Welcome to my page, it's very messy (sometimes I get lost too, you can search contents with the hashtags) but it's a safe place for me, It could be the same for you.
Here I reblog everything that I like, including fanfiction. Please remember it's fantasy, not reality-based.
Last but not least, please read the warnings and the age limit that the writers have put on their blog before interacting. If it's not for minors and you're under-age, please don't interact.
I'm very friendly, if you want to chat send me a message.
Warnings: mentions of a breakup, mafia business, mafia au, kind of kidnapping, possessive/protective Bucky
The leather seats felt soft and smelled like home.
You weren't sure how you ended up in the backseat of your ex-boyfriend’s car.
He casually followed you to the restaurant you wanted to dine at. It would’ve been the first date after your breakup with the secret mafia boss.
“Uh—is this a mafia thing?” You asked, glancing at Bucky, who was busy on his phone. He was ordering your favorite food, wanting it to arrive before you did. “I was about to have a date.”
“I was worried about your safety,” he replied after ending the call. “That’s why you are here with me now. Jake didn’t have the time to check on your date’s background. It’s still my job to keep you safe. I don’t care if you broke up with me or not.”
“Hmm…is that a hostage situation?” You wondered while watching Bucky put his phone away. “Bucky, did you kidnap me?”
“You willingly got inside my car. I wouldn’t call this kidnapping,” he said, a smirk coloring his features.
“You said, 'Get in my car,” you defended your decision to enter Bucky’s car. It was an old habit to follow his instructions. Old habits die hard, right? “I only did as you said.” You pursed your lips. “Did you trick me?”
He laughed. “I didn’t think picking my woman up was considered a crime nowadays."
“You did not pick me up, Bucky!” His possessive behavior was one of the reasons you two broke up. “You came to the restaurant, stopped me from getting inside, and told me to get inside your car.”
“Semantics, Y/N. I came here to make sure you are safe and sound,” Bucky acted like a caring boyfriend, not a kidnapper. The problem was that you broke up almost a year ago.
His line of business, his possessiveness over you, and the constant threats from his enemies were too much for you.
He tried to keep you safe but got hurt more than once doing so. You didn’t want Bucky to get killed while protecting you. The only way out was for you to break his heart.
Bucky didn’t take the breakup lightly. He was lurking around every corner, always popping up out of nowhere for weeks until you told him it’s better this way.
You didn’t know he was always there, protecting you from afar. Bucky was following you that night, wanting to make sure you were safe. He didn’t expect you to go on a date with some random guy you met at the grocery store.
Bucky swore to let you go, but he couldn’t watch you date a douchebag, calling you "sugar tits" on the phone. Bucky knew you hated it, and he hated it even more.
No man was allowed to call you anything but a goddess in Bucky’s opinion. Or doll, his favorite pet name for you.
“That guy was no good, doll,” he said with so much confidence you knew that Bucky had someone check your date’s background. “This man wanted to get in your pants.”
He made a face. Only thinking about another man touching you makes Bucky’s blood boil. “I had it handled. Bucky, you can’t keep on doing this.”
“He was a douche,” Bucky insisted, not giving in. “You know that. No man should call a woman he barely knows sugar tits. No. Scratch that. A man should never call her that.”
“What if she likes it?” You leaned closer to look Bucky in the eyes. “You know, some women like pet names.”
“Pet names. Not insults.” Bucky gently cupped your cheek, earning a whine. “I’d find out what a woman likes and give it to her. This man wanted to get laid.”
“James,” you said his name to get his full attention. “What are we doing here? We agreed on never seeing each other again, didn’t we?”
“You said that. I never agreed.” Bucky replied, his eyes glued to the necklace dangling from your neck. The one he gave to you. “You’re still wearing it. This means something. You still love me.”
“Love was never the problem, Buck,” you softly said, taking his hand, squeezing it. “You would’ve got yourself killed for me one day. I couldn’t bear watching you die for me.”
“Then, I won’t die,” he said. “I swear you’ll watch my ass become wrinkly before I die. We are going to grow old together, have an awful lot of kids, and have naughty sex…lots of sex.”
“If you lie, I’ll take you down before your enemies get the chance,” you said, cupping his face to press a soft kiss on his lips. “That’s a promise.”
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.
Masterlist
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Warning/Tags: AU, Fluff, Smut.
Word count: ~5k
Summary: Writing fanfictions sounds fun until your muse is aware of what you're writing about him.
Author's Note: I did it, it's here. I love it, and hope you love it too! <3 As always, thank you to my girls @kileyking @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy for betareading and proofreading.
‘Always Anonymous.’
That’s what you told yourself when you opened your first fanfiction writing account. That's how it was supposed to be.
You worked for a very important PR Business Group that would hate the idea of one of its workers being so outspoken about creating fanfictions of a very morally confusing superhero.
The struggles weren't just that you were a fanfiction writer—you were a big one. You’ve seen your username on different platforms being named or your works being recommended as ‘masterpieces’.
Flattering.
So, you divided your time between politicians trying to clear their names, influencers who wanted to rebrand themselves, and—of course—your metal-armed afflatus, Bucky Barnes.
He was now part of the Thunderbolts… New Avengers? They were still trying to discover themselves.
Oh, and that gave you a lot of material to work with—from old ‘Avengers’ Tower’ fanfictions to Thunderbolts’ Watchtower.
People were always sending requests, and you were always working on something new.
Alternative Universes, What If’s, whatever thing your readers asked you to do—you were taking it and doing it.
You had done it for several years with different characters, actors, singers, whoever you liked at the moment. And now it was Bucky Barnes’ turn. You couldn’t catch what it was. It could’ve been his deep background, how he looked rough around the edges, but the way he treated people gave him away as a soft man.
One of your rules was always to leave out Real Person Fanfictions—but he made you break all your rules.
The first time you found yourself writing for him was when he broke loose from HYDRA’s clutches. He was back from Wakanda, and he was now a citizen—or that’s what he told himself.
Then the flag-smashers’ ordeal occurred, and he went all the way to find any sort of solutions with Sam Wilson, the new Captain America.
And after that, he went radio silent.
For about two years, he was nowhere to be seen.
Sometimes he would be spotted in crowds just trying to pass as a normal citizen. That was, until he was announced as a Congressman.
Congressman Barnes.
Oh, the fanfictions you wrote and read with that prompt.
It was already bad having him as a reckless outlaw—now having him with a suit and being a man of the law?
God helped you and all the girls who had a crush on him.
Your mind took you to the most lustful places every time you saw him in the news with that suit and his suitcase.
“You’ve got a new client,” your boss told you, placing a black-and-yellow folder in front of you. “It’s a big one.”
‘Confidential’
You sat at your desk, reading your worst nightmare coming true. Something you’d read and written many, many times.
Your new client was none other than Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
“What am I supposed to do with her?” You remained calm. Really trying not to look anxious or crazy.
“Well, she’s got her own reckless, ruthless ex-assassins, new superheroes that need to be cleared, and you’re the best in that.”
You sighed.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. They are not hopeless, just… rough around the edges.”
And there you were, sitting at Valentina’s desk while she rambled about how they were the New Avengers, that all of them just needed to be polished, and they were going to be the perfect superheroes in New York.
Your first few weeks were easy; you didn’t have to see them at all. It was just you, Valentina, and Mel figuring out the best way to make them look better.
“You’re going to start with the easiest ones, Bob and Ava. They are not the best either, but it’ll be easier than Yelena Belova, Bucky Barnes, or the Red Thing.”
You were sitting in front of your laptop, your whole account stared back at you. It made you feel guilty now—this was supposed to be harmless to you and to anyone else.
And now you were working… literally on him.
No one really knew you liked him. So there was no point for you to ask to be removed from the case.
And you were for sure a professional. You knew how to take out your most primal and weird dreams from your workplace.
You’ve worked with real famous people—with famous actors and actresses, influencers, powerful politicians—and now you had the ex-assassin, ex-congressman Bucky Barnes, and it was even more difficult than any of your previous cases.
You had really thought about it before. How could someone like you help him to clean his public image? But it was just in a filthy fanfic.
‘I can change him. No, I can’t. Well, at least I can fuck him.’ You wrote in your author’s note.
Your mom had always told you that words had powers—you never really thought that this was the scenario where that would make sense. You never really thought you would jinx yourself with your writing skills.
“What if he finds out?” June asked, tilting her head.
Your friend, always by your side, was not always of help with her uncensored mouth. You looked back at her with a worried face.
“He will never find out!” She yelled, trying to hurry herself into making you feel better. “It’s impossible, you didn’t even use your name or your e-mail to create the account.
You sighed, knowing she was completely right, but with the kind of luck you were used to having. You could also swear that he would know everything about you as soon as he saw your face in the conference room.
“This is great material,” John laughed while he stared at his phone.
Alexei leaned in to look at it and laughed as hard as his lungs let him.
Yelena was staring at the screen with Bucky on her other side.
“What?” Ava chimed in.
“Just learning that Sergeant Barnes has a fan club.” John teased, showing her the screen.
Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, not quite understanding.
“What’s that, Walker?”
Bucky approached John and finally looked at it.
A website he had never seen—and a long kind of text looking back at him.
‘His hands flowed down your stomach till they reached your most sensitive spot…’
His inner voice read before he could stop himself.
“What the actual fuck is that, Walker?!” Bucky tossed away the phone.
Alexei and John burst out laughing.
“That’s called fanfictions,” John took his phone back and continued scrolling. “Apparently, people nowadays write stories about people they like in scenarios they fancy… and well, you got yours, Barnes.”
“‘m too old for this shit,” he mumbled, walking away.
But that didn’t stop him from lurking around.
He found himself in his room at the Watchtower on his computer, searching for words he had never thought of.
‘Bucky Barnes Fanfiction.’
Hundreds of thousands of results were displayed before his eyes.
He started reading some of them.
Some were… oddly accurate. Others were… oddly out of his imagination. But all of them were jarring.
He found a specific account that had… a great amount of works—all for him? His name all over the place, his face all around the page, but not a face or something about the creator.
‘Always take the risk.’
It was something the girl behind the blog would say in almost all her author’s notes.
How could someone be… this interested in him as to write something this lustful, as to create a whole world where he fell in love with the… reader once and a million times.
He continued reading the whole night—he didn’t want to admit it, but some of the works made him even feel a growing problem in his crotch.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” he said before putting down his phone.
He had a long day the next day with their new publicist, and he needed to show them he was not a lost cause. Not that he really cared, but he needed to show Valentina he didn’t need to be tamed.
He went on with his day until he had to meet the new publicist. She was just about to finish her meeting with Yelena and check what needed to be done with her.
Funny enough, Yelena looked comfortable with her.
That was a good enough sign for him.
“All yours,” Yelena said as she opened the door.
You were typing on the profile you were designing for Yelena Belova until you were taken out of your thoughts.
You had almost forgotten.
“Can I come in?”
His voice was everything you had dreamt about for years. It was deep, concerningly beautiful, respectful; it was every adjective you had used in your works, and now it was in front of you.
“Sergeant Barnes,” You looked up and motioned him to take the seat in front of you. You bit the inside of your cheek as soon as you said that. It was something you had always dreamt of saying. “Or do you prefer Mr. Barnes?”
He nodded and stopped in front of the table, “You can call me Bucky—too professional for someone who’s been hired to change me.”
You chuckled, “I’m not trying to change you, M—Bucky. I’m here to help you all look as you really are. People with different pasts.”
“So, how’s it going to work?”
You gestured to ask him to take a seat.
“Basically, I created a profile of you all by searching on the internet. How people see you, how people would like to see you, what fits in your essence without making you all characters—but to get to it, I need to know you guys first.”
He frowned. He was sure he would be greeted by a pretentious woman, determined to change him completely.
You asked him several questions—about his past, his present, personal things, and not-so-personal things.
He saw you typing on your laptop while you nodded as he responded.
“Can I ask something now?” You tried not to look up from your computer. You were doing it so well without looking up at him, and you wanted to keep it like that for longer.
“Of course, Bucky.” You switched to look at him for a second, just to make him acknowledge.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Oh, quite a long time by now. I’ve helped several people look better in the public’s eyes.
“And how do you know I’m gonna be a success? Have you seen me?”
‘If you only knew…’ you thought. “I’ve seen you, Bucky. You’re not a lost cause. Rough around the edges at worst.”
“Can I know what your plan is with me?” You widely opened your eyes.
“You’re the first one to ask—I thought maybe Bob would do it, but not you.”
“If I’m going to be controlled again, I’d like to know this time what’s going to be done to me this time.”
You froze.
All the times you had written, researched, and found things about him and his Winter Soldier years were now hitting.
“I—don’t want to control you. Not at all.”
He realized immediately how affected you looked just by his comment.
“No. No. I apologize, I was joking, trying to make this lighter for both of us.”
“I just want to make myself clear. I don’t want to change you, to make you a prince in the skin of an ex-soldier. I want you to feel comfortable with your own person, so that you can show people a better self.”
“And what if I don’t want to be changed?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest.
“Then we won’t. I’m not here to force you all to change. You will be reviewing the plan I’m creating for you, and we will go from there.”
He was taken aback, “Really?”
You nodded—and carefully turned your laptop around. The night before, you had carefully taken out every and each thing that would make him notice that you were drooling over him on the internet—and still with those precautions, your leg was shaking under the table, you were biting the inside of your cheek, and a sweat drop was rolling down the back of your neck.
He started to read under his breath.
“Haircut, stop trying to make him look lobotomized and healthy and more like a real veteran, stop the narrative into politics.” He was mumbling and chuckled as soon as he read the last part.
“What do you think?”
“Well, nothing is too odd for my taste.” He accepted.
You didn’t want to admit it, but it was the first time you had taken other people’s opinions—and even your own—to create a profile for a client.
“I’ll send you the whole program in a few days, Bucky,” You took back your laptop and closed it.
“I thought Alexei was next?”
You shook your head, “That’s a full day's case I need to review on its own…”
He laughed.
Fuck. His laugh.
“A feisty one?” He asked, trying to make you laugh.
“Well, I always say we need to take the risk.” You shrugged and stood up, “I guess I’ll see you soon, Bucky.”
Late at night, Bucky was sitting still on his bed—insomnia was no joke to him. And today was not the exception.
He had already done everything—tea, pills that never really worked on him, staring at the ceiling with no purpose.
“Just jerk yourself off!” Alexei would say to Bucky every time he saw him pacing around at midnight when he couldn’t sleep.
But Bucky hated the idea of masturbating at the sight of other people.
Then, his phone rang with a notification. When he took it, the first thing that came to his mind was that account.
That silly thing John had mentioned earlier, and that somehow made his cock twitch in his pants.
‘It’s no harm.’
He said as he opened the search bar.
‘There’s no real person behind those stories.’
He repeated once and twice.
It was just him and whoever wanted to read those filthy things.
He opened that account again.
The numbers behind those posts were big, and he was astonished at the thought of him being the person they wanted to do all these things with…
He started reading one.
‘His tongue delved on your tongue while his hands gripped your thighs carefully…’
His thumb smeared the pre-cum already leaking from his tip.
He couldn’t stop himself from jerking off while he read it. His mind was as confused as his cock.
The way the author described every movement, every thrust, and sound. He was even questioning himself if he had done this with a stranger, and now she was telling all their business in anonymity.
He even read about the hyperspermia. How the fuck did they all know about it? Was Steve telling everyone around, and they all just assumed he was the same?
Before he could even react, his throbbing cock left all his warm seed on his palm. He was almost falling asleep when he read it again.
‘Always take the risk.’
And then he could remember you telling him that.
‘I always say we need to take the risk.’
It had to be a coincidence.
It couldn’t be something else.
Now his will to go to sleep was gone.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the coincidence.
By the first ray of sunshine, he was already awake and sitting in the kitchen looking at nothingness when his phone rang.
The account had posted something new.
This time, it was not a filthy story.
It was what she had tagged as “Fluff”.
Something completely different from what he had read the night before.
He had spent his whole night trying to catch something else, to see if it was all in his mind, and it was just a similarity—that you were not definitely the person running that account.
He read the author’s note.
‘This is something completely out of my character, but things are happening right now in my life that I can't get myself into writing filthy and insane things.’
Bucky furrowed—what could have happened that took her out of her comfort zone?
“Morning!” You said walking in—he immediately put his phone down. “Sorry, did I scare you?”
“Oh. No, don’t worry. I was immersed in something.”
You smiled and took a bottle of water. “Well, need to get going—Alexei’s a big one.”
