valsworldofcreativity

[valsworldofcreativity]

Pussy Cordon Bleu

Summary: Lloyd is a naughty boss.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Private Chef!Reader

Warnings: flirty Lloyd, shenanigans, groping, Lloyd being Lloyd, a slap, implied oral (fem rec)

Being Lloyd Hansen’s private chef has its advantages. You’re living in his guesthouse on private property. You’re allowed to use the pool and sauna, have a company car, and the garden is your territory.

Your tasks include planning Lloyd’s daily menu based on his preferences. This includes grocery shopping, preparing and cooking meals, and maintaining a clean and organized kitchen.

You convinced Lloyd to let you handle the food storage, too. Before you took over, it contained alcohol and crackers.

Most of the time, you love your job. Lloyd isn’t easy to handle, but you found a way to get along with your boss and even enjoy living and caring for the man-child he can be.

The only thing ruining your peaceful life and job is the fact that Lloyd tends to bring strays home. And by strays, you mean girls he finds at clubs, or work, or even at a library. He screws their brains out and leaves you to bring out the trash when he’s done with them.

“Morning, pipsqueak,” he grins while stealing a strawberry from the bowl you prepared for him. “Ah, my favorite woman.” He moans, tasting the fruit you harvested from the little garden you created on his property. “You are so good for me.”

You wonder if you misheard. “You mean I am good to you,” you point out. “Now, have your breakfast and some coffee. We both know how you get if you do not get your favorite coffee in your favorite mug.”

Lloyd leans and suddenly stands behind you to sniff at your hair. “Cupcake, if I didn’t know better, I’d believe you tried to tease me.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sir,” you smile to yourself while finishing Lloyd’s breakfast. “All done and settled for you. I’ll take a look at the garden now. There are more than enough strawberries for some homemade strawberry ice cream and maybe a smoothie for you.”

“I knew I got a good one when I hired you,” he chuckles before feasting on the food you prepared for him. Lloyd and you work like a well-oiled machine. If not for the lack of intimacy, people could mistake you for a couple. “You know me so well, Y/N.”

“That’s my job,” you point out. Lloyd wants to say something. His mouth opens as his eyes are glued to your face. The spell is broken when his latest fling steps inside the kitchen.

You huff, watching her steal the plate you prepared for Lloyd. You handpicked all the ingredients, only for that girl to eat it. Fine. If he wants to live like that, it’s not your problem.

You walk out of the kitchen, not wanting to watch Lloyd do unspeakable things in your kitchen. Last time, you walked in on him railing some bimbo on your freshly cleaned kitchen island.

“No, Y/N. It’s not your kitchen. It’s his fucking kitchen. You only work there for most of the day, all of your days.” You try to focus on the garden, its beauty, and the strawberries you want to harvest.

It’s peaceful out here. This is your haven. No one dares to step into your world, not even his security or the man you work for himself.

You square your jaw, seeing the girl from earlier step into your garden. She flashes you a fake smile before turning to pick one of your freshly planted flowers.

“Nice garden,” she dares to say while destroying your strawberries, stepping on them on purpose. “Oopsie!” She’s one of these women who wants to ruin the day for anyone else.

“What the fuck!” You place the basket you filled with strawberries on the ground to storm toward her. Before she can react, you slap the flower out of her hand and slap her across the face. “Do you always act like that on other people’s property? You can come to my garden, pick my flowers, and ruin my strawberries only because my boss fucked you a few times.”

“You better watch your mouth. I got that old dick wrapped around my fingers and…” She splutters seeing Lloyd step into the garden. “I…uh…”

“Y/N,” Lloyd, only ever saw you furious when someone messed with your food. He cups his crotch as you still yell at his latest fling. “May I ask you to bring the trash out?” He winks at you, making known that he is done with the bitch trampling on your strawberries. “I’ll have the situation fixed.”

He points at the ruined strawberries. “Name what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”

“You can’t fix my strawberries, boss,” you sigh. “These were some of the best and juiciest. She had to step onto them with her ugly feet.”

“HEY! I’m still here, duh,” she mutters. “It’s some strawberries, not the crown jewels or shit. Stop making a fuss.”

