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buckets-and-trees · 3 months ago

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Red, White & True: Boston & New York [14/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 9.1k (yes, another long one!) Summary: On the eve of the election, nerves and emotions are high, but so are your hopes for the future as a tight race becomes impossibly tighter when so many people doubted a third candidate could make a deep run. Regardless of how things turn out, you're ready to face the fact that your life will never be the same again.

Content/Warnings: political/campaign policy and discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT finally (vaginal fingering, cock stroking, breast play, vaginal intercourse)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Author Notes: I missed getting a Friday posting out, but that's because these two had a lot to do and say in this chapter. To be honest, if I cut out all of the side characters and political plot, we'd shave down significantly, but that's part of your story with Steve, too.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 1 - LATE EVENING - COLUMBUS TO BOSTON]

The campaign plane hums around you, a cocoon of noise both soothing and maddening. You've been staring at the same paragraph in your briefing notes for ten minutes, the words blurring together as exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness. Fourteen states in thirteen days. It shouldn't be possible, and yet here you are, somehow still standing—or rather, sitting—in the final stretch of the most grueling marathon of your life.

Two weeks. Two weeks of campaign schedules that have kept you and Steve apart more than together, crisscrossing the country like stars with intersecting orbits—occasionally aligning for campaign appearances together before spinning away again to cover more territory.

You glance at your watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Your motorcade was delayed in traffic, so you didn’t make it to the tarmac to board the plane to see Steve before his intelligence briefing started, and now it has already run twenty minutes longer than scheduled. The private meeting area at the front of the plane has been sealed off, transformed into a temporary SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—for the classified briefing, with Secret Service agents positioned like sentinels outside the door.

You make a conscious effort not to glare at the agents - it’s not their fault, they’re only doing their job. But inside you feel very huffy, knowing the precious hours together before landing in Boston are dwindling by the second.

You return your gaze to the briefing book in your lap, silently mouthing the words to force your tired brain to absorb them. Tomorrow's schedule in Boston includes a visit to a community health center in Roxbury, followed by meetings with healthcare advocates—you need to know these statistics cold. But the numbers swim before your eyes as the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, jostling you in your seat.

Across the aisle, Sam catches your eye. He's been watching you fidget for the past half hour, his expression knowing as always.

"He'll be out soon," Sam says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it over the drone of the engines.

You sigh, closing the briefing book. "How can you tell?"

“I can’t, I’m just trying to make you feel better,” he replies with a wink.

“It’s only working a little bit,” you say.

Sophia is on his other side, and you smile a little, seeing that she’s managed to nod off, her head resting on Sam’s shoulder. She’s worked herself to the bone every day of the campaign, and she’s become such a rock to you. A rock and a trusted friend.

So has Sam. So have so many of the campaign staff, the lot of you walking through fire day in and day out together for this brilliantly mad quest to try and get Steve elected.

"Speaking of making me feel better," you say, suddenly struck by something you've been meaning to say for weeks, "I never properly thanked you."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For all the interference you ran with my mom while she was on the campaign trail with us a couple of weeks ago." You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice even more. "You and Sophia did a lot to make her feel comfortable in this whole scene. She adored you, but I know you also took advantage of opportunities to shift her perspective on Steve and our whole arrangement.”

Sam's expression softens, a smile warming his features. "Your mom's great. She cares about you a lot - her worries were normal."

You smile wider. “You did the same with me, too, the day before I married Steve. And you did it with Steve and Bucky for me back in September. You see people and you build bridges between people.”

Sam's smile turns slightly embarrassed, but his eyes hold yours steadily. "Just part of the service," he jokes, but then grows more serious. "Everyone deserves a chance to understand each other. Especially people who matter to each other."

"Well, thank you," you say simply.

"You're welcome." Sam shifts, careful not to disturb Sophia. "Besides, your mom was right about some things. This whole arrangement was crazy."

You laugh softly. "Was?"

"Is," he corrects with a grin. "But it's working out better than any of us could have predicted, isn't it?"

Before you can answer, the door at the front of the plane opens. Steve emerges, followed by a somber-looking woman in a dark suit whom you recognize as Maria Hill.

You straighten in your seat, drinking in the sight of Steve after three days apart. He looks tired—more than tired, something about his expression unsettles you immediately. There's a tightness around his eyes, a gravity to his movements that wasn't there when you spoke over FaceTime this morning.

Steve's gaze finds yours immediately. His expression softens, but the tension doesn't fully leave his features. He exchanges a few final words with Maria, their heads bent close together, her voice too low for you to hear over the drone of the engines.

You watch as Steve nods once, decisively, before Maria turns and heads toward the rear of the plane where some of the intelligence staff are seated. Steve makes his way down the aisle toward you, stopping briefly to speak with Jake and Elspeth.

When he finally reaches you, the knot of concern in your chest tightens. Up close, the strain around his eyes is more pronounced, the set of his jaw rigid.

"Hi," you say softly as he slides into the seat beside you.

"Hi," Steve replies, his voice low and slightly rough, as if he's been talking for hours. His hand finds yours immediately, fingers interlacing with a gentle pressure that feels almost desperate in its need for connection.

You search his face. "What's wrong?"

Most of the staff are either working, sleeping, or wearing noise-canceling headphones, but he still lowers his voice to a near whisper. "Nothing immediate. Just... concerning intelligence."

The muscles in your stomach tighten. Since Steve became a serious contender in the presidential race, he's been receiving regular intelligence briefings—a tradition for major party candidates to ensure a smooth transition should they win. You've grown accustomed to the routine, to the way he emerges from these meetings with a thoughtful, typically troubled expression. Most of the information he’s given in those meetings is also highly sensitive if not outright classified.

You take his hand in both of yours, bringing it to rest in your lap. "Is it something you can talk about?" you ask, keeping your voice equally low.

Steve lets out a long, slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you hold his hand. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, a grounding gesture that seems as much for his benefit as for yours.

"I can't discuss the details," he says after a moment, his voice barely audible over the engines. "But there are situations developing that will need immediate attention after the election." His eyes meet yours, troubled and deep. "No matter who wins."

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Steve has always carried the burdens of leadership differently than others—not as opportunities or challenges, but as sacred obligations to the people counting on him.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask, knowing there likely isn't but needing to offer anyway.

"There is," Steve says, his voice softening as he shifts closer to you. "Just be here."

He leans back in his seat, his eyes closing briefly as he draws a deep breath. When they open again, there's something vulnerable in his gaze that makes your chest ache.

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "These past three days felt like three weeks."

"I know," you whisper, squeezing his hand. "The swing through Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana was productive, but every event I kept thinking of what you would say, how you would handle it."

A small smile touches his lips. "And how did hypothetical me do?"

"Not nearly as well as real me," you tease, drawing the laugh from him you'd hoped for. "But you would have been proud. Polling suggests we gained ground with suburban women in all three states."

Steve's smile broadens, some of the tension leaving his face. "I am proud. Especially of that interview you did in Indianapolis." His hand finds the nape of your neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there.

You lean into his touch, your eyes briefly closing at the relief his fingers bring to muscles knotted from days of campaign stress.

"I just answered honestly," you say, remembering the local news interview that had unexpectedly gone viral after you'd spoken candidly about healthcare access in rural communities.

"That's what made it powerful," Steve says. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you. "Two days left. Can you believe it?"

You shake your head, still processing the whirlwind that has been your life since that fateful meeting with Pepper Potts in May. "Sometimes it feels like we've been campaigning forever. Other times, I can't believe how quickly it's all happened."

Steve's eyes hold yours, something profound shifting in their blue depths. "I keep thinking about where we were six months ago. How impossible this all seemed." His voice is a gentle rumble that vibrates through you. "Now we're two days from potentially—"

"Don't," you whisper, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. "No jinxing it."

He smiles against your finger, then captures your hand and kisses your palm. "Superstitious now?"

"Cautiously optimistic," you correct, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest that his touch evokes.

The plane encounters another patch of turbulence, more pronounced this time. Steve's arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, steadying you as the aircraft shudders. You lean into him, and the turbulence settles.

"That's what I like to hear," Steve murmurs, his arm remaining around you even after the turbulence passes. "Cautiously optimistic is exactly where we need to be."

You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him—that perfect blend of clean cotton, subtle cologne, and something that is uniquely Steve. Despite the exhaustion dragging at your limbs, despite the worry you'd seen etched in his features moments ago, this closeness grounds you in a way nothing else can. And once again, as the two of you quietly converse, tucked comfortably into one another, you fight but are unable to keep from falling asleep in his arms.

You wake to gentle pressure against your temple—Steve's lips brushing a kiss there, his breath warm against your skin.

"We're starting our descent," he murmurs. "You've been out for about an hour."

Blinking away sleep, you straighten in your seat, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to—"

"You needed it," Steve says, his hand still resting comfortably on your knee. Through the window, you can see the scattered constellation of Boston's lights growing larger below.

"Did you sleep at all?" you ask, noting the lingering tension around his eyes.

He shakes his head. "Too much on my mind."

You reach up to smooth a strand of hair that's fallen across his forehead. "The briefing?"

"That. The polls. Tomorrow's schedule.”

"The usual campaign insomnia," you say with understanding, your fingers lingering at his temple where you can feel the tension gathered there.

"Something like that," he agrees, but there's a note in his voice that tells you it's more than just pre-election jitters.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing your imminent arrival. Around you, the campaign staff begin to stir, gathering materials, checking phones that had been silenced during the flight. You deplane and the team piles into a dozen vehicles waiting on the tarmac to take you all directly to the hotel to catch the limited amount of sleep you’ll be afforded before things start back up in the morning.

[NOVEMBER 2 - BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS]

Morning arrives too soon, the pale November light filtering through the hotel curtains you forgot to fully close. For a moment, you lie perfectly still, orienting yourself in yet another unfamiliar room. Boston. The final day before the election.

The other side of the bed is empty. Though everything between you and Steve has changed, deepened, and grown, you are still dancing around sharing a room and a bed. After that night you asked him to stay with you in Tucson, your mom had come for those next few days on the campaign, and then your itineraries had split you up geographically, but even on the nights of overlap, there seemed to be this half-spoken avoidance. You have been hesitant of exploring the intimacy and domesticity of sleeping together routinely in this environment. There are so many things you and Steve have said to each other and about each other, but there are still things that have been left unsaid, and the endless circuit of the campaign cycle didn’t seem like the place to say any of it.

The digital clock reads 5:47, and though you’re annoyed you’ve woken up before your scheduled 6am start to the day, you are glad for the precious few minutes of sleepy solitude you still have. You allow yourself the luxury of stretching, muscles protesting after weeks of constant movement and too little rest. The sheets smell of hotel laundry—a scent that has become almost as familiar as your old home.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Steve: Good morning. Couldn't sleep, went for a run. Briefing and breakfast at 7?

You smile at his predictability—yo’ve heard about his runs, and even on the precipice of potentially becoming the next president, Steve Rogers seeks clarity in the rhythm of his feet against pavement. You don’t expect it to change, regardless of how the election results go. You type back: Yes to breakfast. Coffee already necessary. Be safe.

The three dots appear immediately, then: Always am. Sleep well?

Better than expected, but not long enough, you reply honestly. Hotel pillows are growing on me.

Dangerous adaptation, he responds with a laughing emoji. Then, a moment later: Going to catch sunrise over Boston Harbor. Wish you were here.

The simple sentiment warms you more than it should. Six months ago, such casual intimacy between you would have been unimaginable. Now it feels as natural as breathing.

Bed better than running, you send back.

His response is immediate: Debatable. Will bring you coffee when I get back.

You smile, setting your phone down and pulling yourself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed. The hotel room is elegant but impersonal, like all the others you've occupied during this campaign—luxury without personality, comfort without home. You've become an expert at navigating unfamiliar bathrooms in the dark, at finding the light switches and remembering which side of the bed you chose the night before.

The shower helps clear the fog of too little sleep. As the hot water cascades over your shoulders, you mentally rehearse today's schedule: the community health center visit, lunch with healthcare advocates, an afternoon rally at Boston University, and then the massive evening event at Faneuil Hall. The final push before Election Day.

By the time you emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in the hotel's plush robe, your phone is lighting up with notifications. Campaign updates, news alerts, text messages from Sam about last-minute scheduling changes. The bubble of morning solitude pops, reality rushing in with the force of a breaking dam.

You dress quickly in the outfit laid out the night before—a carefully selected ensemble that projects both approachability and professionalism. The campaign's messaging team has fine-tuned every visual element of these final appearances, down to the color of your scarf, which matches the campaign's signature blue.

A soft knock at the door comes just as you're fastening your watch. Through the peephole, you see Steve, looking refreshed despite the early hour, a cardboard tray holding two coffee cups in one hand.

"Morning," he says when you open the door, his smile warming his tired eyes. He's showered and changed since his run, dressed in a navy suit that makes his eyes even more blue. "Coffee as promised."

"You're a lifesaver," you murmur, accepting the cup he offers. "How was the harbor?" you ask, stepping out into the hall to walk down to breakfast with him.

"Peaceful. Water was like glass. Sun coming up behind the city." He pauses, something wistful crossing his features. "Made me wish I had my sketchbook."

You take a long sip of coffee, savoring the perfect blend��he remembers exactly how you like it. "When this is all over, we should come back. You can sketch all day if you want."

Steve's smile deepens, creating those little crinkles around his eyes that you've grown to love. "I'll hold you to that."

The two of you walk in comfortable silence down the rest of the hallway to the elevator, Secret Service agents quietly flanking you. Steve's presence beside you is solid, reassuring. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, you catch glimpses of yourselves—a little tired, a little worn, but standing tall. The potential First Couple. The thought still feels surreal.

"Sleep well?" he asks softly as the elevator descends.

"You already asked me that," you remind him with a smile.

"I know. Just checking if your answer changes in person." His hand finds the small of your back as the doors open, a gentle, protective gesture that's become second nature.

Another hotel conference room has been transformed into another campaign outpost, screens displaying polling data and schedules lining the walls. Campaign staff mill about, some already deep in conversation, others nursing coffee with the glazed look of people running on fumes and determination.

Sam spots you first, raising his coffee cup in greeting from where he's huddled with Sophia, Bucky and Jake. You're about to head their way when you notice a familiar figure standing near the breakfast buffet—Maria Hill, the same intelligence officer from the plane. She's not alone. A man in an impeccable dark suit stands beside her, his posture military-straight, his expression grave as he surveys the room with calculated precision.

Steve's hand tenses almost imperceptibly against your back. You glance up at him, catching the slight hardening of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes.

"What is it?" you ask quietly.

"Agent Calloway," Steve acknowledges with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension you feel radiating through his palm against your back. "I wasn't expecting to see you in Boston."

The man—Agent Calloway—turns toward you both, his weathered face revealing nothing as he approaches with measured steps. He's older than Maria, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped greying hair and eyes that seem to catalog every detail of the room in continuous sweeps.

"Captain Rogers," he says, extending a hand to Steve. "I’ve been assigned to personally oversee the enhanced security protocols for these final campaign events." His handshake is brief, then his attention shifts to you with professional efficiency. "Ma'am," he says with a respectful nod.

You return the greeting, a sense of unease creeping up your spine. Enhanced security protocols. The words are heavy, unexpected. Should you be more worried?

You offer what you hope is a polite smile, but Calloway's steel-gray eyes catch the flicker of worry that crosses your face. His expression softens marginally—the change so subtle you might have missed it if you weren't studying him so intently.

"Please don't be concerned, ma'am," he says, his voice dropping to a more conversational tone. "Enhanced protocols are standard procedure for the final days before an election. The heightened visibility, larger crowds—it's all part of the calculus."

You nod, attempting to look reassured, but you can feel Steve's body beside yours, taut as a bowstring.

"Standard procedure," Steve repeats, the words measured and careful. His face maintains the pleasant, diplomatic expression he's perfected during the campaign, but you know the mask. “It seems a bit unnece–”

“Captain Rogers,” Calloway interrupts, “sir, let me stop you right there. My men and women and I are more than aware of your capability to defend yourself. They assigned me because I’m the one who will take the least amount of pushback from you. We know you’re an Avenger. Should anything happen, we would not be surprised to have you fighting and defending alongside us.”

You don’t even have to look, you can feel the frown emanating from Steve. You keep your eyes on Calloway’s face.