He nodded, and you waved goodbye.
He was now sure you weren’t the person behind that blog.
You were so stern, serious, focused, you didn’t even flinch when he talked to you, you didn’t even give him more than a smile the day before.
Bucky kept lurking the next few days, but the account kept posting, sometimes filthy things that made him explode in his own palm. Meanwhile, other times it would post just casual things that seemed like an attempt to keep the account alive.
And you were still trying to figure out how to keep your readers happy while respecting the man you were now helping to become their real and greatest version.
“Did you really stop posting just because you have your literal muse in front of you?” June furrowed her eyebrows.
“Yes. I can’t. He’s so polite and serious that every time I try to write something disgustingly filthy, I can’t.”
“C’mon. It’s now when you bring your writing to real life.”
“June! This is my fuckin’ job. I’m not risking it all just because I was getting horny about someone who turned out to be my client.”
He had noticed something. The account was now ‘on a hiatus.’ The person behind just announced they were dealing with some things and didn’t feel like continuing to write without feeling ‘wrong’.
Not sure if he wanted to admit it, but he didn’t want the person behind the account to leave.
It was not the fact that he kept reading, nor the fact that this decision could make it more difficult to find out who was behind the posted stories.
And he did something he never thought he would.
He created an account and commented under one post.
‘Hope you’re doing fine. Love your writing!’
Just that.
He did it just one hour before he knew you were coming. It was deliberate, and also a test.
He had seen you were a bit down, not completely; you were still smiling, but he could notice you were still tense behind that weary smile.
To his surprise, you were slightly different. You smiled a little bit more, and you looked lighter.
“Good morning, Bucky!” You smiled and set your laptop on a desk.
“You seem different. Good news?”
You remembered that weird and sole message from a stranger. You didn’t really understand why, but you were happy that someone took seconds of their life to leave you a short and maybe meaningless message on their side, but cute to you.
“Just… I had a nice interaction with a stranger today.” You said while pulling up his profile on your computer.
Even when you had asked him to have his hair cut, and he accepted without even flinching, you seemed proud of your job, even happier, more confident. You had explained to him that he seemed more kept and stern with shorter hair. He just assured you that he trusted you enough to make that kind of decision.
The way that comment made you happy made him think of something.
You had been inspired by him just by his mere existence. What would you do if he gave you more than just that?
So, he started things slowly.
He brought you coffee one morning—he had seen you the night before, working late with Alexei, trying to make him understand that not everything had to be a brand deal.
“Brought you some coffee. Hope you don’t mind.” He placed it without waiting for an answer and left.
In the meantime, he was also learning how to interact with you on the blog without seeming like a stalker, more like a very interested reader.
On one hand, Bucky Barnes himself was doing nice things for you, while on the other hand, strangers on the internet were hyping you up to keep your writing blog alive.
And that didn’t help your idea of not writing about him anymore.
On the third day, he brought you dinner. You were checking what changes to do on Yelena to make her look less… intimidating.
“Are you busy?” He looked at you, lifting the take-out in his hand.
“Oh, no… but you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know, I just saw you struggling today with Yelena, and I wanted to bring some moral boost in the form of food.”
“Thank you so much, Bucky.”
His phone rang for the first time in weeks.
A new post.
Very oddly specific situations written between pornographic scenes.
A coffee scene between two coworkers.
Late night dinner when they needed to stay late.
Given compliments without innuendos.
He didn’t need any more confirmation. You were behind those words—and that turned him on even more than the words you wrote.
But he knew better than just to approach and expose himself.
So, he decided to take a step further.
Give you a real-life experience to see if you would put it into words.
He knew it was wrong. Fuck, it was wrong. But he was now immersed in the whole idea.
And, oh, if life gave him the perfect moment.
He was going to take a late-night bike ride when he saw you still in your car dialing a number on your phone. He leaned on your window and knocked twice.
“Hey, do you need some help?” You sighed. You wanted to say no, but you were really longing for your bed that specific day.
“My car’s not working, and I really need to get home.”
He furrowed, “And your insurance is not answering?” You shook your head.
He wanted to see how far he could get.
“So—I was just about to head to have dinner and then head back here. What about we have some dinner, and then I take you home?”
Your cheeks were burning.
“C’mon, just a friendly dinner. Or are you afraid of bikes?”
He had seen plenty of your works where you talked about how you would love to ride… him and his bike too.
You stuttered. The way his words came from his lips made you nervous.
He tilted his head, and you stepped out.
He made you hug him by the waist while he drove to the restaurant.
You were sitting in front of him while you both talked about whatever came to mind.
“So, do you like shorter hair?” He teased.
“Not that I personally like it, but I know…” You furrowed and stopped yourself. You knew your girls liked him with shorter hair. “I know people prefer shorter hair.”
When the night was over, and he took you home, you didn’t really know why you did it, but you asked him to come in.
Just for a drink.
You lied to yourself. You wanted more, you really wanted more. Even when you knew it could be seen as wrong, if someone knew the whole perspective.
The air around felt thick. From time to time, you noticed how he shifted in his place, trying to ease the imaginary weight in his shoulders, while you tried to keep your mind clean—not lustful, not wandering on thoughts that were not meant to be thought while you had him in front of you.
He was standing in front of your kitchen bar while you were bringing some beers from your fridge. You didn’t want to give it more than a thought, but you could notice how he stared at you…
“I—I think it’s getting late,” you stuttered.
He chuckled and placed the beer on the counter. He walked around the bar and placed himself in front of you. His hand found its way to your hip, pulling you closer.
“Can I?” You parted your lips open and granted him access.
His lips found yours faster, and he lifted you on the counter to sit. You could feel him position himself in the middle of your legs, your hands grasped his shirt from the back, making you impossibly closer to him.
If he knew what you liked based solely on what you wrote, he knew exactly what to do now that he had you there.
He had basically studied you.
From what you liked to write the most.
Praising, explicit consent, a talkative man during sex, harsh but sweet at the same time. And he was going to make sure this exceeded your expectations.
He yanked you to the edge of the counter by your jeans just to take them off immediately. He knelt and looked at you from below.
His finger stroked a line from your clit to your entrance. Back and forth. Teasing. Leaving you breathless.
“Fuck, fuck,” you mumbled through your teeth, biting your lips.
He finally leaned over and stripped a line with his tongue, focusing on your clit and fingering you with no shame. His metal hand held you steady while he worked carefully on your core.
“Not here, please.” You husked, he grunted, still latched to your cunt.
He finally distanced himself, and without more warning, he carried you on his shoulder and walked to your bedroom. You were trying to keep your thoughts separated from what you had written for years. But this all seemed so familiar somehow.
Meanwhile, Bucky had learned all your favorite positions, what you loved to write the most, and what you liked to describe in full detail. He took his time taking your clothes off, then he finally knelt to be in the middle of your legs—he pulled down his zipper and took out his length.
It was already leaking, and you were sure you were salivating at the sight of him slowly rubbing his cock with his strong hand. You really tried not to look at it, but he was doing it even slower. He knew you loved the sight, and he loved the way you didn’t even try to hide it.
He didn’t even think twice and slid in. He knew you were already all worked up, almost leaking from your cunt, waiting for him to thrust.
And he did it. Fast, snapping hips against hips. The echo of skin against skin filled your room, and your hands gripped his waist, digging your nails to make him go faster. He proceeded to wrap your neck and body with his arms while he thrusted harder, his still clothed body didn’t help with the heat he was expelling.
“D’you like it?” He mumbled in your ear while he caged your whole body with his broad form. “Tell me if I’m being too harsh.”
“No!” You snapped and wrapped your legs around his waist, “Don’t you dare stop.”
He chuckled and continued his fast and torturous pace, “This is what you always wanted?” He growled.
“Yes, yes. Always.” You cried out.
“Look at me,” he ordered, and you turned your eyes to him, “Good girl.”
You clenched immediately.
Where did this come from?
“Oh, you like it. You like to be called a good girl.”
You nodded and whined.
“It’s good that you are behaving so well, you’re earning it.”
“Don’t stop, Bucky. Don’t stop.” You pleaded—you were sure you sounded pathetic, but you didn’t care at all.
“I can feel you clenching. Do you need to cum?” He asked in your ear, and you nodded, “Come on my cock, make it all wet.”
You came undone immediately, and his throbbing cock started to spill warm ropes in your cunt.
He pulled out and continued spilling on your pelvis and stomach. He jerked himself while the ropes came directly to your skin.
You were still panting and trying to calm down your breathing.
He walked and brought back a towel to help clean your body. “I’m so sorry, I made a mess of you.”
You shook your head; you were still speechless.
“You need a minute?”
“Please.” You cried out again, and he chuckled, sitting next to you in your bed.
When you finally felt better, you looked up at him, who was now stroking your head, trying to calm down his breathing too.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better.”
He noticed how you were knitting your eyebrows in the middle.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No… not really. It’s just…” You sighed, “I didn’t expect you to want this.”
He chuckled and made you sit on his lap.
“You’re gorgeous, incredible, you helped me a lot these months to feel more comfortable with myself after years. From asking me nicely to cut my hair, to respecting the fact that I’m not a charming prince that would be the love interest in a romcom.”
You furrowed… those words.
‘Well, since we can’t have a real-life Bucky Barnes, we can have a love interest in our romcoms here in our fanfictions.’
You tried not to pay much attention to it.
It was just a mere coincidence.
“Yeah. No. You’re definitely not a charming prince.”
He chuckled at the way you tried to feign that this didn’t take you aback.
“And besides, I think you have the best perspective on me than anyone else. You took your time to know me… to know us all… I don’t know what’s going on with me about you, but I think I need to explore it with you by my side.”
You giggled, “I think we can sort things out after this night.”
He tugged you in his chest and placed his lips on your ear, “Is it here where I put on the request for… reader going on a proper date with Bucky?”
General taglist: @maplesyrizzup @wickedfun9 @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @globetrotter28 @buckysouvenir @singulartoast @buckybsdoll @mathcat345 @elliestwoleftfingerss @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @phoenix-in-writing @onyx8514 @shitbewild @idkbeautiful @misswhiddless @buckybarneswife08 @beefybuckyplease @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals +add yourself to my tag list!
One-shot tag list: @rrosesandtears @squishyfruitloop
kat kat ‼️‼️ what are ur thoughts about gdgw!valarr with jealousy/marathon sex from the prompt list 😓
missed my insane lover boy && his handler so got carried away. this is the last one for the night, thank you for sending some in!
valarr targaryen + jealousy/marathon sex. 18+. mdni.
✶ tt!au // valarr!first verse. // year three.
You notice it at the fundraiser.
Valarr's hand finds the small of your back when the venture capitalist from Volantis leans in too close to hear you over the music. That's standard. The warm press of his palm through your dress, the public claim he makes so smoothly that the other man's eyes flicker down to it and then away.
Valarr does this at every event. It's practically choreography by now, and you've stopped noticing it.
What you notice is what happens after.
The Volantene says something that makes you laugh. A real laugh, bright and surprised, because his joke is genuinely clever and catches you off-guard. You tip your head back slightly and the sound comes out of you unguarded. When you glance sideways at Valarr, his face hasn't changed.
That's how you know.
Valarr's face always changes when you laugh. The brown eye softens. The blue one goes bright. He has a tell: the slight upward pull at the left corner of his mouth, the fractional widening of his pupils. You've tracked it over three years of watching him watch you.
The expression of a man who finds your laughter a personal gift and hoards it.
Tonight, the wonder is absent.
Tonight, Valarr's face is still, pleasant, polished to a mirror shine. The golden smile in place, his hand warm on your back, his posture easy and confident. He shakes the man's hand when the conversation ends and guides you to the bar.
He orders your drink without asking because he knows what you drink at these events. When the bartender slides the glass across, Valarr picks it up and hands it to you with a look that's perfectly warm.
You take the glass. "Val."
"Mm?"
"You're quiet."
"Am I?" A sip of his own drink. Bourbon, neat, the glass held between index and middle finger. "Sorry, my love. Long day."
He didn't have a long day. You spoke to him at four, and he was fine.
Valarr is a meticulous liar when he wants to be, but you're better at reading him than he is at hiding from you. The tell is always in his hands. The thumb of his free hand is moving, slowly, against the side of his glass. Back and forth. The same small, repetitive stroke he makes when he's working through a problem he hasn't yet solved.
You let it go.
You let it go through the rest of the fundraiser. Through the car ride home, where he holds your hand in his lap and strokes his thumb across your knuckles.
He asks about your week with an attentiveness that, in anyone else, would read as genuine interest. In Valarr, tonight, it reads as surveillance.
He's gathering data. You can feel it in the intensity of his listening. He asks a follow-up question about a colleague you mentioned, then another, then circles back to the fundraiser as an afterthought. Did you know him? The Volantene. He seemed familiar with you.
"I've never met him before tonight," you tell him honestly.
"Ah." A small nod. His thumb continues its slow circuit across your knuckles. "He was charming."
You turn your head to look at him in the back seat. The city slides past in long, golden bands through the window behind him. Valarr's profile is composed, almost regal. The white streak catches the passing streetlight, then goes dark again.
"Yes," you say evenly. "He was."
Valarr's thumb stops.
The silence between you fills the car for exactly four seconds. Then his thumb resumes, and he lifts your hand and presses his mouth to the inside of your wrist. Where the pulse is, and he holds it there. His mouth, and his breath, warm and steady, against the thin skin over the vein.
"Let's go home," he says quietly against your wrist.
You're already going home, but you don't point it out.
To his credit, he doesn't touch you in the elevator or the foyer.
Valarr sets his keys on the side table with the soft metallic click that means he's placed them in the ceramic dish you bought him for your first anniversary.
He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it. Every motion careful, domestic, a man performing normalcy while something hums just below the surface.
You lean against the kitchen island, watching him.
Valarr opens the cabinet, takes down two glasses. Pours water for you, then himself. Sets yours in front of you without making eye contact, and that's how you know he's about to start something. Valarr always makes eye contact. He was raised to it, built for it.
The only time he avoids your eyes is when what's behind his own would give too much away.
"Valarr."
He drinks his water, sets the glass down, and glances up at you.
There it is.
Under the gold, beneath the polish, past three years of construction. The thing that lives at the bottom of him. The thing you've been coaxing out in inches since the first night you pinned his wrists above his head and watched his pupils blow.
It's focus.
The dark, fixed, predatory focus of a man who watched another man make you laugh. He has, in the thirty-minute car ride home, worked through every response and settled on one.
"Come here," he says silkily.
You don't move. You want to see what he does when you don't.
Valarr's jaw tightens. A single flex of the muscle at the hinge. The brown eye goes flat, the blue one bright.
His voice pitches lower. "I said come here, my love."
You set down your water and stroll around the island. You stop in front of him, close enough that you can smell his cologne going warm at the collar, the bergamot gone darker this late in the evening. Close enough to see the faint shadow under his cheekbone where his jaw's been set for an hour.
Valarr takes your face in his hands. Both of them. The long fingers along your jaw, his thumbs settling at your cheekbones, and he tilts your face up to look at him.
He doesn't kiss you.
He gives you the first-night look. The dim living room, the bourbon, the half-buttoned shirt.
"He made you laugh," Valarr says, softly and conversationally.
You keep your expression straight. "He told a good joke."
"Mm." His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. "You tipped your head back."
"Did I?"
"You did. You do that when something genuinely surprises you. You tilt your chin up, and your throat goes long, and your mouth opens. The sound comes out of you like you've forgotten to be careful for once."
He recites this without inflection.
"I know that sound very well," Valarr continues. His voice has gone low, clinical, that smoky register. "I have worked, for three years, to be the reason you make that sound. I've studied you. I've learned every version of your laugh, and I know the hierarchy. The polite one. The surprised one. The cruel one. The one you make in bed, which no one else but me has ever heard."
His thumb stills.
"He got the surprised one. In public. In front of three hundred people."
You hold his gaze. "Are you jealous, Val?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. The dark thing, the one beneath the gold.
"No, my love," he says fondly. "Jealousy implies uncertainty. I'm not uncertain about what's mine."
His hands slide from your face to your throat. Settling.
"I'm reminded," he says, "that I haven't been thorough enough."
He takes you to bed.
He puts you on the grey sheets, in the room with the lamp turned down and the city a distant golden haze at the windows. He undresses you slowly. He has the entire night, and he intends to use every hour of it.
Valarr folds your dress and sets it aside on the chair. He kneels at the side of the bed and takes off your shoes, one and then the other, his thumbs pressing into the arch of your foot. He sets them together by the closet, perfectly aligned.