“Whoa, you shouldn’t have said that.” Lloyd watches you grab her arm with amusement. She curses you and tries to wiggle out of your iron grip, but it’s no use.

“Get out of here, bitch. He’s done with you,” you growl while dragging her out of the garden to toss the trash onto the street.

“What are we having tonight?” Lloyd strolls into the kitchen to watch you prepare dinner for him. He looks at all the ingredients on the kitchen counter, licking his lips.

“Chicken Cordon Bleu,” you say while busying yourself butterfly-cutting the chicken breasts for the menu you planned. “I prepare the chicken breasts at the moment. Do you need anything, boss?”

You open the prepared chicken breasts like a book, preparing them for the next step. You’re about to cut the ham when Lloyd steps behind you to look over your shoulder.

He snorts. “Cupcake, I didn’t take you for a naughty cook.”

“Naughty…what?” You look at the chicken breasts, frowning deeply. “What do you mean? That’s the chicken breast for the Chicken Cordon Bleu.”

“No, sugarplum,” he snickers behind you. “That looks rather like a Pussy Cordon Bleu, Y/N.” Lloyd presses his body against yours and places his hands on your hips. “See the beautiful outer lips and the little nub? That’s a pretty pussy, waiting for me to eat her.”

“Boss, you can’t lick raw chicken. That’s unhealthy, and you’ll get sick.” You mutter, remembering the last time Lloyd got sick.

He had the infamous man cold, shooing you from one end of his mansion to the other, whining and begging for attention and soup. In the end, you got him high on cold medicine and cuddles.

“Fine,” he purrs in your ear. “If you don’t want me to lick the raw chicken, how about…” You squeak when he twirls you around and easily lifts you onto the kitchen island, “You let me lick the original.”

You blink a few times. He can’t mean that… “What? Boss, this isn’t funny. I don’t want to lose my job!”

“Baby cakes,” he smirks, his hands already pawing at your thighs to part them, “we both know you are head over heels and butterflies in the stomach for me. You didn’t think twice when I asked you to move into my guesthouse. You wanted to be close to me all the time.”

“I agree to move into the guesthouse because you have a pool, a sauna, and a huge garden. Who wouldn’t want to live here?”

“See, you already live here like a girlfriend or a wife.” He leans closer, his lips almost touching yours. “If you want a lifelong right of residence, become my pretty little cupcake, Y/N. Not one of the other flings gets me as hard as you do.”

“Boss.” You lick your lips. “If you fire me after eating my pussy, I’ll stab you to death with my favorite knife and make it look like an accident.”

He smirks and says, “I wouldn’t expect less from you…”

[valsworldofcreativity]

Human Purse (5)

Summary: You meet a stranger, and he won’t let you go…

Pairing: Mobster!Loki Laufeyson x fem!Reader

Warnings: language, kissing, possessive Loki, mafia au, arguing, fluff

Human Purse masterlist

Catch up here: Human Purse (4)

Loki uses the ride to his brother’s party to get back in your good graces. He leans closer in the backseat of the limousine, his hand brushing your thigh.

“Do you know how often I imagined making you moan my name? I’d worship every inch of your body, lick, taste, and grope and caress.”

You shiver at his promise. Loki is the kind of man who easily wraps you around his finger. “Yeah, I don’t think you will touch, grope, or lick any part of me for the time being.”

“So, there is hope,” Loki concludes. “I know that one day, you’ll tremble beneath me, your cries of pleasure the only sound you’ll make.”

You turn your head to not show Loki how much his words affect you. He can never know that if he charms you only a little more, you’re done for.

“A nice dream,” you scoff, instead of giving in to his advances. “You should know the difference between fact and fiction. It’s called a wet dream.”

His lips almost touch your earlobe when he says, “Darling, believe me. What I have in mind is far from a dream. I want you, and you’ll soon realize I always get what I want.”

It takes everything in you not to melt in his arms. Instead of giving in, you say, “Dream on. You’re a liar, and I can never trust you after you stalked me for so long.”

“I won't give up so easily, darling. One day, you will forgive me,” Loki mutters under his breath. “For now, I’ll settle for you keeping me company at my brother’s party.”