“Our responsibility is to keep an eye on everyone and everything to keep you and the public safe. Your responsibility right now is to campaign. If elected, it will be to lead the American people. That’s why we’re here. Let us do our job so you can do yours.”

“This old man is retired anyway,” Sam chimes in, stepping up next to Steve and clapping him on the back, jostling him on purpose to loosen him up.

The tension in Steve's shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but his expression softens at Sam's intervention. He nods once at Calloway, conceding the point without quite relinquishing his concern.

"I appreciate the dedication," Steve says, his voice measured. "Just make sure your team keeps my staff safe - I’m no more important than them."

"Consider it done," Calloway responds with crisp efficiency. "We've been briefed on all locations and have advance teams in place. They will monitor and update throughout the day.”

Maria Hill approaches, tablet in hand. "If you have a moment, Captain, there are some logistics we should review before your first event." Her tone is professional, but you catch the subtle urgency beneath.

Steve's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you. "I'll catch up with you," he says, his hand squeezing yours briefly before following Maria and Calloway to a quieter corner of the room.

Sam stays beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. "Don't worry," he says quietly as you both watch Steve step away. "Extra security is normal for the final push."

"Is it?" you ask, unable to keep the doubt from your voice.

"Yes," Sam insists, then adds with a half-smile, "though having Hill still on site for national security and intelligence updates is... possibly not."

You turn to face him fully. "Sam."

He meets your gaze, “I’m genuinely not concerned yet - I’m alert, but not concerned. Bucky agrees, he thinks whatever situation is developing is probably serious, but that Maria’s staying close more out of a personal sense of duty than any real safety concern.”

You frown. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“No. I’ve been around these heroes for years, and I know sometimes they try and save us regular folk from bad news, but in the end that never helps. I don’t think Bucky will hold back with you, and I don’t think Steve would intentionally either, but I can definitely promise I’ll bullshit you now and then, but I’ll always be straight with you when it matters.”

You nod, finding comfort in Sam's directness. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

"Come on," Sam says, guiding you toward the breakfast buffet. "You need to eat something. Big day ahead."

You follow him, but your eyes drift back to Steve, who's now leaning over a tablet with Maria and Calloway, his brow furrowed in concentration. The three of them speak in low voices, their expressions grave. The knot of unease in your stomach tightens.

"He's concerned," you murmur, more to yourself than to Sam.

"He's always concerned," Sam counters gently. "It's his default setting. Has been since I met him."

You smile despite yourself. "I've noticed."

Sophia waves you over to a table where she's sitting with Bucky and Jake, campaign materials spread between their plates. As you approach, you notice the dark circles under Sophia's eyes, the slight tremor in Jake's hand as he lifts his coffee cup. Everyone is feeling the weight of these final hours.

"Morning," Jake greets you, sliding a folder across the table. "Final numbers from last night's polling.”

"How's it looking?" you ask, opening the folder as you settle into a chair next to Sophia.

"It's tight," Jake says. "The national polls still have Monroe up by two, but within the margin of error."

"The battleground states are where it matters," Sophia adds, tapping a spreadsheet with her pen. "Pennsylvania and Michigan are looking good, but Wisconsin and Arizona are razor-thin with Steve biting on both their heels."

You nod, scanning the numbers. Your stomach churns with a familiar mixture of hope and anxiety that has become your constant companion these last weeks. The race is close—closer than any of you had anticipated when this journey began.

"Florida's polling is all over the place," Bucky says, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Depending on which poll you believe, Steve, Monroe, or Peterson take the sunshine state, and it skews the board no matter which way it goes.”

“So, basically, we’re doing well, but no one knows how well?” you ask.

"It's an election," Jake says with a wry smile. "No one ever really knows until the votes are counted."

Bucky leans forward, his metal hand tapping lightly on the table. "What matters is that we're competitive everywhere we need to be. Six months ago, no one thought an independent candidate could seriously contend. Now..." His voice trails off as his eyes drift to where Steve is still deep in conversation with Maria and Calloway.

"Now we've got them scared," Sophia finishes, a fierce pride in her voice.

[NOVEMBER 2 - EVENING - NEW YORK CITY]

You and Steve are put into a car with Jake and Lisa once you touchdown in New York, getting off the campaign plane for the final time. Your campaign manager and press secretary want to use the short ride from La Guardia to the hotel in Midtown Manhattan to review final notes before the morning.

"The itinerary is straightforward," Jake says, scrolling through his tablet. "Early breakfast with the New York campaign volunteers at 6 AM, radio morning shows from 6:30 to 7, then straight to your polling place in Brooklyn by 7:30. We want the images of you two voting to hit the morning news cycles."

"After that," Lisa continues, "it's a series of get-out-the-vote stops across the city. We'll hit all five boroughs by mid-afternoon.”

“Then we have a break for the two of you until dinner and a final event in Central Park at 7 PM, which should give us prime placement for the evening news for all time zones," Jake says. “It should hopefully pull in some undecided voters - the ones who are debating whether to go home after work or go to the polls, and those are the voters likely to sway to you.”

Steve nods, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand where it rests between you on the seat. "And the rest of the night?"

"We've secured the Grand Ballroom at the Plaza for the watch party," Lisa says. "Doors open to supporters at seven, but we don't expect either of you to make an appearance until at least nine, when the first results start coming in."

“This is why we’ve got the afternoon siesta for the two of you,” Jake says, his tone straightforward, logical, leaving no space to argue, “you’ll both need to be public-ready.”

"And if it's a long night?" you ask, voicing the question that's been weighing on all of you. With such a tight race, a definitive result by the end of the night is far from guaranteed.

Jake and Lisa exchange glances. "We have contingency plans," Lisa answers. “The event in Central Park will continue through the night as long as it’s viable. If there’s any need for a public address, we want you to make it to the crowd outdoors in the park.”

“Absolutely,” Steve nods, “it’ll be a cold, long night for them, and if there’s something to be said, I want to be able to show them how much they’re appreciated.”

The car glides through late-night New York traffic, the city lights reflecting off rain-slicked streets. You feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down—the culmination of months of exhausting work, of speeches and handshakes and strategy sessions. Of a marriage that began as strategy and transformed into something neither of you could have predicted.

"What about security?" Steve asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

Jake nods, his expression serious. "Calloway's team has coordinated with NYPD, FBI, and Homeland. The security presence will be significant but as unobtrusive as possible. We don't want to alarm voters or create bottlenecks at polling places."

The car slows as it approaches The Plaza Hotel, the familiar choreography of arrival unfolding once more. Secret Service agents radio ahead, confirming positions.

Even though your home is in New York - the new home you have yet to truly live in yet with Steve in Brooklyn - you’re staying at The Plaza Hotel since it will be campaign headquarters for the next 36 hours, ready to go in the morning immediately with the campaign staff.

The SUV pulls to a stop under the elegant awning of The Plaza, its golden lights glowing against the darkness. Immediately, the flurry of your arrival begins—Secret Service agents materializing from seemingly nowhere, forming a protective perimeter as hotel staff stand at attention near the entrance. Despite the late hour, a small crowd of reporters and curious onlookers has gathered behind barricades, camera flashes punctuating the darkness like artificial lightning.

"Ready?" Steve asks quietly.

“Let’s do this.” You nod, summoning a smile that feels genuine despite your exhaustion. This is the final push—one more night, one more day, and then whatever comes next.

The moment the car door opens, the world rushes in—the cool November air carrying the scent of rain and the city, the sounds of late night traffic, the frenzied murmur of voices. Steve exits first, turning to offer you his hand. Camera flashes explode like silent lightning around you and Steve.

"Captain Rogers! How are you feeling about tomorrow?" "Any response to Senator Monroe's latest polling numbers?" "Are you confident about your chances?"

Steve offers a practiced wave and a warm smile that somehow manages to convey both confidence and humility. "We're focused on getting out the vote tomorrow," he calls to the reporters, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without seeming to shout. "Every American deserves to have their voice heard in this election."

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you forward with practiced ease as the two of you navigate the gauntlet of questions and flashing cameras. The Secret Service forms a protective bubble around you, not pushing or shoving but somehow creating space through sheer presence. You've become accustomed to this dance—the careful balance of accessibility and security, of warmth and vigilance.

The Plaza's ornate lobby envelops you in sudden quiet, the thick carpets and soaring ceilings absorbing the chaos that swirls just outside its revolving doors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors, transforming the space into something from another era—a pocket of gilded elegance that has somehow survived the city's constant reinvention.

The advance campaign staff move with practiced efficiency, checking in with each other in hushed tones. Several nod respectfully as you and Steve pass, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and determination. These are the people who have sacrificed sleep, stability, and sometimes sanity to bring this improbable campaign to the precipice of possible victory.

Amidst the quiet bustle, you spot Eric, your logistics coordinator. When she sees you, Eric breaks away from the hotel staff, his efficiency on display even at this late hour. He's been with the campaign since June, and his ability to coordinate the movement of hundreds of people across the country with military precision has been invaluable.

"Captain Rogers, Mrs. Rogers," he greets you both with a quick nod. "Everything's set for tomorrow. Your rooms are ready—you’re on the fifteenth floor. The campaign staff is distributed across the fourteenth and fifteenth."

He hands each of you a key card in a small Plaza-emblazoned envelope. "I've had your luggage sent up. The 6 AM breakfast meeting will be in the Grand Ballroom. We've converted the Edwardian Room into our command center—all the polling data will be coming in there throughout the day tomorrow."

"Thank you, Eric. For everything." The simple words feel inadequate for the months of meticulous planning he's orchestrated, transforming the logistical nightmare of a presidential campaign into something almost manageable.

"Just doing my job," he replies with characteristic modesty, but his tired eyes brighten at the recognition. "Oh, and Mrs. Potts called. She's arriving early tomorrow morning. She'll meet you directly at the breakfast event."

Steve nods, his hand still resting gently at the small of your back, like it’s always belonged there. "Perfect.”

Jake checks his watch and stifles a yawn. "It's almost eleven. We made good time. You two head up, Lisa and I will help Eric marshal the rest of the troops as they arrive.”

You suspect Steve agrees because then he can hold you to going up as well, and he always tries to take care of you and the rest of his team. The two of you cross the lobby to the elevators, and it’s only a few moments before one arrives. Two Secret Service agents file in with you. As the lift ascends, the subtle vibration beneath your feet seems to harmonize with the nervous flutter in your chest.

Your fingers fidget with the edge of your sleeve, a small tell that you've never quite managed to control when anticipation takes hold. Steve notices—of course he notices. Those observant blue eyes miss nothing, especially when it comes to you.

"Hey," Steve's voice is gentle as his hand covers yours, stilling the restless movement. "You okay?"

You look up to find his eyes studying you with that particular intensity that always makes your heart skip—the look that sees past practiced smiles and campaign-ready expressions to the truth underneath.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. After everything you've been through together, the practiced deflections feel wrong. "Actually, I'm a little nervous."

His brow furrows slightly, concern deepening the blue of his eyes. "About tomorrow?"

"No. Well, yes, of course about tomorrow, but that's not—" You pause as the elevator slows, the display indicating you've reached the fifteenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal an elegantly appointed hallway, its rich carpeting muffling the sound as the Secret Service agents step out first, performing their customary sweep.

"All clear, sir," one of them says, positioning himself discreetly near the elevator bank while the other advances down the hallway, you and Steve following behind.

You watch the numbers of the doors as you pass, then stop when you get to room 1518. “This is me,” you say.

He frowns briefly, looking at the number on his key card envelope. “Mine says 1518, too.”

“Mhmm,” you nod, looking up at him through your lashes.

The realization settles over Steve's face, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding. "Oh," he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I see."

You hand your key card to the agent, who taps it to the door and enters to do a security sweep.

"I asked Sophia to arrange it with Eric," you admit, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts. "I thought… for our last night before everything changes one way or another, I just want to be with you."

Steve's expression softens and he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"That’s what you were nervous about?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Asking me to stay with you tonight?"

You nod, feeling shy despite the months of growing intimacy between you. "We've been dancing around it. But tonight..."

Steve's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. He doesn’t say anything, the way he looks at your face, you don’t need him to. Reassurance and longing are written and reflected there.

A moment later, the agent steps out of the room. “All clear. We’ll be monitoring the floor.”

“Thank you, Roberts,” Steve says without looking away from you.

You enter first, and the door swings open to reveal a spacious suite, elegantly appointed in the Plaza's signature style—cream walls, gold accents, plush furnishings in muted tones. Your luggage sits neatly arranged near the closet, and a small bouquet of fresh flowers brightens the writing desk.

Steve follows right behind you, the door closing behind him with a gentle thud that seems to seal you both away from the world outside. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sudden privacy after days of constant company and scrutiny creating a bubble of stillness around you.

"So," Steve says.

The word hangs between you, heavy with unspoken anticipation. You turn to face him fully, taking in the sight of him—this man who has somehow become the center of your universe in the span of a few tumultuous months. The lines of fatigue around his eyes only enhance the intensity of his gaze as it locks with yours.

"So," you echo, a small smile playing at your lips. "Here we are."

"Here we are," he agrees, his voice a low rumble that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance until mere inches separate you. "The night before everything changes."

You reach up, fingers gently tugging to loosen his tie. "Everything's already changed, Steve. Whatever happens tomorrow..."

"We face it together," he finishes, capturing your hand where it rests against his chest. His fingers envelop yours, warm and steady. "Just like we promised."

The weight of tomorrow presses against the edges of your consciousness, but here, in this moment, there is only Steve—his presence solid and real before you. The campaign, the election, the world waiting beyond these walls—all of it recedes as you lean into him.

"I'm glad you arranged this," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Us tonight."

"I've wanted to for weeks," you admit. "But everything's been so intense, and there never seemed to be the right moment to..."

"I know." His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone, his touch gentle yet grounding. "And I’ve never wanted to assume or rush, but I've wanted it too."

Your eyes drift closed as he leans forward, his breath warm against your lips just before they meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but as his arms encircle you, drawing you closer against the solid warmth of his chest, something shifts—urgency bleeding into tenderness, months of carefully banked desire kindling into something more demanding.

Your fingers thread through his hair, fusing him to you as the kiss deepens. His hands span your waist, lifting you effortlessly until your feet barely touch the ground. The sensation of being suspended, weightless in his embrace, sends a thrill through you that has nothing to do with the campaign or tomorrow's uncertainties.

When you finally break apart, both breathless, Steve rests his forehead against yours. His eyes, when they open, are darkened with desire but still impossibly blue. His eyes hold yours, a universe of emotion swirling in their blue depths. He shrugs off his suit coat, you slip out of your coat, and Steve takes both and drapes them over a nearby armchair. Then Steve steps close to you again, his hands moving to frame your face, his touch reverent as his thumbs trace the curve of your cheekbones.

"I've been hungry for this moment," he confesses, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you where your bodies press together. "Being alone with you. Really alone."

"Me, too," you confess, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw and his well-trimmed beard.

His smile in response is both tender and knowing, a silent acknowledgment of the journey that brought you here—from strangers to hesitant allies to something neither of you could have anticipated. His hands slide up your back, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips find yours again.

This kiss is different—deeper, unhurried yet purposeful. The careful restraint that's defined so much of your relationship begins to unravel with each passing second. His lips move against yours with increasing urgency, and you respond in kind, your body arching into his as if drawn by some invisible force.

Steve guides you backward through the suite with what feels like a dancer's grace, each step purposeful yet fluid. The world narrows to the points where your bodies connect—his hand at the small of your back, his chest against yours, his lips moving with increasing urgency against your own. The sitting room passes in a blur of cream and gold, furniture mere obstacles to navigate around as you drift through the space in this intimate waltz.

Your fingers work at his tie again, tugging the knot loose with fumbling eagerness. The silk slides free with a whisper against cotton, and you let it fall, forgotten, somewhere behind you. His mouth never leaves yours as you move together, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between kisses. Your shoulder bumps gently against a doorframe—the threshold to the bedroom—and Steve's arm tightens around you, steadying you against him.

"I've got you," he murmurs against your lips, the words more breath than sound.

You feel the familiar pressure of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the doorway and into the bedroom. The soft glow of city lights filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in muted blues and golds.