Then he comes back and stands over you.
"I'm going to be very thorough tonight," he tells you, unbuttoning his shirt without hurry. "I want you to understand what that means."
You watch his fingers work the buttons. The reveal of his chest, the long flat plane of his stomach, the thin chain at his throat that catches the light.
"It means I'm not going to stop."
The shirt comes off. He folds it. The belt follows, drawn through the loops in one smooth pull. He sets it down, steps out of his trousers, and folds them. Even now.
Valarr climbs over you, naked, already hard, pre-cum beading the flushed tip. He's been hard since the car, since the elevator, since the moment you tipped your chin up and laughed at another man's joke.
Since Valarr felt the small, hot, private pulse of something he's spent three years learning not to name.
He doesn't kiss you. He puts his mouth at your throat instead, at the place where the pulse is thickest, and he stays there, breathing you in. His lips parted against your skin.
"I'm going to make you come until you can't remember his name," he says into your throat. "Until the only thing your mouth can shape is mine."
His hand slides between your thighs. Finds you wet. A low, satisfied sound vibrates against your pulse.
"Oh, my beautiful love. Already."
"Already," you confirm, and your voice is steadier than his.
"Because you knew," he says, huffing a small laugh. "You knew what you were doing at that fundraiser. You knew exactly what sound you made, and you knew I'd hear it, and you knew what it would do."
You don't deny it. You thread your fingers into his hair, the dark silk of it, the coarser white at the temple sliding between your knuckles.
"Maybe I wanted to see," you tell him.
Valarr lifts his head. His eyes find yours in the half-dark. The brown one nearly black, the blue one near luminous.
"See what?" he whispers.
"What you'd do."
His jaw works.
Then Valarr smiles. A real one, sudden and blinding and a little bit feral. The most dangerous expression you've ever seen on his beautiful face. The kind of smile that reminds you, with a sharp electric jolt, that the man you built is still, underneath everything you've given him, a dragon.
"Then let me show you," he drawls silkily.
The first time, he uses his mouth.
He puts you on your back with your knees apart, settles between them, and eats you out with a focus that borders on vindictive. This is year-three Valarr on a mission, and the mission is to make you incoherent. He pursues it with the same relentlessness he brings to hostile acquisitions.
His tongue works you in long, intent strokes that hit the spot he mapped months ago and has never once forgotten. His hands hold your hips down when you try to move. He doesn't let you guide him or set the pace.
When you fist his hair and try to grind against his mouth, he pulls back and peers up at you. The blue eye gleams in the low light.
"No," he says pleasantly. "My pace tonight."
You come on his mouth with his hands pinning your hips to the mattress and his name caught in your teeth. Valarr doesn't stop. He eases you through it, tongue going flat and lazy, drinking you in, and before the aftershocks have finished, he's building you back up.
"Val—that's—I can't—"
"You can."
He makes you come again. Slower this time, his mouth gentler but more insistent, three fingers crooked inside you. You sob once against the pillow, and he makes a soft, pleased sound into your cunt that you feel in your spine.
"That's two," he says, withdrawing his mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his wrist. His chin is wet, his eyes dark.
You gulp down air. "Two?"
"I told you. Thorough."
The third time, he fucks you properly.
He slides inside you in one long stroke and holds there. The deep, full stretch of him makes your breath leave in a rush. Valarr braces his forearms on either side of your head and looks down at you and doesn't move.
"What was his name?" he asks.
You blink, dazed. "What?"
"The man at the fundraiser. What was his name?"
You open your mouth and close it. You actually can't remember. The realisation shows on your face, and Valarr's expression shifts, a dark satisfaction settling into the line of his mouth.
"Good," he says.
He fucks you slowly. Agonisingly slowly. Long, full strokes that drag through every nerve, his pelvis pressing flush against yours at the bottom of each one. He stays there for a count of three before pulling back. Each thrust is an act of patience that borders on cruelty.
When you try to speed him up—rolling your hips, pulling at his back with your heels—he pins your hip with one hand and says, "No, my love. You don't get to rush this."
"Val, please—"
"Please, what?"
You bare your teeth at him. "Harder."
"Harder," he repeats thoughtfully. He pushes in again, unhurried. "No. I don't think so. Not yet."
You make a sound that's half a snarl.
Valarr laughs, low and delighted, his forehead pressing against yours. "There she is. There's my wolf. You're so impatient, my love. Always so greedy. You want me to fuck you how you like. But that's not what tonight is about."
"What is tonight about?" you bite out.
He kisses you, deep and unhurried, his tongue finding yours while his cock stays buried in you. The faint twitch of him inside you is maddening.
"Tonight," he breathes against your wet, swollen mouth, "is about making sure every nerve in you remembers who it belongs to."
He keeps the slow pace for so long you lose your sense of time. The room goes liquid around you. Everything reduces to the cadence he's choosing, the deep rolling press of him inside you, his mouth at your throat. Murmuring.
My love. My girl. My good, perfect, filthy girl.
Who do you come home to?
Who puts you to bed?
Who knows how to do this to you but me?
Say my name.
You say his name. Into his mouth, against his throat, into the pillow when Valarr finally picks up his pace and fucks you hard and fast. His hand at your throat, his mouth at the bite mark he left on your shoulder two nights ago. The sound of the two of you fills the room, wet and raw.
You come the third time with his hand pressing low on your stomach and his forehead against yours. The sound that tears out of your throat is practically a howl of dark satisfaction, your nails sunk into his gleaming skin.
Valarr doesn't come.
He stays hard inside you, breathing hard, his jaw trembling with the effort. His hand at your stomach presses down. The familiar, possessive weight.
"Not done," he rasps.
The fourth is on your stomach, face in the sheets, teeth ripping at the sheets, his weight pinning you flat.
The fifth is on your side, one leg hitched over his hip, his mouth at the nape of your neck. His hand between your bodies works your clit with patience that makes you want to scream and bite.
Somewhere between the fifth and the sixth, you lose the ability to distinguish one from the next. They blur into a single long wave, cresting and receding and cresting again. Valarr is relentless above you, beneath you, behind you. His hands everywhere, his mouth everywhere, his cock an insistent presence he governs with the same iron discipline he's been practising since the first night you showed him what he was.
He talks throughout.
A low, private litany against your skin. Quieter than the filthy monologue of the rug, more intimate. Less dirty talk and more a man reciting vows.
This is mine. This sound, this taste, this. How your back arches when I do this. How your mouth opens. How you say my name when you're too far gone to say anything else. All of this. Mine. I learned all of this. I earned all of this. I built myself into the man who could do this to you, and I did it on purpose, my love. I did it on purpose, do you understand? I did it because you're the only thing in the world I want to be good at.
When he finally comes, it's past two in the morning.
He comes inside you with a pained moan and his face pressed to the hollow of your throat, his hand at the side of your jaw. A long, shuddering sound that cracks at the end. You feel every pulse of his release, deep, the hot rush of him filling you and filling some more. Valarr holds there, grinding in those short blunt presses, the animal drive to push himself deeper into you. His breath shatters against your collarbone.
"Yours," he whispers, the word breaking. "Yours, yours."
You hold the back of his head. You press your mouth to the white streak at his temple, dark with sweat.
"I know, Val," you tell him, trembling in his arms.
After, he lies on his back with you draped across his chest. Your legs have given up and your thighs are shaking. Valarr's hand is in your hair. The slow, unconscious stroke. His heart rate is coming down beneath your cheek.
"I wasn't actually interested in him," you say into the quiet.
"I know."
"I've never been interested in anyone who wasn't you."
His hand pauses in your hair, then resumes. "I know that, too," he says softly.
"Then what was this about?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Valarr is quiet for a long time. His fingers sift over the top of your head, finding the fine strands at your temple. The same place he's been touching since month four of year one.
"Sometimes," he says, very quietly, "I need to remind myself that I can."
You lift your head and look at him. In the dim, his face is stripped bare. A man with a white streak in his dark hair and two mismatched eyes and the soft, vulnerable mouth of a creature that lives in fear of not being enough.
You put your hand on his cheek.
"You can," you tell him. "Always."
His eyes close. He turns his face into your palm. The press of his mouth against the heel of your hand is small and fervent.
You lie back down on his chest. He holds you, and you let him, and Valarr Targaryen does not sleep for a very long time.
He's too busy memorising the weight of you against him.
Filing it away, in the place inside him that you built and furnished and filled with yourself, where nothing else is permitted to live anymore.
Summary: You've been scheduled to cook dinner for everyone in the Tower despite still recovering from injuries. Thankfully, you have two super soldiers willing to help you prepare whatever meal you want.
Warnings: polyamory; past abuse (reader's ex); broken bones
A/N: This was a fill for last year's Stucky Bingo, and I just knew the story I wanted to tell with this one. Love a pair of soldiers who want to shower a reader with as much love and adoration as they can, but also being cautious since reader isn't in a good place. Good thing they're patient, too.
Stucky Masterlist | Character Masterlist
"You two don't have to do this. I'm sure I can figure it out," you said even as Steve and Bucky followed you into the communal kitchen within the Tower.
"We want to help," Bucky assured you even as Steve added, "You shouldn't have been put on the chore rotation at all."
"I wanted them to. Everyone's being so nice to let me stay here. I can't not help where I can."
"You're still recovering, sweetheart," Bucky reminded you, nodding towards the cast and sling covering the majority of your dominant arm. "Gonna be hard to prepare a meal for one, let alone so many of us with just one working arm."
You opened your mouth to argue, but Steve beat you to it.
"We're not saying you can't help out, but cooking for all of us is a lot to ask of anyone. Especially Buck and me. We eat a lot because of our serums, and we don't want you to overtire yourself when you don't have to."
As much as you wanted to argue, you knew Steve had a point. At least where he and Bucky were concerned. You've seen firsthand how much the two of them could eat in a single sitting. It was never more true than after they'd finished their long workouts on days off. Those had been some eyeopening times for yourself and the diner staff in those early days of your friendship with them.
"Okay, but you two have to listen to everything I say." You pointed at each of them with your good pointer finger while giving them your sternest expression.
The happy relief on their faces as well as the tension leaving their shoulders told you they would behave. Sure, they both had their bull-headed moments, but the two had never intentionally bulldozed over your thoughts and ideas when you worked with them in the past.
In fact, they'd been the first guys you'd ever really met that had actually listened to you from the start. None of the men in your family nor the guys you typically dated would did that. Instead, they'd pretend to listen before barreling through with whatever they thought best. It hadn't mattered who they might hurt as long as they got what they want. If they didn't, well, then you made a good scapegoat.
Any lip from you would only earn you a hard smack or fist to wherever they could reach first on you.
Your ex had been the worst offended of them all, and he'd been the reason you found yourself here in the Tower. He'd also been the reason for your broken arm and the other bruises that had started healing in the past week or so. His anger had never been so high before, and you'd known he meant to kill you. He would have, too, if you hadn't made your escape when you did.
There had been no question where you would go, either.
Steve and Bucky, since the beginning of your friendship, had been your one safety net. They'd never made demands of you like the others had nor had they ever dismissed you as a simpleton just because you happened to be born female. No, they valued your opinions and even encouraged them, especially during their livelier debates. They invited you places they knew you'd enjoy, too.
It'd been so easy to seek them out when you had to get away.
Broken and bleeding, you'd made your way to the Tower and nearly collapsed right in the lobby as the new receptionist first denied you access to the upper floors. It'd only been when Lucy, the regular receptionist, returned from her break that you were quickly whisked up to the medical ward.
Steve and Bucky had been informed as had the other Avengers about your state. It'd been one of the first times you'd ever seen Bucky and Steve truly and terrifyingly angry. Yet, you'd known it wasn't aimed at you but the scum you'd called a boyfriend for far longer than you should've. When they would've done something about it, you'd begged them not to. Kept repeating your ex wasn't worth them getting into trouble for messing with a civilian.
While they finally promised not to do anything, you didn't know that one Natasha Romanoff had paid her own visit to your ex. She never made you any such promise, and she refused to let any man put his hands on a woman as sweet as you if she could help it. Plus, her loyalty to Steve and Bucky dictated some justice be meted out for this piece of absolute trash. With the record your ex had and some serious outstanding warrants, she moved quickly. This included having a little fun with him before dressing him up and presenting him to the local precinct for further justice.
The last you ever heard or saw of your ex was the news one evening. They detailed briefly how he'd been wanted in a few different states, but they'd only have their shot after New York was through with him. Your name was never mentioned, but your ex was looking at spending the rest of his life in prison.
Free of him at last, you shook the painful memories from your mind and focused on healing every scar he created.
Steve and Bucky had bent over themselves to do whatever they could for you over the past couple of weeks. They had truly been the sweetest, most attentive guys you could've ever dreamed of. If anyone could be real knights in shining armor, it was them. You didn't know what you did to deserve them, but you knew you wouldn't ever trade them for anything.
That included moments like the one you currently found yourself in.
They walked beside you into the kitchen.
Well, they did until Bucky carefully scooped you up, earning a squeak of surprise from you, and deposited you on the island.
Not one to be left out, Steve nudged Bucky aside, so he could adjust your position into as comfortable one as possible. He offered you a small grin before asking, "What are we making for dinner, sweetheart?"
You named your favorite dish.
They shared a look, almost as if they should've known it'd be the one you wanted, then set about getting all the pots and pans they'd need. Cabinets opened and closed with an efficiency that would've stunned you if you hadn't seen them in action before. The two were so coordinated in their movements that it was almost like you were watching an intricate dance. Neither ever got in the way of the other, even as multiple moving parts became involved.
Truly a beautiful sight to experience, you couldn't help thinking.
Within minutes, they had everything they needed spread out across the island. It truly amazed you to see every ingredient needed, in plentiful supply, sitting next to all their supplies. No one in your family had ever bothered to learn what you liked, let alone kept it in such abundance in their kitchen. To see it laid out so easily and readily in the Avengers' kitchen, you had to bite back unbidden tears.
You even raised your head to the overhead lights in the hopes of stemming them, silently begging them not to fall. As much as you knew they wouldn't care if you showed signs of weakness, old habits died hard. You knew from experience. Plus, you really didn't want to ruin what was a wonderful thought on their part.
Two gentle squeezes, one on each knee, brought your gaze back down to meet theirs.
"We're ready when you are, sweetheart," Bucky said softly. Leave it to him not to call attention to your current wobbly state. You honestly couldn't be more grateful for him in that moment.
Steve nodded. "Tell us what to do. We're your hands tonight."
When Steve's gaze met yours full-on, you could almost imagine he wanted to add, and every night if you'll let us.
But, that was wishful thinking on your part. Selfish, too, to want their undivided attention. You weren't in any shape to dive into another relationship so soon after your ex. Even if you were ready, how could you ever choose between them? Or more selfishly, ask them to not make you choose between them.
Such hopes and dreams weren't meant for you though.
So, you pushed them aside and focused on the task at hand.
Clearing your throat, you put both men to work.
Like before, they fell into a natural rhythm that worked to almost hypnotize and lull you into a peace you'd never truly experienced in your lifetime.
"Bucky, watch that pot," you called out when he got too close.
You hadn't needed to worry as Steve had snatched the pot and pushed it out of harm's way. It didn't stop Bucky from sending you a grateful smile before he returned his attention to the veggies he was chopping. Nothing could've stopped you from returning his smile, your feet kicking from where they dangled below you.
"Ah, there's that pretty smile we love so much," Steve said, his own matching yours and Bucky's as he spared you a glance. "How's the arm doing, sweetheart? Need a break from up there?"
"Nah, I'm fine. It's easier to watch you two up here anyway."
You ducked your head, warmth suffusing your cheeks at his caring.
A chopped veggie entered your vision a moment later while Bucky softly commanded, "Open, sweetheart. Gotta keep your energy up if we're going to get through this prep."
That started them both sneaking you bits of food as they worked, creating each part of the meal you'd wanted to perfection. It never once dawned on you that they'd been paying attention to what you liked and how much they'd practiced your favorite foods for a moment just like this. No, this felt more like two friends doing what they could for another in a small time of need, and you appreciated that. You really did.
Over the next thirty or so minutes, you sat on the island's top and directed them now and again. Between your short instructions, they continued to feed you bits of the meal. They didn't stop until you warned you'd be too full to eat with them if you ate any more. That wouldn't do as they wanted you at the table between them.
"You'd be missed too much," they assured you even though you highly doubted that.
