taut muscles, and unforgiving across his shoulders.
the manager gestures. “let’s get the team all together first.”
cameras flash as the team pose, all in their uniform. you move easily getting their shots, unaware of the emerald eyes watching your every move.
coach toji noticed you the minute he stepped into the room. however, he remained composed, knowing how many eyes were on him. but now, his eyes sweep over your figure.
your grey dress pants hugging that right ass, and those hips. the tight dress shirt hugged your frame, with the top buttons undone allowing some of your cleavage to be revealed along with your necklace stack. business casual, but he’s sure half the team is looking at your tits. your pretty anklet catching the light as you move in your kitten heels.
“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.
toji steps forward.
you track him without thinking, framing the shot as he places a hand lightly at sukuna’s back, guiding him a half-step to the left. your shutter clicks, noticing how easily he steps into your frame, how naturally he fills it. his height just a hair taller than the hot headed captain, at least in your eyes.
“alright, another group photo,” the manager says.
toji turns, motioning the players in with two fingers. his eyes briefly catch yours making your eyes widen. the team clusters around their coach, heads bowed slightly, listening even though there’s nothing to hear. he speaks low anyway. you circle to the side, careful, capturing the curve of his shoulder, the way his jaw tightens when he focuses.
toji’s gaze lifts again, slow and deliberate, landing on you.
why does he keep doing that?!
it’s brief. just a glance that lingers a fraction longer, his eyes flick from your face to the camera in your hands and back again, like he’s remembering the photos he saw on your camera.
you feel heat blooming under your skin, pulse kicking hard enough to throw you off guard. you steady your hands, inhaling subtly, pretending you don’t feel the way the air shifts when he turns slightly…when he ends up closer than before, just at the edge of your frame.
“okay, we’re good,” the manager calls.
the team breaks, the players disperse, but toji stays put for a beat longer, adjusting his sleeve, posture relaxed again, unreadable.
you lower your camera only when it’s over, breath leaving you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding. you don’t see him glance at you when you step back to check your photos. you also don’t notice the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.
not until you’re feeling a gentle, firm, hand on your waist, and a low voice right against your ear, “say hi next time. you’re not a stranger anymore.”
your body immediately catches on fire, eyes snapping to the man like a magnet, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch him pull back, emerald eyes meeting yours.
“right, sweetheart?”
your face stings, as you nod quickly, heat pooling deep in your stomach, feeling his thumb caress your hip over your shirt. your lips part, mind dizzy as you glance as his strong forearms, he’s towering over you, slightly leaning down to speak to you in quiet whispers.
“I’ll see c’ya tomorrow, yeah,” he gives your waist a squeeze as he greets you with a kiss to your cheek like some gentleman. then he walks away. and if you weren’t a mess before, the casual glance he shoots over his shoulder has a third arrow piercing your heart.
you couldn’t contain it anymore. you were consumed by this man. every waking thought was spent daydreaming about him— his voice, his eyes, his hands, his demeanor. it was intoxicating.
all for you to show up in the lockerroom, the next day, hours before the match. the team is either dressed in their uniforms, or still shirtless, huddling around the white board as they prep for the game.
geto was the second to notice you, after gojo. both their eyes twinkling as they walk up to you. “they gave you the pass,” geto nods to the press badge around your neck.
you nod, glancing around the lockerroom. it felt tense, the aura suspenseful as the time ticks closer to when they walk onto the pitch.
“get your vip shots, but you better get my photo,” geto hushes in your ear.
“and mine!” gojo blurts, just as a certain coach is stepping out of the steam.
and you feel it. the towel wrapped low around his waist, skin still slick with water that traces unhurried paths down his sculpted torso. his hair is darker when it’s wet, heavier, droplets slide from it and disappear along the hard lines of his shoulders.
your eyes catch his muscles moving when he walks, hard mass, that shifts beneath skin without effort. you swallow thickly, body heating up, stomach fluttering as you catch the trail of dark coarse hair leading down from his navel, and disappearing beneath the towel. your eyes follow it to the bulge you know is under there. your cheeks sting at the thought of it.
you were utterly shameless. as if the two men standing beside aren’t still talking to you. but they immediately recognize the shift in your attitude and notice the steam leaving your face. gojo stifles a laugh, as geto sighs. you’re hopeless.
your eyes follow the scars you’ve never seen before. the old pale marks catch the light, etched across his side, his pecs, and back, proof of some life before this one. then he turns just enough and your heart stutters, and your panties soak.
ink blooms along his ribs where the towel dips. the tattoos are sharp and intimate, black against his skin that’s still flushed from the heat. you’ve photographed him dozens of times, from every angle, but you’ve never seen a peak of a tattoo.
“how wet are you right now?”
the comment snaps you back, glaring straight at the crystal ocean eyes narrowed in amusement.
“don’t talk to me like that,” you huff, “I’m working.” your attitude really is night and day when it comes to anyone else and toji.
gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”
you roll your eyes.
“what’re you two doing? get the fuck over here,” sukuna snaps.
the team huddles as the fifteen minute timer starts. and that’s what you should be photographing, but instead you glance back. toji is now pulling up his pants, wet hair still dripping down the expanse of his back. his eyes catch yours for a second, gaze flicking to your camera, taunting…
his hand subtly cups his crotch, squeezing his girth just to present you with a size, one that has your lips parting with a shaky exhale, heart pounding as you glance between his emerald eyes and the way his forearms flex when he fixes the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down just a bit that you catch more of the thick patch of hair at his base seeing a peak of it, before he’s fixing himself again.
and once he zips his pants up, glancing at the team as they huddle for some words from the captain before coach steps in, toji walks to you. just a few feet away, your eyes widen in surprise, heart stuttering as you watch him lean down to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, again!
he’s acting like you’re familiar even though this is just your third interaction with him…but maybe you are…
“thought I told you to say hi next time,” he says against your ear, pulling away.
your face heats up, “you were….changing.”
“so?”
you gulp, eyes flicking between his, heart pounding. he’s so close. your breath catches when his scent hits your nose, sandalwood, oak and something deeper under it. his stubble is darker than yesterday, rougher along his jaw, and you realize you’ve been staring for too long when the heat creeps up your neck.
he doesn’t move away though, he stands beside you, attention forward on sukuna as he speaks. focused, and so aware of you’re attention he has to hold back a smirk. and maybe he doesn’t mind messing with you, so his hand remains at your lower back, light, almost absent, but there.
your stomach flips, attention gone. you try to listen, you do. sukuna is talking about positioning, about discipline, about not getting sloppy or something and the room is locking in around you, everyone leaning in. these would be great photos—but all you can think about is how close he is.
how his hand hasn’t moved, every small shift makes your pulse jump. you keep your eyes forward. you don’t trust yourself to look at him again.
and that gives toji the opportunity to take you in. his pupils dilate just a fraction as his gaze travels down your body. his eyes zero in on the multiple open buttons of your tight dress shirt. you’re not even hiding yourself, and the sliver of skin that peaks between your pants and shirt doesn’t help.
his hand remains over your clothes, heat settling in his stomach when you take a deeper breath and your tits push up, and his eyes shamelessly look down your shirt from his towering height. fuck, he wants a look at that pretty ass too—
“coach! you’re up!” sukuna’s voice cuts through everything, snapping toji back. your gaze whips with it, catching him off guard as you wait for his next move like anything he touches is gold.
he controls himself, giving your waist that same squeeze before his hand leaves you just like that.
you push down the feeling that hits immediately, sharp and cold. but now you can finally breathe properly when he steps away. he moves past the players without rushing — a few of the boys let their eyes roam over you— toji adjusts his sleeve ignoring the feeling bubbling up when he notices them. and then he’s at the front.
he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to now, but he usually gets to that point around the halfway mark. but this was the first time you’re seeing him speak in private…and when he speaks, they all listen—every single one of them.
gojo notices, gossip second nature to him. but the quick glance your way already has a grin tugging at his mouth before he nudges geto. geto follows his gaze, then sukuna does too, just briefly—and it’s obvious. painfully obvious. the way your expression softens, the way your attention doesn’t wavers. it’s written all over you.
“she’s actually really hot,” gojo comments.
though you wish you could stand there forever, the time finally comes for the team to head to the pitch, and that’s when the chaos begins.
not just on the field…but off it.
the press box is packed, bodies press against you shoulder to shoulder. the field below is relentless. everything fast, and aggressive, and loud enough that the noise bleeds through everything. you always forget how overstimulating and exhilarating semifinal matches are. but you remember the deal you made with the three stars.
your camera moves with them, tracking their plays, snapping multiple shots of them without hesitation, and then catching the moment when things go wrong...
sukuna gets taken down hard during a penalty shot—and there’s no whistle. no call.
you’re already shooting when the other team pushes, then scores, and the stadium erupts, but sukuna is on his feet, shouting. the goal should be discounted. the captain was known to be a hot head, but even you could see that the tackle he received was completely brushed off by the ref and he was right.
everyone watches as the team moves forward in defense of sukuna, but also holding him back. the other side meets them just as hard. the crowd shouts as they watch the players shove, yell, and slam into each other—and through it all you keep shooting. you catch toji too, voice cutting through the chaos as he orders his players to pull sukuna back.
the press talk amongst themselves as halftime quickly breaks up the argument. your feet quickly carry you out of the press box, towards the locker room.
“no locker room access.”
your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.
“I have a different badge,” you show the security guard your press ID. the one geto gave you.
“no press allowed, do i need to repeat myself?” the man snaps.
your irritation ticks at your side. fine. whatever. the second you step back, your mind is already running, already circling back to geto. you scoff under your breath, shaking your head as you pace along the corridor, camera swinging lightly at your side.
seriously? all that talk, all that stupid ass convincing, and for what? you were supposed to be there. that was the whole point! you roll your eyes, heat building the longer you think about it, every step feeding into this petty irritation instead of cooling it. were you overreacting —yes, but whatever—if he’s not holding up his end, then why should you?
by the time you make it back up, you’re done. done thinking about it, done entertaining it, done with their stupid deal.
the second half starts and you fall back into rhythm. camera up, focus sharp, and attention on only one thing now, the ball….
gojo and geto drift near the press box occasionally, clearly expecting something, acknowledgment, a photo, but you don’t even bat an eye. not a look, not a flicker, hell, they might as well not exist.
it’s almost satisfying. almost.
the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts, the first leg ended in a draw, preparing for next game to see who’ll continue. cameras around you go wild, capturing every second of it. the quiet annoyance of both teams, the noise in the crowd. but you don’t. you lower yours, expression flat, already turning away. it’s petty. a little unfair, but still, you walk.
“you’re not coming to the locker room?” gojo’s voice follows you, footsteps quick behind yours as you head in the opposite direction.
“why would i?” you snap, sharp, not even slowing. “am i even allowed,” there’s an obvious clip in your tone that has gojo confused.
“what’re you talking about?”
“deal’s off.”
huh?!????
gojo barely has time to react, before you’re walking away.
baffled and utterly confused, gojo makes his way back to the locker rooms. the energy is stiff, sukuna is grumbling under his breath about how embarrassing it was to end their first leg in a draw, geto is lounged beside his bag scrolling on his phone, and toji is in the corner talking to the managers. ugh, does no one care that their personal photographer isn’t taking photos of them???
they do care.
especially when the next paper comes out and the article is filled with photos taken by other people, not you!