Your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, move to the buttons of his crisp white shirt. The first button slips free easily, revealing a triangle of warm skin at his throat that you caress briefly before continuing your task. The second proves more challenging as Steve's kisses grow more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes focusing on anything else nearly impossible. You manage the third button just as the back of your knees meet the edge of the bed.

At some point between the sitting room and the bedroom, Steve had evidently unzipped your dress, because now he quickly pushes the fabric down over your shoulders, and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet. He turns you around in his arms, pulling you flush against him. Without missing a beat, his left hand comes up to collar your throat and turn your head to the side so he can continue devouring your lips with his own. His other hand slides over the roundness of your stomach and down into your panties, no hesitation

His fingers slide against you, finding you already wet and ready for him. You gasp against his mouth at the contact, your body arching into his touch. Steve's lips trail from yours to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot on your skin, and his beard scratching pleasantly against your neck.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Wanted you."

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair as his thumb circles your most sensitive spot with exquisite precision. Your legs tremble, and he tightens his arm across your chest, supporting your weight as pleasure builds with each deliberate stroke.

"Steve," you breathe, the word half plea, half prayer.

He turns you in his arms once more, then pushes you back onto the mattress. He’s quick to follow, hovering over you as you both slither further up the bed, capturing your mouth in that kiss that's constant hunger and heat.

His shirt hangs open now, and you push it from his shoulders, murmuring, “Too many clothes,” desperate to feel his skin against yours. He shrugs it off, chuckling against your lips.

"I agree," he murmurs, his hands moving to unclasp your bra with surprising dexterity. As he tosses it aside, his eyes darken with appreciation, taking in the sight of you beneath him. "God, you're beautiful."

His palm cups your breast, thumb brushing across the sensitive peak as he lowers his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. You arch into his touch, fingers working at his belt buckle with growing urgency. The metal clinks as it comes free, and Steve shifts to help you push his pants down his hips.

The bed cradles you as Steve's weight settles over you, his body a perfect counterbalance of power and restraint. Every touch feels like a revelation, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, as if mapping territories both familiar and new.

"You're beautiful," he whispers against your collarbone, his lips tracking a slow path downward. "So beautiful."

Your fingers explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath warm skin as he moves. When his mouth closes over your breast, a soft gasp escapes you, your back arching into the sensation. His beard creates a delicious friction against your sensitive skin, the contrast between softness and roughness heightening every sensation.

He sucks and lavishes your nipple with attention that makes your head spin before moving his mouth to your other breast and delivering more of the dizzying pleasure. Only when he has you squirming beneath him is he satisfied. He moves back up your body, and his mouth captures yours again.

Your hands slide over the muscled planes of his chest, marveling at the contrast between the softness of his skin and the hardness of the body beneath. When your fingers trace the defined ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Steve shivers beneath your touch, his breath catching as your fingers dip below the elastic of his boxers. The hardness of him strains against the fabric, his physical desire for you manifested plainly. You trace the length of him through the cotton, reveling in the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes darken to midnight as they hold yours.

"I need you," you whisper, emboldened by the naked want in his gaze. "All of you."

The words act like a catalyst. Steve moves with sudden purpose, stripping away the last barriers between you until there's nothing but skin against skin, heat against heat. His weight settles partially on you, one strong thigh slipping between yours as he claims your mouth again. You’re sure you’re going to forget to breathe, the way this man - your husband - kisses you in this moment.

His hand skims down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding between your bodies. When his fingers find your folds again, you gasp against his mouth, your body arching into his touch. He explores you with gentle thoroughness, learning what makes your breath catch, what draws those soft moans from deep in your throat.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a plea as tension coils tighter within you. "Please."

He understands what you're asking for, positioning himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance. His eyes find yours, intense and questioning even now.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with need but still so careful, so considerate.

In answer, you wrap your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. The first slow push of him entering you draws a moan from both your lips, the sensation of fullness, of completeness, overwhelming in its intensity. He moves with deliberate control, giving you time to adjust to him, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Yes," you whisper, tracing his cheekbone with trembling fingers. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Steve's eyes hold yours as he begins to move, setting a rhythm that quickly has you both breathing hard. The world narrows to this—to the perfect friction where your bodies join, to the sound of his breath against your ear, to the weight of him above you, anchoring you against the rising tide of pleasure.

His pace quickens, driven by your encouraging moans and the way your hips rise to meet each thrust. One of his hands slides beneath you, tilting your hips at an angle that has you gasping his name, your nails digging into the solid muscle of his shoulders.

"Steve," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips as pleasure builds within you, coiling tighter with each movement of his hips against yours.

"Let go," he murmurs against your throat, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I've got you."

His mouth captures yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last, as if he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

The exquisite tension builds and builds until it finally breaks like a wave crashing against shore, pleasure radiating outward from where your bodies join. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, fingers gripping Steve's shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid with sensation. He follows you moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him, your name a reverent whisper against your throat.

For several heartbeats, neither of you moves, bodies still joined, breaths mingling in the narrow space between your faces. Steve's weight is carefully balanced on his forearms, his body a warm shelter above yours. When he lifts his head to look at you, the tenderness in his gaze makes your chest ache with an emotion too vast to name.

"Hey," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead with gentle fingers.

"Hey yourself," you reply, voice slightly hoarse.

As the aftershocks subside, Steve gathers you close, rolling to his side and bringing you with him. Your head finds the perfect resting place against his chest, where you can hear the gradual slowing of his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the world slowly expands beyond the two of you once more.

"That was..." you begin, struggling to find words adequate for what just transpired between you.

"Worth waiting for," Steve finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Though I've been thinking about it since that night in Tucson."

You smile against his skin. "Only since Tucson?”

His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into yours, a warm sound that wraps around you like a blanket. "Maybe before," he admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "Maybe since that day in the garden at the DAR headquarters when you told me what you really thought about my speech."

"That long?" you ask, tilting your head to look up at him, finding his expression soft with memory. That had been a sweltering hot afternoon in mid-July - long before you thought he viewed you as more than an ally.

"You surprised me," Steve says simply. "Not many people do that anymore."

You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly, drinking in the sight of him relaxed and unguarded in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. "For me it was the hospital visit in Chicago."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Really? That early?"

"Not consciously," you admit, tracing the line of his collarbone with your fingertip. Chicago had been the very tail end of June. "But looking back, that's when everything started to shift. You were so you, even when no one was watching."

Steve captures your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. “I love you,” he declares for the first time, no restraint, voice firm and warm.

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re quick to respond in kind, grinning when you say, “I love you, too,” your face splitting into a wide grin.

The moment hangs between you, weightless and perfect. Steve's smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way that makes your heart flutter. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin.

“I love you,” he says again.

You settle back against him, content in the circle of his arms as the sounds of the city filter in through the windows—distant sirens, the occasional car horn, the ambient hum that is uniquely New York. Tomorrow looms beyond this moment, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, but here, now, there is only this—the steady rhythm of Steve's heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body, the love you’ve been building together finally spoken aloud.

"I've been thinking about this," he confesses, his voice still thick with emotion. "About tonight. About us. About what happens after tomorrow."

You flatten your palm over his chest, anchoring yourself against the tide of feelings his words evoke. "What do you think happens? After tomorrow?"

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait. "I don't know what happens with the election. But I know what I want to happen with us."

Your heart beats faster, a flutter of anticipation rising in your chest. "Tell me."

Steve takes a breath, his hands sliding up and down your back, caressing your body with gentle reverence. "I want us to continue building our life together. The real one I feel like we’ve been nurturing—not just for the cameras or the campaign. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments in between."

The raw honesty in his voice catches at something deep inside you. This is Steve—the man beneath the mantle.

"I want that too," you whisper, the words feeling like a promise. "All of it."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer against the solid warmth of his chest. Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but in this room, in this bed, time seems suspended—a perfect bubble of peace before tomorrow's storm.

"No matter what happens with the election," Steve murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "this—us—is real. It's the most real thing in my life."

You lift your head to look at him, taking in the sincerity etched across his features, the vulnerability in his eyes that he shows to so few. "Mine too."

His smile in response warms you from the inside out. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tender precision. "Get some sleep," he whispers.

“You first,” you tease.

He laughs softly before kissing you once more before you both drift off.

next part: Election Day in New York, part 1

Did I include links for rooms at The Plaza, including the room type I decided I wanted you and Steve to spend the night together in? Yes. Yes, I did.

DID YOU ALSO GET TO FINALLY HAVE SEX WITH YOUR FANTASTIC HUSBAND? YES! THE THING WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME, but I knew from the very beginning that I wanted your first time to be on the eve of the election, and even as the story gained more plot and put more and more chapters and developments between where we started and getting to this night, I'm so glad I stuck to that part of the original plan.

....can you believe I thought this story was only going to be six or seven chapters? 🤣

↠ 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!

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #slow burn #political au #steve rogers x y/n #red white & true #aspen wrote something #female reader #steve rogers x yn

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gallavichsreddie1128 · 1 month ago

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Once Was Your Friend (John Walker/Bucky Barnes)

Description: Y/N is surprised to see Bucky after the events of TFATWS

Word Count: 2,093

Author’s Note: Past Bucky x Reader? I made Bucky an asshole in this.

Y/N twirled her wedding ring on her finger as she sat in the back of the truck along with Yelena, Ava and her husband. Her mind raced as her hands were shaking, “You okay?” He asked her, placing a hand on her knee. She nodded and looked over at him, “Yeah, I just can’t believe he’s here.” She said and he nodded. “Yeah it’s pretty crazy.”

She sighed and looked at the ground, “I just never thought I’d see him again.” Ava and Yelena looked at Y/N confused, “Are you talking about Bucky? You know him?” Ava asked and Y/N nodded. “Knew him.” She corrected her. “Kinda makes sense.” Yelena mumbled. Bucky barely even looked at her when he had them all tied up and little did anyone know that he struggled to tie her up.

The Falcon And The Winter Soldier

Y/N was watching the TV with Bucky when the new Captain America got announced and it was written all over Bucky’s face that he wasn’t taking it well, any of it. “You okay?” Y/N asked softly and moved to sit by him. Bucky shook his head, “It’s unbelievable.” He mumbled. He couldn’t believe that, that’s who replaced Steve, it should have been Sam.

“Yeah I get it.” She said and looked back at the TV. The guy looked terrible in that mask, not even Steve looked bad in that mask. She sighed and noticed that Bucky wasn’t next to her anymore, not even in the room. She missed Steve a lot but Bucky knew him longer and was devastated by the news.

“Do you guys need a ride?” Y/N looked over and saw the new Captain America and his sidekick. Before Y/N could respond Bucky responded and it wasn’t nice. Nor him or Sam have been too pleasant to him and Y/N couldn’t understand why. Well she could but the guy was just doing his job, “Guys what the fuck?” Y/N exclaimed to her friends.

Bucky turned towards her, “He’s not helping us.” He hissed at her and kept walking. Y/N rolled her eyes and followed them. “You guys are being assholes.” She said and Sam rolled his eyes. “No, I think we are being fair.” She huffed, “Steve would never act like this.” Before either could respond the car pulled back up to them, John wearing a smirk.

Y/N got in first, followed by Bucky and Sam. “Hi I’m Y/N also known as Y/S/N.” John smiled at her, “I’m a huge fan.” He started and Bucky rolled his eyes. “What’s your name?” Y/N asked Lemar. “Lemar but it’s Battlestar.” “Battlestar?” Sam asked, like it was a ridiculous name. Y/N huffed, “Here we go.” Sam looked at her, “What I’m just asking.” He was being an asshole.

“Thanks for the ride.” Y/N said to them as she got off, following Bucky. “Anytime.” John smiled at her. Y/N didn’t see the problem with him or why Bucky and Sam hated him already.

“You have his number?” Bucky nearly growled. Y/N shrugged, “We are working with him. Relax.” She said and set her phone down. “So you’re best friends now?” She threw her head back and sighed, “Bucky.” She groaned. “I mean we can work with him without you having his number.” Bucky said as he sat down across from her. “I don’t see the issue with him. You hate him because you think he’s trying to be Steve but Bucky he’s doing his job.” She tried. He shook his head, “He’s doing a terrible job at it.” He told her before getting up and leaving the room.

She felt like she was losing Bucky more and more each time John got brought up or even when he was there. Bucky wasn’t an idiot, he could tell that he was losing Y/N to John. That’s what made him even more mad, he loved her and now her feelings are unclear. “Sam, are you sure you should go alone?” Y/N asked him. “I’ll be fine.” He reassured her and nodded to Bucky. Y/N looked at Bucky, they had bigger fish to fry than their friendship right now.

A few minutes had passed and John was freaking out, “This isn’t a good idea.” He said and Bucky glared at him, “It hasn’t been 10 minutes John he’ll be fine. Relax.” Bucky said. “Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me.” He said to Bucky. Y/N put her hand on John’s arm, “Hey, he knows what he’s doing.” She said to him, Bucky glared at the sight, she had her hand on him. “I’m goin’ in. This is all really easy for you, isn’t it? All that serum runnin’ through your veins. Barnes, your partner needs backup in there. Do you really want his blood on your hands?” “No, John.” Y/N yelled after him.

Y/N watched it with her own eyes, she watched Lemar get killed and she watched the sadness and the darkness take over John’s eyes. Her heart fell into her stomach for him, he was holding back tears as he was ready to kill. Did Y/N try to stop him? Yes but she could only do so much. She didn’t want to watch him make the mistake he was about to make.

Y/N heard a series of knocks on her door, it was 2 am. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and got up to see who the hell could be knocking at her door. She opened the door and gasped when she saw John. He looked broken, more broken than when she saw him earlier. “John?” She asked, her voice still full of sleep. “C-Can I come in?” He asked her, voice breaking.

She nodded and let him in, the second she did he nearly collapsed in her arms, crying. She hugged him and dropped to the floor, “Shhh it’s okay. Let it out.” He sobbed and sobbed in her arms as she cooed at him. “They killed him and I killed the guy who did it.” He cried. Her eyes widened but she didn’t pull away, No, she held him tighter. She completely understood why he did, whether it makes it right or not.

He pulled away and he looked like a mess, a beautiful mess. She cupped his face, “I am so sorry about Lemar.” She whispered. She searched his eyes looking for something, anything and all she saw was pain and hurt. “You can stay here tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.” She tells him as she goes to get up. He grabs her arm and she looks at him, “Thank you.” He whispered and she gave him a sad smile.

She started the shower for him and took his suit, it was a disaster. She tried to clean the blood off it and the shield the best she could. After his shower, she let him in bed with her. He stared up at the ceiling, was what he did right? Would everything be okay? Y/N was asleep next to him on her side, facing away from him. He turned towards her and pulled her closer to his body, cuddling her as he sighed. If she was awake she didn’t stop him.

Bucky was furious, pissed that Y/N was defending John for what he did. “Steve killed many with that shield.” “His friend got killed, Buck.” “He’s in a lot of pain.” Bucky hated that she was on his side for what he did. “Y/N, he killed someone out in public.” Bucky yelled at her. “I get that Bucky but you’re not helping the situation.” He scoffed at her.

He was so sick and tired of her trying to make John look like a good guy. “Why are you defending him so much? Are you in love with him?” Bucky asked and he saw her hesitant to answer. “What? N-No.” But her words weren’t believable. “Since you like comparing everyone to Steve I can assure you he’s the farthest thing from him.” Y/N rolled her eyes. She knew at this moment that Bucky viewed her differently than before.

Their friendship was hanging on a string and it was time one of them cut it. “You know what, Bucky? I’m done.” She stood up from his couch, “You don’t understand any of this and all you’re doing what you’ve been doing this entire time is making me the bad guy for wanting to help him.” She yelled.

“So you’re done? With us?” She shook her head, “There never was an us, Bucky.” She had tears in her eyes. That was a lie but it didn’t matter anymore. Bucky was silent for a moment and watched as she went to the door. “Maybe that’s the problem.” He yelled as she left.

Y/N never saw Bucky after that day. Her and John ended up getting married and that confirmed Bucky’s suspicions. He had lost her to his enemy. The life that John was living should be his.

Present

They just nearly got killed by Sentry and everyone was mad. Yelena held nothing back as she roasted everyone but Bucky and Y/N. They had their own thing going on, “You can’t even look me in my eyes.” She yelled to her once best friend. “I just saved your ass in there and that’s all you have to say?” Everyone watched as they yelled at each other. All these years of pent up anger finally released. “Thank you, Bucky. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He rolled his eyes, “Congratulations on getting married by the way. I forgot to text ya.” It was sarcastic.