They must've read your disbelief because Steve stepped away from the stove and moved into your space. His hands cupped your cheeks while his thumbs grazed against your cheekbones. "You have more friends than you think here, sweetheart."
"He's not wrong." Bucky moved behind Steve's shoulder, his hand dropping to your knee and squeezing. "You're loved here and always wanted."
Emotions thickened into a tight lump in your throat. It took some effort to swallow it back down even as you blinked back more tears. A full minute went by before you could choke out a simple thanks.
Sensing you needed a break, the guys went back to work and quickly finished up their prep.
Soon enough, they had everything finished to your satisfaction and set on the table for the others to join you three.
Only when they were satisfied did Steve come back and carry you to the table despite your protests you could walk. "It's only fair after Bucky got his turn, sweetheart."
"Fine, but no more after this," you warned.
Both men merely grinned at you, saying simultaneously, "We'll see about that."
Everyone slowly made their way to the table. As they did, they all raised their brows at the sheer amount of food and the pleasing smells filling the room. Soon enough, they all gushed over the food and complimented you for your efforts.
"Oh, this was all Steve and Bucky. I didn't do that much," you said, not about to take credit for something you didn't do.
"Well, this is the best they've ever done. Whatever you did, keep it up," Tony said between bites. He even shot you a wide grin and a wink before moving back to his conversation with Pepper and Dr. Banner.
As you took a bite, Nat leaned forward where she sat across from you. Her lips formed their signature smirk as she eyed the two men sitting on either side of you before saying, "I'd have to second Tony. You're definitely magic in the kitchen where they're concerned. Or maybe, just maybe, you've given them good reason to give their best tonight."
Steve choked on the bite he'd taken while Bucky hastily grabbed up his cup.
"Leave it alone, Romanoff," Bucky growled, which puzzled you though your attention had already shifted fully to Steve.
You thumped Steve's back a few times before he finally nodded. "I'm okay, sweetheart."
"Anyway," Nat said, clearly unfazed, "I'd say you're a definite keeper. If you can get these two to do so well, I can't wait to see what you can do when that arm heals. Maybe I'll even seek you out for some pointers myself."
Hearing such high praise from the Black Widow herself, you ducked your head, warmth once more suffusing your cheeks.
You didn't catch the deadly glares being shot at her from both super soldiers. In their humble opinions, the only ones allowed to fluster you were them, not Nat who's clearly stirring up trouble. You definitely didn't see Nat merely sink back in her chair, pleased with the way she'd gained the upper hand against them. Now, she knew she could tease and flirt with you to get a rise out of them both. All in good fun, though, as she knew how much you meant to them and them to you.
In fact, it was obvious to everyone at the table except it seemed the three of you. They also recognized you needed a bit of time to mourn and work through the trauma you'd endured at the hands of your abusive ex. They didn't mind giving you a helping hand there, either.
After all, it seemed the three of you were meant to cook together.
Bucky find his shy wife’s (reader) sex toys she uses when he’s on missions❤️🔥
Bucky steps into your shared house with a sign of relief. Another mission done—long, exhausting, the kind that leaves ghosts clinging to his skin even after the hottest shower. He drops his duffel by the coat rack and rolls his neck, listening.
The kitchen clock ticks, steady and quiet. Somewhere, deep in the house, he can hear the hum of the laundry.
But there’s no you.
No soft footsteps. No sleepy greeting.
You’re probably already in bed, curled up beneath the blankets with the lamp dimmed low, a book slipping from your fingers as you fight off sleep. His wife. The one who still blushes when he catches you staring too long at his metal arm, even after two years of marriage.
The thought pulls a tired smile from him as he moves down the hallway in socked feet, instinctively quiet. He doesn’t want to wake you if you’ve already drifted off.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. Warm lamplight spills into the hall.
He pushes it open and pauses.
You’re not there.
The bed is made neatly, the covers pulled tight the way you like them. But the nightstand drawer, the one you always leave just slightly open, is wider than usual. Not much. Just enough.
Something inside catches his eye.
Bucky steps closer like he’s approaching something dangerous.
The drawer holds a soft pink silicone toy, half-hidden beneath a silk scarf. A smaller bullet vibrator sits beside it, sleek and black. A bottle of lube. And something bigger—realistic, unmistakable—that makes his mouth go dry.
He stills.
The soldier in him catalogs everything in an instant. The husband in him… feels something else entirely. Something hot. Possessive. Coiling low in his gut.
These aren’t new. The pink one shows signs of use—subtle wear along the edges.
His mind fills in the blanks without mercy.
You, alone in this bed while he’s gone for weeks. Cheeks flushed, thighs spread, biting your lip to keep quiet as you move one of these inside yourself. Thinking of him. Missing him. Needing him.
Heat floods his veins.
He reaches out before he can stop himself, picking up the pink toy carefully. His thumb brushes over the soft material, and there—faint, but unmistakable—is your scent. Clean. Warm. Intimately yours.
His breath hitches. His cock stirs in his sweatpants.
The front door lock turns.
Bucky exhales sharply and sets the toy back exactly as he found it. The drawer slides nearly shut—left just the way you had it. Like he was never there.
By the time your keys jingle and the door opens, he’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom.
You step inside with a grocery bag hooked over your arm, cheeks pink from the cold. The moment you see him, your face lights up.
“Bucky. You’re home early—I didn’t think—”
He crosses the room in three long strides and kisses you.
He kisses you deeply. Possessive in a way that steals the breath from your lungs. You make a startled sound against his mouth, the grocery bag slipping from your fingers and thudding softly to the floor as your hands scramble for him—his chest, his shoulders, his neck.
When he pulls back, your lips are swollen, your eyes wide.
“Missed you,” you whisper.
“Missed you more,” he murmurs, voice rough. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing the strip of exposed skin beneath your sweater. “Went looking for my wife.”
Your breath catches.
“Found something interesting in the nightstand.”
Your entire face goes red.
You try to step back, embarrassed—but his hands hold you in place.
“Bucky, I—”
“Hey.” His voice softens. He brushes your hair back, fingers warm against your cheek. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, doll. You think I don’t know how hard it gets when I’m gone? How quiet this place feels when it's just you?”
You look down, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “It’s not the same,” you admit softly. “Nothing is. I just… needed something. When the missions run long.”
Something in his chest tightens at that.
He hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze back to his. His eyes are darker now. Warmer. Intent.
“Show me.”
Your breath stutters. “What?”
“Show me how you use them,” he says, low and steady. “When I’m not here. I want to see.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Then I want to replace every single one with me.”
You hesitate.
He doesn’t rush you. Just leans in, pressing slow kisses along your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
“Only if you want to,” he adds quietly. “But sweetheart… the thought of you touching yourself, thinking about me? Haven’t been able to shake it since I saw them.”
You nod. Small. Shy.
And he takes your hand, guiding you back to the bedroom.
He sits on the edge of the bed while you stand between his knees, hands trembling slightly as you pull your sweater over your head, then your jeans. You reach for the drawer—but his fingers wrap around your wrist.
“Slow,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “Like you do when you’re alone.”
You swallow, then open the drawer.
The pink toy comes first.
Your cheeks burn as you climb onto the bed beside him, settling back against the pillows. You don’t hide—not from him. You never really can. Your breath quickens as you slick the toy with lube, a soft gasp slipping out when you press it against yourself.
“Easy,” Bucky murmurs, one hand resting warm and steady on your thigh. “That’s it.”
You ease it inside, inch by inch, eyes fluttering shut as a quiet moan escapes you. He watches like he’s memorizing every second. Every sound. Every shift of your hips.
“Tell me what you think about,” he says, voice rougher now.
“You,” you breathe. “Your hands. The way you hold me down. How full I feel when you’re inside me.” Your hips begin to move, slow at first. “I pretend it’s you. Always you.”
The sound he makes is low and wrecked.
He leans in, pressing his mouth to your neck as your rhythm builds, your body softening and opening under your own touch. Your fingers clutch at him, anchoring yourself to something real.
When your hips start chasing that edge, when your breath turns uneven and desperate, he moves.
The toy is gone.
His fingers replace it first. Then his mouth.
You gasp his name as he works you through it, patient and relentless, until the tension snaps and you fall apart beneath him, thighs trembling, hands tangled in his hair.
He doesn’t give you long to come back down.
Clothes disappear in a blur. He settles between your legs, heavy, aching, real.
“Watch,” he tells you, guiding himself to your entrance.
And then he’s inside you.
Slow. Deep.
You both moan at the same time.
The stretch, the heat, the way your body molds around him—it’s everything those toys could never be. He moves with intention, each thrust deliberate, grounding, real. You cling to him, breathless, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of him.
Later, you’re tangled together beneath the sheets, your head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.
“You’re not… mad?” you ask quietly.
He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling beneath your ear.
“Mad?” he repeats. “Doll, I’m honored.”
You huff a quiet laugh against his skin.
“But next time,” he adds, tilting his head to press a kiss into your hair, “you need me—even when I’m gone—you call. Or send a picture.” His hand tightens slightly on your hip. “I’ll find a way to be there.”
You hide your smile against him, still shy, even now.
He just holds you closer, the last of the mission’s weight finally slipping from his shoulders.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.
Additional Notes: Another 4th of July and I had to return to this AU with something I've had in mind for over a year. I hope you enjoy!
Series Masterlist
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You are standing on the roof of the White House, above the Truman balcony, wanting to kick your shoes off, but needing to play the host for just a little longer. This is your second Fourth of July in the White House and you thought you knew what to expect, but you are happy to be wrong, because the fireworks are impossibly brighter and more wonderful this year, the celebrations more grand, and you’re shoulder to shoulder with your husband, hands entwined as the dazzling show plays out before you over the South Lawn.
It’s breathtaking.
And so is he. Still. Always.
The grand finale erupts overhead, a cascading symphony of red, white, and blue that paints the night sky in impossible, starburst glory. You can feel the percussion in your chest, reverberating through the soles of your shoes, and you tip your head back to watch the last brilliant volley streak upward and burst into a thousand glittering silver and gold tendrils that drift lazily toward the earth.
Then jubilant cheers and applause and the faint, sweet smell of smoke and the distant roar of the crowd on the lawn below, cheering, waving, singing.
You turn to Steve, a smile already blooming on your lips, ready to say something about how beautiful it was, but he's already looking at you, and his eyes are doing that thing—that thing they've done since the very first kiss you shared, the real one, in Kansas City, that thing where the whole world seems to narrow to the blue of his gaze and the impossible softness of his mouth.
He pulls you close.
One hand slides to the small of your back, warm and certain through the fabric of your dress, and the other rises to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as if he can't quite believe you're real, as if he needs to check. And you have to admit there are moments you still can’t quite believe yourself that this is your life, these moments, and him. The night air is still thick with the scent of gunpowder and summer heat, and the last of the silver sparks are drifting down behind him like slow, glittering rain, and you have just enough time to think oh before his mouth finds yours.
It's quick. It has to be quick—you're standing on the roof of the White House, surrounded by friends and aides and a few dignitaries, Secret Service agents with their earpieces. But it's enough. It's always enough. His lips are warm and a little dry from the evening air, and he kisses you the way he kisses you when he's happy, which is to say with his whole heart, like there's nothing else in the world worth his attention, like the presidency and the country and the fireworks are all very nice, but they are not this.
You kiss him back. Of course, you kiss him back, placing your hand over his heart.
When he pulls away, it's only an inch, his forehead resting against yours, and you can feel him smiling. You can feel the shape of it against your mouth before you see it, and your own smile is bursting for him, too.
"Happy Fourth, Mrs. Rogers," he murmurs, and his voice is low and rough in that way that it has no business being right at this moment.
"Happy birthday, Mr. President," you whisper back, and he laughs, a quiet, rumble before the two of you break apart and turn to face the small crowd with you on the roof.
And there they are—the faces you've come to know so well, the ones that make this house feel less like a museum and more like a home, or at least as close to one as you can get here. Ambassador Chen from Taiwan, laughing with the German trade minister. Sophia, sharp as ever in her midnight blue, already catching your eye with that knowing, slightly smug look she gets whenever she catches the two of you being soft with each other. Senator Nakamura, who flew in from Honolulu just for this. Colonel Rhodes, grinning like he's about to make a joke he absolutely should not make in mixed company.
You move through them like water, because you've gotten good at this—good at the handshake that lingers just long enough, the murmured thank you for coming that sounds like you mean it, because you do. You mean all of them. Steve is circulating as well, but you’re both being led by your aides toward the exit, aiming to get you into the Residence as quickly as possible because you both have packed days tomorrow (as ever).
Back inside, you kick off your heels in the elevator and breathe, sinking into Steve’s side as your small phalanx of staffers peels away, each murmuring quick good-nights and peeling off down the Residential Corridor, exhausted and slightly tipsy.
He bumps your shoulder with his, sly and crooked in a way that tells you he’s been waiting all night to be alone with you. He reaches for your heels, and you let him take them for the short walk down the hall and into your borrowed home.
The next minutes are a tangle of hands and laughter, breathless and urgent, your dress falling to the carpet with a sound like wings beating, his tie left hanging somewhere between the elevator and the bedroom. You are giddy and graceless, all eager to be together, just the two of you.
He kisses you until your knees go watery, but never letting you falter, guiding you backwards until the back of your thighs catch on the edge of the mattress. You tumble together, the bedspread starched and crisp beneath your palms and knees, and then the world narrows down to calloused hands and the hush of his laughter and the feeling, always, that you are safe. The dim lamplight gilds the curve of his shoulders, the roughness that’s come into his voice as he pulls your name from the space between your mouths. He tastes like bourbon and wild honey from the refreshments at the party, just enough to loosen the lines of his day.
You drag him closer by the lapels, hungry for the taste of him. You pull him down and roll, greedy, pinning him beneath you. His tie is gone; you’re not sure when, but you feel the press of his hands at your waist, guiding you in a slow, grinding circle that makes you gasp. You forget to breathe as you tangle your hands in his hair and let him kiss you dizzy. He’s already undone the buttons of his shirt one-handed, and you help him push it off his shoulders, so you have the skin of his arms beneath your palms. He’s golden and warm, his heart beating under your fingers like a secret. There’s a lightning-bolt thrill each time he murmurs your name. You want to bottle this, this slice of private time in a life where you so rarely get to keep anything for yourselves, and you want to uncork it every time the day-to-day feels a little too heavy.
He traces the line of your jaw, thumbing your chin up and examining you. "You've been different all day," he says, quietly, not accusing, just curious. "Not off, just…something on your mind?"
He’s not wrong. You laugh, because you can’t help it, because how could he possibly have noticed, because you’ve tried to be so careful. But of course he did. “Yes, there’s something.”
He sits up, pulls you into his lap, and you tangle your knees around his waist, greedy for the press of his body. You take a breath, not to arm yourself, but to gather him in. This is a moment you’ve waited for all day, and it’s a moment you know the two of you will remember for the rest of your lives.
“It’s Independence Day and your birthday, and so, so much of today was about everyone else, but I wanted to save one thing for just us.” You run your hands up his chest, and you can feel the way his muscles tense, just a little, the way he always does when he senses something is about to change. His hands go still at your waist. He looks at you the way he looked at you on your wedding day—that same unguarded, ungoverned look, the one that has no presidential composure in it whatsoever.
You swallow, suddenly giddy with nerves, but you try to keep your voice steady as you tell him, “We’re going to have a baby.”
For a moment he’s silent, holding you so tightly you are certain he’s the only thing keeping you from flying off this bed and straight through the window into the dark and dazzling sky now that your stomach is completely aflutter with butterflies - your whole chest really. Steve opens his mouth, then closes it, startled as you’ve ever seen him, caught utterly off guard, and the surge of joy in his eyes is so bright you almost have to look away.
He laughs, choked and astonished, and cups your face with both hands, searching you for the truth even as he repeats your words back to you, as if you’ve cast an unbreakable spell. “We’re—are you—are you sure?” he whispers, and you nod, and in less than a heartbeat he is kissing you everywhere—your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose, your lips, your collarbone, drawing your fingers to his lips.
“I wasn’t sure at first. The first test I took was negative. But then I took four more—yesterday being the most recent—and all the rest have been positive. I’ll need to have an official one from our medical team, but this is how normal people try to figure it out, and I wanted to at least start that way.”
“Say it again,” he whispers, and there’s something raw and vulnerable in it that makes your own eyes sting.
You say it again, just for him, and its warmer and easier the second time. “We’re going to have a baby.”