“WHY THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE THAT!??” sukuna shouts, entire body fumming as they all sit outside during practice. sukuna is not the only one pissed, geto is practically seething because there isn’t even a single photo of him or gojo.
“what is this girl’s problem?! i thought you idiots made a deal with her?!” sukuna snaps, already in a foul mood, but now it’s worse.
geto licks his teeth, jaw ticking, “we did.”
“I told you guys she was pissed that she didn’t come in during halftime,” gojo throws, as if anyone was listening to him after their shitty match.
“so she throws a tantrum because she didn’t see coach’s dick during halftime?” sukuna clips.
“she looked super hot when she was all pissed though,” gojo throws, “she’d definitely go for me after she realizes how old coach is.”
“what’s wrong with you?” geto rolls his eyes, confused how gojo can talk about your looks when you screwed them over. even if he maybe also finds you attractive, it doesn’t negate your shitty attitude.
gojo throws his hands up in defensive, “I’m just calling dibs now.”
toji, just a few feet away, strides over after noticing the group no longer doing drills. “what’s the hold up!” he grunts, also in a shit mood because of the embarrassing match and then overheating what gojo had said.
“your stalker fucked us over,” geto snaps, eyes burning into the school paper. “she didn’t even get a pic of you.”
gojo’s eyes light up, “oh shit, yeah—she’s definitely over you!”
the paper then hits toji’s chest, his brows furrowing as he holds it up. his eyes glance over the sports section, and just as geto had stated, there wasn’t a single photo of him, unless you’re counting the wide shot of the field and you see him standing in the corner, but it definitely was a starch contrast from the streak you’d created.
“so?” toji tosses the paper like it’s nothing, “you guys playing for the cameras or because you want to win?!”
the men baffled, gasp and scoff. “we want to win!”
“then get off your fucking asses! I don’t have time to be doing this shit with you all!” he snaps aggressively, uncharacteristically pissed off, whether it’s because of the teams misdirected frustrations, or something else. either way, the school paper is long forgotten beside their bags and the team is splitting into practice teams.
it doesn’t matter…
it doesn’t matter that you made a deal with suguru geto and satoru gojo. and the captain pushed you to seal that deal with the information about coach — and they broke it. none of it matters! you still should’ve taken those photos, especially when you’re receiving an earful from your editor, and then sulking through the week of classes.
“what’s your problem,” your friend, shoko, cuts in, snapping you back to the campus day festival. you were once again sulking on the picnic bench, ice cream melting in the cup as you stare off.
“you’re gonna get annoyed…” you mutter, brows pinched in agony.
for most passing by, they immediately steered clear of you, not only did you carry a lethal rbf, your words of “agony” really translates to, you’ll rip someone’s head off and if looks could kill, everyone would be dead. it was quite funny, considering how you’re pretty sweet when you want to be, shoko quietly thinks. still, most would rather avoid you, thanking the heavens that you stay behind the camera so you don’t interact directly with people.
“don’t start,” shoko groans, piecing together the not so subtle mystery.
you frown, “i didn’t even say anything!” you whine even more, glaring at your ice cream. your pretty camera sits on the table beside you, collecting dust when you should be photographing this event. “I just screwed myself over,” your tongue laps at the dripping ice cream.
“agreed.”
your glare snaps to your friend, to which she brushes off with a shrug.
“you should’ve taken those photos,” she starts.
“I know…”
“then you would’ve made your editor happy,”
“I know…”
“and then you wouldn’t have to do this event.”
“I know.”
“and you’d have more weird pictures of coach toji.”
your heart drops. eyes snapping to shoko. “what?!”
shoko goes mute. suddenly realizing what she said. “nothing.”
“pictures?” you repeat, “I have weird pictures of the coach?? I don’t—why would you even say that??“ you’re not subtle at all. and shoko feels guilty at your horrible lying skills, but still…she confesses…
“you uploaded photos to your drive, when we’d study together,” she tries to hold in her laugh as heat crawls up your neck, “like more than once.”
you glance away, eyes flicking over your camera, “that’s it?”
shoko raises a brow. “yeah…what do you mean?”
you look back, “like that’s how you know, it’s not like you heard from someone else or anything?”
shoko shakes her head, “no, who else would know?”
your cheeks are burning at this point, and it was written all over your face now. the realization hit shoko in seconds. “no…” you’re silent. “does the coach know about your photos?”
you don’t want to make eye contact.
“how?!!”
even though it happened days ago, why is it now starting to feel even more embarrassing. maybe because of your cool headed friends reaction— “it was an accident.”
“how did he find out though?” shoko pushes.
you cringe, “well…” you swallow, “when I first spoke to him, remember…” shoko nods, “I let him use my camera because he was interested.” you pause, reliving the humiliation all over again. “then he kept swiping to see the pics, and just found them…” your hands slap your face, “that’s not bad!”
shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”
“STOP IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!” you cry out, humiliation seeping from your pores.
shoko is trying not to laugh, but it’s quite hard not too, especially when you’re groaning like that. “what was his reaction?”
“I obviously said it was an accident, and he was like whatever and seemed fine,” you explain quickly, trying to cool the situation. “It’s not bad!”
“okay okay!!” shoko laughs, trying to calm your reaction. however, shoko knows about your huge crush, what she didn’t know is about a deal her two friends made with you. heck, she didn’t even know that you interacted with them. not until those two men are standing directly behind you, sweaty and pissed. “what the hell—“
“I guess you don’t know how to keep your word,” geto spits, bag dropping aggressively on the bench beside you.
you jump, then, your eyes flick over your shoulder, immediately rolling them when you see them. you turn back to shoko.
geto snaps. “there wasn’t a single photo of us!”
“not my problem,” you scoff, attitude returning in seconds, shoko completely used to it. but she’s shocked that you know gojo and geto. “not like you guys even played well.”
gojo’s vein bulges, “we played fucking good, we didn’t lose!”
“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.
that’s when gojo and geto both glance up at shoko. shock crossing their expressions. “you know her?!” they both point down at you.
shoko raises a brow, “she’s my friend.”
“she’s a bitch—“ geto spits, just to receive the worst glare of his life from you, but he just rolls his eyes. “how the fuck do you know each other?”
“I just told you she’s my friend. you’re the ones that screwed her over.” shoko takes your side.
gojo gasps, “we didn’t screw her over! she screwed us over! you saw the paper this week—not a single highlight!”
you glance at shoko, ignoring the men behind you, “how do you know them?”
“we went to high school together,” shoko throws with a bored wave.
frustrated, geto straddles the bench facing you, his hand falls on top of your camera, immediately making you snap your attention to him.
“hey—“
“listen. our deal was that you get access and then we get photos, you didn’t finish your job,” he keeps a grip on your camera. shoko frowns.
“you guys didn’t give me access—i got like ten minutes before the match, then I couldn’t even go in during halftime where everyone was pissed, so what’s the point?” you snap, getting in his face.
“the point is that has nothing to do with me!” geto shouts, your eyes pierce his in two, but neither of you back down.
“it literally does though!”
“guys,” shoko and gojo attempt at intervening, but neither of you will back down. especially when geto won’t let go of your camera.
“let go,” you seethe, hand on the camera as geto flexes, grip strengthening around it.
your heart pounds against your chest, the hot spring sun beats over the four of you, sweat building on your neck while geto scoffs. “you better take those photos of us this week—“
“or what?” you glare, “are you seriously threatening me?” you were dripping with ego and confidence, except for the fact that your eyes kept darting to your camera, your poor, expensive, beautiful camera—
“is this your first time being threatened—“
“the fuck.”
the deep, intimidating voice breaks the argument in seconds. geto’s eyes widen as he feels the gravity taken away from him and being lifted off the seat. the collar of his jersey tightens around none other than toji’s brutal grip.
your eyes break into hearts, grasping your camera before it clatters back on the table, glancing up to see geto gripping his coach’s forearm.
“since when do you fucking shout at girls. you?!” toji barks, baffled. sukuna sure, gojo maybe, but geto?!
“I wasn’t fucking shouting, we were talking,” geto tsks, neck red from embarrassment.
toji shoves him back. geto slams on the bench. you hadn’t realized it but they all looked like they just finished practice, geto and gojo both still in practice uniforms and duffle bags, and coach toji wearing his usual black cargos, and that compression shirt that left nothing to the imagination.
geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.
“you were shouting, that’s why i came over—“
“she was shouting at me!”
“so what!?”
the table is quiet. a few passerby’s glance over before quickly walking away. it isn’t a shock to know how unbelievably hot your face is right now. especially when coach toji continues his stern lecture to geto.
“you’re defending some girl that can’t keep her word, mind you,” geto mutters, flashing you a glare—his breath catches. you’re not even looking at him!! shoko stifles another laugh along with gojo, because you really were, truly, unbelievable.
how can you look at someone like that?!? like he’s some idol?! him! a musty ass college coach?!
but none of it mattered, not when toji’s attention shifts to you!!! a warm heat floods between your legs, as your lips part. then suddenly, you glance away…
“I actually did shout too…” you confess, taking accountability. “and kinda screwed them over.”
gojo, geto, and shoko, stare at you in shock.
toji sighs, like some grown ass man (which he is), his hand settles on his hip as the other scratches his hair like he’s surrounded by immature children and figuring out what the fuck to do with you all. so he decides to confess too…
“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”
your heart drops.
“including you.”
oh shit.
the three audience members immediately glance at you, and what none of them, not a single one, expected, is to suddenly see the your eyes tear up.
toji felt a sharp twist in his gut, eyes widening for a moment, before sighing. “it wasn’t personal.”
your throat feels dry, unable to look away until now. a tear hits your camera. “how is that not personal,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling.
shoko’s brows pinch in hurt, at least out of everyone, she knows how much and how long you’ve liked this man. and then sulking and now— she knows you’re absolutely shattered.
“I needed the team to focus, and you’re press,” he states like some cold fact, and that hurt even more.
your grip tightens on the camera. “but…” your not a stranger anymore…. but you can’t get the words out…your heart pounds loudly in your ears, the heat surrounding you felt suffocating, and your head was growing dizzier by the second. and the only thing spinning in your mind was how fucking embarrassing this is.
“don’t be upset.”
you manage a small nod, though another tear falls on the camera, and your body freezes. “how can i not be upset?” your small voice catches toji off guard.
you’re standing up, eyes hot with tears, walking past the esteemed coach.
“wait,” he catches your wrist, “if you have something to say don’t just run away.”
you’re fuming, your pretty chest rises and falls, the disappointment turning into built up anger, “I don’t have anything to say right now, and it’s stupid—“ your hand twists in his grip. “let go.”
he does.
you’re practically heaving, tempted to turn away, especially when the dryness in your throat gets worse. the stinging behind your eyes burns like hell as you try to rip your gaze away from the towering man. you really are stupid…
toji wets his lip, head tilting as if disinterested, but the cooling in his chest says otherwise. why does he have a weak spot for women?