He retreats, a smug grin on his kissable lips. Loki leans back and enjoys your struggle to remain calm. You shake your head and decide to ignore his presence. It’s your fault. You agreed to go to the party with him.

Loki didn’t exaggerate. His brother’s house is huge, almost like a mansion. The party is in full swing when you arrive.

“Relax, darling,” Loki drawls as he guides you around the room. His hand rests on the small of your back, his thumb drawing patterns into your skin. “You look beautiful in that dress.” Loki dips his head to press a soft kiss on your cheek. “Not that you do not look stunning all the time.”

“You’re laying it on thick tonight, huh?” You try to sound casual, but your voice gives you away. “I don’t know if I fit in here, Loki. This was a stupid idea. All these women look like they belong, not me.”

“Y/N, you belong here as much as they do.” His arm wraps around your waistline. “Besides, none of them is half as captivating as you are. Do not underestimate yourself, darling.”

“You say that, but I do not feel as confident as you are,” you murmur, not wanting to draw attention toward you.

He looks around the room, his expression hard to read. Loki doesn’t seem to be impressed when most of the single women look his way.

“You see, they are all jealous of you for taming the untamable bachelor. Darling, you have what they only dream of.”

“Let me guess, your attention?” You sass. “They all only want you… I got it.”

His lips brush your ear-shell. “I meant grace, kindness, and honesty.” He chuckles when you start to squirm in his embrace. “And yes, you have my attention too.”

It’s embarrassing how easily Loki makes your heart race and your body weak. You try to sound casual when you say, “I bet you brought many girls here. I’m just the next one in your arms.”

“Loki! Brother!” A deep voice makes itself known. It booms through the room, making everyone stop in their tracks to look Loki’s way.

“Brother,” Loki curtly says, but his greeting is laced with something other than friendliness. “I see you invited half of town…again.”

Thor is tall and broad, with thick blonde locks reaching his shoulders. His blue eyes sparkle, looking your way. “Ah, you must be the chosen one.” He holds out his hand to take yours and presses a chaste kiss to your skin.

“Chosen…one?” You question, confused about Thor’s words.

“Loki never brings a dame to one of my parties. It’s a first,” Thor replies with a smirk. Loki’s grip on you tightens. He holds his brother’s gaze, making his claim on you known.

Thor laughs and steps back, holding up his hands. “Do not make yourself scarce again, brother. We all have missed you dearly. I will hunt you down if you plan on vanishing mid-celebration again.”

“Well, if the party is as dull as the last one, you cannot blame me for leaving.”

The friendly banter between the brothers continues as you watch them with curiosity.

Does Thor know his brother was following you? Does he protect people like his brother, or is he completely different?

“Shall we have a drink, darling?” Loki whispers in your ear, eager to get away from his brother. Thor asked too many questions about you, and his brother doesn’t like it one bit.”

“A drink sounds good…” Loki guides you away, promising to get back to Thor after you greet more people. You’re not sure, but you think it’s a lie…

[valsworldofcreativity]

More gorgeous photos of Jensen at the 'Countdown' premiere last night in Los Angeles

[valsworldofcreativity]

Dinner for found family

Summary: You host another dinner for your found family. Your “real” family doesn’t like it one bit.

Pairing: Biker(Alpha)Bucky Barnes x Neighbor (Omega) Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Brock Rumlow, Yelena Belova, Okoye,

Warnings: fluff, a/b/o, courting, cocky Bucky, protective Bucky, awful family

Catch up here: Dinner for a pack

“Hey, neighbor,” Bucky grins as he lazily leans on your door frame. “Do you mind lending me some sugar, Y/N? I’m out of sugar, and no one has the good stuff.”

You giggle at his playfulness, even slap his chest because his eyes roam your body in your simple sundress.

Over the last few weeks, you and the alpha have been going steady. This doesn’t mean you’ll allow him to undress you with his eyes.

After the dinner you hosted for his friends and Bucky, he finally declared he wanted to court you like a good alpha. “I don’t know, sir. You never bring my cups back.”