He tugs you close, a long, slow drag of his palms up your spine, and his mouth finds you again, velvet and open and as gentle as if you’re already breakable. You can feel the words he isn’t saying in every touch, every line of his body, every hush of breath against your lips. The rest of the world can wait awhile longer. The future, the headlines, the meetings and luncheons and the never-ending security briefings—they’re so far away. Tonight, it’s just the two of you.
You’re still in his lap and you want to stay there, anchored by his arms, held in place by the gravity of him. Just Steve, the curve of his neck under your hands, the soft light making gold of his hair and blue fire of his eyes and the clean, clean taste of his mouth.
He slides his palms up your thighs, slow and reverent. You feel the calluses catch on the delicate skin behind your knees, then up the slopes of your thighs. Your whole body is tuned to the gentle sweep of his hands, the warmth of his breath against the hollow of your throat.
Steve shifts you in his lap, sliding his cock into your warm and waiting cunt, and your legs find their place around him, heel pressed to the hard muscle of his lower back, hips flush.
You rock together, slow and steady, as if this new knowledge has rewired the both of you, as if every part of Steve that has ever belonged to you is suddenly magnified, gifted back to you in triplicate. He moves inside you as if your bodies are completing unfinished sentences.
You clutch his shoulders and ride him, slow and deep and close, the sounds of your bodies punctuating the quiet as you move together, breath and heartbeat and the little desperate noises you can never hold back from him. His hands travel the length of your back, every unhurried pass softening the landscape of you. The window is open just a crack and summer air pulses in, humid and electric, thick with city sounds and the far-off echo of festivities still unfolding for a thousand strangers. But here, in this room, everything is slow, thick, sweet, nothing but devotion.
He groans, burying his face in your shoulder, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin, the press of his teeth where he bites back a more urgent moan. You want to laugh, to cry, to collapse and never move again. He moves his hands to your hips, slowing you even more, keeping you close while his mouth traces up along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth, your ear.
“I love you,” he says, a promise and a benediction. “I love you so much.”
You clutch him even closer, saying as much back, pouring it into his big heart, and time doubles back on itself, collecting all the nights that led you here: sprawled on a mattress in a St. Louis walk-up, or in Colorado Springs when you were snowed in during the state’s Clean Energy initiative tour, and even sometimes in the backseat of an electric SUV of a Secret Service motor pool. You could have lived a thousand lives and never guessed at this particular happiness, this improbable ending: you and Steve, knotted together in the gleam of a presidential bedroom, a future unspooling inside you, somehow as terrifying and bright as fireworks.
You spend the rest of the night lying together on the sheets, his arm curled around your waist, your hands splayed together with each other over your stomach; his full chest pressed tight to your back, the long, slow breathing of him on a slow, rising tide of emotion you aren’t sure you understand, or ever want to. There’s a secret, quiet sense of being at the exact center of the world that’s only the two of you and the baby on the way. At least for a while.
You drift in and out of sleep, and each time you wake, Steve’s hand is where it left off, thumb brushing circles low on your belly, as if by touch alone he could will the newness of what you told him into the marrow of himself.
As dawn slips in, painting the suite with the faintest gold, you shift slightly, and Steve murmurs, “You awake?” against your neck.
“Mm. Barely.”
He nuzzles in deeper, his beard tickling your neck, and you squirm and turn around to face him. “Did you even sleep?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Not really,” he admits, voice gone hoarse and quiet. “Kept worrying I’d wake up and it wouldn’t be real. You’re here, though.”
“Mhmm, you’re stuck with me.”
You kiss his brow and let your hand run through the gold of his hair, musing at what a child of his might look like. You picture the bright blue of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, and, despite yourself, the impossible hope that the world you’re building together will be even marginally kind to someone so new and small.
Steve pulls you into his chest, folding your whole body into his, and you melt.
"When I woke up in this century," he begins, his voice low and intimate, "I thought I'd lost my chance at this kind of happiness. I resigned myself to being a man out of time, always looking back at what might have been." His thumb traces gentle over your stomach, soft whispers of his hope.
“I felt untethered, but you are the anchor my soul needed.”
Your throat aches, and you’re not sure what to say because your heart is so full. As much as he’s clear about his devotion to you, it’s reciprocated note for note from your heart. Everything you two have built—the relationship, the purpose, the passion, the drive, the community of people around you—moved your post-blip return from average to a life of vibrancy you also thought you’d never find again.
“I only ever told Bucky I was considering it, but since we figured out time travel to bring everyone back, there was a time I weighed going back to the forties or fifties, but now I thank everything in my bones that I didn’t. I would have missed so much. Even the hard parts, even the hurt, I’d choose all of it to find us.”
It’s a strange, buoyant sadness that washes through you, an ache for the lives you both were supposed to have and the astonishing joy of the one you’re building now, brick by brick, night by night, and dream by dream.
You thread your hand through his, squeezing, letting the gravity of his words swirl through your psyche. “Good, because there’s no one else I would ever want to do this with—not just this,” you gesture to the presidential trappings you live in, “but this,” and you let your hands rest together, gentle on your belly, both of you quietly marveling at the shift in your world.
“I’ll never be able to say it enough, but I love you, Steve. Always.”
Instead of more words, he says it back with another searing kiss.
Once dawn has broken and the two of you are side by side in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, moving through your morning routines, Steve frowns, and you catch the knit of his brow in the mirror.
“What’s that consternation for all of a sudden?”
“How did you get not just one, but multiple pregnancy tests smuggled in without a soul finding out?”
You grin. “Sophia.”
Steve scoffs and shakes his head, his scowl turning sarcastic. “She’s supposed to be my personal secretary.”
“And she staffed me on the campaign first,” you remind him. “I’m convinced she only accepted your offer so she could keep you in line and spy on you for me.”
“She doesn’t even pretend to have plausible deniability,” he mutters, rinsing his mouth. “Busted me on a whole security briefing last week when she caught me stashing Reese’s in my desk. I’m the President—” he says this with faux outrage, like he still doesn’t quite believe it, “yet she controls the candy flow and now, apparently, the pharmacy.”
You spit your own minty mouthful. “A First Lady’s job is never done, and I can’t help it if I’ve got the best co-conspirator.” The two of you share a look in the mirror—a look that says God, what have we gotten into—and then there is a knock at the bedroom door, sharp and brisk.
Steve’s head drops with a groan. “Five minutes,” you call, and trade glance with your husband, resignation and amusement in equal measure.
It’s Jake calling into the master suite, “Sir, the British Prime Minister’s advance team just arrived and we have a briefing with the Joint Chiefs at 09:15 but we will need to move your security detail to accommodate the updated press pool, and—”
“Roger that,” Steve calls back.
You holler “Thanks, Jake,” into the hallway, and before you can even turn back to Steve and finish rinsing your mouth, he’s close behind you, arms caging you between the counter and his chest, both of you reflected twice in the gilded mirror.
His chin hooks your shoulder, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear, and you nearly drop your the hairbrush you’ve reached for into the sink. “Come here,” he says, as if you aren’t bodily pressed against him, as if he could ever actually want you closer.
You smile at him in the mirror because you can’t not, and the whole reflection is so absurdly domestic—yesterday’s confetti still in your hair, his shirt unbuttoned just below the collar, the two of you framed by White House marble and gilt. “We are going to be late for your entire country,” you warn, but you let him wrap you up anyway.
“Let them wait,” he says, but he steps aside after a final, scandalous little nuzzle, letting you go. He’s a man who never shirks responsibility, and you know that to be true in every part of his life. You can’t wait to explore a new chapter with him.
I LOVE THEM, I LOVE THEM, I LOVE THEM! So soft and so fluffy here, but I still love this AU so much. 🥹 ❤️🤍💙
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Hellooo I’m the one that sent the thandruil ask hehe. Sorry I didn’t include any details!! Umm I’m not sure if you want match up details or just prompt details so I’ll do a little of both?
I’m a relatively tall girl so maybe an elf or human reader whichever you like. And maybe you could do general headcanons of what you think he’d be like as a husband. You can throw in a few angst ones too but mostly fluff plssss..!!
Is that ok? I don’t know what I’m doing.. thank you so much again 🥺🥺
Thranduil as a Husband
Thranduil x Reader
Fluff ♡´･ᴗ･`♡
Warnings: None!
A/N: Thank you for requesting Anon! I’m sorry this took so long, I hope you see this. This is only my second time doing HCs so I hope it’s good!
Thranduil as a husband is *chefs kiss*
Absolute best husband ever, you can’t change my mind
His favorite time of the day are mornings!
Because he gets to wake up with you held tightly in his arms, sound asleep and content
He’ll have this soft, lopsided smile as he watches you sleep totally not in a creepy way
and press kisses to your forehead, cheeks, nose then your lips to wake you up
Thranduil adores the sleepy smile you grace him with when you do wake up
Depending on what duties the two of you have that day, your mornings will go two ways
Either super soft, taking your time getting dressed, basking in each other’s warmth
Or spend the morning talking about what needs to be done for the day, sharing a kiss before splitting ways
He loves to spoil you so much with jewelry and clothes
And especially loves when you wear them! His heart really go 💗💗
His absolute favorite thing you wear would be diamond chokers, why? I don’t know- he just does
It’s totally not because he loves to pull you in by it to give a passionate kiss Nah help I’m simping
speAKING OF KISSES
He’s the BEST at them like come on! It ain’t fair with how good he is
Each one is always so passionate and full of love no matter how soft or hard it is
They never fail to make your heart pound and cheeks heat up
Gets a shiz-eating grin on his face every. single. Time.
Like this Elf knows what he’s doing to you and loves every second of it
Everyday without fail he sends a bouquet of flowers to your office! And they’re always perfect and smell amazing
But If you don’t like flowers then he would probably make a bouquet or food platter out of something you do like
Omg he’d definitely do something like this HAH
Babe is hella protective over you. Not in a overbearing, prevent you from ever doing stuff way
More of he knows the dangers of the world and lost his wife to it, so he wants to make sure you’re always safe
Because of this he also lowkey (highkey) gets jealous a lot
The kind of person to either glare down the elf flirting with you or go up and be very much obvious with his affections
Sometimes both! Not only is he protecting his lovely spouse but also gets you show you off
unless you hate PDA then he’ll back off
Since being King is a very stressful job and there’s not a lot of alone time, he prefers more relaxing dates
I mean sure he does love the extravagant fancy dates a lot but sometimes drinking a bottle of wine in a bubble bath while holding you is more ideal
It lets the two of you to de-stress after a long day and be as affectionate as you wish without worry of indecency
You’ll share stories and inside jokes about that one particular elf, talk about your day and just.. enjoy each other’s presence
Man that sounds awesome :/
Anyways Thranduil is best husband with or without angst which I totally did not include cause i will cry
10/10 recommend getting a Thranduil
Thank you @sunflower1000 and @little-miss-raven for proofreading and letting me know it’s good to post! ❤️❤️
Summary: It’s time you were formally introduced to your new bodyguard, Andy and you believe a good bodyguard knows how to take care of every inch of your body. Steve will show him everything he needs to know.
Pairing: Mafia Steve x Bratty Reader, Bodyguard Bucky x Reader x Bodyguard Andy
A/N: First sinday drabble. Don’t copy, translate, rewrite or repost my fics. Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!
*****
“What did you say to me?” Steve’s sapphire eyes narrow, his head tilting to the side as he contemplates your words.
He’s perplexed.
Not because of what you said, but how you said it. The disrespect rolling off your tongue had him speechless for a minute. He’s Steve fucking Rogers, men cower just hearing his name. He walks into a room and people either flee or try to appease him. Steve commands respect by simply breathing. But you. You fucking brat can’t even listen when he tells you to wait two goddamn hours for his meetings to finish up.
The mafia boss sighs through gritted teeth, watching you stroll across his office, the rose gold minidress clinging to your hips, his ire rising with every step you take because he vividly remembers telling you never to even think about leaving the mansion in that outfit.
“What did you say?” He asks again, his voice strained by his rapidly fraying control. Steve never repeats himself, and the fact that you made him do it in front of his men has his blood boiling.
He expects you to defer to him, giving you one last chance to explain yourself. But he shouldn’t have kept you waiting, you’re too fired up to listen to him. Steve watches you saunter around his desk, your fingertips sweeping across his strewn paperwork. Running his tongue across his teeth, the slow tap of his pen on the smooth cherry wood matches your footsteps.
And for a second, he thinks you’re finally going to behave.
You can see it in his blue eyes, he murmurs your name, his large hand patting his thigh. And you smile sweetly at him, you wait until his lips reflexively curve in response. “I’ll be done soon, come here and I’ll let you-,”
To his disbelief, you ignore him, instead; you turn your attention to his newest hire,-soon to be your newest bodyguard-Andrew Barber. You push away from his desk and stroll to the table where he’s sitting with Bucky, openly assessing him as you approach the massive, well-built man. Damn, he can barely fit in his chair, the seams of his shirt straining around his large biceps. He cautiously observes you through his long eyelashes, a wry smile tugging at his plump lips.
Summary: When Steve catches you checking out a list of positions, he decides you need to try them all.
A/N: The list comes from “10 Sex Positions That Will Get Her Off Every Time” by Taylor Kubota. Position Illustrations by Todd Detwiler. Dividers by @whimsicalrogers .
Warnings: Smut NSFW 18+.
100 word drabbles for each item on “the list” will be linked as they are posted.
Scrolling through your phone, you see an interesting link. A Men’s Journal article titled “10 Sex Positions That Will Get Her Off Every Time” pops up and you look through the list. Some of the positions were familiar and a few were new to you. Suddenly, your phone is snatched from your hand and Steve sits on the arm of the couch as he scrolls through the article.
“What’s the matter, princess? Am I not satisfying you?” Steve asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, Stevie, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you,” you feign contritely.
Steve’s face falls comically as you speak and you can’t contain your giggle.
“Why, you-” Steve lunges for you and lays you out under him.
You squeal and wrap your arms around his neck, “You’ve never failed to satisfy me.”
“Good to know,” Steve says flippantly.
“But it never hurts to try new things,” you smile and bite your lip.
“You’re right, sweetheart. Let’s get started,” Steve throws you over his shoulder and strides to the bed.
Edge of the Bed
C.A.T.
The Amazon
The Sunday Afternoon
Pirate’s Bounty
Mastery (Kneeling)
Doggy Style
Scissors
Reverse Cowgirl
Her Favorite
Tuiccim’s Masterlist
Updates and taglist: I do not keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made weekly. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!
you and Steve are stuck in a heatwave in Brooklyn, how are you keeping cool? (or are you cranking up the a/c and heating things up 😏)
💕 - @witchywithwhiskey
@witchywithwhiskey Oh gosh can I relate to this as my location is currently sweltering and it’s ungodly 🥲
I imagine you’d be dressed in nothing more than your thinnest sundress, and even that feels like too much. The a/c is cranked as high as it can go and on the lowest temperature as you sprawl on the sofa and fantasize about living in Alaska or the like.
At first you think the tickle against your ankle is the breeze from the a/c, but when it grows more insistent, you glance over to the other side of the sofa, to where Steve sits with your legs thrown over his lap, watching you with a look that can only be described as eye fucking.
“Noooo,” you whine as his fingers walk up the length of your bare calf and caress along the back of your knee. “Steve, it’s too hot for sex.”
“Promise I’ll make it worth it,” he husks, his fingers trailing higher, until they’re teasing along the front of your panties and making you squirm.
Huffing as you feel a gush instantly ruin the thin cotton, you glare at him as you allow your legs to fall open in invitation, an invitation that comes with your most unamused stink eye.
“Good girl,” Steve grins before pushing your legs open even wider and settling himself between your thighs for a gooood long while.
Summary: The Feast of Stars continues, and more importantly, you find yourself spinning beneath a ceiling of vines. Between twirls of the Prince and the Elvenking...you find your heartstrings and your magic pulled.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 8
Author's Note: Hi spider-slayers! I consider this chapter to be almost a part two to last chapter. I am so excited to see what you think of it! Thank you guys for all of the comments! It's been such a joy reading them and getting to follow along with you guys. It makes my week! Love y'all! Enjoy!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – A Moonlit Dance
Before any dancing, food starts coming up from the king’s kitchens. In waves, you see cups of mushroom broth soups, cheeses from Dale, honey cakes, poached pears in spiced wine, small venison portions, and various root vegetables prepared a dozen ways.