“we can talk.”
his words hang in the air. a silent, open invitation for her. it’s a clear sign of his guilt for making this cute college girl cry. he was too blunt, forgetting she isn’t one of his boys.
your hand comes up to the bridge of your nose, quietly recentering yourself as this older coach watches. your shoulders rise with a deep exhale, then inhale.
pull yourself together…
you nod. cute.
you swallow the embarrassing lump in your throat, clearing your throat. “can we talk while walking…I have to work,” your usual clipped tone used for everyone except him, comes out, but he can hear the slight shakiness.
“sure.”
gojo, geto, and shoko are left in utter shock. it’s not until you and toji completely disappear into the crowd, do they slowly exchange looks.
“what…”
“the fuck,” geto finishes shoko’s sentence.
gojo stares baffled, “did we just set them up?!”
geto’s brow jumps up, “why is he always saving her like some knight?? and he was the one that screwed us all over!!”
gojo shakes his head in agreement, “nah for real, what the hell, blaming us but it’s all him.”
geto slouches back in the picnic table, rolling his eyes. “still,” he tsks, “she didn’t have to be so bitchy and not take our pictures. isn’t it her fucking job—“
“hey!”
“ow!” geto feels a slap upside the head from brunette, her eyes harsh. “what the hell!”
“don’t call girls bitches what’s wrong with you?!” shoko huffs, baffled by geto’s attitude.
gojo snickers beside the man, “he’s been like this since he met her.”
“I haven’t,” he grits, rolling his eyes at the thought of you. “she’s just a—she just gets on my nerves.”
“really because she reminds me of you,” shoko cuts him off. geto’s eyes widen, as gojo breaks into a loud laugh.
“WHAT?!”
“oh god BAHAHA she does!” gojo’s obnoxious laugh sounds like knives stabbing his ears.
shoko hums, “she has that rbf look, intimidating, very blunt, but also so cute with her friends.”
“cute?” geto frowns.
gojo smiles, “it comes out when you’re hanging out with ussss.” gojo and shoko dramatically strike a cute pose. geto tsks.
the campus was packed with students and faculty roaming to booths and small events. it was the university’s 102nd anniversary, and as memorable as it is for the students to enjoy the activities during this nice spring day, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.
not only did your editor scream at you all week, still pissed about the shit photos you took during the match, he also threatened removal if you didn’t take good photos during this event. and now, after sulking with shoko, then procrastinating some more, you decided you’d be able to take such fanatic pictures while your idol and crush trails beside you….sure.
toji lets out another sigh, hands in his pockets as he stands to your left watching you snap some shots of laughing students beside a booth.
“it’s not a big deal,” you mutter, behind the camera. toji notices the twitch in your fingers. “I overreacted, so it’s whatever.”
toji wets his lip, “sukuna and a couple others jus’ get jumpy with cameras.”
you hum, looking at the photos you just took. “I understand.”
“I didn’t know about this deal you did with geto,” toji admits, hand instinctively coming to your waist and guiding you away from some unaware boys shouting and laughing. your cheeks flush, stepping away from his hand. toji notices. “we didn’t have a good game anyways.”
“I know, so it whatever. not a big deal,” you sigh, heat crawling up your neck. this is so embarrassing, so embarrassing! ugh you really don’t know how to keep a cool head at all when it comes to this coach. you overreacted during the match, then blamed geto for screwing you over, then almost cried because the coach locked you out on purpose, and now—
“I feel bad.”
your heart stops.
toji glances at your manicured nails holding your camera, your cute necklaces dangling on your exposed chest, cleavage glistening from the heat. but then his eyes flick up, and you’re staring at him like he’s holding the entire world.
“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” his voice is softer, gentler, nothing like how you’ve heard him for months, shouting, harsh. your stomach heats up, face stinging.
his hand, unexpectedly, comes up, feeling your hair between his fingers. “you work hard, and all your pictures come out so nice…” the compliment hits your heart. “but I couldn’t risk the boys getting distracted.”
your face suddenly twists, lips pursing and jutting out just a bit, your brows pinch. your dewy makeup makes you look like a fucking doll, he thinks. “I was jus’ gonna take photos in the corner, not interview them,” you reply harshly.
“you saw how they are when they talk to you,” he cuts in. your brow quirks, noticing his sharp inhale. “sweetheart, you’re hot.”
your face bursts into flames, pupils turning to literal swirls, and brain getting fried in seconds.
what?!
your reaction was priceless. toji controls his smirk, thumb brushing your adorable cheek, glancing at your glossy lips then your eyes. “I know you’re a professional, but most of those boys aren’t, y’ understand?”
you nod, cheeks sizzling, you’re surprised his thumb isn’t burning.
“so you see why I couldn’t allow you in the locker room then, and i won’t next time,” he watches you nod again. god, you’re fucking precious.
then, your tongue wets your bottom lip before speaking… “are they the only ones that would’ve been distracted?”
shit. can a grown man really pop a boner that fast?
toji’s chest heats up, glancing between your pretty eyes filled with hope. this isn’t the first time a younger girl has crushed on him, and it also isn’t the first time he’s nice to one. but what really got him, is the way you’re maintaining eye contact, almost afraid to look away, and you’re holding your ground against him.
“no,” he admits, “they’re not the only ones.”
oh. your lips curve into a smile toji hasn’t seen before, and his hand flexes in response. you look like you’re going to eat him alive right there, and he’d let you, no questions asked—
“that’s good to hear,” you pull away. you touch your heated cheek with the back of your hand, wetting your lip as you glance over the coach’s flushed face. “your cheeks are red.”
what?! his eyes bulge, catching you off guard as you break into a loud laugh.
“tch,” he looks away, his own hand rubbing down his face. it really is burning out here. but even so, his emerald eyes look through his fingers at this pretty college girl laughing at him and he doesn’t know why his chest warms at the sight.
“I can buy you ice cream. I feel bad now that you had to explain yourself when I was just being the unprofessional one,” you start, already leading him to the nearest ice cream booth.
your camera hangs over your shoulder as you point to your favorite flavor than glance up at him, he points at the cookies n cream. “oh! I love cookies n cream,” you say, reaching for your phone to pay.
ding.
your eyes widen as toji pays instead.
“wha—it was supposed to be my treat, man,” you huff, accepting the cone he gives you, hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the booth. neither of you batting an eye to the multiple people gawking at the renowned coach of their soccer team, walking around with the hot, rude, student photographer.
“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.
your brows pinch as you take a lick of your ice cream, the cool sensation leveling your body temperature. your eyes narrow at him as he enjoys his ice cream, grateful to have something that cools the heat building up under his skin. “so not fair,” you mutter.
“how come?”
the two of you walk across the quad, sun still beating down.
“I wanted to use it as an apology,” you say, “I said that.”
“you don’t need to apologize,” he shrugs, casual, unbothered. you huff again. this time toji smiles, scar twitching up. “you can pay next time.”
your heart skips a beat, stomach doing a stupid flip.
“….next time.”
toji catches the smile behind your cone, his eyes trailing over the ice cream coating your tongue, your pretty hand wrapped around the waffle as your bracelets clank around your wrists.
“there’s other things you need to apologize for,” he coolly says, finding a bench and dropping his weight, eyeing you as you sit close beside him. unashamed.
your brow quirks, eyes narrowing, full body facing him, “what other things?”
toji shrugs, “we can talk about it next time.”
“but I can’t just be left in suspense, that’ll give me anxiety?!”
toji snorts, loud. his big tongue is finishing the ice cream so quick he’s already eating the cone. “don’t be anxious,” he says with his mouth full.
you tsk, rolling your eyes, and you don’t notice the twinkle in the older coach’s eyes. he can definitely see geto’s point about your attitude, but if he leans over—
your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.
he takes a bold bite of your ice cream, emerald eyes shut, and thick lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. your heart feels like it’ll break from your ribs, then, he opens his eyes. he doesn’t pull away yet, instead his tongue cleans his lips, humming in low delight. the heat around you wasn’t helping your own body temperature as it skyrockets.
“taste’s sweeter than mine,” his voice his huskier than before, catching you by surprise, and the heat pools between your legs.
“i—“ you can’t even form words! your eyes won’t tear away from his lips, and your chest is moving erratically because he’s so close.
“do you want a taste of mine. I took a bite without asking yo—“
his words cut the minute your lips press against his.
shock prevents him from reacting, eyes going wide. you gave in so quick, sure he was teasing, but still. he could feel the certainty in your kiss, along with the warmth, and anxiety. after a long ten seconds you pull away—
you pant against his lips, chest rising and falling, brain scrambled. “i jus’…” your heart is beating loudly in your ears. mind trying to keep up with what your body just did. you kissed him. you kissed the coach. the one you’ve been idolizing and photographing for months—
“we can do it again.” his free hand tilts your chin up, lips hovering over yours again. his breath is warm. “kiss me.”
you do.
this time you’re a little bolder. your lips connect with his, soft again, sucking his bottom lip, skillfully. slowly. he brushes your jaw with his thumb, humming in delight just like he did with the ice cream. but the sound goes straight to your core. completely unbothered by the rowdiness of the uni day activities around you. your free hand rests on his thigh, leaning more into the kiss.
“open,” you murmur against his lips. you can feel the the shit-eating smirk that breaks his face, groaning just low enough to make the heat furiously spread under your skin.
then, his lips part.
his tongue immediately connects with yours. caressing the wet muscle. he tastes the ice cream, delving a little more. it was just so easy taking control, and your little whines are too sweet for him to stop. his jaw opens wider, taking the lead as you follow. his hand cups the side of your face, unexpectedly possessive, ignoring the alarms sounding off in his head.
you had a crush, you’re fucking adorable, and you kissed him. plus, you make these cute sounds when he shoves his tongue against yours, thumb pressing into your cheek. how could he resist?
your grip against his thigh tightens, his back is pressed fully against the bench, while you were practically leaning over him, trying to swallow him whole.
“breathe,” he mutters, lips hovering close, waiting for you to inhale. his scar quirks up, you’re so cute. his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, eyes glancing between your fluttering lashes. “if we keep kissing, I’ll have a problem.”
your face burns, eyes darting down to the tent pressing up near your hand. and unlike toji, you let your second ice cream of the day melt and fall to the ground. you were a mess. you carefully lean back in your seat, the sudden space between you allowing you to take another deep breath. being near coach toji is intoxicating. it’s not that you didn’t feel like yourself, but you definitely throw all common sense out the door when he’s in front of you.
“are you staying to see the booths and stuff?” you clear your throat, trying to ease your erratic heartbeat.
toji finds it cute. his hand once cupping your face, slides down to brush the hair off your shoulder, fingers brushing the multiple earrings that dangle from your piercings. you’re much more stylish than he is…your accessories, the cute tank top that hugs your breasts, and embroidered low rise flared jeans.
“nah, gotta drive back home so i can take my son to practice.”
toji eases, not a single thing can bother him. it was a routine, the subtle throw away line about having a son that scared off many young women, or had them wanting a one night stand with the older dilf. so his eyes flick over you, the second he finishes his sentence.
your freeze.
your blood runs cold, eyes flicking down to his ring finger.
even if you’re looking, you know he isn’t married. you know. you’ve been photographing him for months, and not a single time have you ever seen him daunt a ring on his finger.