“You’re still hooked on that?” She asked. “Hooked on that? I lost you because of him.” He exclaimed. John wanted to say something but Y/N had this. “You lost me because of you, Bucky! Because you were an asshole.” “You kept comparing me and Sam to Steve! Is he a good enough Steve for ya?” She rolled her eyes and wanted to punch him. “Oh that’s nice, Bucky. You were comparing him to Steve. I wasn't. All I said was Steve would have NEVER treated John like that.” She yelled.

Bucky huffed out a laugh, “Steve wouldn’t have gone and fucked him either.” “GUYS!” Yelena yelled. Y/N was fuming with rage. Bucky was too and he wasn’t done with this. “I loved you and you walked away from me and never spoke to me again!” Everyone’s eyes widened at that.

“And then you got married to him! You gave me every reason to be suspicious of it.” “We weren’t together, Bucky! You have no right to act like this.” She nearly screamed. “Guys!” Ava tried but it didn’t work. “No we weren’t because you decided to leave.” Bucky said. “GUYS!” Yelena yelled, getting their attention. Y/N looked over and saw Void in the sky. “Shit.”

Val decided to cover her path and make them “the new avengers” which made Y/N’s heart drop. John grabbed her and pulled her into his arms as the crowd clapped. She’d have to work with Bucky. They’d have to work with Bucky.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked Y/N as they entered the tower. “What?” She wasn’t nice about it. “Did you love him while we were still friends?” He asked her. Everyone was still in hearing distance as was John. John remained by her side, “I-“ “Be honest with me.” Bucky growled. “YES!” She exclaimed. “Yes I did.” “When did it happen?” He asked. “Bucky-“ “I have a right to know.” He said and that much was true.

“I don’t know but it doesn’t matter anymore. You can’t hold that against me anymore. We are a team now.” She said and Bucky looked down. “That’s a lot easier said than done.” He went to walk away but turned back towards her, “Y/N?” She looked over at him, “That sympathy you have, it’ll end up getting you killed.” He said to her.

She shook her head and walked to her and John’s room. “Thanks for not lashing out at him.” Y/N said after moments of silence. “I know you wanted to.” He sat on the bed next to her, “I definitely did but you got it. That’s your fight not mine.” Y/N fell into his arms and sighed, she stared up at him as he played with his hair. He looked like an angel, a broken one. He looked down at her, “But if he ever yells at you like that again. I’ll kill him.” He told her and she shook her head. “I knew that would come out eventually.” She joked.

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

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speak now [bucky barnes x f!reader]

horrified looks from everyone in the room but i’m only looking at you.

word count: 1,800

rating/warnings: 13+, angst, pre-established relationship with helmut zemo, hurt/comfort, happy ending (i imagined this with tfatws!bucky).

fic inspired by speak now by taylor swift ₊˚ෆ

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

The mirror felt cold beneath your fingertips.

“Are you okay?” one of your bridesmaids asked gently, fluffing the hem of your dress behind you.

You nodded, lips tugging upward into something that passed for a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

But you weren’t thinking about vows or flower arrangements or the champagne toast.

You were thinking about Vienna.

It had rained that night. Not enough to soak the rooftop, just enough to leave the sky glistening and the air charged with the kind of electricity that makes people say things they normally wouldn’t.

It had been just the two of you — you and Bucky — standing at the edge of a building overlooking the Danube, your mission gear still clinging to your skin, both of you catching your breath from a close call in the shadows below.

He’d saved your life that night. Threw himself between you and a sniper’s bullet like it was instinct. Maybe it was.

“I told you not to run ahead,” he said, voice low, a smirk barely ghosting across his lips.

“And I told you I hate being told what to do,” you shot back, though your pulse hadn’t stopped racing.

You hadn’t thanked him.

Not with words.

Instead, you stepped closer to him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest, the way his shoulders tightened when you reached up to touch his jaw — a small scrape blooming red from the scuffle.

“You’re bleeding,” you said softly.

He didn’t move away.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “You’ve seen me worse.”

Your thumb traced the edge of the wound, careful, lingering longer than necessary. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

The city lights stretched out behind him, but all you saw were his eyes. Tired. Guarded. Like he was holding in a war he didn’t trust anyone else to fight.

“I’m not going to stop worrying about you, you know,” you whispered. “No matter how many walls you put up.”

He swallowed hard. You felt it, saw it in the way his throat bobbed.

“I don’t want you to,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t understand. Not right away. But then his hand came up — hesitating — until it hovered near your waist. Not touching. Just there.

And that’s when you felt it.

That aching, fragile almost.

He was close enough to kiss you. Close enough to ruin everything.

Your breath hitched.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Before I do something stupid.”

You stared at him.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And he nodded. Just once. Like it was exactly what he expected.

You both stood there, in the middle of a storm that never broke, hearts full of things neither of you dared say.

Eventually, he stepped back. And that was the end of it. Or so you thought.

You never meant for it to end this way.

Not with lace trailing behind you. Not with trembling hands wrapped around a bouquet that didn’t mean anything. Not with Bucky Barnes watching you walk down an aisle meant for someone else.

But then again, you and Bucky had never done anything the way people expected.

It started simple. Late nights at the compound, sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence that felt warmer than words. Missions that turned into inside jokes. Gloved fingers brushing yours when he passed you a cup of coffee. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.

You should’ve said something.

You should’ve asked him what he meant, that night on the rooftop in Vienna when he’d leaned in like he might kiss you but didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull away. And eventually, so did you.

Enter Helmut Zemo — elegant, composed, intelligent in a way that made you feel like you could finally breathe. He listened. He gave you space. And he didn’t come with ghosts clinging to his back like chains.

It was easier with Zemo. Simple. Predictable.

Bucky never was.

You and Bucky never even kissed. But, you never had to. The love was there in the way he always stood slightly too close. In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he always watched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

But he never said it.

And when Zemo did — when he got down on one knee with a vintage ring and a calm certainty Bucky never gave you — you said yes.

Not because it felt like fate.

Because it felt like a life raft.

You didn’t invite Bucky to the wedding. You couldn’t. Not after the way he looked at you when he found out. He didn’t say anything — just nodded, smiled like it didn’t kill him, and said he was happy for you.

You should’ve known that was a lie.

Now, you’re here. The aisle stretches endlessly before you. Guests turn in their seats. The quartet plays something soft and elegant. And at the end of the aisle, Zemo waits, handsome and steady.

But it’s not his eyes you look for.

It’s the man in the last row, sitting alone, head down.

Bucky Barnes.

His hair is shorter now, especially compared to the last time you’d seen him. You remembered one night at the compound, your fingers tangled in his hair, casually making a comment about how he’d look so good if he cut it. Either way, he looked good, but he had been complaining about maintaining it. And you liked the idea of seeing his face more, instead of it being hidden by unkempt bangs.

In spite of the changes, Bucky still had that same stubble grazing his jaw. And those same ocean blue eyes and pink lips.

He shouldn’t be here. But he came anyway.

He doesn’t smile. Just watches you like you’re walking toward your own execution.

You try not to cry.

The ceremony begins.

Zemo says his vows first. They’re poetic. Controlled. Exactly what you expected. Then it’s your turn. You open your mouth, but your throat feels dry, feeling Bucky’s gaze burn into you. You say your vows distracted, your eyes glazed with unshed tears. Everything about this felt wrong. And yet here you were, standing in front of your family and friends, about to be trapped forever.

You forced yourself to change your train of thought. This wasn’t fair on the man who stood at the altar, beside you.

No, nothing about this was fair.

Zemo was nice enough. He was intelligent and passionate and a good lover. He worked hard and earned enough money to take care of the both of you, and he always fought for what was important to him. Those were traits you could value in anyone.

He was handsome too. He dressed well, albeit not to everyone’s taste. He wouldn’t have dared to be seen in tactical gear. And you supposed you could admire that.

If you were to really force yourself.

Zemo was nice, but he wasn’t Bucky.

Every instinct told him to stay away. To let you be happy, even if that happiness was in someone else’s arms. Even if it killed him.

But Bucky Barnes had never been good at doing what he should.

So here he was. In the back row of a wedding he didn’t belong at, fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked so tight it ached. Sam had begged him not to go. “Move on,” he had told his friend with convict and care. But Bucky couldn’t. He’d tried and he couldn’t, and now he was running out of chances.

You looked like a dream.

No — not a dream. A punishment. A walking reminder of everything he wanted but never dared to take.

He’d lost you a long time ago.

That night on the rooftop in Vienna had been the closest he’d ever come to telling you the truth. The air had been damp with rain, the mission barely behind you. The city was still burning beneath your feet, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him — like you saw something in him worth saving.

You left the rooftop that night thinking nothing had changed.

He left knowing everything had.

And still… he stayed silent.

He watched you fall for someone else. Watched you laugh at another man’s jokes. Watched you wear a ring that wasn’t his. He convinced himself he was doing the right thing — staying away, keeping his distance, letting you be happy.

But when the music swelled and you walked down that aisle, he realised something.

He wasn’t protecting you.

He was just scared.

Scared you wouldn’t choose him back.

Scared he’d never be enough.

Bucky’s chest burned. Because he was back on that rooftop, rain in the air, the heat of your hand on his skin, and the weight of almosts on his tongue. Not this time.

“If anyone objects to this union,” the officiant says, his voice cutting through the hush, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Your palms were clammy. Your ears were cold.

And then—

“I do.”

It’s like a grenade goes off in your chest.

You whip around. Guests gasp. Zemo goes rigid beside you.

Bucky rises from his seat, face unreadable, hands clenched at his sides. But there’s no mistaking the tremor in his voice.

“I object.”

The room falls into stunned silence.

And you can barely breathe.

What is this feeling? Anger? Confusion? Relief?

“I know this isn’t fair,” Bucky says, stepping into the aisle, his voice raw. “And I know I should’ve said something sooner. But I can’t let you marry him without hearing this. Without knowing that I—”

He falters, then meets your eyes with everything he’s got left.

“I love you. I always have. I was just too scared to ruin what we had. I thought… maybe if I stayed quiet, you’d be happier. Safer. He can give you a stable life, and God knows you deserve that. But if there’s even a part of you that still wonders—still feels something when I walk into a room—then don’t do this.”

You can feel every eye on you. Zemo doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His silence speaks volumes — he already knew.

Your throat tightens.

You’d convinced yourself you were over Bucky. That the softness in your chest whenever you heard his voice would fade with time. That marrying someone safe meant you were finally moving on.

But love was never supposed to feel safe.

It was supposed to feel like this.

Like heartbreak and hope, tangled into one.

You drop the bouquet and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

Then you run — past the flowers, past the altar, past everything that should’ve been enough but wasn’t. Bucky catches you like he always does, like he was built for it. You bury your face in his shoulder, breathing him in, shaking, laughing and crying at the same time.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.

“You never did.”

And that was the truth.

Zemo doesn’t chase you. He just watches. Dignified. Quiet. Maybe he was never meant to be the villain of your story.

Just the man who helped you realize who the hero was.

“Bucky, I’m so mad at you.” you sobbed into his chest, tears dampening the material of his black shirt. He cradled the back of your head.

“I know,” he replied softly, regretting the time he’d lost with you. “And I deserve that. But please—“

You cut him off with a kiss. Hard, passionate, in love. The kiss you had deserved since Vienna. The kiss Bucky had dreamed of. Your lips taste like heaven against his, and you know now, that this was exactly where you needed to be.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

Because Bucky was never behind you.

He was always the one waiting to be chosen.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #marvel #daniel brühl #helmut zemo #speak now #taylor swift

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swiftiedaisies · 23 days ago

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i love that marvel is back but it’s truly reminded me how some people have an inability to understand complex characters. some of you will see a character with flaws and go “irredeemable monster who should be shot” and im just so baffled

i keep seeing people say that the thunderbolts are irredeemable because they’ve killed people on purpose and are rude. it’s so frustrating because the whole point of thunderbolts was that you deserve a second chance if you put the work in. every single person on that team put the work in to become a better person. also if you hate a character bc they’re rude then there are not a lot of characters to like in the mcu

most of the stuff I’ve seen is about walker being irredeemable and that the thunderbolts writers undermined tfatws ones…im so confused bc that’s not the case at all. episode 6 of tfatws made a point of showing he is capable of change. he chose saving the van of people over revenge and worked with bucky to arrest the flag smashers instead of resorting to violence. if he was irredeemable, the writers would not have included that. he has always been set for a redemption arc

whenever i talk about this, i always refer back to loki. he almost caused an entire race to be slaughtered, killed over 80 people in one weekend, constantly betrayed his family, faked his death and posed as odin for years. and yet he is now one of the most heroic people in the mcu. you need to give redemption arcs time. a character’s every flaw cannot be addressed in one project.

if you guys can’t handle the thunderbolts, im dreading the day the xmen are introduced

#complex characters you will always be understood by me #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #john walker #us agent #yelena belova #bucky barnes #winter soldier #ava starr #ghost #alexei shostakov #red guardian #bob reynolds #sentry

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eddiebloombug · 25 days ago

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the blorbo-ification of john walker that’s been developing in this fandom lately has been.. interesting to witness. i’d be less mad if marvel built a compelling reason to root for him and his development after thunderbolts (because i don’t subscribe to the idea that characters can be irredeemable) but like.. we have yet to see a compelling reason to root for him (imo obviously). i think people just saw a man being sad and sassy and completely forgot that he was the physical representation of white privilege in the narrative of tfatws. he became cap with miles less resistance than sam would have had initially, despite steve gifting sam the shield. walker had a violent episode and murdered a civilian (who, reminder, did NOT kill lemar) in a scene that served to contrast the extreme levels of restraint and self-possession sam has to show AT ALL TIMES to even be a hero as a black man in america.

and then in thunderbolts, john is just a man with a few funny lines, and a few sad lines, experiencing (minimal) consequences of his actions (his wife leaving him, public backlash. honestly he could be in jail.). once again i’ll say, i’m not even opposed to a john walker redemption arc. i just think it’s poor storytelling by marvel to not address the themes of race/privilege so inherent to john walker’s character in tfatws if they’re trying to “redeem” him and put him in the mainstream of mcu heroes. and i think it’s an interesting interpretation by fans to ignore the themes of race and privilege in walker’s character to go ahead and woobify him into a lovable pathetic wet cat man, in love with bob and play-bantering with bucky.

the crux of john walker’s character is this: he is a white man who achieved things far easier than others with more personal merit could. he entered the us military as a young man and spent near-constant years involved in foreign intervention. he is a man who believed himself heroic enough for the serum and the shield and he was wrong. his entire life has been marked by narratives of nationalism and american exceptionalism, and thus implicit white supremacy. these are things he (and his redemption arc) must grapple with.

when it comes down to it, walker fans, i’m not saying walker shouldn’t be your blorbo. i’m asking why you’re sanitizing the sociopolitical commentary his character served to give in tfatws in order to blorbify him.

#anti john walker #mcu salt #critical analysis of the mcu and other sisyphean tasks

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bucky-barnes-diaries · 2 years ago

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Day 15 — Mrs. Claus

Pairing || TFATWS!Bucky x Female!Reader

Word Count || Around 2600

Contents & Warnings || Smut — NSFW, 18+ Only, Minors DNI, explicit content/language, pet names, oral (female receiving), teasing, fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, mention of bodily fluids.

Authors Note || Apologises with the delay on this, I got very carried away. This piece was supposed to be posted on the 15th.

Disclaimers || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

Advent Calendar 2023

The soft glow of the fairy lights adorning your bedroom was the main source of illumination, casting a warm and inviting ambiance—shadows playing sensually on the walls. The air was infused with the heady aroma of scented candles, their fragrance creating a symphony of sensual notes—vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of musk.

Bucky was seated on the end of the bed, adorned with silky sheets and plush pillows. The mattress supported his weight as he eagerly awaited you and the early Christmas present you had promised him.

The anticipation pulsed as the bathroom door creaked open, and out you strutted—a vision of holiday allure. Your short, little crimson dress hugged every curve of your tantalizing body; the view ignited a spark in Bucky’s gaze as he eyed you up and down. With the black pumps and the Santa hat perched on your head, Bucky instantly got hard, a silent curse eliciting deep within.