“Well, you could just move in with me and have them all back,” he challenges like the cocky man he is. “I told you; my omega can have everything I own.”

“I told you that I need time to think about it, Bucky,” you whine when he purrs low in his throat for you. “No, don’t use your alpha moves on me.” You stand your ground. “I want this to work out, and for us to bond, but…”

“You’re scared,” he concludes, seeing the uncertainty in your eyes. “They really did a number on you.” Bucky nods slowly, a little disappointed that you do not trust him yet. “I’m here to stay, Y/N. But I understand that you fear that I’ll let you down, too.”

“It’s…” You avert your gaze, wringing your hands. “I told you how they always left me outside alone. Even on my brother’s wedding day, I was an outcast. I wasn’t allowed to sit with the family. People asked who I was because I sat in the back with his colleagues and his neighbor.”

“Assholes,” Bucky grunts, making you chuckle. “I mean it, Y/N. Who does this to his sister and daughter? You outdid yourself preparing the anniversary dinner. The food, the pie, the decoration, and you even had little gift bags for all guests.”

“Brock got the good stuff.” You snicker. “Shaving cream and strawberry jam with lavender.” You wave at Brock, who looks your way. “Did you already try the jam, Brock?”

“I ate it all, sweet cheeks. Do you have more for Brock? I like me some good jam.” Brock makes his way toward you and Bucky before you can stop him. “Morning, do you have more?”

“Sure thing,” you wink at Brock before grabbing Bucky’s wrist. “Buck will bring you some later. He needs some sugar first.”

“Can I have it now?” Brock’s stomach growls loudly. “I haven’t eaten anything yet.” It almost looks like Brock pouts when he looks at you.

“Dammit, Brock. Get off her back,” Bucky grunts at his friend. “She’ll give you some later. Have a little patience.”

“Wait a moment. I’ll get you some,” you laugh as Bucky makes a face. “Don’t be like that, Bucky. He’s hungry and hasn’t eaten yet.”

“Y/N is an angel. You must keep her around, Bucky,” Brock grins wildly when you move inside your house only to come back with two jars of jam in your hands. “More jam!”

“Here you go, Brock.” You place the jars in his hands, smiling softly. “I grew the strawberries in my backyard. I hope you like these too.”

“Thank you, sweetness.” Brock hurriedly runs off with the jars in his hands. He shoos Sam and Yelena away. He won’t share his prey with any of them.

“Do you want to come in now, Bucky, or do you want to wait here for the sugar?” You crook your finger to lure Bucky into your house. “I want you to help me decide on what to cook for dinner tomorrow night. I want it to be perfect.”

“It will be perfect because you are going to be there.” Bucky moves closer, cupping your face with both hands. “The gang already loves you. You can feed them dry bread and water, and they’ll praise you.”

“I want to give them something better than dry bread, Bucky,” you whine. “You know them better than anyone else. I need your help.”

“Brock is easy. He eats everything edible. It doesn’t matter if it tastes good.” He grins at you. “Just saying, give him food, and he’s your best friend.”

“I thought about…” You want to tell Bucky about the menu you put together for your dinner when your phone vibrates. You ignore it and retrieve your cookbook, explaining the ingredients and details of the main dish.

“Your phone,” Bucky points at your phone, furrowing his brows as you ignore your phone once again. “Angel, don’t you want to see if it’s someone important?”

“What is it now?” You huff when your phone vibrates again and again and again. Message after message pops up, but you still don’t unlock it.

“Your menu sounds delicious, Y/N.” Bucky nods, not giving away that he understood only half of the recipe. “So…will you check your phone or…just ignore it?”

“What?” You look at Bucky, blinking a few times. “Oh, my phone. I guess it’s one of those apps wanting to tell me about the latest updates or something.”

“Six times in a row?” He huffs. “If there’s someone else…just tell me.” Bucky sniffs when you unlock your phone.

“Bucky, there is no one else. It’s just that…” You take a deep breath and show Bucky the latest messages you received. “It’s my family not leaving me alone.”

“What? Why? Do you want me to break someone’s face?” Bucky looks at the messages, mostly from your brother and parents, blaming you for the shitstorm they got online. “What happened?”