“there’s no one waiting for him at home?” you question, wetting your lip.
toji’s fingers slide from your earrings to the dried ice cream on your chin. “nah, if I’m late he’ll go to his friends house.”
you nod, anxiety slowly dissipating. “how old is he?”
“ten.”
your eyes light up, “my nephew is just a year older, that’s when they get really fun to hang out with,” your voice is so light and sweet, toji has to shove down the weird somersault his stomach does.
“really?” toji is not convinced. “all my son does is give me attitude and bully everything i do.”
you laugh, waving your hand, “yeah they get super opinionated, but it’s funny—trust trust he’s just doing it because you’re an easy target.”
“I’m an easy target.”
you nod, waving a hand again, “your his dad, my brothers and i were the same to our parents.”
brothers? toji doesn’t comment how that peaks his interest, but he naturally asks, “how many siblings do you have?”
“three older brothers,” you nod.
damn….toji hums, that explains your attitude and how you can handle geto’s bitchy moods. what also quietly settles in his mind is how your oldest brother would probably be around his age, considering your nephew is a year older than megumi. is that why you’re easily holding a conversation this long…maybe the age gap isn’t that big then…
“they were so freakin bossy, definitely why i pushed to dorm away from them,” you huff, toji zoning back into your rambling. it was cute watching you talk mindlessly, hands waving making your bracelets clank against each other. the sweat glistened across your skin, making you look eternal, which is amusing since you’re just talking.
but still, toji is the one to lean up this time. his hand settling on your waist as a anchor and he presses a firm kiss to your warm cheek.
your glossy lips part in shock, heart stuttering again. unbothered, toji casually stands up, towering over you as his hand gently settles atop your head. “i have’ta get going, but I’ll see you next week for the match. I’ll also let em know you can come in before and after the game, but not during halftime. okay?”
you nod.
“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”
and with a wink, he solidifies the fourth arrow straight through your heart.
—
it was very likely that your entire week looked like sunshine and rainbows, all because you had a full on make out session with your idol on a park bench. you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about anything else—well except for your job. you had to scramble to get photos after toji left, afraid of staying on your editor’s bad side.
luckily you pulled through, and convinced him to keep you on for the semi final match this coming weekend.
which leads you to your current blissful state. watching toji speak to the team in the locker rooms. unlike last time, you grabbed different shots, smiling every time toji glanced at the camera, but frowning any time any of the other boys looked.
“surprise surprise, couldn’t stay away too long,” gojo coo’s after the team breaks to finish changing.
“don’t bother me or I won’t take photos of you,” you throw, eyes flicking up at the tall man.
gojo pouts, “but I’m just talking to you,” his words drag.
geto is scowling a few feet away, jaw tightening and relaxing, until he finally comes up to you. your attitude shifts, eyes narrowing up. geto holds eye contact, chest rising with a subtle inhale. but once he exhales, his shoulders ease, and his eyes close, the fakest smile you’ve ever seen graces his naturally attractive features.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your photos after the game.”
your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”
geto leaves. shortly after, the team gets called out. gojo utters the same line geto had just said, but much more cheerfully, all while toji walks up to you. brow furrowing at the two athletes as they walk towards the exit.
“they still bothering you?”
your eyes light up the moment you see him. “s’ fine,” your pretty lips pull into an easy smile, unexpectedly warming the coach’s heart. is it that easy to smile because of him?
“I’ll tell them to fuck off again,” his voice is naturally deep, hand subconsciously roaming up to the strap of your camera.
you smile, “okay.”
god, you’re really cute. his hand cups your cheek, leaning down and easily locking lips with you.
you’re immediately caught off guard, but his hand is so firm on your cheek, you just melt. your lashes flutter shut, leaning in more. he’s so big and tall. your cheeks sting, humming against his lips, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. but it’s worse when he pulls away, and your heart leaps into your throat as he brushes his rough thumb against your lip, dragging the spit across the plumpness.
“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.
you barely feel your feet when you step back out onto the field. your camera in hand, strap tight around your neck, everything exactly where it should be, and still, your entire body is giddy.
toji….toji toji toji—
you press your lips together, trying to fight it down, but it’s useless. your mouth keeps twitching, threatening to break into a smile and you can’t help it! he kissed you. twice now! like it was nothing—
you snap a shot.
sukuna’s first goal. the team and stadium erupts, and you’re already capturing it, body moving before your thoughts can catch up. you don’t need your editor screaming at you this time, so you shift angles, crouch lower, shoot through. geto lines up for a penalty shot, and you catch that too. the strike, the follow-through, and the way the net snaps back as the ball hits. you don’t miss a second of it.
but…inevitably…your lens drifts…to him. you can’t help it!
toji’s on the sidelines, where he always is. his sleeves are pushed up again, pacing, shouting, running a hand through his hair. you catch the flex of his arm, his biceps bulge and you feel heat pooling between your legs. you catch the drag of his palm across his broad huge chest, the set of his jaw when gojo almost tackles into another player.
you shouldn’t be taking this many photos of him. you know that, but you take them anyway. your chest feels tight with every picture, cheeks still burning, and your smile impossible to get rid of.
halftime comes and goes, and you don’t even try to get into the locker room this time. instead, you linger with the rest of the press, nodding along to conversations, camera hanging loose in your hands. you don’t care. not really. not when your mind keeps replaying it—his hand on your face, the way he looked at you after, the wink.
the second half starts and you’re back in position immediately. getting more action shots of the players—ugh but you keep stealing other moments too…small unnecessary ones. his biceps when he folds his arms. the scratch of his chest. the tilt of his head as he watches the field.
your thoughts don’t stop. why did he kiss you? why did he kiss you again? what is that supposed to mean? is he going to kiss you again??
the spiral doesn’t fully come to an end until the pitch breaks out into celebration. the team is off to the finals!
managers and the rest of the team flood the pitch as the stadium breaks out. you do your best to get the best shots of the team together, and you stay after to capture them talking to journalists, and press. unaware of the coach that slips away.
you follow the team and a couple managers back to the locker room as they continue celebrating. you can’t help the smile about how happy they are, they played well.
“how was the match?” geto corners you quickly.
“good,” you nod casually, fixing your flash. “you guys played really well.”
geto’s brow quirks. that’s nice….his lips purse. “I scored.” he mutters, glancing at the multiple piercings on your ear as you tuck a hair behind it.
“yeah, it was a nice shot,” your eyes flick over your camera before glancing up to meet his eyes, testing, “you wanna see?”
his eyes narrow again, “no.”
he’s quick to ignore your eye roll, as he points over his shoulder. “coach is calling for you.”
you can’t control the way your head whips to geto, then following the direction he’s pointing at. you don’t hesitate, your legs carry you across the locker room, and into the steamed shower room.
your heart hammers against your chest, putting the lens cap back on your camera and carefully sliding it off your shoulder, afraid to step further in until you put it back in your bag.
a single curtain is closed. shower running.
“coach toji?” your voice echos.
there a beat of silence, then…
“that you, sweetheart?”
you flush. controlling the smile that breaks your face as you hum, “yeah.”
the shower is still running, steam collecting in the room. your heart is beating erratically, you barely register anything aside from the fact that coach toji is definitely one hundred percent fully nude just a few feet away. his clothes are laid on his duffle on the bench beside the door.
“sweetheart?”
you jump. “yeah?”
“you gonna come in?”
you blink. again, then once more. then— “WHAT?”
your screech bounces off the tile floors, making you shrink at how loud you are. but it was a normal reaction. he just asked you if you wanted to come in? how else would you react—
“leave your things by my bag,” he doesn’t even react, like what he’s saying is the most casual kind of flirting. the kissing was one thing, but this…
your camera is zipped back in your bag, and in seconds, you’re peeling your panties off standing completely naked in the middle of a shower room. goosebumps break out, necklace and bracelets still on as your nipples harden.
what’re you doing, seriously?
one, this is highly unprofessional (whatever). two, you haven’t even gone a date with this man. and three, w-why would he even ask you to come in?!?! does he like you?! he does—he has too—
your bare feet pad against the steamed tiles until you reach the curtains. your hands won’t stop shaking, face burning hot, and lips parting as you let out a shaky exhale. then, you slowly pull back the curtains—
“come in before someone sees you,” is what you hear just as you’re being dragged into the steaming water, curtain pulled closed behind you.
the steam wraps around your skin instantly, thick and suffocating. your pretty nipples perk up in seconds. and standing right in front of you is the 6’5 two hundred pound man. water cascading down his body in slow, steady streams. you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and your hands hover close to his forearm.
you’re so close.
your gaze is eye level with his broad solid chest, rising and falling slow and controlled like none of this affects him. like you standing in front of him naked is something he expected. but your too dazed to care. especially when you follow the droplets sliding over his muscles, catching the shallow lines as you continue going lower, and lower. the heat pools more obviously between your legs as you see the thick patch of dark coarse hair…then you see it.
your face burns hotter, stomach flipping hard making you even dizzier.
his cock twitches under your gaze. your knees almost buckle just at the sight. it’s huge. you have to suppress a whine, lashes fluttering as you feel a strong hand cup your chin.
“say hi first,” his voice is unbelievably deep, tearing your gaze away from the monster between his legs. his dark forest green eyes sink into you.
“hi.”
shit. he bites back a groan, eyes trailing down your naked body. nipples already perky and standing all pretty for him. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as he leans down, lips colliding with yours.
you whine immediately. your lips move together, tongues colliding as your hands slide up his muscular chest, feeling the deep ridges of his abs as he holds the side of your face, dominating the kiss.
it was overwhelming, the shower box, his body heat, his cock touching your thigh, it was all making you dizzy in the best ways possible. he pulls away, letting you catch your breath, but he stays close, brushing his lips over yours like it’s not enough. because it isn’t.
“did anyone see you come in?” he husks, hand still cradling your face as the other brushes your naked waist, pulling you closer. your skin is so soft under his palm.
“no,” you shake your head adorably, tongue poking out to wet your lip, “I don’t think so.”
the older coach hums, his hands freely roaming your side as he nudges your nose with his. “good,” is all he adds before he resumes the heated make out.
your tongues collide and caress, jaw falling slack as you moan a little louder when he grips your ass. groaning into your lip when your arms lock around his shoulders, wet chest pressing against his. you were such a sweet tasting girl.
his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”
you gasp when he easily picks you up, back already pressed against the tiled wall. the hot water cascades down his back as he continues kissing you. “were you mad at me?”
you pull away, breath hot as you glance at his features. he’s so handsome, your hand cups his face, pushing his drenched raven hair back. “why would I mad?”
“because I kept ya out during halftime.”
you shake your head, lips curving as you trace his wet eyebrows, chest rising and falling. “no,” you drawl, wetting your glossy lips again. “I was jus’ confused about how much you kiss me.”
his scar tugs up, biting back a smirk threatening to break free. “you kissed me first.”
“that one time.”
“you started it,” he leans close, lips brushing yours, “so you can’t blame me for getting hooked.” his eyes are lidded. “it’s really hard for me to break bad habits.”
this time you kiss me.
you’re so unbelievably hungry for this man’s affection, you can ignore all the blaring red light going off in your head. he’s so hot, he’s so big, and he’s so fucking sexy! your mind has been completely and utterly fried and you don’t care.