He watched your sultry movement, the room radiating with your suggestive presence as you approached him. The playful twinkle in your eyes matched the mischievous curve of your lips.

Bucky leaned back, propping himself on his palms on the mattress as you stood between his open legs. He was entirely captivated by the intoxicating sight before him, his eyes surveying every inch of you up close, palms twitching in need to peel off your slutty Mrs. Claus dress and accessories. Your nipples hardened under his gaze, panties becoming damp with desire.

“Fuck, you look incredible, doll,” he groaned, palming his hard cock.

“An early Christmas present for your eyes only,” you purred, your voice a seductive melody that sent shivers down his spine.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, baby,” he declared, reaching out and grabbing your ass with a firm grip, fingers digging into your flesh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling delicately on the strands as he kneaded your cheeks.

“I can’t wait to unwrap and play with you,” he murmured. You moaned softly, pussy throbbing with need at his erotic promise. His hands slid up your thighs, fingertips dancing on your sensitive flesh, making you shiver. He traced the outline of your panties, nuzzling his face in the fuzzy fabric of your dress.

He slipped his hand underneath them, fingers finding your wetness, and his other grabbed a firm grip on your hip. You gasped, eyelids fluttering as he rubbed against your clit. “Oh, yes,” you breathed.

His heavy-lidded eyes gazed into yours. “I’m gonna peel off this slutty little dress, slip these panties off, and taste that delicious cunt of yours,” he groaned, pressing the pad of his fingers hard against your aching clit. You whimpered your needs and desires of getting your pussy eaten and fucked to perfection by him.

He tutted playfully, retracting his hand from your panties, sucking off the wetness from his fingers. “Eager are we, doll? This is my present, and I get to examine and explore it before playing with it properly.”

Your heart raced, your breathing quickened, and body trembled in anticipation. His eyes glittered with mischief, and you knew he would make you beg for it.

He stood up from the bed, leaning over you, his hot breath tickling your ear, the heat of his body radiating against yours. “Tell me, doll, how badly do you want me to eat your pussy? Taste that sweet cunt of yours?” he whispered, tongue tracing the shell of your ear. You shuddered, voice coming out in a breathless whisper. “Please, Bucky, I need you,” you begged, voice shaking with desire. “Good girl,” he smirked, eyes glinting with lust.

He laid you gently on the bed, hovering on top, and his mouth descended on yours in a searing kiss.

You could feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, and your body ignited with desire. He broke the kiss, lips trailing down your neck, tongue teasing your skin, teeth gently nipping. “I’m gonna eat your pussy, doll,” he growled, voice low and husky, “and you’re gonna beg me for more.”

You shuddered, pussy wet with need. “Fuck, please, Bucky. I can’t take it anymore.” you pleaded. He chuckled, fingers tracing the outline of your pussy through the damp panties, making you moan and buck your sex towards him. “Hmm, I won’t be so giving, to begin with, baby,” he sneered. “I’ll play and tease my present to begin with, pull your panties to the side and have a taste until you cry for me to unwrap you, eat your pussy properly, and then pound you hard into the mattress till you scream my name and your pussy quivers.” You cursed silently. His words alone could make you come apart.

He spread your lush legs, nestling comfortably between them as his fingers trailed up and down your inner thighs. His mouth mere inches from your covered core, making you squirm beneath him as his hot breath fanned across your wetness.

With a rough groan, he slid your panties to the side, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss on your aching clit. Your back arched off the bed as you cried out in pleasure, hands gripping the sheets as he continued to tease and torment you. He moved his mouth down, licking and sucking at your folds. “Oh, fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, body trembling. He chuckled, tongue swirling around your clit, making you moan even louder. “You like that, huh?” he taunted, voice low and seductive. “Please don’t stop,” you begged, body aching for more. He chuckled at your neediness again before retracting from your core, making you cry out in frustration.

“Don’t worry, doll, I’m not done with you yet,” he growled. He gazed up at you, eyes dark with lust. “You’re gonna get everything you want and more.” And then he slid your panties off, revealing your wet, swollen cunt. He smiled, lips curling up in a wicked grin, uttering words that made your world shatter, “You have the prettiest pussy, doll.” He leaned down, tongue darting out to lick the entirety of your core, moaning at your taste. “You taste heavenly.”

You cried out, body aching into him as he continued to feast on you, tongue flicking and circling your clit. “Oh, god, that’s so good,” you whimpered, hands gripping the sheets as he continued to devour you. The tips of his fingers prodded your entrance, slowly pushing one in, the other following soon after, stretching and filling you to perfection, making you tangle your fingers in his hair as he used his mouth and fingers to build your toe-curling bliss.

“Baby, I’m so close,” you gasped, your body trembling with pleasure. He hummed, fingers thrusting deeper inside you, tongue lapping and flicking harder on your clit, making you cry out in ecstasy as you came hard.

Bucky smiled against your throbbing clit, lazily lapping at the sensitive nub, fingers still thrusting in and out of you, making you mewl and squirm beneath him as he worked you through the bliss.

“That felt so good,” you giggled breathlessly, combing your fingers through his hair as he gazed up at you lovingly, kissing your thigh. His fingers slid out, making you hiss at the loss of him. “I love making you come for me like that, doll. You look so breathtakingly beautiful,” he hummed, pressing a light kiss on your wet, swollen sex.

His fingers danced across your heated skin as he inched his way upward, lips grazing your collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin. “I can’t wait to unwrap you completely and fuck you,” he murmured. His breath was hot against your neck as he continued to press open-mouth kisses on your flesh, whispering dirty promises. And finally, his lips met yours in a searing kiss, tongue tracing your lower lip, begging for deeper exploration. You opened eagerly for him, your tongue gliding and tangling with his.

“This dress needs to go,” he groaned, tugging it down gently, exposing more of your compelling skin. Your bra was the last thing to go, leaving you naked and vulnerable before him. “You’re a goddess, doll,” he whispered, voice husky with desire and love. Your body was a masterpiece to him, every curve and line perfectly sculpted. He was left breathless each time you lay naked below him. “I’m a lucky guy that gets to unwrap this perfection of a present.”

He leaned down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking and nibbling on the peaked bud. You moaned, hands tangling in his hair as he lavished attention on your breasts. “Hmm, you’re so good at that, Bucky,” you hummed, body tingling with pleasure.

“I need to fuck you, or else I’m about to make a mess in my pants,” he chuckled, voice low and sultry.

His cock was hard and aching, throbbing in need to be let out and fuck your tight little cunt. He quickly discarded his sweater, his chiseled physique a temptation in the soft illumination of the room. You eyed him hungrily as he unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down. His cock strained his underwear, creating a mouth-watering dent. All you wanted was to get down on your knees, worship his body and make a mess of yourself as you slurped and sucked his dick.

But you were deeply needy for each other, wanting to feel one another in the most intimate way possible, so you laid back, spreading your legs open wide, inviting him in. He positioned himself between your lush thighs, hands cupping the back of them, spreading you wider.

“Need to feel you inside me,” you purred, body trembling with anticipation. He rid himself of the underwear, his cock springing to life before you.

He pressed the leaking tip at your entrance, teasing you with the head that was swollen with desire. “Oh, Bucky, please,” you pleaded with a cry. He chuckled, hands gripping your waist as he glided his cock inside your tight walls, filling you up to perfection.

“You’re so tight and perfect, doll,” he groaned with shivers running down his spine. Your body was tight and hot, squeezing him like a vice, making him moan and thrust harder. “You fuck me so good, baby,” you whined.

He continued to thrust into you with long, deep strokes. Your body was heaven—tight pussy that enveloped his cock to perfection and perfect tits that bounced with each grounding thrust. Your every movement, every noise made him moan louder, thrusting into you with a feral rhythm, losing himself in you and the pleasure.

His cock hit your sweet spot, making you moan and see stars. Your hips buckled against him, body shivering with pleasure. He grunted, hips slamming against yours, cock throbbing inside you, ready to burst.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he grunted, pulling out of your tight walls, jerking himself off, and releasing his load all over your stomach and breasts in a flood of blissful ecstasy.

You gasped, your body and empty pussy quivering as you watched him come apart. You were painted to perfection with his warm and sticky cum, a beautiful canvas before him.

His cock twitched as the last spurt left his body, his breath labored as he came down from the high of orgasm. You wore a smile on your face at watching him lose himself in you and violently paint you with his seed. But that smile turned into a pout as he hadn’t given you your release. Your pussy was aching, needy, and begging to be stuffed and made quiver. Bucky never left you unsatisfied, and you trusted that whatever plan he had to make you come once more would be mind-blowing, whether it be with his cock, tongue, or fingers.

As if he could read your mind, he stroked your cheek, his eyes holding promises of more love and pleasure. “Don’t worry, doll. I haven’t forgotten about you,” he said, thumb teasing your clit, rubbing it in slow circles.

Your teeth nibbled your lower lip, body tingling with pleasure as he continued to tease your clit, making you ache for more. “You’re so hot,” he groaned, eyes devouring your body. “I want to taste you, feel you come all over my face again.” He kissed you with passion before ghosting his lips over your cum covered body, seeking out your deprived cunt.

“You know how much I love to eat a freshly fucked pussy,” he hummed, face inches from your swollen folds and engorged clit. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on the strands in a silent beg for him to devour you. His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking hard, making you cry and buck against his face. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cried out, body shaking.

He continued to suck and lick your clit, making you cry out in ecstasy. He slid two fingers inside your tightness, curling them to stroke your g-spot, making you convulse on the bed and see stars. Bucky builds you up to a toe-curling and body-rocking bliss that would fuck you up.

“Oh, god, you’re gonna make me come,” you sobbed, the pleasure an intense bliss. “Be a good girl and come for me.” You came hard, your body trembling, cunt quivering, your orgasm rocking you to the core.

You came all over his face, your juices making a mess of himself, you, and the bedding. He continued to lick and suck your clit, curling his fingers inside your pulsating walls until your orgasm subsided, your body sated from the pleasure. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied grin on his face. “You taste so good.” He pressed a light lingering kiss on your oversensitive clit, making you jolt and gasp. “You fucked me up so good, babe,” you giggled breathlessly. He chuckled, lavishing kisses on your thighs as you hummed in response. “You’re incredible, you know that, doll? Best early Christmas present I could have asked for.”

He crawled up your body, covering his mouth with yours, devouring you in a passionate kiss. You smiled through the passion, reveling in the afterglow of your otherworldly bliss. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with equal ferocity; your tongues danced together, tasting each other as you grind your naked bodies together.

“The whole point of this was for me to deliver you the best early Christmas present ever, not the other way around,” you giggled between kisses. “I was supposed to be on my knees this whole evening and worship you, babe,” you purred, fisting his hardness and jerking his slick cock,” but you got me sidetracked with your dirty words, tongue, and fingers.”

He groaned, eyes devouring your body and your hand pumping his cock. “Well, you were pretty irresistible, doll, in that slutty little Mrs. Claus dress. I couldn’t help myself, and you know how much I enjoy and love giving you pleasure.”

He moaned as you continued to pump his aching cock, slowly thrusting into your palm, chasing his second orgasm. “Hmm, how about we continue this in the shower, babe? I can show you exactly what my original intent was for your early Christmas present,” you purred. Bucky nodded eagerly, cock twitching, ready to burst all over you again, but with a giggle, you released him. “Not yet, baby,” you tutted teasingly. “Now it's my turn to tease and torment, just like you did me…”

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royalredry · 1 month ago

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My two cents on the Thunderbolts stuff because I'm seeing way too much BS on my feed. BTW, I really don't want to get into an argument. This is just my opinions. I'm perfectly willing to take criticism if I say something wrong (and I'm sorry if I do), but this is just me putting my opinions out there. Feel free to add your own in reblogs or comments.

Long rant and Thunderbolts* spoilers beneath the cut. THIS IS AN OPINION PIECE, THIS IS ONLY MY OPINIONS. But I will be discussing some topics I'm not knowledgeable in, so if someone who is knowledgeable in those topics or belongs to the community discussed spots something wrong that I have said, please tell me immediately and I will gladly take the post down.

Sam Wilson did nothing wrong.

The poor dude has been fighting on his journey to Captain America since TFATWS. Hell, since ENDGAME. Since Steve GAVE HIM THE SHIELD. CABNW was awesome in my opinion (not perfect but everything has flaws) because it showcased a critical part of Sam's character. He does not want to be under the control of the government. He does not like the government having a say in what enhanced people do. WHICH HAS BEEN PART OF HIS CHARACTER SINCE HIS INTRODUCTION!!

It's why he helped Steve in CATWS. It's why he was on Steve's side in CACW. He went on the run for years with his friends to basically say "fuck the government". And he's got a point!

So of course he's not happy about the New Avengers, a group of criminals and misfits, being run by the government. It goes against an integral part of his character.

And I also do think he's been pushed back way too much. I feel bad for both Sam the character and for Anthony Mackie. It's not right for Marvel to be under recognizing a well-written, complex, understandable black character like Sam, he deserves better (I say this as a white person.). It's not right for Sam to be facing doubts from people in-universe because of his race, and it's not right for Marvel to favor the white characters over Sam specifically, as they have done well with other black characters. At least according to my perception, but I am not a black person and I cannot speak for any POC on this matter. I apologize to black MCU fans if I worded this in a completely wrong or offensive way.

This is not to say that, in my opinion, the characters of the Thunderbolts don't deserve recognition. They do. BUT Sam needs it more. Sam doesn't deserve to be portrayed as unreasonable because he's mad that this New Avengers team is being favored more by the government (even if they're not by the public) than he, Joaquin, and presumably the new team HE'S gathering or wants to gather are. I agree with him there.

Suing for the Avengers name? I'm not sure what that's about. If he's taking Valentina and the government running the New Avengers to court, that makes more sense than suing the members themselves. But the message I'm getting from the entire situation is Sam's disdain for the government-run team. Which, given his character, I understand. And I also understand if he's frustrated that a group of mostly white misfits (I'm not entirely sure what Ava counts as, I'm sorry) is being favored by the government over him, the official Captain America, a well-deserving man who was hand-picked by Steve Rogers himself. Sam deserves all the recognition and I will proudly defend his character.

Now for the Thunderbolts.

I loved their movie. I thought it was great, just like I thought BNW was great. I love the team's dynamic and I love the mental health message (btw people this is not the first time Marvel has dealt with mental health, go watch Moon Knight, or even Wandavision, it deals with grief and the inability to move on).

Was the movie good? Yes. Was it flawed? Fuck yes. It's not perfect. Nothing Marvel has ever made is perfect (except maybe Ragnarok /not srs). It has flaws. But it still has value.

Killing off Taskmaster? Ehhhh. She should have stayed longer IF her death was necessary. Bucky's attitude towards Sam being pissed? Ehhh. Maybe he's playing a long game against Valentina. We don't know! We can't make assumptions about the story behind that. But we can definitely be critical.

But I still loved this movie.

None of them are good people. None of them should BE Avengers. All of them have done horrible things, though under different circumstances:

Alexei and John did shitty things for their respective governments of their own free wills. Alexei was involved with the Red Room which fucked up so many kids, and John completely undermined Steve choosing Sam as his successor and then brutally abused his power.

Bucky and Yelena were spies and assassins while under the control of others; Bucky with Hydra of course, and I believe Yelena was under brainwashing with the Red Room too, but I haven't watched Black Widow in a while and my memory is dogshit.

Ava...I'm sorry, but I don't remember what her deal is. It's been ages since I watched Ant-Man and the Wasp. But she's not a good person either.

These people should not be a legitimate team, and that's what I find interesting about them. They're a bunch of screwed-up losers and criminals who are now forced to be the second coming of a team that the entire world looked up to. That makes it fun, and it'll be interesting to see how that progresses. But they DEFINITELY shouldn't be favored over Sam. He's CAP. He is Captain America. He deserves recognition, whether with his own team or just with Joaquin or whatever.

Now, about the Thunderbolts vs. Sam's Possible Team thing:

The members of the Thunderbolts (besides Bucky and John) don't know Sam Wilson. Alexei and Yelena both act like he's being unreasonable and dumb. Which makes sense for their characters...because they don't know him. They don't know his concerns, they don't know his past against the government. I think Yelena might understand if she knew him, but I don't think Alexei would. Ava doesn't know Sam either, but I don't remember if she says anything about him. John's a dick and he never got along with Sam anyway. Bucky...I think Bucky should be sticking up more for his friend. It's kinda OOC for me. But we don't know what's transpired between Sam and Bucky in the 14 months since the events of Thunderbolts transpired. Something deeper could be going on.