“Yelena and Okoye posted some pictures from our dinner and explained that the food and everything else were meant for my parents’ anniversary. Apparently, the daughter of my parents' best friend found the post, and well…” You shrug. “I didn’t know about the post, and I don’t mind. It’s the truth. We had a wonderful evening after they stood me up last minute.”

“I should do something about this,” Bucky grinds his teeth. “Give me their address, and they’ll leave you alone.”

“No…no,” you grab his wrist, shaking your head. “They soon will lose interest. I told you, they never wasted much thought on me.”

“That’s not right, and you know it, Y/N. They are the assholes in this story, not you.” He thumbs through the angry messages from your family, getting angrier with every line he reads. “Maybe you should block them.”

“I tried a few times, but—” You sigh deeply. “They are still my family, and it’s hard to cut them out of my life forever. I’m not saying you are wrong in this. I only need a little more time.”

“I get it.” Bucky wraps his arms around you, gently holding you in his arms. “Family can be shitty, but it’s still family. I want you to know that you have a new family waiting across the street. They won’t let you down, I swear.”

Everything looks perfect. Bucky helped you prepare the table while you and Okoye checked on the food. She was a great help, unlike Brock, who tried to steal food more than once.

You are in a good mood, ready to serve the first dish, when your doorbell cuts through the cheers and happy chatter. “Who is this?” Brock grunts. He was so close to finally tasting your food, only for someone to ruin his chance to get a filled plate.

“I don’t know,” you reply, looking at Bucky. “Everyone we invited is here. Did you invite someone else?”

Bucky looks around the crowded room. Natasha, Yelena, and Okoye shake their heads. Brock is busy stealing some potatoes while Sam, Clint, and Steve fight over the best seat. Thor and Loki fight over beverages, but shake their heads.

“Guys, did you invite someone else?” Bucky asks. “I didn’t invite someone, either.”

“Hmm… I guess we should check.” Brock is quick to get up, if only to grab a chicken leg before he walks toward the door, ripping it open.

“Brock…wait…” Bucky groans as he follows Brock close behind. “Who is this?”

“I don’t know, man,” Brock replies, taking a large bite of the chicken. “They are yelling and told me to get out of their way.”

“What?” Bucky shoves his friend aside, only to face your angry family. They scream at him and try to enter your house. “What do you want here?”

“My sister is holding another dinner, and we are not invited,” your brother snaps at Bucky as if this explains why they came here tonight.

“Yeah, for a reason,” Bucky bites back, squaring his shoulders, ready to fight your brother. “You let her down and didn’t invite her for your fancy dinner. She cooked and baked and got all these nice gifts only for you to ignore her. So, get fucked.”

“Get … what?” Your brother splutters. “I want to hear it from her.”

You step next to Bucky, looking at your family. They act as if you did some horrid thing. All the times they let you down and ignored you come to your mind. You laugh and say, “Bucky is right. Get. Fucked.”

Slamming the door in their face, you smile. Bucky and Brock watch you walk off. They are both stunned, but Bucky, he’s damn proud of you too…

[valsworldofcreativity]

"just write a little every day" ok but what if i write nothing for 3 weeks and then suddenly type like i’m being hunted by god

[valsworldofcreativity]

Miserable Fate (Prologue)

Summary: He suddenly wants his soulmate.

Pairing: Billionaire! Bucky Barnes x fem! Reader

Warnings: heavy angst, soulmate AU, world building, time jumps

A/N: This story will contain lots of time jumps/different periods. For this short prologue, we are in the present time.

Now, …

Your soul is about to be torn apart. One moment in your past led to an endless nightmare filled with pain, rejection, and heartbreak. You don’t know how much more your already fragile heart can take.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out for you for the first time.

Until now—until the truth was revealed-all he ever did was to push you away.

Your soulmate broke you beyond repair. Now he’s standing in front of you, raising his hands in surrender as you uncontrollably sob.

“I love you, Y/N. Never before did I feel so deeply for a woman,” he tries to charm you, but you won’t have it. You slap his hand away when he tries to cup your cheek.

Bucky Barnes had his chance—no, not one.