“fuck, you’re dripping,” toji husks, his finger collecting your juices from your pussy, groaning at how turned you are. “kissing me makes ya feel that good? your cunt always dripping like a fountain?”
“yeah-aah—“ your lips part as he shoves a finger inside. he groans against you, chuckling at the choked whines leaving your pretty lips, your nails dig crescents along his shoulder.
his lips trail down your neck, tongue flattening against the wet skin and licking until you squirm a cute whimper. his smirk is impossible to hold back. he sucks a dark bruise as another finger pushes in your fluttering hole.
“c-coach—“ you gasp, lips so wet from spit. you try to look down at his fingers pistoning inside you. every muscle on his body flexing, keeping you up like you weigh nothing, while fingering you against the little shower wall. “fu-fuck, I’m gonna—cu-uhm—“
it really is too much for your obsessed brain.
coach toji’s fingers are inside you. he’s kissing you like he’s hasn’t pleasured a woman in years. and his groans are going straight to your pussy—
“I wan’…coach—“ your whine drawls a little longer, thighs shaking, and arms locking around him, head falling to neck.
the older man chuckles close to your ear, voice deep and husky as you fall apart, in his arms. hugging him like he’s your savior. his fingers curl, slowly pumping you through your orgasm. “that was quick. my baby hasn’t cum in awhile?” he says as a matter of a fact, but you just hug him closer, lips pulling away to trail kisses up his neck. your fingers coarse through the back of his head, grasping them as you kiss the corner of his mouth.
“it’s b’cause of you, toji.” you kiss his scar, panting as he pulls his fingers out and lifts you up suddenly, hooking his arm under your knee.
“you want a good fucking princess?”
you nod frantically, cheeks dewy and stinging, as you glance over his face then his chest, then you feel his cock between your slick folds.
“it’s a big stretch,” he mutters against your lips. “you saw.”
you nod, nervous stirring at the way he’s preparing you. but you don’t break away. you doubt you physically can, when your mind is only screaming his name over and over.
“I can take it, coach,” you nod, determined.
“you’re so fucking cute,” he snorts, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he kisses your lips in quiet reassurance. “ever take a cock this big?”
you shake your head, water droplets falling from the tips of your hair. your pretty necklaces still wrapped around your neck, all wet and glistening between your perky breasts.
“it’ll hurt,” he strokes himself underneath you, thumb running over his tip multiple times before lining it with your pretty clit and teasing you. “then you’re gonna cry.” you gulp, nodding along. “then you’re gonna tell me to stop—“
“I won’t!”
he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”
you shake your head, “I won’t I’ll be okay. okay coach? I can take it, I wan’ you inside me. please.”
the tug to his heart is immediate. how can it not be when this cute hot girl is begging him to fuck her? but he can’t even formulate this emotional string that’s tying him to you. the only physical response coming out is this fucking erection that feels like the most painful shit he’s experienced, twitching after he first spoke to you and then again when you kissed him. surely it’s disgusting….an older man like him getting that quickly turned on…
but maybe it was the way he’s only felt this tug in his chest one other time in his life, and even if it didn’t end the way he wanted, he never regretted pursuing his baby mama.
so he’s all in right now.
“deep breath, sweetheart.”
you inhale sharply, just as toji pushes his engorged tip past the tight rim of your pussy, and you suddenly clench—
“shit!—“
your eyes widen, “I don’t feel anything,” you mutter, glancing down to see his ears burning a deep shade of red.
“your cunt squeezed me too early and shoved me out,” he wets his lips, as he crashes his lips against you. “relax, baby,” he husks.
you whine against his dominating mouth, lower body relaxing as he lines up again and the moment you ease up, he snaps his hips in.
“angh!—“
your jaw slacks, and he continues kissing, groaning at the unbelievable tightness that’s squeezing every corner of his tip.
“Mmm so warm, took me in good,” he groans, rocking his hips and grabbing a handle of your ass. “you’re gonna make me feel good?”
you nod, lips connecting with his, it’s messy, teeth clashing, spit mixing.
toji’s guttural groan echos through the shower, bouncing off the tiles as he rocks his hips, going in inch by inch, until he’s finally shoving his entire length deep inside your cunt with one mean thrust.
“fhuck—“ he chokes, jaw slacking as you clamp around him again. “full?”
you nod, brain scrambled as you glance at your tummy, cheeks stinging at the obvious bulge. “keep going,” you pant, securing yourself better as he grunts, pulling out and snapping his hips back.
it was mind numbing, toji holding you up with his strong arms hooked under your knees, hands gripping each ass cheek as he ruts into you like a beast in heat. the squelch and clapping was deafening as it bounced off the walls, the steam enveloping you closer as your whines flow right into his ear.
“nghhh—gettin’ me worked up,” thrust. “when you squeeze me,” thrust. “with this tight.” thrust. “fucking.” thrust. “cunt!”
his massive cock is stretching you in ways you never could’ve imagined. his blunt tip slams into your cervix with every thrust. your thighs shake, eyes filling with unshed tears as your nails dig into his tough skin.
“m’ s-sorry—haah ah coa—ahh! it feels s’ fuhh—fuh’me ple-easee—ahh!” your pretty lips were so glossy, drool coming down as water droplets fall from your pretty breasts with each vicious slam of his hips.
he was unforgiving. and his laugh like groan didn’t help your pussy from fluttering and tightening around his chubby cock. you can feel every thick pulsing vein and ridge. it was numbing your brain to mush. your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as he gives your ass a mean, violent, spank!
“angh!” your eyes bulge, a wave of heat crashing into you.
toji laughs, gripping your ass as he quickens his pace. “admit it,” he husks, voice condensing, and eyes dark with lust. “this is what ya’ wanted.” you’re falling apart around his cock, and he’s not slowing down, even as the tears finally break, making you look even more irresistible. you’re gasping like you can’t breathe. “you always wanted the coach to fuck you. taking those dirty photos of my bulge—nghh!” thrust. “imagining how big my dick is.” thrust. “how big is it baby, tell me.” thrust!
you were fucked dumb.
your face is flushed, eyes glossed over, as you whine like a full blown slut. and even with your two orgasms in a matter of minutes. your mind was still screaming one thing: toji.
“c’mon baby, I know you’re still with me,” he snorts, ears red, and body flushed with sweat as he feels his climax edge closer. “tell me—fuck—how big is it?”
your stupid brain catches his words, and your fingers dig into his neck as you gasp and moan, the stimulation of his massive cock slamming into you was ruining you. mentally and physically. it was humiliating. but still…
“haah—fuh its’ it’s so big— i wan’ you to cum in me! please —wan’ your cum so bad, wanna feel your big fat cock cum inside my pussy toji—ahh!”
anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.
toji is at a loss.
his grunts grew louder and thrusts sloppier, until finally, he gave you one final thrust, and stilled. his ass tightens, body pressing you into the tiled walls, face buried in your neck, and teeth sinking into your shoulder. toji completely unravels in the shower, holding up a pretty college girl that whines so beautifully in his ear he thinks he’d never cum this hard again, but sure enough—
your adorable whine has him rutting shallow thrusts into your pussy, like a fucking dog. his cum pumping out as he continued stuffing you full, purposely milking out ever drop as his dark wet pubes rubbed against your puffy clit.
you both catch your breath. your lashes wet from tears, as the water from the shower head fills the silence. after a moment, toji pulls away from your neck, his lidded eyes, hypnotizing as he stares up at yours.
you don’t know why you suddenly feel shy. your cheeks burn as the emerald irises bore into your own. lips parting, and a gentle hand coming up to his cheek. you brush back the raven hair flattening against his features, smiling softly when his full face comes into view.
and he could’ve sworn you looked like an actual angel at this moment.
your eyes twinkled above, face illuminating in the dark shower, and body glistening like you’re an eternal being.
“toji…” the soft call has his heart doing something it hasn’t done in years. and that has his soft cock twitching inside you. “I’m,” you lean closer, arms wrapping around his shoulder, lips hovering near his, breasts smushed against his chest. your confidence comes back the moment you feel the man lean closer..but you continue. “I hope you don’t think…i wanted to have sex…just because i thought your dick was really big.”
toji blinks.
then he does the worst thing ever.
he laughs.
your cheeks sting, watching his head fall back in loud laughter. your hand flys to your face, embarrassed. “I’m being serious!” you yell.
toji laughs louder, body shaking as he lifts you up, his cock slipping out. he carefully sets your shaky feet down on the wet tile. the height difference returns, making you even more ticked off, your little attitude was oozing out, and his slick cock couldn’t help but twitch against his thigh at your pouting.
god, you’re fucking hot.
he brings your attention back to him. hands cupping your face, tilting your head to look up at him. your brows are pinched together, and lips pulled in a subtle scowl.
toji smirks. “don’t worry, I know you also took pictures of my face.”
you flush, rolling your eyes. “those were accidents.”
“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”
your eyes widen, “no! i told you they were all accidents.”
toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to your level, making your tummy flip “you’re fucking cute, but let’s not lie to adults.”
“I’m an adult though,” you raise a brow, pushing back, and god if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.
but still, toji’s easygoing smile remains on his playful lips, “it’s embarrassing. i understand,” he softens the blow as your face heats. it was humiliating when he found those pictures, “taking photos of the coach like that. but now’s the time to take some accountability.”
you lick your teeth, eyes boring into him, narrowing. but it’s toji. toji is asking. and you can’t hold back any longer…
you exhale, glancing away, even though he’s still cupping your face. “yeah, obviously I took those photos on purpose,” your eyes meet. “happy?”
water is still running down his shoulders as he keeps your face tucked carefully in his hands like you’re something precious despite the grin threatening to split across his face again.
but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”
your eyes narrow immediately, “you’re so annoying.”
he huffs another laugh under his breath, quieter this time, thumbs brushing over your heated cheeks. standing this close to him is ridiculous now that the adrenaline’s settling. he’s huge. his broad chest still damp against yours, muscles flexing every time he shifts, towering over you while you stand there completely naked except for the necklaces you’re wearing. the little gold chains glisten under the shower head, delicate against flushed skin, and toji’s eyes flick down to them for a second before returning to your face.
that look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten all over again. he knows he’s not trying to be mocking, or casual like before. it’s fondness.
“those shots were real creative, sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now. “nice and close too.”
you groan, immediately trying to shove his chest, but he barely moves. “oh my god, can you let it go already?”
“can’t,” he answers easily. “been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”
your face burns hotter. weeks?!
toji watches it happen in real time, watches the attitude crack just enough for embarrassment to slip through, again. and it does something terrible to him. you’re sharp with everyone else—cool, hard to impress. he’s seen it. seen the way you brush off gojo and geto without a second thought. but with him? you melt.
even now, glaring up at him with your brows pulled tight, lips still swollen from kissing, legs trembling from the multiple orgasms, trying so hard to stay irritated while your body keeps betraying you. it’s fucking adorable.
“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter weakly.
“like what?”