Do I agree with the people defending Bucky like he's an absolute angel who has done nothing wrong and treating Sam like a crazy person? Fuck no. Get that shit out of here. Bucky should not sit back and do nothing after watching his friend struggle to be respected as the next Captain America when all people believe Captain America should be is a blonde, blue-eyed white boy (no hate to Steve).

Do I agree with people saying John should have been the legitimate Captain America? NOOOOOOOOO!!! Who is saying that??? The entirety of TFATWS and Thunderbolts showed how he would NOT be even a remotely good Cap!!!!

Do I agree with people hating on Bucky and the Thunderbolts* team/movie as a whole? Partially. People do have good points. Like what I said about Bucky, and how Marvel is pushing back Sam and Anthony Mackie. Anthony deserves more respect and appreciation as an actor (I can't imagine the MCU without his Sam Wilson), and Sam deserves his place as a respected Captain America. But I don't hate Bucky's character. I don't hate Thunderbolts, the team or the movie. It's flawed. But so is everything. Nothing is perfect, and imperfect things have value. You don't have to support one thing or the other.

AND SPEAKING OF IMPERFECT, LET ME GET A CHANCE TO RANT ABOUT THE STATE OF THE MCU AFTER THUNDERBOLTS!!! Because this is something I'm incredibly insecure and anxious about (disclaimer, that's the only reason I'm writing this part. If you're only here for the Thunderbolts rant, stop reading now).

(TLDR: The MCU is not a dumpster fire but it's definitely very flawed and that's okay, also a lot of my own opinions)

People say the MCU is back with Thunderbolts* (kinda disregarding DP&W but okay), but you know what I think? To me, the MCU isn't the dumpster fire that some of the fandom says. It's not great, but it's not THAT bad.

This is not me defending Marvel as a company, or saying everything they make is wonderful (it is not, Love and Thunder was pretty shit), or saying that the MCU doesn't have issues, or anything like that. What I'm saying is this:

If a franchise as big as the MCU hits the mark all the time, wouldn't it be a little...unexciting?

It's good for a franchise to have highs and lows. And that's what Marvel has, highs and lows. Some highs are higher than others. Some lows are lower than others. We've had lows before Endgame, and we've had highs after. When you have lows, that means there's room to grow and improve, which is good for ANYTHING.

Look at other franchises. Take for example my favorite: Transformers.

The fourth and fifth Micheal Bay movies were not great. That was a low. But ROTB and TF: One were GREAT. That's going back up again.

My point is that I don't think the MCU is going to be good all the time. Nothing is perfect, and every single franchise is going to have stuff that is good and stuff that is garbage. And it hasn't been that irredeemably horrible. I've liked some stuff Marvel's been putting out.

I've watched every post-Endgame movie barring Eternals and The Marvels. Most of them were at least decent. Some were not (Love and Thunder, I'm looking at you).

I've watched every post-Endgame TV show barring She-Hulk, Echo and Ms. Marvel (although I'm planning to watch Ms. Marvel and no, I haven't watched DD: Born Again, that does not count as post-Endgame since it's a continuation). I thought all of them were at least good.

I'm excited for Fantastic Four and Avengers: Doomsday!! Yes, EXCITED!!! I feel like a little kid again discovering my love for superhero movies.

Has Marvel made bad decisions? Yes. Absolutely. Here's a list of just some:

Their disrespect to Sam's character and to Anthony Mackie. GIve him the spotlight he deserves. Both the character and actor deserve better.

Love and Thunder. These people tried way too hard for the movie to be Ragnarok.

Their handling of Kang (MY OPINION). If they wanted Kang to be the MCU's next big villain, they could have set him up a little better even before the whole Jonathan Majors thing. He didn't feel like that big of a deal in Loki, he felt more like a plot device. And, regarding Quantumania, DON'T USE WHAT LOOKS LIKE THE MOST THREATENING INCARNATION OF YOUR MAIN VILLAIN IN A ONE-OFF MOVIE APPEARANCE!!! And if you do, at least set up his return in a way that says "I have more to do here". That's what they did with Loki's appearance as the big bad of Avengers 1. Kang's variants were just strange and confusing, not threatening. The Skrulls in Secret Invasion felt like more of a threat and they were so fucking confusing that I got a headache trying to puzzle out that show. Kang did not feel like he brought anything big to the table. Doom will be more interesting, in my opinion. I like the idea of a villain striking out of complete nowhere. Also, I'm not well-versed in the comics yet, but I love Doom from what I know so far.

Their casting for Doom? I'm a little on the fence about this one. On one hand, Victor von Doom is Romani, and it's a big part of his character. They should have casted a Romani actor to play him. On the other hand, there's a lot they can do with RDJ as Doom, and I'm pretty excited.

Marvel has done these things not well. But Marvel has also done things RIGHT:

Their handling of Black Panther after the death of Chadwick Boseman (may he rest in peace). Shuri growing into the new Black Panther and queen was a wonderful arc and I think they did it beautifully.

Their introduction of new characters. Moon Knight? I love him. Billy in Agatha All Along? Awesome. America Chavez was also pretty cool. And Namor was interesting.

LOKI'S NEW ROLE AS GOD OF STORIES??? My lord, that entire show was amazing.

Deadpool and Wolverine. I mean, seriously. The dynamic between the two? Logan's fucking costume? The return of Blade? CHANNING TATUM'S GAMBIT????

I'm sorry but I don't have any place to rant about this stuff. My point is that Marvel does things well and does things bad. Ups and downs. But that doesn't mean the MCU is an irreparable dumpster fire and we should give up on it. Nor does it mean that it's been steadily great and Marvel has nothing to fix. And the company has probably done shitty stuff beyond the franchise that I don't know about because I live under a fucking rock and I'm happy about that. BUT THIS IS NOT ABOUT THAT.

What it means for me is that I will continue to watch Marvel stuff. I like the MCU, and I LIKE liking the MCU. I'm excited to see where it goes, and I'm so fucking pumped for Doomsday that when the casting announcement came out I screamed like a little girl in front of my mother.

Am I saying people aren't allowed to be critical? Of course not. Everyone has their own opinions, and most opinions (barring absolutely ridiculous ones like the Sam haters) are completely valid. Hell, I would probably agree with a lot of MCU criticisms if a list was presented to me. But this is just my opinion. I can't speak for anyone but myself.

My opinions are valid. Yours are valid. Fans aren't going to agree. Fandoms will always have sides that clash. Movie franchises can't hit the mark every time for everybody. The MCU has a ton of issues. Sam Wilson deserves more respect. Not everybody can be pleased. And there is currently a copy of Charlie And The Chocolate Factory on my bed. These are all facts of life.

My final thoughts? The MCU isn't horrid but isn't fantastic. I'm excited for Doomsday, it's gonna be fucking sick. Fantastic Four looks interesting. Sue and Johnny actually look related in the posters. And I am happy being a fan of the MCU. I won't always be a fan, but it makes me happy, and I need that in my life.

Comments are welcome, criticism is welcome, your own opinions are welcome, but please don't scream at me. I'm perfectly willing to have a civilized conversation about our opinions, but ffs, please be chill.

I should probably get out of interacting with this fandom honestly. Drives me crazy. I'm happy just enjoying what I enjoy without exposing myself to other people's opinions and then doubting myself because of them.

Okay, that's it. This took me over an hour to get all my thoughts out.

Good night, Tumblr.

And again, Sam Wilson deserves better.

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holylulusworld · 1 year ago

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The Widow (1)

Summary: You trust no one. Not since they got your husband killed.

Pairing: TFaTW!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions death of a loved-one, the reader is under protection, bitchy reader, arguments, grumpy Bucky, angst

The widow masterlist

The Widow - Prologue

You wake from another nightmare, screaming at the top of your lungs. When you sit up, you clutch the blanket to your chest and try to remember what your therapist told you.

“One,” you count. “Two,” you sniffle. “This is shit.” You grab the lamp from the nightstand and throw it at the man stepping inside your room.

“Whoa, watch where you are throwing your lamps,” Bucky grumbles. He dodged your attack just in time to watch the lamp hit the wall next to him. “I came here to check on you, not to get hit by a lamp.”

He tugs his gun away, looking around the room. “What happened? Why did you scream? A spider? A bug?”

“Get out,” you look away to not show him the unshed tears in your eyes. “That’s none of your business. I didn’t want you to come here and save me. Go back to sleep.”

Bucky watches you run your hands over your arms. He knows the signs of nightmares all too well. Sleep is not his friend. Most of the time he wakes from another nightmare. Skin sweat-slicked and with a racing heart.

“I’m outside if you need anything.”

“Sure-“ you quip. “Just like the other guys promising to protect me and Ransom if he tells them everything he knows about his former partner.” You pucker your lips. “Now he’s dead and gone all because of them.”

“He’s dead because he was a criminal.”

“Ransom wasn’t a criminal,” you throw the blanket away and slip out of the bed to walk toward the second nightstand. You grab the lamp and throw it at Bucky. This time you hit him square in the chest. “Get out! I dare you to say one more word about my husband.”

Your lips quiver and you clutch your hands to your chest. No. You won’t cry in front of this stranger. He’s no better than the others.

“You should practice your aim,” he looks at the broken lamp on the ground. “I hope you know, it’s your job to keep the house clean.”

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you, doll!” He grunts and storms toward the door. “If you want to stay alive, stop screaming for nothing.”

“Asshole!”

The door slams shut, leaving you angry and sad. Why does everyone believe Ransom was a bad person? He made one single mistake.

Your husband trusted the wrong person and ended up laundering money for a mafia boss, not a businessman in trouble.

“I see she’s still alive,” Sam grins when you glare his way. You only lifted your eyes from the magazine you pretended to read to watch the two men. “Anything to report, Bucky?”

“She threw two lamps at me,” Bucky grunts. “I think we should handcuff her. Maybe a gag will help too.”

“Fuck you,” you snarl at Bucky. “I didn’t ask you to babysit me. Ransom is dead. I know nothing about his business. So, let me go. I’ll figure things out from here.”

“No can do,” the super-soldier glares at you. “Why don’t you try to act like a decent person?”

“Why don’t you choke?” You flash him your best-faked smile. “I hope all of you getting my Ransom killed rot in hell.”

“Bucky, a word?” Sam jerks his head toward the kitchen. “We need to talk about a few things. Especially her husband’s death, and his business.”

“I can tell you everything about my husband’s death,” you snarl. “Your fine agents told his former business partner where to find us. He died protecting me. Ransom was more man than you could ever be!”

“Bucky, don’t,” Sam holds his friend back. “Please just drop it. She’s…hurt…and scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you huff. “I’m annoyed by his presence.”

Bucky follows Sam out of the room. He huffs and balls his metal hand into a fist. “If you don’t find someone else to babysit her, I cannot guarantee she’ll be alive at the end of the week…”

“Bucky, I know she’s driving you up the walls, but her husband died in her arms.” Sam places pictures of your dead husband on the table. “Five bullets hit him, and he still managed to protect Y/N.”

“Hmm…” Bucky glances at the pictures.

“She’s traumatized but won’t admit it.” Sam gives his friend a stern look. “She has nightmares and mood swings. This has nothing to do with you or your presence. Y/N watched her husband die and held him in her arms. She was like a feral animal, biting and scratching the agents when they tried to part her from her dead husband.”

Bucky is silent for a moment. He’s still not convinced that you and your husband aren’t bad people. “He did business with the wrong people. It’s his fault.”

Sam bites his tongue. “Bucky, just protect her. Y/N doesn’t deserve to die because of her husband’s mistakes. Remember, she’s an innocent bystander.”

“Right.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you repeat his name twice. “I knew I heard the name before.” You chuckle darkly. “The man telling me that my husband was evil did unspeakable things himself. You killed innocent people hiding behind a different name.” You sneer. “Only because you don’t call yourself the Winter Soldier anymore doesn’t change your past.”

Bucky is frozen to the spot. His past can’t be undone, but he tried to make amends as best as he could. Now you look at him like he’s some kind of monster. You out of all the people dare to hold his past against him.

“What? Cat got your tongue. Doesn’t feel good when someone judges you only because they read shit about your past, huh? Well, shit darling. I won’t stop digging out your past, babysitter. If you want me to stop, go and leave me alone. Send someone else to watch over me!”

“How did she find out about me and my past?” Bucky hisses at Sam. “I thought she got no access to a phone, TV, or the internet.”

“I can read, and have a very good memory,” you smirk darkly at Bucky as you walk inside the kitchen. “You didn’t live under a rock over the last years. I saw you more than once on TV. The hair is shorter now, though.”

“Y/N,” Sam tries to stop you and his friend from arguing again. “What the soldier did wasn’t Bucky’s fault. He got brainwashed and…”

You raise your hand to stop Sam from arguing with you. “Ransom didn’t become a criminal on free terms either,” you grit your teeth. “He tried to do business and make some money. My husband didn’t know he got himself into trouble by doing business with that monster.”

“He’s still a criminal,” Bucky grunts. “He did all of this for money.”

“Says the man claiming to be innocent, even though you killed hundreds of people. They threatened to kill Ransom and me if he didn’t do as they said. He was a victim, you were just…” you huff and turn to leave. “A monster hiding behind your friend Captain America.”

You know it’s not fair to call Bucky a monster. All the things you read about him tell you that he was a victim.

You just can’t bring yourself to admit that he was a victim too while he treats you like shit, and keeps on telling you your husband was a criminal…

The widow (2)

Tags in reblog.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #tfatws!bucky barnes #The Widow (1)#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader

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halfnekoslair · 1 month ago

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TFATWS thoughts.

I came back to the fandom years later and found that some people have rather mixed opinions about Karly and Sam's stance on her. Which some people find hypocritical. I can agree that the TV show did a pretty poor job of emphasizing the Flagsmashers motivation. But it seemed so obvious to me what happened. From an economic standpoint. What do you think happened when half the population disappeared? Businesses lost half their employees. Half their customers. They would have to cut their production in half. But then would they be able to afford their space and equipment? The economy would collapse if these people weren't replaced. Production would suffer greatly. It wasn't necessarily the useless, uneducated poor people who moved to rich countries as migrants. The richer countries simply vacuumed up everyone they needed from countries with a even a little lower quality of life. And for these people, it wasn't just a matter of moving to a better place. It was a race to get to a place that would last. Because I'm sure that the economies of countries that couldn't attract enough people were destroyed. Even a small local business can't survive if there are too few buyers for their products. So in a way, richer countries Cannibalized economies of the weaker ones. In a time of crisis and chaos. And when the people erased by Thanos returned, the government wanted to send back the people they attracted to save their economy. But do they send them back to their home as they left it? No. In a few years, it turned into a poor semi-medieval society. And it will take decades to somehow fix it. The authorities used these people and wanted to throw them out when they were no longer needed. They were victims of the situation. And that's why Sam sympathized with Karly's ideas. And asked not to call her a terrorist. I've seen more than enough people call Sam a hypocrite on this. (mostly on my side of the fandom. I'm not sure if there are many with these ideas on the English-speaking side) And it's just so stupid. But at the same time, his lecturing the government seems a bit unfair. Because he's not offering a solution to the problem. And the problem is really complicated. Just "being better" isn't really an answer. And it won't help provide people with housing, jobs, and food. And the TV series did a really bad job of communicating the problem itself. So some people saw the displaced people as just invaders of other people's places. Ugh. Does it really require much knowledge of History and Economics to imagine what happened after half the population disappeared? And I'll add the TB* tag. Because I feel like that misunderstanding adds a little bit of negativity to Sam's position. Sorry.

#tfatws #captain america #sam wilson #karli morgenthau #thunderbolts

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buckets-and-trees · 3 months ago

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Red, White & True: Election Day in New York, Pt. 1 [15/17]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 7.2k Summary: Election Day is finally here, but the campaign certainly isn't over yet. The people need to get out and vote, and you and Steve put in more hard work to get them to the polls. But you can't ignore the new level you and Steve have stepped into for your relationship...