He had so many chances to see that his soulmate was right in front of him. He never tried to see more in you than a liability and a bug he wants to squish under his shoe.

“No. You don’t love me.” You stare him down. After everything he has done over the years, and especially the last months, to make you feel miserable and unwanted, he won’t get a second chance. “It was never about me, but the fantasy you created in your mind. The girl you adored after I pressed a tissue to your bleeding cheek when we were kids. You love the idea of me—not my true self.”

He flinches when you mention your past. Until four weeks ago, he believed someone else was the sweet and innocent girl helping him after someone tried to hurt him. You wanted to tell him so many times, but Bucky didn’t listen.

“That’s not true! Don’t tell me what I feel near to you!” He yells now, nostrils flaring. “I know my heart better than you!”

“Not weeks ago, you believed my stepsister was your soulmate. Now you are after me?” You huff and shake your head. “I mean nothing to you and never will. You’re living in a fairy tale, and I’m the person you want to use to fulfill your dreams. I’m not having it!”

“Y/N, please,” he pleads now, hand reaching for you once again, but you slap him once more.

“No!” Your voice sounds so different when you say, “I have loved you with all my heart since we were kids. But you…” You scoff when he looks at you in awe. “You chose my sister over me. Every. Single. Time. Just like my mother. Just like my father. Just like the whole fucking world. No more!”

He has the guts to look hurt when he says, “I’m here to make things right, Y/N. I was a fool, blinded by my wish to find my soulmate.”

You step away from him, shaking your head.

“No. You don’t come here and tell me you're going to make things right. Years of hurting taught me one thing—never to trust anyone but myself. Go and be with my sister and forget that I was the kid pressing the tissue to your wound. Just fill the gaps with her face and leave me the fuck alone.”

Part 1

[valsworldofcreativity]

No exceptions (6)

Summary: He likes your guts and your cake.

Pairing: Mobster!Frank Castle x Baker!Reader

Warnings: mafia business, flirty Frank (he tries, okay), making out, pussy sniffing, pre-smut

Catch up here: No exceptions (5)

No exceptions masterlist

Frank grins. He goes down on his knees, about to rip your panties off your body when a knock stops him from getting more than a whiff of your pussy.

“Frank,” you whimper, pushing against his shoulders as he stares at your clothed pussy like a hungry wolf. “They won’t stop. It’s past opening time.”

“Fuck’s sake. Can a man not get a taste of his girl’s petals? Why does every asshole have to keep me away from you?” Frank curses and grunts. He gets back up on his feet, slamming his hands flat onto the counter, caging you.

Frank looks at you, debating whether to still have his way with your cunt or to help you open the bakery. “Frank, I need to open the bakery, or your boss will get mad. We don’t want him to get mad.”

“He won’t harm you. No one will hurt you on my watch. I told you; I protect what’s mine.” Oddly, you believe Frank. Not weeks ago, you thought he was nothing but a vile and brutal man. Now you see a different side of him.

You gently touch his chest with both hands, eyes glued to his face. “Maybe you could come back tonight. I wanted to cook, and I hate eating alone.”

“You want to cook for me?” Frank’s smirk deepens. He cocks his head as the knocking gets louder, more demanding. “I’ll bring some wine or dessert if you want to.”

“Just bring you,” you reply, a coy smile on your lips. Frank watches you lick your lips, mesmerized by the sight of your wrecked state. “That will be enough.”

“My charming personality, huh?” Frank runs his hands up and down your arms. “I knew you’d fall for me sooner or later. Matt didn’t believe me, but I knew."

“I should open the bakery.”

“Yeah, you should open the bakery, sweet cheeks.” Frank pecks your lips, humming when you wrap your arms around his neck. “We want to sell the lovely cakes, cupcakes, and chocolate bunnies.”

“You’d make a great baker, Mr. Castle.”

“Nah, I’d only eat all of them and get a big belly.” He jokes, so unlike the man you feared for so long.

“I’d like you with a belly too,” you hastily reply. “I mean…uh…you look good…and…” Nervously babbling, you try to find the right words. “You know that you look good.”

“I don’t look good, but thank you for falling for me and my handsome face.” Frank grins. “Let me open the door, and you can prepare everything else.”