“like you know things.”
his grin widens instantly. “but i do know things now.”
what proceeded after was the thirty something year old coach, dropping to his knee and lifting your leg up, burying his face between your legs like a starving man. your lips part in shock.
but still, as toji works your pretty body to another orgasm, tongue shoved inside, cleaning this little pussy up, jaw slack as he gulps down his own cum. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging whenever he’d give your clit a mean rough suck, cheeks hollowing. his hand, grips your ass from behind, squeezing and slapping as he pleased, until you were falling apart.
afterwards, he cleaned you up. this time with some soap. his big hands roamed your body, every crevice and curve, hands massaging your breasts as he had your back pressed to his chest, chuckling when you’d whine. thumbs tugging playfully. hand rubbing between your legs, head tucked in your shoulder as he watches your smaller hands hold his forehead, face hot.
“toji,” you whine, embarrassed, as he teasing a finger against your hole again.
“what,” he smirks, watching your reactions, “I’m jus’ cleaning you up.”
he’s a fucking perv. but still, he teases you through the whole shower, keeping you close to his body and even letting you wash his back, admiring the muscles and ink that decorate his skin.
eventually, he steps out first, keeping you inside so he can grab an extra towel. his own wrapped around his waist.
that was the start of all of it.
three months later….
you and shoko are sitting out in the quad. table covered in assignments and forgotten laptops. all while you explained to shoko how your weekend went.
“no, we definitely got along. megumi is so cute!” you gush about the ten year old, describing how your first meeting went. toji had spoken about you enough to prepare megumi, waiting until the right time to introduce you both.
and now, you’re going to every single one of their soccer games, toji and megumi’s.
and eventually, after another hour passes by. a group of athletes comes walking down the path. covered in sweat, holding their duffles, and behind them is a very hot coach, already breaking into a smile when you jump up.
“toji!”
it was a routine. your arms thrown around his shoulders, as he lifts you up with one hand. zero regard for any pda, as he kisses you deeply. smiling as you hum, pecking him over and over.
“why do you guys look like that?” shoko grimaces, looking at gojo and geto who look far worse than the rest of the team that leave.
geto scowls, glaring at his best friend, “fucking coach overhead him again.”
shoko shakes her head, rolling her eyes, at the white haired idiot. “you need to stop—“
“it’s been three months and she’s not over that old man?!”
“he’s not even that old!” shoko defends.
but gojo scowls harder, glancing over his shoulder at you laughing and talking, hands animated, like the man in front of you was holding the world. “it’s always the mean girls.”
shoko frowns, “you’re messed up in the head.”
but even geto narrows his eyes when toji wraps a possessive arm around you, glaring up at the two players.
it was clear as day.
you’re his.
a/n: this was LOONG overdue, mb guys!!! but i hope you all enjoyed it!!! ahhhh i love coach toji sososososo much—like its a serious problem, i cant make reader behave normally when its toji, like she has to be obsessed with himmm
anyways, the next oneshot will def be the frat gojo fic! possibly thinking of frat geto after this oneshot too bc i put in some little easter eggs about how they both kinda lean into mean girls so stay tuned! — (divider by @/strangergraphics)
There is no reason for this. No one asked for it. I have a ton of other things to work on. This is just self indulgent and I hope you all enjoy it!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky tried his best not to lose control, but a man can only take so much.
Word Count: 2,277
Warnings: Possessive behavior, it’s really just porn.
18+ Please!!!
This is not beta-read, so any and all mistakes are my own!
Bucky always tried his best to stay in control. After suffering for so long at the hands of HYDRA, losing himself was something he never wanted to experience again. It wasn’t good for him or anyone else. Meeting you tested that and more.
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: You are tired, which is the norm for you nowadays, and share a sweet moment with Bucky.
Word Count: Over 1.8k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), stretch marks (they are beautiful), mention of serum, tiredness, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Lovelies, I have been exhausted for some time now and this popped into my head for Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You stretched out on the bed with a small sigh, ready to put the day to rest. It was peaceful in your room with no appointments or demands to take up your time. Bucky would join you once he shut everything off and double checked the locks. It was such a small domestic and protective thing and it brought a soft smile to your face.
This was your life. Your home. Your family.
You were already half asleep when Bucky settled behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You were surprised you weren’t out the moment your head hit the pillow. His arm slid around your waist automatically, his palm resting on your stomach protectively. He exhaled against your neck, his chest solid and warm against your back.
Everything felt right when he held you like that, his presence wrapping around you as naturally as the blanket keeping you warm.
“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his thumb brushing the curve of your belly like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. “Hmm. Just fine.”
The room felt more calm and quiet, like the world and time itself slowed down for the two of you.
Well, three of you.
“Not hungry?”
“You made sure we ate plenty,” you answered.
“Good.” Bucky nuzzled your skin, drawing a small laugh from you when his stubble tickled you. “And now you need rest.”
“That’s why I’m already in bed,” you teased.
“Good,” he said again.
The last few weeks had been chaotic. Not bad, thankfully, but busy in a relentless way. Appointments and every day life stacked on top of you until you felt stretched thin. Your energy seemed to go just as quickly as it came. Some days you felt like you were chasing the clock, always a step behind when your body was working overtime to accomplish everything. You just couldn’t seem to keep up.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, he did.
It was in the way his brows pinched when he looked at you, cataloguing every yawn and when your shoulders slumped. His voice softened whenever he said your name, the sound soothing when exhaustion seeped in. He began to carry you around without you asking, leaving no room for argument. He tried to take things off your plate, too, even when he had his own things to do.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this level, sweetheart.”
“Bucky, I’m pregnant. Being tired comes with the territory. That’s just how it is.”
You said that because you believed it. Because you had to be strong and prove you could handle it. Life wasn’t about to give you a pass because you two decided to have a baby.
But Bucky saw through that.
“I’m your husband and the father of our child. You can lean on me instead of trying to do it all by yourself. Just like I lean on you some days.”
The words carved their way into your heart and didn’t leave.
Because he was right. Some days when the world felt too heavy, he looked to you for support. You were there for him without question. And he was there for you, too.
It wasn’t out of obligation to give and take nor was it the kind of thing where you kept score. It was out of love and devotion, something that made you both stronger. Neither of you had to carry anything alone anymore.
The truth of that eased something in your chest you hadn't realized was there until you exhaled.
“Guess what?” he asked, his voice light and breaking through your thoughts.
“I thought I was supposed to be resting, not talking,” you replied, giggling again when his teeth nipped your skin. “Okay, okay. What?”
“We should be getting the pictures tomorrow.”
You smiled happily. “Really? That’s great!” you replied, your baby moving around as if they felt how excited you were.
A bright light within the business was the recent maternity photoshoot. The weather had been perfect, you wore a beautiful dress, and Bucky smiled so much in and out of the photos you were certain his cheeks ached. He already picked out the space on the wall where he wanted them hung up and there was an empty frame on his desk waiting for the right picture. He was so happy.
You both were.
“I know they’re going to be perfect,” he said quietly, chuckling under his breath. “And Sprout’s been busy today. Kicking like they’ve got somewhere to be.”
Your smile widened and you shifted just enough to press back against him. “I think they get that from you.”
Your baby must’ve picked up his old dancing skills because they did a fantastic number on your bladder earlier in the day.
At least you made it to the bathroom in time.
He huffed under his breath. “Hey. I was a perfectly calm kid.”
You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to give him a look over your shoulder. He smiled and your heart beat faster. His blue eyes softened when his fingers traced your belly again, touching one of your stretch marks through your shirt. He traced it like it was something sacred.
You both bore life-changing marks on your skin, your bodies telling stories that only the two of you would ever fully read.
“You keep touching them,” you whispered, not accusingly. More like awe.
“I do,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck and shifting your body so you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. “I know you don’t think they’re pretty, but they’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
You blinked, only semi-surprised. “Really?”
Bucky always found a way to make you feel beautiful and desired. Whether it was through his actions or words, he never wanted you to doubt yourself or how much he craved you. You were certain he would do that for the rest of your lives. But since you got pregnant, he took it to another level of worship.
Not that you would ever complain about having his attention and focus.
“I mean it. Your body is changing because our baby is growing and it’s so beautiful. We made this. You and me.” His fingers moved again, tracing each mark with intention. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Stuff I wish I could forget. But this?” He let out a shaky breath, his hand pausing to cradle your stomach tenderly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”
Your throat tightened. Your eyes watered. Damn hormones kept making you emotional. Except it wasn’t the hormones at all. It was just you in love with this man.
A man who loved you and your baby with his entire being.
“How are you so perfect?” you asked.
His nose scrunched when he laughed, the sound making your heart feel full. “Sweetheart, I’m so fucking far from perfect.”
You took his face in your hands, refusing to let him think of himself as anything less . “Bucky Barnes, listen to me.”
“I always listen,” he swore, solely focused on you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
It took you a second to speak since having his full attention was overwhelming in the best way. “You are the best husband and provider. And not just because you fix the sink and bring me ice cream and validate my feelings when I’m insecure. You love, take care of, and respect me. You remind me that I don’t have to go it alone,” you said, your gaze affectionate when he leaned into your touch. “And I know you’ll be the perfect father.”
“You think so?” he asked after a moment, his voice thick.
“I know so,” you said.
He quickly closed the small gap between you, kissing you so deeply that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Thank you.”
Your heart beat wildly. “You have nothing to thank me for,” you said, your face twisting at the particularly hard kick in your stomach and making Bucky frown slightly. “Our baby really is a mover.”
Along with his dancing skills, you guessed your baby would have his agility and strength. You were thankful they hadn’t kicked through your stomach. Your husband may have gone off on someone who suggested it could be a possibility thanks to the serum. They hadn’t looked you in the eye since, much to your better half’s satisfaction.
No one would ever look out for you more than him.
“Hey, Sprout. Your Mama’s been working extra hard lately. Growing you takes a lot out of her.” The fondness in his voice was enough to make a tear fall. “She’s magical and stronger than I’ll ever be, but we need to make sure she gets enough rest for both of you. Maybe we can start with gentler kicks? Can you do that?”
The kick under his palm was much softer, like they understood.
His eyes lit up and your chin wobbled. He looked so happy. You knew some days he still couldn’t believe he got to have this, but no one deserved it more.
“They really can understand me,” he said in awe.
“Of course, they do.”
They loved the sound of his voice.
“Thank you, Sprout,” he whispered, sliding down the bed enough to kiss your stomach. “You get some rest, okay? We love you.”
You sniffled when he moved back up to hold you again, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. “And did you, a super soldier, seriously call me strong? And magical?” you asked so you wouldn’t ugly sob from how sweet he was being.
“You are strong and magical. Sprout agrees,” he said gently but firmly before he kissed your tear away. “But even the strong and magical need rest.”
You stifled a yawn, your eyes slipping shut. You did need the rest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He nuzzled your neck again and kept you close. “I love you both so much.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “We love you, too.”
“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this,” he admitted quietly. “You. Sprout. All of it.”
Your hand covered his and your baby rolled beneath his palm, both of you leaning into him and seeking to comfort him before his thoughts spiraled. “You already have,” you assured him. “Trust us.”
You and Bucky built a life and home together, one that he more than deserved. You were partners in life and love. That love extended to your baby and would only continue to grow.
Tonight you didn’t have to think of anything beyond the walls of your bedroom. You could simply rest in his arms and let everything else be. And he’d watch over you while you slept like the hero he was.
And a man in love.