Content/Warnings: political/campaign discussions, marriage of political convenience, slow burn, really the slowest burn, strangers to lovers, EXPLICIT SMUT (oral - male and female receiving, vaginal intercourse, implied hand jobs, referenced shower sex)

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

Previous Chapter | Series

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[NOVEMBER 3 - 8:32AM - TIMES SQUARE - MIDTOWN MANHATTAN]

“We all know it’s Election Day. Our team here at Good Morning America has been covering the developments you dedicated coverage for months, following the candidates, the debates, and the rogue run for the presidency by independent candidate and former Captain America Steven Grant Rogers, and in an unprecedented surprise development, we have the New York City native joining us here in studio right now,” Michael Strahan says, standing tall beside the news desk as the camera pans to reveal Steve sitting comfortably in one of the Good Morning America conversation chairs next to Robin Roberts and George Stephanopoulos.

"Good morning, America," Steve says with a small wave, his voice calm and steady despite the monumental day ahead. He looks impeccable in his navy suit, his signature red and blue campaign tie knotted perfectly at his throat. Your heart is racing and chest slightly heaving from the adrenaline of rushing across town and sprinting through the building to get Steve to the ABC studio in time for this last minute chance appearance, but Steve didn’t even break a sweat and looks cool as a cucumber on set.

He is a super soldier, but he also didn’t have to do any of it in heels.

"Captain Rogers, thank you both for being here on what must be an incredibly busy morning for you," George says, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

"I wouldn't miss it," you reply with a warm smile. "And please, call me Steve. New York is home, and I wanted to start this historic day right here."

“But we’re not your first stop, are we?” Robin jumps in. On the monitor next to you and Pepper, you can see them cutting to footage of you and Steve at your polling station to cast your ballots - which happened only just under an hour ago. “You’ve already been to Brooklyn to vote!”

Steve laughs, “Yes, we have! Voting is the most important thing every American can do today, so my wife and I made sure to take care of that the first chance we got!”

This stop hadn’t been on the itinerary, but your campaign press secretary had worked some sort of miracle and pulled many strings and announced as you got in a car to drive from The Plaza to your Brooklyn polling station that she’d managed to get Steve a five minute segment on the country’s most-watched morning show as long as you could make it into the studio by 8:30am.

"Now, Steve, the polls are showing an incredibly tight race. Some are calling it the most unpredictable race in our nation’s history,” George says. “The most successful run a third party candidate made was Theodore Roosevelt in 1912. After serving two terms from 1901-1909, he said he was not interested in running for a third term, and the Republican nomination went to his Vice President William Howard Taft who went on to win and succeed Teddy Roosevelt as President, but he was unhappy with the direction Taft went, and sought the nomination again four years later. He didn’t get it, and so he ran as the candidate for the Progressive Party, and he actually earned 88 electoral votes.”

“That’s true, and I’m old, but this actually was still just before my time,” Steve confirms with a wink and a grin, effusing charm. “He won 27% of the popular vote, but Woodrow Wilson ended up taking in 435 votes in the electoral college.”

“Now there are two possibilities at the end of this election,” Robin takes the reins from her cohost for the next leg of the conversation. “The first and most straightforward is that one of the three candidates wins a simple majority, just 270 of the 538 electoral votes. But what happens if none of you reach that crucial 270 threshold?”

"If no candidate secures a majority,” Steve explains, “the House of Representatives holds a contingent election to choose the president, while the Senate does the same for the vice president. In the House, every state delegation has one vote, whereas in the Senate, each Senator votes individually."

“That’s fascinating,” Robin replies.

"The Constitution's framers designed this process for exactly this kind of situation," Steve continues, his voice steady and clear. "It's happened before in our nation's history, though not since 1824."

"And polls show this is a real possibility tonight," George adds, glancing at his notes. "How does that affect your strategy today?"

Steve leans forward slightly, his expression earnest. "Our strategy remains unchanged—connecting with voters until the last poll closes. Every state is a battleground state for us, not just the quote ‘traditional swing states.’ I think that’s one of the most dynamic parts of this election. But we would prefer if we could take a true 270-victory to keep it in the hands of every American voter. The people deserve to have their voices heard. That's what democracy is all about."

"Speaking of connecting with voters," Robin transitions smoothly, "your campaign has defied conventional wisdom at every turn. No party infrastructure, no traditional fundraising apparatus, yet here you are, competitive in nearly every battleground state. What do you attribute that success to?"

You watch from just off-camera as Steve considers the question, his thoughtful pause not a hesitation but a careful, deliberate moment to find the words that matter.

"The American people are ready for something different," Steve says with quiet conviction. "They're tired of the political theater, the partisan gridlock. I was tired of it, too - that’s why I decided to do this, and what Charlie Young and I offer is simple: straight talk, clear vision, and a commitment to putting country above party." He smiles, that smile that has won over millions. "And I've been blessed not only with extraordinary supporters but a team of dedicated Americans who believed in this vision enough to work around the clock to make it possible."

George jumps in again and asks. "What's your message to voters who might still be undecided as they head to the polls today?"

Steve's expression grows more serious. "Vote your conscience. Not your fear, not your party loyalty, but your genuine belief in what America can and should be. This country has faced greater challenges than the ones before us now, and we've always emerged stronger when we've put our differences aside and focused on what unites us rather than what divides us. That's the America I believe in, and that's the America I hope to serve."

"And what about today's schedule?" Robin asks. "Where can voters expect to see you?"

"We'll be making stops in all five boroughs today," Steve replies. "We want to talk to as many people and thank as many people as we can. And then we'll be hosting a gathering in Central Park this evening as the results start coming in."

"And for those who haven't had a chance to meet you in person during the campaign," George says, "what would you like them to know about you as they head to the polls today?"

Steve takes another brief moment, his expression thoughtful. "I'd want them to know that I've never stopped believing in what America can be. When I woke up in this century after being frozen for decades, I had to learn about a world that had changed dramatically. But the core of what makes this country special hasn't changed—it's still about people coming together, looking out for each other, and believing that tomorrow can be better than today if we're willing to work for it."

"And time for one last question," Robin says, glancing at the producer who's signaling from off-camera. "Win or lose, what happens tomorrow?"

Steve smiles, a genuine warmth spreading across his features. "Tomorrow, the sun rises on America as it always has. And regardless of the outcome, I'll continue to serve this country in whatever capacity I can. That's been what I’ve done since 1943, and it hasn’t changed."

"Captain Rogers—Steve—thank you for joining us this morning," George concludes, extending his hand.

"Thank you for having me," Steve replies, shaking hands firmly with both hosts as the segment wraps.

"And we're clear!" calls the floor director. The red lights dim, and the studio immediately buzzes with movement as crew members shift equipment for the next segment.

"That was great," Robin says warmly. "Good luck today, Steve."

"Thank you," he replies, his smile genuine but a touch weary around the edges in a way only you can detect.

"That was fantastic," Jake says, appearing at your side as Steve steps off the set. "You hit every key message point we wanted."

Steve's public face softens slightly as he turns to the two of you and Pepper, the practiced polish giving way to something more genuine. "Did it sound natural? That last answer felt a little rehearsed."

"It was perfect," you assure him, straightening his already-perfect tie in a gesture that's become second nature. "Authentic but presidential."

Lisa hurries over with a tablet displaying the updated schedule.

"That went incredibly well," Lisa says, swiping through her notes. "Social media engagement is already spiking. The clips will be running all morning."

"The quinjet is waiting," Pepper notes, checking her watch. "We need to be in Queens by nine-thirty."

Steve frowns. “The quinjet? Is that really necessary?”

Pepper smiles serenely. “We’re going to use all the resources at our disposal to get you where you need to be today. Quinjets are immune to traffic.”

[2:27PM - BROOKLYN]

Your body is humming with the adrenaline of five back-to-back events across New York City's five boroughs. After heading to Queens from the Good Morning America appearance, you’d then gone to the Bronx, back into Manhattan, ridden the Ferry to Staten Island to mingle with the crowd there before the actual Staten Island stop, and made the last stop in Brooklyn.

You’re in a black SUV again now, and the motorcade weaves through the afternoon traffic, but instead of taking you back to Manhattan, every turn takes you deeper into Brooklyn. You exchange a puzzled glance with Steve as the familiar streets of your neighborhood come into view.

"Are we going where I think we're going?" you ask, leaning forward to catch Jake's eye in the front seat.

Jake turns, his expression a mixture of conspiracy and satisfaction. "Change of plans. We're taking you home."

"Home?" Steve repeats, his brow furrowing. "But the schedule had us back at the Plaza until the Central Park event."

"We only led you to believe that," Jake says, not quite meeting Steve's eyes. "Team decision.

We don't trust either of you to actually rest if we take you back to campaign headquarters. You'll both be hovering over polling data and making calls until it's time for evening appearances."

"What?" you and Steve say in near unison, both of you immediately sitting up straighter.

Jake's expression doesn't waver. "You heard me. You're going home to your actual home, and you're going to take a real break before tonight. The both of you are running on fumes."

"Jake," Steve begins, his tone carrying that Captain America authority that usually brooks no argument.

"With all due respect," Jake interrupts, remarkably unfazed, "this isn't negotiable. You two need actual downtime before tonight. Sophia, Sam, Bucky, and I conferred with Pepper. It was unanimous, and Pepper pays my salary, not you."

Steve glances at you, a silent conversation passing between you. You can see the initial resistance in his eyes.

“We're confiscating your phones as well," Jake adds, putting his hand out expectantly. "If we need you, we'll communicate through the Secret Service agents."

You stare at Jake, mouth slightly agape, but realize you shouldn't be that surprised. The team has been protecting you both from burnout for months, orchestrating moments of respite amid the chaos whenever possible. Still, the boldness of this particular intervention catches you off guard, but you know he’s right.

With a sigh of surrender, you hand over your phone. Steve hesitates a moment longer before reluctantly following suit.

"Three hours," Jake says, pocketing both devices. "That's all we're asking. Eat something that isn't campaign trail food. Take a nap in your own bed. Change into fresh clothes. Just be normal people for a little while."

The SUV pulls up to your brownstone, the one Steve purchased and that you haven’t spent more than a handful of days in since becoming his wife. It looks exactly as you remember—the freshly painted door, the window boxes that the property manager has maintained in your absence, the worn stone steps leading up to the entrance.

"We'll have agents downstairs," Jake continues as the Secret Service team conducts their standard perimeter check. "But inside, it's just the two of you."

"What about the press pool?" Steve asks, his sense of duty clearly warring with the temptation of a few hours of true privacy.

"Handled," Jake says firmly. "Why do you think we packed the news cycle for the first seven hours of your day?"

"And social media?" you ask, already anticipating that’s been covered, too.

“You surely noticed Peter Parker was your shadow across the five boroughs - he was gathering more than enough footage and photos to fuel the campaign until tonight.”

"You thought of everything," Steve observes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"That's my job," Jake responds with a smirk. "Now go. Rest. That's an order."

"Three hours," Steve agrees.

"Thank you," you add.

Jake smiles, genuine warmth replacing his earlier firmness. "See you at five-thirty. The car will be waiting."

As you step out of the SUV, the November air feels crisp against your skin. You and Steve walk briskly up to the front door, hand in hand, and a Secret Service agent opens it to let you inside. The brownstone welcomes you with familiar silence as the front door closes behind you. For a moment, you both stand in the foyer, as if reacquainting yourselves with the space that's meant to be yours but has seen so little of you.

"That was well-played by them," Steve finally says, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

"Very," you agree, taking off your coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. "But they're not wrong."

Steve follows suit, his jacket joining yours. "No, they're not," he admits, running a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of fatigue he allows himself only in private. "I haven't stopped moving since 5 AM."

You step closer to him, reaching up to loosen his tie. "And you were up at 4:30 checking polling data."

His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Of course I did," you say softly, working the knot of his tie free and setting it on a small table near the front door. Then you tip your head up and kiss your husband. It’s sweet, soft, taking advantage of a moment you get to simply be together. He returns it in kind, and you feel the contentment bleeding from him into you.

When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his chest and let out a contented sigh. "I'm starving," you admit, realizing you've barely eaten anything since the campaign breakfast at 6 AM.

"Me too," Steve says, his stomach punctuating the statement with a rumble that makes you both laugh. "Let's see what we've got."

You take his hand and lead him through the brownstone toward the kitchen. The house feels both familiar and strange—this space you've shared but never truly lived in together. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air and casting warm patterns across the hardwood floors. Your heels click against the wood, and you pause to slip them off, leaving them beside a decorative bench in the hallway.

"Much better," you sigh, wiggling your toes in relief.

The kitchen is spotless and eerily untouched, yet somehow welcoming. Steve opens the refrigerator, his expression turning to surprise.

"It's fully stocked," he says, glancing back at you. "Someone thought of everything."

You peek around his shoulder to see fresh produce, eggs, cheese, and various containers neatly arranged on the shelves. "Sophia," you guess. "She would remember we haven't actually lived here."

Steve pulls out ingredients—bread, cheese, deli meats, tomatoes, and lettuce. "Sandwiches?" he suggests, already moving with purpose around the kitchen.

"Perfect," you agree, hoisting yourself onto one of the counter stools to watch him work. There's something mesmerizing about seeing Steve in such a domestic setting, his movements efficient yet relaxed as he assembles lunch. Your mind wanders back to the last time you were in this kitchen together, making chocolate chip cookies, and though things had been developing between the two of you, it was at that point when you started to feel the reality of your relationship and the roots of it being permanent, of going beyond a political arrangement, of genuine love and affection.

Steve must have been thinking along similar lines, because as he assembles sandwiches for you both, he says, “I never told you how nervous I was for you to come here for the Oprah interview.”

"Nervous?" you ask, surprised. "Why? Because Oprah was coming?"

"No," he says with a small laugh, carefully slicing a tomato into perfect, even rounds. "Because you were. This was the first place that was really mine in this century. I'd had apartments, quarters at the Avengers compound, but this..." His knife pauses as he gestures around the kitchen. "I chose every detail. And I knew you’d been here before - for the nights around the wedding, but there weren’t emotional stakes back in June, and then suddenly I was seeing it all through your eyes."

You slide off the stool and move to stand beside him, picking up a knife to help with the sandwich preparations.

"There was this moment after dinner," Steve says, glancing up with warmth in his eyes, "we had a few minutes before the team was going to prep for camera angles with us in the living room, and you ran your fingers slowly along the banister while we talked, then walked over and lingered by the windows. It was the first time I saw you truly relax around me."

"I didn't realize I was so transparent," you admit, watching as he layers turkey and cheese onto whole grain bread.

"Not transparent. Just... seen." He slides a completed sandwich toward you on a plate so you can cut it in half. "By me, anyway."

The simple statement carries weight that settles comfortably in your chest.

You take a bite of your sandwich, the fresh ingredients a welcome change from campaign trail food. "You really see me, don't you?" you say after swallowing. "Even back then, when we barely knew each other."

"I think I've always seen you," Steve replies, his voice soft as he leans against the counter opposite you. "Even when I was trying not to."

You both eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the simple pleasure of a homemade meal in your own kitchen feeling like an extraordinary luxury after months of catering and takeout in hotel dining rooms, busses, planes, and at campaign events.

Steve finishes his sandwich in record time and makes himself another while you're still working on your first.

"Super soldier metabolism," you tease, watching him assemble a second sandwich with practiced efficiency.

"I've been running on fumes, remember?" he says in a pained voice. "Haven't had a real meal in years."

You study him as he eats, noticing the slight tension around his eyes, the way he occasionally rolls his shoulders to release stiffness. Steve Rogers, ever the soldier, pushing through every bit of fatigue he’s determined to ignore, and all without complaint.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, catching your contemplative gaze.

"Us," you answer honestly. "How strange it is that we've been married for months but this is the first time we’re getting to do this, be this.”

"Normal life," Steve says, nodding. "Just being together without a schedule, without cameras." His eyes hold yours, warm and thoughtful. "I want more of this. After today, regardless of the outcome."

You set your sandwich down, suddenly emotional at the simple truth of his words. "Me too."

Steve reaches across the counter, taking your hand in his. His thumb traces gentle circles on your skin, the gesture so familiar now it feels like a language all its own.

"I keep thinking about what happens after," you admit. "If you win, if you don't, everything changes again."

"Some things change," Steve agrees, his voice steady. "But not us. Not this." He squeezes your hand gently. "I meant what I said last night."

Heat rises to your cheeks at the memory of tangled sheets and whispered confessions. "I know you did. I did too.”