Your plate is filled with small amounts of the variety of foods you have not yet tried, but as you eat, your eyes keep drifting back over to the king’s fork and knife, methodically cutting through his meal. You watch his jaw tense and release as he chews, his neck as he swallows, and his mouth as he ensures his fork is clean after every bite. It’s incredibly obvious how entranced you are, but if the Elvenking notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Legolas regales his father with some of the tales of his adventures, and the king doesn’t react to that either, save for a placative smile or a murmur about the dangers of being far from home.
The abundance of food delights the elves along the tables, far across the hall. It is hard to see Navë from here, nor your guards, though you think you catch a glimpse of Candaer. The guards inside of the hall do not wear their helmets but they do stand ready with weapons at their sides. Security heavy, even on such an innocently good and joyful night.
Once the elves have their fill, they begin to search for ales, meads, or wines, though nothing like the wine in your cup. Music starts picking up, and a chorus hums, signalling the start of the dancing.
All of the elves begin to eagerly chatter, looking over to the king, who does not acknowledge them. “When will we dance? When will they begin?”
Once the whispers are loud enough, Legolas stands from his seat at his father’s side. The whispers quiet and the music pauses. The prince walks behind his father to you. His father is still, hand gripping the arm of his chair, the other resting nonchalantly on the base of his goblet, the stem threaded between his long fingers. As he approaches you, he asks softly, “Are you ready?” He bows, extending a hand to help you out of your seat.
“Maybe,” you give a smile, praying to Valar that Fergrath did not lead you astray. “I’m a good study.” You take his hand and rise from your seat. At your quip, Thranduil doesn’t conceal an amused eyebrow.
“Oh really?” Legolas beams, enchanted by your wit already. He guides you down from the head table onto the dance floor. Thranduil adjusts himself as the moonlight hitting your dress from the spaces between the leaves casts an effect that looks like your healing magic. Did you do that on purpose? That white glow has haunted him since the First Grove, but you wouldn’t know that.
“You should know this one,” Legolas whispers with a knowing smile as he leans in, trying to avoid the eager ears of the crowd. What was he talking about?
A trill of the harp sounds, then a slow-stepping, swelling measure of music filled the hall. He steps back. The moonlight dance! You take a step back, mirroring him. And then you feel eyes on the back of your head.
Thranduil hears the whispers of his advisors in response.
“Is Legolas looking for a match? Look at the way he…”
“Is this approval of the king, him taking the first dance?”
“Is –”
“Enough,” Thranduil snaps in a hushed tone, sharp enough to hear at the head table, but subtle enough for it to not cut through the musical sound buffering between the king’s seat and the rest of his subjects. His eyes flash at them in warning, then snap back to watching you, you dancing in his hall under the starlight.
You turn, and your dress spins outward, and he swears the skirt forms the shape of the flowers you grew on the dead vines. Legolas catches your waist and guides you as you both tilt up to the moon. The next step, you throw your head back, and Thranduil’s mind freezes on that moment before hurriedly trying to commit it to memory. Your mouth was slightly agape, breathing from the demanding movements of the dance, your eyes fluttered closed for just a moment. Then you turn to face his son who smiles so dearly at you.
How did you know these steps? This was not taught to Elrond, nor any other diplomat who has previously visited. How did you manage to foil his plan? Why would you bother learning a dance just for one evening, knowing you might never experience it again? For the first time, Thranduil considered a fate worse than your public humiliation with proximity to his son…your public excellence, great celebration of his realm’s culture. The witnesses to your dancing, to you are grinning, they’re…starting to join in.
Pair after pair, laughing and smiling at this foreigner who delighted and surprised them enters onto the floor, sharing it with you.
“How did you know I knew this dance?”
“It’s my secret,” Legolas lilts, stepping to your side.
“Oh, is it? Tell me,” you squint playfully at him, searching his eyes before you spin away.
“If I see you again,” the Prince barters. You nervously look over to the head table. The eyes that watch you are the king’s.
“With his permission, my Prince,” you say. Legolas’s teasing expression falters at this, shooting a look towards his father whose eyes he never finds.
Jasilith spins with her husband onto the dance floor. “I thought you’d fail miserably, sea-daughter,” Clearly, she had done some learning about your background between your conversation and now. “And yet, well done.”
From across the party, the Elvenking, with a knot in his chest and his eyes a prisoner to your form, had the horrific realization: Galion was right.
Scene 2 – Green Boughs
At the last dip of your dance with Legolas, you catch your breath, and you smell the pine of his hair as he stands close to you. Looking up to the ceiling, past Legolas as he holds you, the black vines twist and sprawl beyond the holes in the ceiling. Less moonlight than before was let into the room. They continue to writhe across the hall’s ceiling. You are lifted back upright by your dance partner.
“I’ll grant you some reprieve from me. I do have to reconnect with some old friends tonight, but this…” he bows to you, kissing the back of your hand. “...was something I hope to do again.”
He leaves you before you have the chance to deny him. You anxiously look back at the ceiling, noticing that the vines stopped. Dizzy from the dancing with Legolas, the heady rush of a Prince choosing to dance with you, and the new stress of the vines, you practically float back to the head table. As you approach, you try to glean if it was him who caused these corrupted vines to grow. At first glance, he is as stoic as ever, but his white-knuckled grip on his chalice is impossible to miss as you approach him to sit.
He does not turn to look at you, but he does give you a side eye at your heavy breathing.
“From the Grey Havens, yet quite familiar with our dances…where were you taught?” His voice is cool, bordering on irritated.
“Here,” you say slowly, worrying in the back of your mind that this line of questioning may lead to trouble. The music slows as you answer.
“I see. I assume someone taught you? Have you already taken up with someone in my court?” Thranduil raises an eyebrow.
“What if I learned from the writings and illustrations of the library?” You deflect, putting a small smile on your face, taking a sip of the wine he poured you.
“Then I would admire your quick study, but your rhythm could not be learned from a text,” he gives a small scoff, amused by your poor attempt to evade answering him. The music slows further, and pauses and attention falls to the head table. “We still do have a dance tonight,” he states plainly.
“I thought Prince Legolas took your place for the dance.”
“Not quite. We still are required to dance.”
“Required? Or is it that you wish to test me? Or simply to dance with me?” The wine emboldens you as you ask.
“It is a tradition of this and other Feasts, dear healer, that any guest dances with a regent of the realm.”
“So you’re telling me that you wouldn’t otherwise wish to dance?” With me, you imply with your eyes, seeking to find his.
“For someone who knows the dances, who calls themselves ‘emissary,’ I find it odd that you don’t know the first thing about traditions of my realm,” Thranduil says, narrowing his eyes in challenge.
You stutter, searching for something to say, but he pauses, softening his tense jaw. He sighs.“It has been a long time,” he replies, and you can’t determine what that means. Is it an excuse as to why he doesn’t want to dance? An explanation as to why he does want to? Confusion paints your expression while he breaks his focus away from the dance floor, finally looking at you.
The music slows. The elvenking stands, leaving behind his robes on his carved chair. You had just caught your breath, but now as he towers over you, a slight smirk on his face, “After you, spider-slayer,” he says, offering no elbow or hand to take.
The Silvan elves in the center of the hall pause their dance and kneel as he stands. You slowly rise, holding his gaze. Stepping in front of him, you walk down, back into the center of the room. Legolas shoots a tense look to his father, fists at his side, jaw set. You don’t understand.
The elves of the king’s court, wearing the colors of the night and the stars, retreat from the main floor, eyes upon you. Yet you feel as alone with the elvenking as you did the first time you met him in his throne room. Ever the gem to collect…now wrapped all in white iridescence for him, you realize.
He paces around you again, and instead of holding back, Thranduil finally allows himself to hunger like he wants to for you, gaze lingering on your waist, the silhouette of you, then coming to rest on your face. Music swells for the Dance of Green Boughs. The song is slow and full of swells and falls. You pace in the same circle as he does, holding each other’s distance, holding his eyes captive with your own. His eyes dilate so much that the icy blue of his eyes could be mistaken for the blue of the sea after a storm.
Then he switches directions, and Thranduil extends his hand for you to place against his. His elegant hands are so much bigger than yours, but you place yours against his. Where there was a bath of electricity that shot through his arm at your soft, delicate touch, now he sinks into a bath of warmth. The elvenking holds steady through the formal step. You separate. His hand drops to his side. Your hand falls to yours. You don’t notice his fingers flex once, sharply, as if trying to rid himself of the warmth.
Navë breathes in sharply, noticing the king’s reflex, clutching Candaer’s arm eagerly.
You both bow, you finally breaking eye contact, though he doesn’t look away. His hair falls forward, lips parted as he watches you bow for him.
As you rise, moving next to him for the next part of the dance where you hook your arm around his, you rest your hand on his forearm. His forearm, covered by the jacquard of his tunic is unmistakably muscular, very capable of wielding something fierce. Trying to center yourself, you recall your readings of the history of his dance. The Dance of Green Boughs was a promenade around the king’s grounds, through Greenwood the Great, and this part is the First Grove. Arm in arm, you make a wide circle around the clear dancing area of the hall, in-step with your tall lead. You dip below a figurative tree root arch, then take a step together before ducking again.
As you dip, you look at him, and his harsh and sharp expression seems to soften, perhaps in memory as he moves through old places. Then he shuts his eyes and sighs.
“Is everything okay, my lord,” you offer softly, leaning into him. His heartbeat thrums at your proximity, yet he turns away for a moment.
“I spoke harshly at the grove,” he says tersely, now looking towards you, “My displeasure was poorly aimed.”
“It was.”
For the first time that you have seen, you seem to have caught the king — drenched in silver — off guard. You do your final duck with him. He narrows his eyes, shaking his head, allowing a small smile to sneak onto his face at your challenging response. When had he last danced like this? Sparred like this? He liked it. Turning to face him, dropping your arm from his, you breathe in, knowing what comes next: the Lantern Bridge.
The Elvenking moves his hands to wrap around your waist, lifting you in an arch. You look back to the ceiling. He admires for a moment how his hands look touching you there, how the white of your dress seems to cast pearl light onto the fabric that covers his arms.
“Your instructor taught you well,” Thranduil remarks at you as you hover above him, stabilizing yourself on his shoulders, surprised at how committed you are to embracing all parts of the dance, a dance of so many parts that do not repeat.
“Careful, my lord, that was almost praise,” you smile up at him after he lowers you back to the ground, his hands more comfortably resting on your waist, just one of his hands gently moving to hold one of your hands again.
“Do not grow accustomed to it,” he says.
“Then I will treasure the rarity,” you blush, tilting your chin down, spinning into the section about the River Gate. Galion, from the shadows of the head table, narrows his eyes. Hareth, hidden in the back of the crowd, is watching the ceiling. Without you noticing, with each step, as you did in the forest, the soles of your feel lightly glow, and the light around you and the elvenking grows more silvery and blue than ever before. The vines slowly, subtly begin to pull back to the outside, freeing the ceiling. Even the thicket of vines that covered the holes in the ceiling thin as you dance.
One thick vine loosens from the star-window above. A strong beam of moonlight slips through. It falls briefly over your joined hands, and then you feel his fingers tighten. You look at your hands, clasped. Then, too soon, he releases the intense grip, looking away from your hands again.
To the elves that watch you, they watch an emissary and their king grow increasingly bathed in starlight as they dance. Legolas watches thoughtfully, hearing another courtier whisper,
“I have never seen him look so…alive.” Had he seen his father look this alive? He watches his father gaze at you and recognizes the familiar look he had given you just moments ago but from his father’s eyes: in danger of wanting something.
As the music slows, the king slowly releases your waist, dragging his hand away, despite his fingertips wanting to linger. He straightens, clasping his hands behind his back. He bows.
“You were a wonderful dance partner,” and then he mutters your name for the first time.
“My king,” you curtsy, feeling the crackling air between you as he stands to his full height, looking down upon you with mirthful intensity. He smiles as his subjects clap for your dance in appreciation. He holds up a hand, humbly accepting the praise of his subjects. Then he turns back to the head table.
Then it’s you, glimmering like the Arkenstone, shining in the moonlight you didn’t even notice you revealed with him. Seated back at the head of the table, the music picks up again, and the silvan elves dance around you. You are still — hypnotized by the events of tonight — until Navë finds you, pulling you into a dance. Galion moves to try to query his king, asking about when this feast should end, yet he is unreachable. Thranduil’s eyes glimmer with the reflection of you, his gem in the moonlight, transfixed on his providential gift from the Lords of the other elven realms. The Lords might be friends to him indeed.
Scene 3 – Letters
Collapsing on your bed, sweat glistening on your chest and cheeks, Navë slams the door of your quarters shut.
“WHAT happened tonight?” She shouts out, tearing at her hair, which is in a very different state from what you had seen earlier in the night.
“I…wish I knew, I can barely think.” Your mind spins with the king, the feel of his hands on you. Then it jumps to the feeling of being chosen and sought after by Legolas, the crown prince. You cover your face with a pillow, unable to contain the smile on your face.
Vigorous knocks on your door cause Navë to jump. “Yes? Hello?”
“It’s Hareth,” Fergrath shouts from outside of the door.
“Let her in,” you shout across the room.
Navë backs up, allowing the door to swing open. Hareth barges in, wearing a grey sheath dress, her hair still pulled back tightly. “Child,” she heaves, pushing past Navë to you. You sit up.
“Did you see what happened to the ceiling, your feet, the king’s?”
“The vines?” You ask. You had noticed that the vines did worsen and better over the course of the Feast, but you weren’t sure about your feet.
“Yes! I think this proves our theory correct. You began to heal and the vines began to disappear. When? When you were dancing with the king.” Hareth walks away from the bed, pacing. “I’ve been doing this for many, many years and I’ve never seen results like this. It’s been so long since we’ve had a Feast of Stars with true starlight.”
“It’s true,” Navë adds.
“I didn’t even realize I was healing, honestly. Usually, I have to think of the ocean; usually, I have to think of my home. The joy of the Feast as we danced though,” you trail off.
“Perhaps your healing was never from the ocean but through joyful memories,” Navë suggests, arms crossed in thought.
“I don’t know, but I wasn’t thinking of any memories when I was dancing,” you counter.
“Maybe that memory that you were making was so powerful and so joyful that you healed without knowing it. But what we do know is that the way that the king looked at you, you certainly had him transfixed and open to the healing magic, even if you both didn’t know it was happening,” Hareth says, moving to a dresser that had an open wine bottle on it from just before the feast and pouring herself a glass.
“That would be ridiculous,” you wave your hand.
“Well, your magic showed up in front of the whole crowd pretty brightly and publicly, so I wouldn’t be surprised if people began to speak of your healing, as the vines retracting from the ceiling were also quite noticeable,” Hareth challenges you before considering, “Though, I am not sure the king looked anywhere but you tonight.”
You suddenly feel an anxious pang in your chest. Your mission for diplomacy isn’t to enamor the king, is it? Are you crossing diplomatic lines? You are no full Sindar elf, you are a half elf. Was that of no concern to him? You want to open him up to working with the other kingdoms, help him heal his realm…is this the way to do it? You cannot picture Lord Elrond or Lord Círdan imagining this for your method of diplomacy.
Though, what of Legolas? A marriage to him could solidify your kingdom’s alignment. You cannot picture marrying as a half-elf for anything but love, especially after witnessing Arwen’s great love. Beyond that, marriage leaves out the other half of your purpose. What of Thranduil? What of his role in the healing of the realm? When you close your eyes, you think of him, looking down at him from the air as he lifts you up. You think of the way he felt as he held you. You think of the way his voice rumbles through you, wetting the area between your legs, weakening your resolve to be a good emissary.
In your consideration, Navë and Hareth had continued to speak with each other about this matter, about what to do. Another knock at the door, and your trance is broken with their conversation. You three look between each other for a moment before scrambling to the door.
Navë, the nimblest among you, opens the door first. Fergrath peers in. “How many visitors are you planning on having tonight, spider-slayer?” He asks incredulously, handing Navë a letter, sealed in a green wax. “This was delivered a second ago by another guard.”
The blonde elleth rushes to you, shoving the letter into your chest. “Read it! Who is it from?” Hareth also waits, peering over your shoulder. The seal is fresh, and so it bends and rips rather than snaps when you try to open it.
Starlight herself,
I did say that I had to see you again. While I am only here for a short period of time before the next stretch of my journey, I would like to spend much of that time in your presence. I would be honored if you met me in the library tomorrow, mid-day, your own time permitting.
Legolas
As you read the letter aloud, another knock at the door sounds. You hand the letter from Legolas over to Hareth who continues to read it, and reread it, a hand on her head in disbelief, eyes wide. Navë rushes over again. Galion enters.