I hope you lovelies all have enough spoons, get the rest you need, and have someone to lean on. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Summary: Your husband Bucky is the star pitcher for your city's baseball team, the Wolves. You are photographed running around doing errands and people think you're pregnant with a little weight gain you've had, which causes Bucky's mother and sister to throw you a surprise baby shower, but it's not true at all.
Content warning: Language, female reader has PCOS (symptoms may not match everyone's as this is just my experience with knowing a few friends who have it), mean and rude social media posts, little talk and mention of adult sexy time but none written but it's implied (Sorry for those that wanted to read it – those stories are coming), body shaming, loving, protective, and supportive husband Bucky - yes please!
"Good hike today." Bucky guzzled from his water bottle.
"Yeah, we killed it."
You high-fived your husband in your kitchen.
You had decided to head out for a hike since the weather has gotten warmer and the trails near your home showcase some of the best scenery in your city.
"So, what are we going to do for the rest of the day?"
You placed your water bottle on the counter and peeked into the fridge for a snack. Your husband didn't respond, so you closed the door and looked over at him. He was watching you with a dark look in his eyes.
"Those new leggings?" He asked, looking over the baby blue set you just got in at work.
This new line of leggings holds in a lot of things and is breathable and soft, easy to clean too.
"Yeah, they just came in. You like?" You asked, pointing to your outfit.
"That outfit is something." He said, prowling towards you making you squeal.
You giggled when he caught you and tossed you over his shoulder, heading to your bedroom.
"We're spending the entire day in here, naked."
Bucky smacked a hand over your right cheek making you laugh. You made your way to your bedroom where, true to his word, your husband kept you busy.
You had a rare day off together and had made the most of it.
⚾💕
Your husband is a star pitcher for your city's baseball team, the Wolves and you own a clothing boutique that features workout wear, athleisure clothing, and accessories.
You met Bucky when he came into your store with a friend, who was looking for something for his wife. You're certain Bucky had purchased one of every single men's item you had in stock before he had the courage to ask you out three years ago, and the rest is history.
Before you became official when you were dating, Bucky had sat you down and told you about the possibility of being photographed, and the unwanted attention that comes with dating a public figure. You had your doubts and even took a little break before you decided he was worth the change to your life.
Since you married a star athlete, you get photographed almost every time you leave your house regardless of if Bucky is with you or not.
At first, it was very hard for you to adjust to the unwanted attention with having photos and videos of your life posted online for everyone to see and comment on. It's been wonderful having a supportive husband at your side who can help you navigate the negativity and troll comments you sometime get.
That, and the fact that the PR reps the baseball team has helped you adjust and given you tips and pointers on how to deal with things.
⚾💕
You sat in the living room with an empty bowl in front of you, scrolling through your phone. You had recently changed medications for your PCOS and the side effects were reeking havoc with your body. Your doctor assured you things will get easier, but you told her if things don't change soon, you're going to request something else.
You had gained a little weight and had felt more bloated than usual, but you had been managing a little better with your symptoms because of it. You figured the sacrifice of a few extra pounds for comfort and pain management was better than none.
It also helped immensely that you had a supportive and understanding husband at your side.
"Feeling ok today?" Bucky asked, coming into the room and sitting next to you.
He was due at the stadium for practise since he was starting the following day.
"Better today, thanks." You sighed, putting your phone down.
"I hate you're feeling crumby."
He placed his head on your shoulder, kissing the top of it.
"Yeah, me too, but I don't feel too bad today."
"Good."
"You off soon?"
"Yeah, Steve's picking me up."
"Good."
"Going to the gym today?"
"After work. I have some paperwork and payroll to do this afternoon, but I'll be home for dinner. Wanda's running things for me at the shop until I get there."
"Ok, see you later."
Bucky leaned up and kissed you before he left the couch. You saw him get into Steve's SUV and waved at them through the window as they drove to the stadium for practise.
⚾💕
You threw on a pair of forest green leggings and a black tank top. Since it was warmer out, you didn't feel the need to wear the coordinating outer jacket that matches, but you brought it with you just in case you got a chill.
"Morning Wanda." You called, entering the store.
You stopped and got her a tea while you got yourself a coffee.
"Morning." Wanda smiled brightly and took a sip of her beverage.
"Had a few sales, organized the delivery, and re-did the window display for spring."
"I saw, it looks nice, good work." You said, peeking at the new arrivals.
You got to your office and did your work, taking over for Wanda for her breaks and when you were finished, you caught up with her at the register.
"Are you going to the game tomorrow night?" Wanda asked.
"Not sure yet but probably."
You didn't go to EVERY game the Wolves played since they played so many, but you usually went when Bucky was pitching.
"Well, it should be a good game. The Hydra are a good team, so it'll be a good series." Wanda reminded you.
She was obsessed with the Wolves as much as you were and knew a lot about the game and opposing teams' stats.
"Why don't you head out, I can close." You offered.
Wanda saluted you, then took off a little early.
⚾💕
After you closed your shop for the day, you made your way to the gym, carrying your bag and water bottle. You did a shortened routine and said hi to a few regulars when your phone dinged.
Bucky: Forgot a few things from my grocery order yesterday, can you get these for me so I can finish making supper?
Bucky texted you a small list of food items he needs.
You: Sure, thing but it'll cost you.
Bucky: I already have my payment planned. I think you're going to like it.
You: Oh? And what is it?
Bucky: Can't tell you yet, but it involves us and a date with some strawberries, cream, and the big ass bathtub you insisted we install in our bathroom
You: You love the bathtub even though you almost had a heart attack when you saw the price
Bucky: I'm not complaining
You: See you soon then
Bucky: Love you
You: Love you too
You smiled and left the gym to head to the store, getting the fruit, tomatoes, cream, eggs, spinach, and a few other things Bucky said to get.
⚾💕
"So, I'll see you after the game?" asked Bucky.
You stood in the hall of the player's entrance.
"Absolutely. Go get 'em!" You awkwardly tapped your husband on the shoulder making him chuckle.
He leaned in and kissed you, then he took off to the locker room.
Since the very first time Bucky got you to go to one of his games when you were first dating, you've awkwardly tapped him on the shoulder and told him 'go get 'em' because you had no idea what to do or say to a player before a game. It's been his little good luck charm ever since whenever you go and watch him pitch. You headed into the wives suite and spied Peggy, Steve's wife, and sat next to her.
"Hey."
"Hey."
You both grabbed a beer and sat in the oversized leather chairs while you watched the field.
"Should be a good game." Peggy said.
"I think so."
"Bucky looks dialed in."
You looked down and saw Bucky throwing some pitches to Steve the catcher and nodded. His shoulder had been bothering him lately, but he looked good so far.
⚾💕
You watched Bucky pitch a great game, only giving up one run when he left the game in the seventh inning. When he walked off the mound, he looked over at the suite you were in and tapped his heart before he smiled and headed off into the dugout.
You smiled and blushed when Peggy gave you a nudge with her knee. You saw the guys congratulate Bucky as he placed his glove on the bench and grab a sports drink. Cameras focused on him and displayed his game stats before it showed the new pitcher the coach had called from the bullpen.
"Are you coming over to our place next week?" Peggy asked.
There's an open invitation every few weeks, usually hosted by a veteran, where teammates can get together and hang out, outside of the field and practise and away from the talk of the game. It's a way for the team to bond and you usually host one once a month.
"I think so, providing I don't have anything going on at work."
Peggy nodded and got you both another drink.
Your phone dinged and you looked at the message. It was from Bucky's mother, then another message followed from his sister.
"Aren't you the popular one." Peggy chuckled while you read the messages.
"They've invited me to a party tomorrow."
"Oh?"
You were confused on why.
"And only me, Bucky isn't invited."
"Weird."
"Maybe it's a women's empowering lunch with speakers or a lunch where you can network." Peggy suggested.
Bucky's father was a president of a college who had a prestigious job in education before he passed a year ago. His mother Winnie still held a lot of academic gatherings and parties with the scholarship fund she chaired and had invited you to a few. His sister Rebecca was the CEO of a non-profit and the two of them were close.
"No idea."
You huffed and replied. You know Bucky has PT in the afternoon, so you agreed to go to the party for something to do.
"Whatever, it'll get me some brownie points with his family if I make an appearance. I'll just leave work a little earlier tomorrow."
"How's the shop doing?"
You turned and smiled at Peggy telling her all about the new arrivals and what your plans were for the summer.
⚾💕
"Good game tonight. Feel good out there?" You said as Bucky drove you home.
"Yeah, I felt good, loose. Shoulder is good too." Bucky moved his shoulder up and down as if to prove your point.
"Are you working all day tomorrow?" He asked.
"Just in the morning, then heading to your mother's for a luncheon or something. Some kind of party."
Bucky looked over at you and was confused.
"Why?"
"No idea. She said it was for a party and wants me there, your sister too."
"Probably a fundraiser, I'm sure it's nothing." He shrugged.
"I think so too."
You pulled into the driveway and headed inside for the night.
⚾💕
You had a busy day with work since Wanda and her magic in social media drew in more people. You had brought a dress to change into before you headed to your lunch that Wanda helped you style for. There was no way you were going to wear your black leggings and flowy shirt to a luncheon hosted by your mother-in-law.
"You look beautiful." Wanda said, snapping a few photos for you so you could send them to Bucky and torture him until you got home. He loved everything you wore and but his preference was loving to remove those clothes off of you any chance he got. The man was insatiable and you loved it.
"Have fun." Wanda smiled when you left for your mother-in-law's.
⚾💕
You parked and walked up the walkway to the house when you saw a bunch of shadows from the window.
"Why is half the damn city here." You muttered, then opened the front door.
"SURPRISE!" The large group of ladies yelled.
"What?" You grasped your hand to your heart at the loudness of everything.
You were truly surprised. When you calmed down, you recognized some people, all ladies as they came up to you and were smiling, congratulating you.
"Uhh...thanks?" You said as they were oohing and ahhing over you.
You spotted Winnie and Rebecca in the back, so you walked towards them.
"What's going on?" You whispered, looking around the decorated living room.
They looked between each other and smiled.
"It's your baby shower silly!" Rebecca smiled wide.
You choked at her words.
"M-my what?"
"Your baby shower, come on."
Winnie dragged you to a comfy living room chair while a glass of orange juice was handed to you.
"Non-alcoholic." Rebecca winked at you.
"B-but...but I..."
You looked around the decorated room and froze. Banners depicting baby carriages, pink and blue streamers, pictures of baby animals and gifts were all over. Snacks, food, and drinks were out as many women chatted and nibbled on the food.
"I-I'm not...but.."
You were dumfounded as Rebecca sat next to you.
"Here." She shoved her phone in your face.
You took it and scrolled the screen, slapping a hand across your face.
"What is this?"
You saw paparazzi photos of you from yesterday when you were out and about since you recognized the new forest green leggings you wore.
"I don't understand..." You kept scrolling.
"Everyone's reporting on it and we wanted to be the first to congratulate you." Winnie said, handing you a plate of food.
"Eat up." She smiled and went back to talking to the others.
You frowned and read the captions of the photos. Comments on your recent weight gain were the main topic, speculation about being pregnant with the Wolves' future pitcher were made, and of course comments about how you're not good enough for a hot athlete like Bucky were there.