“Good idea.” You are quick to reply, not wanting Frank to distract you even more. He pecks your lips again before grabbing the keys to unlock the door and greet the first customers.

You can hear one of your regulars grumble, but they do not dare to get angry with Frank around. He sits down and politely orders coffee and one of the bunny cakes you made with Frank’s help.

You greet your customers and get to work while Frank stays around. He helps you serve the customers and keeps an eye on you, like an overprotective guard dog.

After five hours of hard work, you take a break, having tea and lunch with Frank. You sit outside your bakery, enjoying your lunch break, when Frank’s demeanor changes. He squares his jaw and touches the gun hidden under his jacket—his gaze locked onto the figure crossing the street, an unfamiliar face in a town.

You follow his line of sight, your breath catching as the stranger hesitated by your bakery’s display window, their eyes scanning the displayed goods before flicking briefly toward you. Without a word, Frank leans closer, his voice a murmured growl.

“Stay here. I’ll handle it, sweet cheeks.” Before you can protest, get up. His presence exudes self-confidence and strength.

The stranger watches Frank’s approach with a neutral expression. There’s something in his eyes, though, giving the tension in his body away.

From your seat, you can’t hear what they are talking about, but Frank’s broad shoulders block the view, and his stance makes it clear he is not in the mood for polite conversation.

You clutch your cup tighter, hoping the stranger means no danger to you, your bakery, and Frank…

[valsworldofcreativity]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTj4uTE1M/

How would mafia Bucky react to mal’s new bikini

Bucky's taking her to a private beach where the only thing she's going to be wearing is her perfume. And his marks on her thighs and along the curve of her throat.

[valsworldofcreativity]

I try to be responsible but my brain just keeps throwing me more shit to draw

[valsworldofcreativity]

Okay so we know that for Bucky, gorgeous just has to breathe in his direction and he'd be hard, but what about gorgeous? What is something that Bucky does that is so damn irresistible that gorgeous just can't help but jump his bones?

There was the time he wore this suit to her company work party.

She had no idea he even owned it until he showed up in it. He wore this new cologne, spiced orange, patchouli with an under tone of bergamot. He leaned down to hug her and she nearly moaned in front of all her coworkers.

He was there for all five minutes before she pulled him into an empty closet.

Bucky was laughing as she furtively closed the door. She turned to him and his laughter died down because holy fuck does he know that look.

"You have ten seconds to get inside of me." She said, tugging her dress up.

He did it in five. And had her eyes rolling back with every deep thrust, his hand gripping her as he angled his hips just right, the other planted on the wall for leverage. Her panties shoved in her mouth to keep her quiet. "Fuck, Gorgeous, shh shh I know fuck-I know but ya gotta be quiet, just hold on.

And he owns these grey sweatpants that he's no longer allowed to jog in. It's forbidden after the incident.

And if he does something domestic. it's a turn-on to see her giant tattooed biker lounging on the couch in his grey sweatpants reading a book.

[valsworldofcreativity]

the fluffy hair poking out from under his cap is so cute😭 but any gym seb content makes me think of your trainer!bucky tbh💖

That's so cute 😍 I miss him. Lets discuss a little snippet of their upcoming fic. 

Pairing: Personal trainer Bucky x plus size reader

Word Count: Less than 625.

Warnings: Implied smut, Bucky can't keep his hands off your thighs, size kink, overstimulation kink

An: Written on my phone. Unbetad.

“Hey sweet girl,” Bucky grunts, his prominent biceps straining as he lifts the weights over him. “How are you?”

You stroll over until you’re standing between his bent legs. “I’m good,” you respond with a curious tilt of your head. “Didn’t you work on your arms yesterday?”

Bucky grins up at you, his handsome face flushed and sweaty. Your gaze follows a thin stream of sweat snaking its way down his throat to his massive chest, his dark gray shirt is nearly black as it clings to every defined, ridged muscle. He looks so good, his soft pants remind you of how he sounds when he’s inside you and your thighs clench instinctively. 