“For you,” he sniffs, squinting his eyes at the letter you hold in your hand already, before handing you another letter with the seal of the king.
Minutes before Galion’s arrival in your room, the Elvenking paced in his, considering the events of the evening.
“My lord, it was a true sight to behold. The glowing, and if I am not overstepping, you did seem to enjoy yourself.”
“It was torment of the highest degree,” Thranduil replied. “A plan foiled.”
“At least you do know she genuinely wants to impress?”
“Deeply earnest, Galion. I feel very simple to be so easily swayed by her…charms,” the white haired elf lamented sinking into a chair by the fire.
“Did I not warn you that she’s very charming?”
Thranduil shot a look that could kill from above his chalice towards his smug attendant. Then, he moved toward his desk to write the letter.
Spider-slayer,
I thank you for your surprising performance tonight. We have much to discuss. Meet me in my personal gardens at midday tomorrow. You looked beautiful tonight.
No signature necessary. The last words are scrawled, a different look than the rest of the letter, which is neatly traced, practiced lines. A last minute addition, perhaps against his better judgement.
Galion remains in the room, watching you read the letter. “The king would like a response,” he interrupts as you read the letter again. Between Thranduil’s hand on your waist and the way you feel yourself get lost in the duel you both take up when you speak, and the vertigo you got from staring up into his eyes, the idea of meeting him anywhere feels so obviously what you wanted.
“It’s the king, child, you must accept.” You shoot her a look that screams, I had it under control. She gives a shrug.
“Of course,” you manage to say in an even tone, trying to deflect from your overwhelming desire to see him again after tonight. “I’ll be there,” you turn to Galion.
“I will inform the king,” Galion says firmly, walking away.
Series Summary: Reader is a full-time college student at 30 years old who is starting over in life. When she loses her full-time job as a waitress, CEO James “Bucky” Barnes steps in with a proposition. Can he sell you on a way to help you by offering a Sugar Daddy companionship? Who will get feelings first? Can a Sugar Daddy relationship really work out?
Series Warnings: Sugar Daddy au, Reader is 30 & Bucky is in his 40s, reader has trust issues, talks of anxiety, angst, eventually falling in love, smut, oral (m & f), nicknames (sweetheart and doll.)
Chapter Summary: Reader moves into her new place thanks to Bucky.
The Ultimate Risk Masterlist
A/N: Sorry it’s been a very long time since I updated this series. I had major writers block with this. I hope y’all are still around for this update.
A/N 2: Thank you to @late-to-the-party-81 for the header & beta reading this for me.
Please Reblog & Comment. It lets me know you like my work. 😊💜
I do NOT consent to translating or reposting my work on any social media platform, app, or third-party site or run through AI. If you see my work anywhere besides my personal Tumblr & AO3 accounts, it has been stolen.
You stir from your sleep to feel warm, gentle kisses across your shoulder and on your neck. You let out a whine as your brain tries to remember where you are and you hear a faint whisper in your ear telling you it's time to get up. You slowly open your eyes, remembering that you’re at Bucky’s place and a smile forms on your face as you feel his lips move across your skin.
“There she is. Good morning, sweetheart.” Bucky leans over you and gently kisses your lips. “Did you sleep well?”
You hum for a second. “In between you going down on me throughout the night, I will say yes, I did.”
Bucky chuckles. “I couldn’t help myself. You taste delicious, I could eat you out every day of the week if I had it my way.”
You giggle against the pillow. “Bucky. You’re just saying that to be funny.”
His lips come closer to your ear and whisper, “Do I need to show you again?”
“No!” You start laughing as Bucky pouts. “As much as that sounds tempting, I need a shower and to get something to eat.” Your stomach begins to growl a little.
“That’s fine, sweetheart. Let’s shower and then grab breakfast.”
Who are you to argue with showering with this handsome man?
Both of you end up showering in the warmth of the water and sure enough, Bucky goes down on you again. You can’t believe how much this man wants to consume you. Just the thought of it makes you blush. If he’s like this with oral, how’s he going to be when you have sex?
After showering and changing into fresh clothes from your closet in the spare bedroom, you head to the kitchen, where you find Bucky making eggs. He’s lightly cussing under his breath as he tries to make breakfast and seeing that he needs help, you walk up to him and kiss his cheek.
“Anything I can do to help?” you ask.
“Can you cook eggs?” he enquires.
“That I can,” you confirm with a smile before switching places and starting over from scratch. Whatever he was attempting to make can’t be salvaged, but what he can do right is toast and coffee. The pair of you chat as you cook and in no time it’s ready. You each take a place at the bar on the other end of the counter and start eating in peace. You notice that as you eat, Bucky keeps stealing glances at you. It’s like he’s storing this morning in his memory. When you both finish, you place the plates and cups in the dishwasher before Bucky leans into you and kisses your forehead.
“Thank you for cooking breakfast, beautiful. Now, are you ready to go back to your apartment and start packing? The house is ready for you to move into anytime.”
“I’m so excited to move out of the apartment and into a new home. The first thing I’m going to do once I’m settled is paint again. I have so many creative ideas flowing through my head,” you proudly say.
Bucky smiles back at you. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Now, let’s go meet the men I hired to help pack your place and move it for you. I’ve used them before and they are professional and trustworthy.”
You both grab your things and head to the garage to start the journey back to your place.
As promised, once at your apartment, Bucky and you meet with the movers. They’ll be helping you pack your tiny apartment for the next week while Bucky’s at work. Time seems to pass quickly over the next few days. With the packers boxing everything up, you deal with taking your paintings off the wall, carefully wrapping each one for transport.
Bucky shows up after work each day, just as promised, to help you with whatever you need. You’re truly thankful for all the help you receive and in no time, Saturday arrives. You’re excited about moving this weekend and finally having a home all to yourself, all thanks to your sugar daddy. Without Bucky, none of this would be possible, as you were just scraping by in life as a student and artist.
The movers and Bucky show up at eight in the morning, ready to transport your belongings. While you and Bucky put your paintings in your SUV, the movers load all the boxes into their truck. Things go smoothly, and by eleven, the vehicles are filled and the apartment is empty. You return your keys to the landlord and head out in your SUV to go to your new home.
You follow behind Bucky’s SUV to your new place. You’re excited for this next step and to see what the future will hold for you. So far, you’re enjoying your life as Bucky’s sugar baby. He’s definitely giving you not only the resources to succeed, but also the love and affection you crave as well. This relationship is so vastly different to others you’ve had in the past, but it’s also so exciting.
When you arrive, you skip over to Bucky, who’s grinning at the way you’re jingling the keys.
“It’s all yours, babygirl,” he says before kissing you gently on the lips.
You run, giggling, up to the front door and open it, allowing the movers to start bringing in your furniture and boxes. It takes them a couple of hours to place everything where you want it while you and Bucky bring in your paintings and place them in the rooms where you’ll hang them.
While Bucky says goodbye to the movers, shaking their hands, you look around your living room, taking it all in. It’s so beautiful that it almost didn’t feel real. A new home, a new vehicle, and a hot sugar daddy that you were in a relationship with. Was this a dream?
The sound of the door shutting signalled Bucky joining you. “How are you feeling now that your stuff is moved in?”
You turn to look at him and grin. “Honestly, excited, overwhelmed, relieved. Take your pick. I just can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“Believe it, sweetheart. This is happening and I’ll continue to spoil you every chance that I get.”
“You know you don’t have to.” You wrap your arms around yourself.
He walks over to you and cups your cheeks before kissing you. “You deserve to be spoiled. So let me.”
You jokingly huff at him and raise your hands in surrender. “Fine. Spoil away.”
“Now that is what I like to hear. Second only to you moaning my name in pleasure.”
You feel the heat in your cheeks and sheepishly look away for a moment before you make eye contact with him again.
“Bucky…”
“I’m teasing you, darling. I love seeing you all shy when we both know you’re anything but that.” His thumb runs across your bottom lip and you part your lips, allowing him to push the tip in. You slowly suck on it and swirl your tongue, making Bucky inhale a quick breath and pull his thumb out. His eyes are dilated and it’s like he is staring into your soul.
“Want to go upstairs and fool around?” you ask shyly.
“Prinţesă, more than you know.” Bucky gives you a big grin and wiggles his eyebrows.
You hold out your hand and he takes it instantly, letting you lead the way upstairs to the master bedroom. He follows you into the room and you circle him seductively. You push him toward the bed and make him sit down. Bucky grabs a pillow and places it in front of him so you have something to kneel on.
You kneel in front of him and unzip his pants. Your eyes remain on his as you tug on both them and his underwear, and Bucky lifts his hips, letting you pull them down. His cock is already hard and leaking precum from the tip.
Keeping eye contact, you lick your lips before you take the tip of him into your mouth. You lick the precum from him and he lets out a shuddering breath. You slowly take him into your mouth and then all the way to the back of your throat. You pull back just as gently as you tease him. Pulling off him, you lick the large vein under his cock before taking him back in.
Bucky is panting as you work him over slowly but surely. You love the control you have over him as he watches you take him apart piece by piece. Finally, you decide to have mercy on him and start bobbing your head up and down his cock. Your right hand is holding him at the base while your left hand starts playing with his balls. All while you keep taking him in your throat.
His groans of pleasure tell you that he’s not going to last much longer.
“Sweetheart, I’m close. You gonna swallow my cum like a good girl?”
You hum around his cock as he lightly grabs you by the hair and starts fucking your mouth. He’s not violent, but he easily takes back the control you thought you had. His cock is steady in and out of your mouth, every once in a while plunging down your throat. A couple more thrusts and he’s cumming, and you swallow every last drop as he grunts out your name.
When you pull off, it’s with a pop and lick your lips. Your eyes are watery, the streaks of tears down your face and Bucky looks at you with a smile. Carefully he wipes the tears away for you with his left hand, his right caressing your face.
“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. You spoiled me just now, so be a good girl and climb on the bed so I can feast on my pussy. I want to make you feel good.”
Bucky stands up and tucks himself back into his pants.
“Your pussy?” you smirk at him
He offers you a hand and helps you stand up. You stand nearly face-to-face with him as he grins back down at you. “Yes, my pussy.”
A chill runs down your body as you kick off your sneakers and peel your leggings and underwear down your legs before you clamber onto the bed. You watch how his gaze never leaves your body. How he looks like he is going to devour you whole and lord, maybe he will. You know full well that this is something he enjoys doing and is an expert at. You lie on your back and you watch him crawl up the bed to lie on his stomach between your thighs, his face right where you need him.
Bucky’s lips travel across your thighs as he slowly kisses his way to their destination between your legs. Pushing your thighs further apart, Bucky descends on you and licks a stripe up your pussy. He does it again, this time licking and nibbling his way to your clit. You purr out his name and then begin to shiver as he starts to eat you out, his soft beard tickling you in all the right places. Every lick, every suckle on your clit, makes you a moaning mess and you grind down on Bucky’s face as he hums his approval.
He adds two fingers into your tight, wet pussy, fingering you as he continues to play with your clit with his mouth. His fingers curl with every breathy moan you make, and as you beg for more, his fingers speed up, hitting your sweet spot over and over.
“Ohmygod, yes! Bucky please… I need to cum,” you beg him.
“Cum for me, sweetheart. Be good for me and cum for me now,” he growls at you.
With a crook of his fingers, your eyes roll to the back of your head and you scream his name, cumming hard Bucky hums in delight as he licks you clean, making sure he leaves nothing behind. He crawls back up your body and kisses you passionately on the lips. You taste yourself as he does and groan your appreciation. Your man makes sure you want for nothing. If eating pussy was an art form, then Bucky has mastered it. You can’t help but wonder how it will be once he finally makes love to you. The thought makes you wet again, but you try to brush it from your mind before you get too carried away.
Bucky smiles at you, his eyes crinkle as he takes in your sated form. “How are you feeling, darling?”
You let out a soft sigh. “Like I’m floating on cloud nine and never want to come down again.”
Bucky chuckles at how relaxed and serene you’re. He wants to always make you feel this way and can’t wait to have you in his bed so he can finally take you apart properly.
“Well, let’s get you changed and get you something to eat. You need some nourishment after that.” He gives you a cheeky grin and you let out a full belly laugh.
“Yes, sir,” you say and salute him.
Bucky stares at you and licks his lips. “Sir? I kinda like the sound of that. Now, no more distractions.”
He helps you sit up in bed and hands you your clothes to put back on. Once you’re redressed it was two thirty in the afternoon, you walk hand in hand downstairs discussing what you're going to order from the local sandwich shop a couple of blocks away. It doesn’t take long to get there and back and you set the dining table while Bucky plates up the food.
You talk about starting to paint again once you get settled in, and how you’re going to unpack over the next week so that way you can start to focus on the things you enjoy. You’re especially looking forward to being able to go to more fancy dinners with Bucky now that you're done with the semester.
Bucky smiles at you as you talk, until he suddenly remembers something. “There’ll be another event next weekend that I forgot to tell you about. I hope you're not mad that it slipped my mind. I was very busy with meetings all week.”
You smile back at him. “No, that’s fine. Isn’t that what this is all about? Me being flexible with my schedule so I can attend these dinner dates. It’s wide open just for you.”
“I appreciate it, sweetheart.” He reaches across the table and grabs your hand gently. His thumb runs across your knuckles. Twisting your wrist round, your fingers graze against his and you both chuckle.
After lunch it was around three thirty and time to get the bedroom set up so later all you had to do was shower and climb into bed. Luckily, there wasn’t too much to unpack in there and Bucky hung up your clothes while you rifled through boxes and put things on the built-in bookcases that were situated throughout the house. After spending a few hours in the bedroom, you move onto the room you’ve decided will be your art studio. Setting up and adjusting your easel and then organising all your paints and brushes take another couple of hours and by dinner time, you’re both exhausted as the time shows eight in the evening.
You end up ordering a pizza to be delivered and by the time it arrives, Bucky has finished setting up the TV in the living room. It’s nice to relax on the couch and eat while watching a comedy show. When you’re done eating, you both cleaned up and you can see that Bucky is hesitant about what to do next.
“Hey, if you want, you can stay over tonight. It will help me ease into this new house living situation.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt and watch Bucky offer a huge smile.
“Yeah, that would be great. I had an overnight bag packed in my SUV just in case – let me go grab it.”
He returns in the blink of an eye, locking the door behind him and you both make your way upstairs to the shower. Under the hot spray of the shower you wash the other, but also take the opportunity to get frisky. You trace the tattoos that snake up and down his arms as you wash him and try to work out what they all mean. By the time you step out you’re both clean and tired.
Cuddling up in the middle of the bed together, you lie with your head on his chest while his hand softly rubs down your arm. It’s nice having Bucky over in your new place and you hope there’ll be more nights like this in your future.
“So,” Bucky drawls, gaining your attention, “remember me telling you the other day that I was going to plan a getaway somewhere tropical for us?”
“Yeah, I do. Why?” you ask curiously.
“After next weekend, when we get done with the dinner event, I’ll be whisking you away to a private island. We’ll have my private waitstaff and chef to run the place, but other than them, it’ll be just us. We won’t have to worry about having our privacy interrupted so we can do whatever it is that you want. Swimming, snorkeling, or if you want to do nothing, we can do that as well.”
You squeal in excitement and hug him close. “I’m so excited. I’ve never been out of the country before. I mean, I have my passport, but I never thought I’d be using it. I don’t even know what to pack.”
Bucky chuckles. “Light clothing, bathing suits, hell, I would say pack nothing, but then I don’t like the idea of other men seeing you naked.”
“Jealous type?” You giggle as he looks down at you with a gleam in his eyes.
“When it comes to my naked girl, heck yeah, I am. No one gets to see your sexy body but me.”
You both laugh at his response and he winks at you, continuing his thought.
“But if we’re being serious, I have nothing to be jealous of. You’ve chosen me and come home to me at night, whether it’s your place or mine. I’m happy with you and I hope you feel the same way.” Bucky caresses your cheek as he looks into your eyes.
“I do feel the same way about you. I’m so happy when I’m with you. You make me feel very spoiled.” You snuggle closer to him, thinking of everything he has already done for you. For a moment, you both stare in silence and gaze into each other's eyes. It's like time stands still and you’re the only two people that exist in the world.
“As I said before,” he says, stroking your face with the back of his hand, “that’s my job. I‘ll always take care of you. Now let’s relax and get some sleep. We’ll talk more about the vacation tomorrow. Sleep well, sweetheart.”