Steve finishes his second sandwich, takes a long drink of water, then wipes his mouth on his napkin and turns to face you. You look up at him and lick your lips, his eyes darting down to catch the movement.

"Come upstairs with me," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register that sends warmth spreading through your limbs. "We have two and a half hours left before we have to face the world again."

You step closer, your body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. "What did you have in mind, Captain Rogers?" you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice despite the way your heart quickens.

His eyes darken slightly as he looks down at you, his hand coming to rest on your waist. "A nap," he says with mock seriousness. "Jake's orders, remember?"

"Just a nap?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

Steve's mouth curves into that half-smile that makes your stomach flip as his hand squeezes at your waist. "Just a nap," he confirms. "But I can't be held responsible for what happens before or after said nap."

You laugh softly, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. "Then by all means, how can I refuse?"

Steve scoops you up in one fluid motion, drawing a surprised gasp from you as he carries you toward the stairs. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape.

"Show-off," you murmur against his ear.

"Efficient," he corrects, navigating the stairs with ease despite your added weight. "We're on a schedule, remember?"

You’re up two flights of stairs in next to no time.

The master bedroom is bathed in afternoon light, the cream curtains softening the November sun into a gentle glow. The bed is made with fresh linens—another thoughtful touch from whoever prepared the house for your brief visit. Steve closes the door behind you, though there's no one else in the house to hear or see.

Steve sets you down gently at the foot of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist as yours slide up his chest.

For a moment, you simply breathe together, the campaign, the election, the world outside all fading away until there's just this—you and Steve, husband and wife, in a quiet room on an extraordinary day.

His lips find yours with gentle precision, the kiss unhurried despite the ticking clock. Steve's fingers work at the buttons of your blouse while you loosen his belt, both of you unhurried yet deliberate. There's no need to rush—this stolen time is yours alone.

"I keep thinking about how surreal this is," you murmur as he trails kisses down your neck, your blouse now hanging open. "In a few hours, you could be the President-elect."

His hands pause their exploration, and he pulls back slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes serious despite the flush on his cheeks. "Or not," he says. “It’s always been a long shot.”

“But not an impossible shot,” you counter.

He smiles, cupping your face in his hands. "No. Not impossible." The fire you see in Steve’s eyes is there - you know he’s not feeling defeated, just tempering expectations, optimistic but realistic.

Your fingers trace the contours of his face, memorizing every line, every plane. The enormity of it all washes over you—not just the election, but this journey you've taken together, the unexpected path that led you here.

"Whatever happens tonight," you whisper, "this is what matters. Us."

Steve's hands thread through your hair, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The intensity there makes your heart stutter. "Always," he agrees, voice low and certain.

You slide your hands down his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. A surge overtakes you—the need to show him with actions what words can't fully express. With deliberate slowness, you sink to your knees before him, maintaining eye contact as you undo his belt completely and lower his zipper with careful precision. His breath catches audibly, his hands moving to your shoulders as if to steady himself. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds himself with perfect control.

"You don't have to," he murmurs, though his dilated pupils tell a different story.

"I want to," you reply, your voice soft but certain.

His eyes darken further at your words, and he gives a small nod, surrendering to your touch. You ease his trousers down his hips, followed by his boxer briefs, revealing his already hard length. The afternoon light plays across his skin, highlighting the perfect planes of his muscled abdomen, the definition of his thighs.

Your fingers trace up the inside of his leg, feeling the slight tremor that runs through him at your touch. You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip bone, feeling him inhale sharply at the contact. When you finally take him into your mouth, his strong but gentle hands come to cradle your head in his hands, not guiding, just connecting.

"God," he breathes, the single word heavy with desire.

You take your time, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his skin, the sound of his breath catching and releasing above you. The afternoon light streams through the curtains, casting a golden glow across his taut abdomen, highlighting the perfect definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. You watch his face as you move, captivated by the way his eyes darken and his lips part slightly with each slow stroke.

Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath your touch. His fingers remain gentle in your hair, neither pushing nor pulling, just maintaining that intimate connection between you. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, drawing a low, rumbling groan from deep in his chest that sends a shiver of satisfaction through you.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his voice strained and husky.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in his reactions, in the way his breathing grows more ragged with each passing moment. His thighs tense beneath your hands, and you glance up to see his head tilted back, eyes closed, lips parted. The sight of him—powerful, vulnerable, yours—sends heat pooling low in your abdomen.

When his control finally breaks, it's with your name on his lips, his hands still cradling your face with impossible firmness that’s still gentle even as pleasure overtakes him and you eagerly swallow him down.

After, he helps you to your feet, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and determination that makes your pulse quicken. His hands never seem to leave your body as he carefully removes each article of your clothing, scorching your skin, spiking the desire with each touch. He turns you both and presses your back up against the bedroom door.

"My turn," he whispers against your mouth, the words a promise that sends even more anticipation coursing through you.

Steve is not slow in kneeling before you and hitching one of your legs up over his shoulder, burying his head into your wet cunt. His breath is hot against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips as his tongue makes first contact.

Your back presses harder against the door as Steve's large hands grip your hips firmly, anchoring you in place. The contrast of the cool wood against your heated skin makes you shiver—or perhaps it's the intense way he's looking up at you, his blue eyes darkened with desire.

"Hold onto me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than hear.

You thread your fingers through his hair, the soft strands tickling your palms as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh. Each touch of his lips is deliberate as he works his way back to your core with agonizing slowness. His stubble creates a salacious friction against your sensitive skin, the slight sting only heightening your anticipation.

When he finally returns his attention to your center, you grip his hair tighter, your head falling back against the door with a soft thud. His tongue moves with purposeful precision, circling your clit before flattening against it, sending sparks of pleasure radiating outward. Your breathing grows ragged as he establishes a rhythm that has your knees weakening, grateful for his strong hands keeping you upright.

"Steve," you gasp, the single syllable carrying everything you can't articulate—need, love, desperation.

He responds by doubling his efforts, sliding one hand from your hip to slip two fingers inside you. The dual sensation of his mouth and fingers working in tandem has you climbing rapidly toward release, your body tensing with each stroke.

"That's it," he encourages against your flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the building pleasure. "Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The leg draped over his shoulder trembles as tension builds within you, coiling tighter with each expert movement of his mouth. Your fingers tighten in his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrates against your sensitive flesh, the sensation pushing you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body arching against the door as Steve works you through it, his movements slowing but not stopping until you're gasping, oversensitive, and tugging gently at his hair to signal you need a reprieve.

He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his hands steadying you as your knees threaten to buckle. His mouth finds yours in a deep, claiming kiss that has you tasting yourself on his lips. Despite having just found release, desire flares anew at the intimate gesture.

"Bed," you manage between kisses, tugging him toward the mattress. "Now."

Steve follows willingly, his renewed arousal evident against your hip as you both stumble onto the freshly made bed. The sheets are cool beneath your hands and knees as you crawl up the mattress, Steve right behind you. He positions himself over you, his chest against your back, hips rutting against yours.

His lips find the sensitive spot at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine as his hardness presses insistently against you. You arch your back, pressing your hips back against him in silent invitation. His hand slides around to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple as his other hand guides himself to your entrance.

"Yes," you breathe, the word half-plea, half-permission.

Steve enters you with one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of you gasping. He stills for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. The fullness, the connection—it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

"I love you," he murmurs against your skin, the words reverent and raw.

"I love you too," you reply, reaching back to touch his face, needing that additional point of contact.

He begins to move, slow and measured at first, letting you both savor each sensation. His rhythm builds steadily, each thrust slightly deeper, slightly harder than the last. Your other hand clutches at the sheets, anchoring yourself as pleasure builds once more. The only sounds in the room are your mingled breaths, occasional whispered endearments, and the soft rustle of sheets beneath you.

"Faster," you plead, pushing back against him to emphasize your need.

Steve's restraint breaks at your words. His pace increases, each thrust more powerful than the last, the new angle hitting the intimate spot along your front wall that sends you to another level, and you moan.

His hand slides from your breast down to where your bodies join, his fingers finding your sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The stimulation has you climbing rapidly toward another peak, your inner walls clenching around him as tension builds.

"Steve," you gasp, the word both warning and plea.

"I've got you," he promises, his voice strained with his own building release. "Always."

Your second orgasm crashes through you with surprising intensity, your body shuddering beneath his as waves of pleasure wash over you in relentless succession. Steve follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside you with a deep groan that reverberates through your connected bodies.

For several heartbeats, you remain locked together, both catching your breath as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside. Steve presses tender kisses along your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace that makes you feel cherished beyond words.

When he finally eases out of you, you both collapse onto the mattress, limbs entangled, skin cooling in the quiet afternoon air. Steve gathers you into his chest, his arm draped protectively over your waist.

"That certainly not a nap," you murmur against his jaw, your voice languid with satisfaction, lips brushing against his beard.

Steve's chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "We still have time," he points out, but the way his hand roams your back and the push of his thigh between your legs suggests he’s not considering sleep just yet.

And you don’t sleep.

You kiss, you grind and grope and pleasure each other some more. After what seems like far too soon but is an hour later, Steve coaxes you out of the bed, but into the shower where he fucks you again against the cool tiled wall.

"It feels strange," you admit, wrapping a towel around your torso. "Being here when there's so much happening."

Steve nods. "Strange but good," he says, his shoulders squared but relaxed for the first time in weeks. "Jake was right."

"Don't tell him that," you say with a small laugh.

Steve laughs, securing his own towel around his waist before stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Our secret, then."

You lean back against him, savoring the solid warmth of his chest against your back, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For a moment, you both stand there, reflected in the slightly fogged bathroom mirror—your skin flushed, hair damp, eyes bright. You look happy. Both of you. Despite the weight of expectation hanging over this day, despite the exhaustion of the campaign trail, despite the uncertainty that awaits.

You check the clock on the wall—nearly five o'clock. The bubble you've been living in for the last few hours is about to pop.

"We should get ready," you say reluctantly, running your fingers through your damp hair. "Car will be here in thirty minutes."

Steve nods, but instead of moving toward his clothes, he stays exactly where he is, arms around you, lips pressing warm kisses along your shoulder. "Five more minutes," he whispers against your skin, and you're tempted—so tempted—to give in, to stay locked in this private world where it's just the two of you, no campaign, no country watching, no history being made.

But duty calls, as it always does.

"Five minutes," you agree, turning in his arms to face him. "But actual getting ready has to happen."

Steve's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you. "Deal." His hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. "Whatever happens tonight," he says, his voice low and serious, "this has been the greatest adventure of my life."

"Better than fighting aliens?" you tease, but your voice catches on the words.

"Much better," he confirms without hesitation. "Fighting alongside the Avengers was about saving the world. This—" his hand gestures between you, encompassing everything unspoken, "—this has been about making it better."

The weight of his words settles over you, and you rise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his in a kiss that carries everything you can't articulate—gratitude, love, partnership, hope.

When you pull away, Steve's eyes remain closed for a beat, as if he's committing the moment to memory. Then he inhales deeply, his shoulders squaring with familiar determination.

"Time to get dressed," he says, dropping one final kiss to your forehead before stepping away.

You both move with practiced efficiency, the routine of preparing for public appearances so ingrained now it requires little thought. Steve selects a fresh navy suit—the same color as this morning but a different cut. After taking care of your hair and makeup, you stand much longer flipping through the options in your closet, considering the wardrobe that has been expertly curated and tailored for you but that you’re largely unfamiliar with since these clothes have been here, not on the road with you.

As you rifle through options, it doesn't help that your eyes keep being drawn to a very conspicuous piece at the very end.

The conspicuous garment bag with your wedding dress.

Your fingers brush against the protective plastic, memories of that day flooding back with unexpected intensity. The intricate lace, the delicate beading that caught the light as you walked down the aisle in that small Brooklyn church. It had been a practical choice at the time—a wedding arranged for political strategy, not romance.

"You were so beautiful that day," Steve's voice comes from behind you, startling you slightly as you hadn't heard him approach. His reflection appears in the mirror beside yours, his eyes soft with remembrance. "I could see that, and I knew you had to be great—Pepper had promised me she'd pick the partner I needed, but I never imagined I was meeting the love of my life."

You chuckle, though your eyes glisten slightly with tears—partly because Steve's words move you, and partly because, in hindsight, you recognize that day was tougher than you ever initially allowed yourself to admit.

"I didn't expect this, either," you admit, turning to face him properly. "Any of it. I thought I was making a political arrangement with a good man. I never imagined..." You gesture between you, at the intimacy that has grown between you, unexpected and profound.

“You were beautiful that day, but you also looked so determined, so fearless, I was thrown for a loop.”

You laugh again. “Are you serious? I was walking down the aisle to marry Captain America, who was still technically a stranger to me since he’d ditched our first date to meet a former president instead, and I’d also had a rather tense conversation where I’d just revealed to my parents why I was really rushing in to a marriage that hadn’t been on their radar at all. I was all game face and determination because I was barely holding it together.”

Steve's expression softens, and he reaches out to cup your cheek. "I had no idea. Like I said, you seemed so composed."

"That's what you saw," you say, leaning into his touch. "Years of practice hiding nerves. But inside, I was a mess. There was no turning back. And I didn't want to, even though I knew it wouldn’t be easy. And then you took my hand and it felt..."

"Steadying," he finishes for you.

"Yes," you admit.

"Even then, something about us just worked." His thumb traces your cheekbone. He sighs. “I wish we could do it all over again, do it right.”

You shake your head, responding immediately, “I don’t! There’s no way we’re here, like this, exactly this kind of in love if we’d done it any other way.” You take his other hand in both of yours as you continue, “This version of us is what I want for the rest of our lives.”

Steve kisses you fiercely, and when you break apart, he says, "You're right, I know you're right, but I didn't even propose to you."

You blink, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice. "What?"

"I never proposed," he repeats, taking both your hands in his. His eyes are bright with emotion. "You deserved that moment, at least. A real proposal, not a political arrangement hammered out over pitches and contracts."

A smile tugs at your lips. "Steve, we're married, that’s the important thing."

"I know." His thumbs trace circles on your palms, a gesture so familiar now it feels like a language all your own. Then he reaches out to touch the garment bag, his fingers tracing the outline of the dress within. "We should renew our vows," he says. "After all this. A real ceremony, for us this time."

The suggestion catches you off guard, but warmth spreads through your chest at the thought. "I'd like that," you say softly.

A knock at the bedroom door - muffled as it’s filtered from the bedroom to the en suite bathroom - interrupts the moment. "Five minutes, sir, ma'am," comes the voice of one of the Secret Service agents.

"Thank you," Steve calls back, his eyes never leaving yours.

You turn back to your wardrobe. “You go, you’re distracting! I’ll be down in just a few minutes.”

“Alright,” he laughs. "I'll see you downstairs," he says, pressing one more quick kiss to your temple before moving to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back at you with an expression that makes your heart skip. "Thank you. For everything."

Before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you with your thoughts and a closet full of clothes. You run your fingers over the options, finally selecting a dark green dress that complements Steve's navy suit.

As you slip into the dress, your mind races with possibilities for the night ahead. The polls have been unpredictable, the race unlike any in modern history. By morning, your life could look dramatically different—or perhaps not. Either way, something fundamental has shifted during these months of the campaign, and there's no going back to who you were before. The woman who walked down the aisle in that wedding dress feels like a stranger now—someone who couldn't possibly have imagined where this path would lead.

You give yourself one final check in the mirror, smoothing your hands over the tailored dress that was built to fit your body like a glove, giving you confidence in your curves, and adjusting your hair. The face that looks back at you is tired but luminous, eyes bright with purpose and something else—a quiet confidence that wasn't there before. Whatever happens tonight, you're ready.

next part: Election Day, part 2

Coming toward the end of the series, I'm back with a regular Friday update! Ta da! Are you proud of me? 🥹

Somehow I thought Election Day would be one chapter, but since it's such a big day, it was inevitable that it would need to be split in two - I just didn't know that until we got here hahaha! When I got to this point in the chapter, we should just be glad it leant itself to a natural enough breaking point. Story-wise there are just about as many scenes left for them for the second half of this very long and essential day.

But I'm also happy that we'll get to have one more chapter (and probably an epilogue...tbd on the election results).

(and tbh, I'm only 90% locked in on my decision for the election results...)

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