"You didn't see these?" Rebecca asked.
"I never went on any social media yesterday; I've been too busy."
You hadn't seen or heard about any of the photos or headlines from the sports and gossip sites.
"My belly?" You reached out and pulled at your dress.
You had switched medication for your PCOS and it has caused a little weight gain and bloating in your belly area. With your wardrobe of mainly leggings which show off a lot, people had assumed you were pregnant.
"I...I..."
You looked around the room and started feeling warm and flush.
"I need to get out of here." You said, jumping up from the chair.
You headed down a hallway and found a guestroom, closing and locking the door.
You were shaking and overwhelmed from the party and from seeing the photos and comments; you started panicking.
You reached for your phone and phoned Bucky; PT session be dammed.
"Hey you." You heard Bucky's cheery voice on the other end, but you couldn't speak.
"Sweetheart? Are you there?" He sounded concerned.
"Bucky..." You managed to whisper.
"What's wrong?" His voice turned serious; you could tell he was walking.
"Where are you? Are you ok?"
"Your mom's..." You managed to say.
"I'm on my way." Then the line ended.
⚾💕
You sunk to the floor, opening your personal social media pages up to see for yourself. You had long since disabled the notifications you got since you always managed to get a lot and every notice or ding from a post or comment was making you nutty, so you disabled all notifications.
You hadn't received any of them from your errands you ran yesterday because of it. You found more photos and video of your day, going to the store, shopping, and read the comments under them.
"She doesn't need more bread."
"More food, must be a hungry baby."
"Bucky deserves someone hot, not this washed-up whale."
"Say goodbye to having an athletic child because of her genes"
"She's only doing it to trap him for the money."
"At least she can say she's eating for 2 now and have a reason to look like that."
"Hope she chooses to wear clothes that fit, she's only going to get bigger."
You kept scrolling; it was like a bad accident; you couldn't seem to look away.
"Oh look, going to get more take out." One posted under the photo of you getting coffee and tea.
"Maybe she'll get a sponsor for fast food, so her cravings get paid for." "She has that now." Was the reply.
"She's drinking ALCOHOL while PREGNANT, how irresponsible"
"They'll be divorced within a few months when he realises she's only going to get fatter."
"It should be ME having his baby!"
You threw your phone down and put your legs up to your chest. This felt like an extreme invasion of your privacy and all you were doing was going about your normal day. You didn't think you looked that differently than before.
You had only been on the new medication for four months but if people are noticing, it must be bad. You placed a hand over your stomach and sighed. Your weight was something you struggled with on and off throughout your whole life.
You had finally gotten comfortable in your skin when you started your business and then met Bucky. He adored you and made you feel beautiful, but knowing everyone else has noticed and thinks this about you, it makes you feel self-conscious.
Your mind went into overdrive thinking about your outfits and how you look as the comments kept flooding in. The fact that people had just assumed you were pregnant for gaining a little weight made you incensed.
How dare people assume something so private and special? You hadn't talked about having kids just yet because Bucky wanted to be retired when and if the time came. He always said that decision was up to you and he would be ok with whatever you wanted knowing your medical history.
He always joked he fell in love with one organ which was your heart and not your ovaries. Your mind raced as a few tears slipped, wiping them away.
You heard the voices from the party, but you didn't care.
You tuned them out and put your head down and let the tears fall.
⚾💕
A short time later, you heard a loud knock on the door, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.
"Sweetheart..." It was Bucky.
"Please, can I come in?" He pleaded through the door.
"If you don't open it, I'm breaking it down."
"Don't you break my door." You heard Winnie yell.
"Shut up ma!" You heard Bucky yell back.
You wiped your face and got up, unlocking the door. Bucky burst inside, wrapping you up in his arms.
"What's going on?" He said, patting your hair.
You leaned away from him slightly and looked up into his concerned eyes.
"Did you not see the party out there?" You pointed to the door.
"Not really, I just wanted to get to you."
"It's a baby shower."
"For whom?"
Rebecca was divorced but that didn't mean anything nowadays.
"Me."
Bucky gave you a weird look.
"But you're not..."
"Nope."
"Then how did..."
"Here." You let go of him and found your phone, handing it to Bucky.
"Guess you didn't see the photos and posts either."
"What photos?" He scrolled your phone.
You saw his face harden and his nostrils flared slightly.
"Fuck me." He whispered, still scrolling.
"I've got notifications turned off, so I didn't see anything."
The number of tags, posts, messages he gets can be overwhelming, so he usually lets his team handle them.
"How dare they!" Bucky's face was turning red.
He handed you back your phone then angrily typed a message on his phone.
"Social media sucks ass." Bucky muttered.
"It does suck ass." You agreed, lightly chuckling at your husband's words.
He was looking through his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Contacting the team's PR reps. They can fix this mess, or at least a lawyer can if they can't. This time, they went too far."
"Bucky..."
"This is bullshit and a complete invasion of privacy. It's not even true for fuck sakes." Bucky yelled.
Rarely did Bucky get mad so this was a little new seeing him like this. He was fiercely protective and would do anything for any of his family and friends.
"Disgusting comments." Bucky growled, scrolling through his phone.
Winnie and Rebecca popped their head into the bedroom.
"It's not?"
"No." You both said at the same time.
"When and IF that is going to happen, we will announce it together. First to our families, then select friends, and finally the media." Bucky glared at his mother.
"Oh crap, my mom and dad." You slapped a hand to your forehead.
"Aren't they still on a Mediterranean cruise?" asked Bucky.
You thought about it.
"Oh right, they are. What's the time in Greece?" You quickly sent your mom and dad an email in the hopes they will see it first before any of the photos reach them.
Bucky turned and looked at his mom and sister.
"But only IF we're both on the same page and want kids to begin with. For now, it's no one's business but our own." Bucky glared at his mother then his sister.
"It's ok, they didn't know." You put a hand on his arm to calm him.
"But still..."
"Y/n, I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I-I just...wanted to celebrate." Winnie fidgeted with her fingers.
"I know and I appreciate your thoughts."
"Yeah Y/n, I'm sorry too. I should have called you before, but we just got so excited." Rebecca said, feeling bad.
You wiped a tear from your eye and sniffled.
"It's ok. Honestly, I'm more impressed you planned all of this on such short notice."
"You have no idea what I'm capable of." Winnie winked at you.
You no doubt thought she was right considering her connections and what she had done for your wedding.
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry." Bucky said, once again embracing you.
"Don't read any more of those awful comments, they're all stupid and have no idea what they're talking about." Bucky grumbled.
"Are you feeling ok though?" Rebecca asked.
"I-I mean, I just want to make sure you're ok."
You hadn't discussed your medical condition with everyone, including Bucky's family. You looked over at Bucky who nodded.
"I have PCOS. Treatable and everything and they switched my medication so I'm thinking that's why people think I'm...you know..."
"Pregnant." Rebecca finished for you.
Winnie shuffled her feet a little.
"But I'm not. I guess everyone just assumed I was with this weight gain. Wait, is everyone still out there?" You pointed to the door.
"I sent them home with parting gifts of cake and fancy canapes." Winnie gestured with her hands.
"What about the presents?"
"We'll donate them." She scoffed.
"You can give them back you know, so they can return them?"
"Pfft, those ladies can well afford to donate their gifts." Winnie waved off your concerns.
Bucky's phone dinged with a message.
"Here." He handed it to you.
It was from Nat, the team's PR manager.
"Meeting tomorrow for brunch."
"Bucky it's ok, really. I'll just deal with it..."
"You'll do no such thing. The team and I can well afford to handle this mess, so let us." He assured you. "Please?" He pleaded with you. You always had a hard time saying no to him, especially when he focused his bright blue eyes on you, you were a goner.
"Thank you." You quietly whispered.
"Now, let's eat some snacks because I don't want to get stuck with all of this food." Winnie ushered you out of the room.
⚾💕
"You ok?" Bucky asked, coming out of the back door and sitting next to you on the outdoor sofa.
"Doing good." You smiled, sipping your wine.
The meeting with the team's PR rep Nat went well, followed by the lawyers. They handled the news and entertainment sites with class and grace, posting information on PCOS and where to go for more help and information. The team even added a 'ladies' night' for one of the upcoming Sunday afternoon games the team was playing and had secured sponsors and giveaways from local medical businesses and companies.
Sometimes shutting the trolls down by turning things into a positive spin was better than doing nothing, and this was a much better alternative.
It also helped that Bucky sent his personal lawyer after rude comments left from a few 'influencers' and had their money pulled and their pages removed. You're certain they can never post anything online ever again.
"So, you're starting tomorrow night?" You asked.
"Looks like it. Are you coming to the game?"
Bucky brought you in close to his chest so you could snuggle into his warm body heat.
"Of course, who's going to awkwardly tell you to 'go get 'em'" you teased making him chuckle.
"I love you." He said, kissing your temple.
"I love you more." You reminded him and smiled up at him.
Sumary: You are your husband's personal tailor, and he always wants your touch on everything.
Contains: established marriage, playfully rude Thranduil (he calls reader a Madwoman ), "slightly" pregnant!Reader, Kinda ooc ( maybe ? ).
400+ words
Peachy's note : English isn't my first language, I did this in the middle of the night (🥲), its my first time trying to write something for thranduil, Just testing to see if it would work.
I DON'T FEED MY WORK WITH AI, YOU SHOULDN'T EITHER!!!!
Made by @sweetgothpeach !!!!
Among the trees, she were seating with a needle and the finest embroidery threads from all Mirkwood in her hands, gold and green leaves were being woven onto one of her husband tunics, Thranduil had said that his new, freshly made tunic seemed incomplete when he put it on before her.
The tunic, in a dark shade of green with gold details, seemed "plain" to his eyes, as almost all his other clothes would have been tailored by his beloved wife.
"It seems... boring, there's nothing here that is..." The word "boring" rolled onto his tongue, his eyes filled with dissatisfaction as he looked at himself in the mirror.
"Mine?" she lifted her body from the bed shared by the couple, going to him and letting her hands slide down the tunic that was on his body. "I can arrange something for you!".
He gently held her hand, preventing her from going any lower. "Careful, Meleth nín, you know exactly how you got to this beautiful state." He brought her hand to his own lips as he gazed at her " Oh".
She shook her head slightly with a smile on her lips, drifting out of the memory, losing focus on what was in her hands, the needle made a small prick in her finger, causing her to let out a small cry of surprise.
The hurried footsteps were unmistakable, the not too soft taps on the ground certainly belonged to someone in a hurry.
He scanned her with his eyes, one of her hands was resting on her belly, and the other was raised in the air, showing him her index finger.
"Isn't that a magnificent shade of red?" A small pearl of blood formed on his finger. "An embroidery thread of that color would look great with black fabric!" The tension in his shoulders, though almost imperceptible, gradually fadded.
"You're a madwoman, I should have known that from the start!" Thranduil took her hand carefully, examining it. "But... it's a beautiful red indeed!" the heavy sassy tone carried in his voice.
"And not satisfied with just the Madwoman, you had a child with her, and now after almost 3,000 years, you wanted to have another!" She said, his eyes drifted down to where her other hand rested, and a sigh of disbelief escaped his lips, he would never win that argument with his loving wife.
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