You yawn big before whispering, “Sleep well, Bucky.”
Taglist is still open. If you were tagged and no longer wish to be let me know.
figure skater x dean where she goes on a date and realize she still loves dean
I have a LONG list of fics to write and I'm so excited about it! Tucker and Garrett are on that list if you were wondering
Summary: You and Dean broke up. You get in another relationship in the hope of getting over him, but when The Fifth Line announce that Dean gets injured at a game, you run to him
Warnings: mention of naked men, implied cheating
You thought you were doing the right thing. You thought seeing other guys would help you get over him. But as you sat at a fancy restaurant with one of Briar’s most promising football athletes, you had never been as uninterested as you were right now. He was good looking, sweet and attentive, but he didn’t make you want to stop time.
You actually wanted the night to end.
The waiter set down your plates, wishing you a nice evening before leaving.
‘’Are you coming to the game on Friday? My dad is gonna be here, so I was thinking we could go eat somewhere after. You, me…and him.’’
Your fork stopped halfway to your plate. ‘’You want me to meet your dad?!’’
‘’Yeah,’’ Miles replied simply. ‘’Do you not want to? Is it too soon? I would understand if—’’
You shook your head. ‘’No! I want to,’’ you said, forcing a smile.
Miles smiled back at you. ‘’Then it’s settled.’’
Fuck. What did you get yourself into?
You leaned back slightly in your chair, suddenly very aware of how tight the restaurant felt around you. The soft piano music, the clinking glasses, the warm lighting — it all felt too much for a night you didn’t even want to be in anymore.
Miles was still smiling, eager that you were going to meet his dad. He had been thinking about showing you off to his family for weeks. A talented, beautiful girl like you. It was a massive upgrade from the last girl he brought home in high school.
‘’Friday’s gonna be big,’’ he added, cutting into his food. ‘’Coach is already talking about the playoffs. If we win, we pretty much lock in our ranking.’’
‘’Right,’’ you said automatically, picking at your food.
Miles noticed the shift in your attention.
‘’You okay?’’ he asked, reaching over the table and stroking your hand. ‘’You’ve been kind of…far away tonight.’’
You blinked, removing your hand and hiding it under the table. ‘’Yeah. I’m fine.’’
He didn’t look convinced. ‘’You sure? Because it kinda feels like I’m talking to you, but you’re somewhere else.’’
You gave a small laugh that didn’t land right. ‘’I’m just tired, Miles. I’ve been at the rink all afternoon.’’
‘’Sorry. I forgot. How is the new program going?’’
Back when you were with Dean, you loved talking about your program and all the different figures you had to learn or perfect for the next showcase. He surprisingly knew the difference between a lutz and a flip. Sometimes, you would skate together after everyone left the arena, showing off figures and having races around the rink. It often ended with heavy kissing against the boards…with a little groping or shower sex, but that was a secret.
‘’Good.’’
The answer came out flat.
Miles waited, like he expected more.
When nothing followed, he smiled awkwardly and took another bite of his dinner.
You hated yourself a little for it. He was trying. He was always trying. He remembered your competitions. Asked about your classes. Showed up with coffee when you had early practices. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like him.
When you began seeing each other, conversations were easy and you were genuinely looking forward to spending time with him. You weren’t thinking about Dean anymore. Only Miles.
But that changed when you saw him at the arena a few days ago. He was laughing with Tucker as they headed to the locker room to change into their practice gear. His blue eyes crossed yours and you almost walked into a glass door… You even had a dream about him last night.
An uncomfortable silence settled between you as you continued to eat quietly. Miles was trying to find something to talk about, but he could feel that you weren’t entirely with him.
Your phone buzzed against your thigh.
The sound nearly made you jump.
Without thinking, you pulled it out, seeing a notification from The Fifth Line’s Instagram.
The Fifth Line: #66 Di Laurentis taken off ice by medics 🚨🩺 Doubt he’ll be back for the rest of the game!
Your heart sank to your stomach. Medics. That meant Dean was hurt. Small injuries were common in hockey — a nosebleed, a fall that turned into a bruise, etc. —, but if Jules wrote that he won’t be back to finish the game, it must be serious.
You went to text Hannah about the game, trying to know more, but remembered she was working tonight and not attending.
Still, your thumb was already opening Instagram. The post had only been up for three minutes. A blurry photo showed Dean being escorted down the tunnel by the team's trainer. Even from a distance, you could see blood smeared along the side of his face.
Your chest tightened.
‘’Everything okay?’’ Miles asked, raising an eyebrow.
You looked up so quickly that you nearly dropped your phone. ‘’Yeah.’’
The lie came automatically.
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘’Are you sure?’’
No. You weren't alright.
Because the possibility of Dean being hurt had completely derailed your evening. Because you had spent the last hour pretending you wanted to be here. Because Miles was talking about introducing you to his father while all you could think about was another guy bleeding in a medic room.
‘’I have to go. I’m sorry,’’ you declared, standing from your chair and grabbing your jacket.
Miles blinked, clearly caught off guard. ‘’Wait, what?’’
You were being unfair. Horribly unfair. But staying here felt impossible.
‘’I'm sorry,’’ you repeated, already slinging your purse over your shoulder.
His chair scraped against the floor as he stood too, about to follow you, but you ran out of the restaurant before he could, the image of Dean being led off the ice burned into your brain.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
When you made it to the arena, the game was over and people were leaving. Your concern for Dean clouded your judgement as you headed to the locker room.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
You pulled the door open and slipped in, laughter, music and the smell of sweat and equipment hitting you immediately.
You opened your mouth to call Dean’s name, but stopped in your tracks. The room was full of naked hockey players. Some had a towel wrapped around them, but some had their dick on full display.
‘’Oh my god.’’
A few of them turned, but not many bothered hiding their nudity.
‘’Bunnies are not allowed in the locker room,’’ one of them said.
‘’She’s not a bunny, she’s Di Laurentis’s ice princess,’’ another one corrected, recognizing you.
‘’Garrett!’’ you called, catching him come out of the shower with, thankfully, a towel around him.
His head snapped to you and he walked over. Judging by your dress and heels, you hadn’t been in the stands cheering for the team. He ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. ‘’Hey, what are you doing here?’’
Before you could say anything, a voice came from the showers.
‘’Hey, G, did you steal Birdie’s shampoo? He’s moaning about it.’’
And there was the man you were looking for, half-dripping wet with a towel slung low on his hips. Upon seeing you, a cocky smirk curled on his face.
‘’Well, this is a surprise,’’ Dean pointed out, standing before you with his glistening wet chest. ‘’I haven’t seen you here in a while.’’
Your eyes stopped at his face where a steri-strips bandaid was taped on his right cheekbone. The skin around it was red and irritated, a faint trace of dried blood visible along the edges of the cut. Was this what had caused all that blood on the ice? Had you rushed to the arena over a cut that barely seemed serious?
‘’I know. I saw what happened on the ice. I just…wanted to check in on you,’’ you replied, suddenly feeling foolish.
Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘’You were at the game? In that dress? I don’t think so.’’
He caught you there.
You sighed. ‘’Okay, fine. I wasn’t at the game.’’
‘’Where’s Mike?’’
‘’Miles,’’ you corrected. ‘’And that’s none of your business.’’
‘’I take it Mr. Football doesn’t know you’re here.’’
‘’Can we not talk about Miles—’’
‘’What are you doing here, princess?’’ Dean asked, stepping closer and lifting your chin. ‘’Because no one runs off from their boyfriend to see their ex without a reason.’’
Fuck.
How did he even know you ran here?
‘’Look, I’m not going to call Giles and snitch on you. I just want you to tell me why you’re here — no bullshit —, because I think we both know what you’re avoiding to say.’’
‘’His name is Miles—’’
‘’It doesn’t change anything.’’
You held his gaze for a moment, refusing to look away first. The stubborn certainty in his eyes only fueled your frustration, until the words you'd spent months swallowing rose to the surface.
‘’You’re right,’’ you snapped, the confession tearing out of you before you could stop it. ‘’Because no matter what I do or who I see, it always comes back to you. I can’t get you out of my head. Is that what you want to hear, Dean? That I never stopped loving you?’’
The locker room fell silent.
Even the guys still half-naked and toweling off froze, eyes darting between you and Dean like they had just walked into a dramatic movie scene.
The corner of Dean's lips twitched, looking pleased like the cat that caught the bird. Then, barefoot on the wet tile and blond hair dripping from the shower, he leaned down and kissed you.
Behind you, the team was forgotten. Miles? Erased from existence right then and there. All noise in the world was drowned out by Dean’s mouth on yours and the familiar scent of his expensive shampoo. You pulled him closer by his shoulders, his chest flush against you as waterdrops were falling on your jacket and dress.
Dean nad his girl being loud in bed and being confronted about it
Longer fics are coming, but for now let's go with this little blurb
Summary: You and Dean get called out for being loud in bed
Warnings: mention of sex, mention of moaning and other sounds,
The boys lost count of how many times they’ve heard or walked in on you and Dean having sex. In the shower, in the kitchen, on the couch, the pool table, the backyard, and even in Dean’s room. That one was entirely Tucker’s fault for walking in without knocking, though. They already had to deal with their roommate’s shameless nudity and lack of care for closing doors, this sex thing was getting too much.
All heads turned toward the door when the one they were all waiting for walked in with you over his shoulder while announcing that you would be ready for the gym session in about an hour or so.
‘’Wait up, Don Juan. You didn’t get my texts?’’ Logan called out from the living room where he, Garrett and Tucker were sitting. ‘’I said house meeting at 4pm.’’
With his other hand, Dean checked his phone, seeing Logan’s message. He had read it. He just brushed it off when you called and asked to have late lunch together.
‘’That was a serious thing?’’
‘’Yes,’’ replied Logan.
‘’Since when do we do house meetings?’’
‘’Since now.’’
Dean glanced at you, then back to Logan. ‘’Can we raincheck? Because we were supposed to—’’
‘’No,’’ all three boys said at the same time.
A beat of silence followed and Dean set you down. He didn’t carry you through campus like that. Just up the stairs of the house after you mentioned that you were wearing a brand new lingerie set.
You looked between them, then back to Dean. ‘’It’s okay. I can go wait upstairs.’’
‘’Actually,’’ Garrett cut in. ‘’This is about you too.’’
A frown drew between your eyebrows. You didn’t even live there.
‘’Mostly him,’’ Tucker corrected, pointing at Dean. ‘’But you're involved.’’
Was this about the box of cookies you finished and put back in the cupboards the other night? Or the hair in the shower? Because Logan always complained about the clogged shower drain and having to fix it. As if they didn’t all have hair too…
Without asking questions, you followed Dean to the couch and sat down.
‘’What did we do?" the latter asked, wanting to get this over with quickly.
The three roommates exchanged looks.
Then Tucker threw his hands in the air. ‘’You have got to stop treating this house like it's a honeymoon suite.’’
‘’We're all happy you found each other. Great. Wonderful. Love that for you,’’ Logan continued, explaining what Tucker meant. ‘’But some of us would like to walk into our own kitchen without wondering if we're about to see something that’s gonna make us regret that 11pm cereal craving.’’
Dean laughed. ‘’You guys are being dramatic.’’
‘’Am I?’’ Tucker shot back, raising a dark eyebrow.
‘’You’re worse than rabbits during mating season.’’
‘’Don’t compare my girlfriend to a rodent,’’ Dean warned Logan, pointing a finger at him.
You shrugged. ‘’I take no offense. Rabbits are cute and very intelligent little beings.’’
‘’And stop leaving doors open,’’ Garrett added. ‘’We already have to see it in the locker rooms, we don’t need more exposure to your naked self.’’
‘’Fine. I’ll close the bathroom door when I shower. Are we done?’’
‘’No.’’
Dean slouched deeper into the couch, one arm draped around your shoulders. ‘’Fine. Continue your presentation.’’
‘’Thank you.’’ Logan pointed at him. ‘’Second issue: the noise.’’
Dean opened his mouth to protest again, but Logan raised a hand, silencing him with the kind of authority usually reserved for coaches and angry mothers.
Garrett nodded gravely beside him like this was an official courtroom testimony. ‘’The noise,’’ he repeated.
You knew the walls were thin, but once you were in the moment you kind of forget about it. And it’s not like there’s innocent ears in the house. You were all adults with an active sex life. You’ve heard girls moaning and their gruntings from all of the bedrooms.
‘’Don’t act all innocent,’’ you said, your eyes falling on Logan. ‘’Dean’s room is right next to yours. We can hear you too.’’
At that, Dean squeezed your thigh proudly. Under your sweet appearance, there was a girl who didn’t bite her tongue.
‘’Do you want to hear the playback? Because I can—’’ the blond added, loving how the tables had turned around.
‘’That won’t be necessary,’’ Logan interrupted, making the other boys laugh.
Dean grinned, that cocky, unbothered smirk he wore like a second skin. ‘’See? She's got a point. We're not the only ones being loud in this house.’’
Tucker rubbed his temples like he was suddenly aging ten years per minute. This house meeting was not going anywhere…
Dean's long distance girlfriend is at Briar for a game
Another little blurb
Summary: Dean's New York girlfriend is at Briar to see a Hawks game
When you and Dean became official over the summer, his friends didn’t believe he was in a relationship. To their eyes, it was impossible that Dean Di Laurentis, the man who never hooked up with the same girl twice, the man who once had twin sisters coming out of his room at 3am, had settled for a girl. One girl.
They had one hell of a surprise when they walked inside Malone’s one Thursday night and saw their defenseman sitting at a booth with a girl that visibly didn’t go to Briar. You stood out like a sore thumb in your luxury sweater and Dior handbag.
Living hours away in New York, you didn’t get to watch Dean play very often, which made nights like this all the more special. No matter how many games you streamed from your dorm room, nothing compared to seeing him on the ice. He moved with a speed that seemed effortless, weaving through defenders as if they were standing still. And then there was the confidence. Dean loved showing off and shoving people against the boards. Players hated to see him coming their way.
‘’Go Dean!’’ you shouted beside Hannah, following him with your eyes as he stole the puck from the opposing team, his skates carving sharp lines into the ice as he charged straight toward the net.
Dean crossed the blue line, keeping the puck just out of reach of a desperate stick check. The goalie squared up in the crease, knees bent and glove raised, tracking his every movement.
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
‘’Come on, baby. Come on.’’
He pulled the puck to his backhand, forcing the goalie to commit, then snapped it back to his forehand in one fluid motion. For a split second, the top corner of the net was wide open.
He fired.
The puck rocketed off his stick.
The red light flashed — goal.
You jumped from your seat with a proud grin, nearly spilling your drink as Hannah grabbed your arm and shook it excitedly.
On the ice, Dean disappeared beneath a pile of teammates near the boards, their gloves pounding against his helmet and shoulder as they celebrated. Then, as the noise continued to roar around you, he lifted his head and looked toward the crowd — toward you — and winked.
You blew him a kiss in return, the dainty gold bracelet he had gifted you glimmering in the light. It had a small ‘D’ pendant that matched the one around his neck with your initial. A simple, yet meaningful jewelry.
A few seats below you, some of the puck bunnies were squealing and jumping, thinking he had winked at them. You chose to ignore them. After all, you were the one who got to kiss him at the end of the day.
The game ended 5 to 2, adding another win to the Hawks’ streak.
You and Hannah gathered your things, making sure you had your bag and jacket, and went down the stands as the players were stepping out of the rink and leaving down the tunnel. Dean was impossible to miss, taller than everyone…and causing a little chaos. He tapped gloves with teammates, giving a playful shove to Tucker — as always — and laughed at something Birdie said.
When his eyes found you waiting by the boards, he made his way over. His cheeks were flushed from the game, blond hair damp beneath his helmet. He lifted the cage up, a lazy smile spread across his face.
‘’Good game,’’ you congratulated, leaning in for a kiss.
You intended to make it quick, but Dean had other plans.
He slipped his tongue in and cupped your face, standing a little over a foot above you in his skates. He kissed you slow and unhurried, not caring that you were being watched by people. Behind him, some guys from the team wolf-whistled, but Dean didn't care.
‘’You’re blocking the way, Di Laurentis!’’ someone called at him.
Instead of stepping away, he lifted you clean off your feet with one arm, causing a startled laugh to escape you, and headed down the tunnel.
‘’Dean, put me down,’’ you demanded, clinging to his neck despite knowing he would never drop you. As you did, you noticed the matching pendant around his neck peeking out from beneath his gear, making you smile.
Daydreamer @thehumanistsdiary - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