“My eyes are up here, Bunny,” he teases, laughing when your eyes snap up to his mischievous blue ones, your cheeks burning from being caught ogling your man. “And yes, I did, but after what happened last night, I felt it was necessary to work on my upper body strength.”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, folding your arms across your chest.

Bucky lowers the weights to floor with a loud thud. He sits up, wrapping his large hands around your thighs, squeezing your skin. Canting his head back, he states with an air of amusement, “don’t act like you don’t remember running from me.” 

Your brows furrow and you stare down at him. “When did I run from-” you trail off at his growing smirk. “Oh.” 

Rubbing the back of your neck, your already burning cheeks become even more heated as you remember the way you kept pushing away from him last night, clinging to the headboard like it was a life raft, only to be pulled back down by his powerful thrusts. Oh shit, I can’t Buc-oh god, I can’t take it, ohmigod, please baby I-”

You’re pretty sure they heard your screams and moans across the entire city by the time he was done. Or at least your neighbors did because someone-Bucky-left the window open.

“Oh.” He retorts, his hands sliding up to cup your ass. “So now I have to make sure I can keep you right where you belong because this is your cock, Bunny, and I have to make sure you take all of it.”

Bucky taps your ass softly, rolling his lower lip between his teeth with a gravelly moan that you feel in your belly. “It’s what you deserve for being such a good girl for me and I won’t deprive you of a single inch.” 

You giggle, the image of him on top of you, his heavy, warm body keeping you pinned in place flashes through your mind, and your belly flutters, your heartbeat dropping between your thighs. “Oh no, I won’t survive that. Nope. I won’t. I am not built for that.” 

Bucky throws his head back with a deep laugh. “Bunny, you’re made for me, you’re fucking perfect,” he says with such conviction, it makes your heart race. “And don’t worry, we can practice over and over until your body learns to handle me.”

Bucky pauses, his hands roaming back down your thighs, he throws you a roguish look. “Or you pass out. Either way, we’ll have a good time.” 

Your mouth flounders open. “I- you can’t be serious.”

He raises one brow and slowly lowers himself back to the mat. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs his weights and lifts them off the floor. “Don’t worry, after this set,” he says, his tongue languidly running over his bottom lip. “I’ll make sure you’re stretched out and ready for me.”

[valsworldofcreativity]

Auntie flow

Warnings- smut, period talk, period sex, shower sex.

Please do not steal or repost my content. Reblogs are welcome.

Wtf am I doing posting this.

Masterlist

Steve stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. He was so excited he was almost jumping. It had been a busy few days he hasn’t had much time to spend with you. Luckily he managed to get his work done sooner so that he could go home and cuddle all night. Maybe you both can go out to eat, go to McDonald’s drive through. He didn’t consider that real food but anything to indulge you.

The elevator dinged and he stepped out pressing in the code for his apartment.

“Honey, I’m home”, he called out for you, heloved saying that.

Keep reading

[valsworldofcreativity]

my fave writing reminder

honestly, this phrase has been on my mind more times than i can count. i've kidnapped it, taken it as a hostage with no ransom money because i need it to live permanently in my head.

[valsworldofcreativity]

Dinner for a pack

Dinner for a pack

Summary: It’s your turn to host dinner for a family event. Your family let you down once again. Bucky and his gang are more than happy to jump in.

Pairing: Biker(Alpha)Bucky Barnes x Neighbor (Omega) Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Brock Rumlow

Warnings: angst, a/b/o, shitty family, fluff

This story was written for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer - Week 1 - “Mind your own damn business.” + embarrassment

Bucky watches you carry another bag filled with groceries into your house. He’s antsy, smelling the food on your stove and the pie you must’ve baked this morning.

“You look…like a hungry beast,” Steve Rogers, ever the observant, annoying best friend, says. “Is it the food or the woman?” He snorts, watching Bucky’s face scrunch up in confusion.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the alpha scoffs and turns back around to polish his bike. He angrily rubs a stain off the bike, ignoring Steve’s nagging voice.

“You should go over there and tell her she’s yours.” The blonde doesn’t know when to stop. “Buck, I’m telling you, she’s a shy one. You've got to make her yours and not give her the chance to shy away.”

“Punk, leave me alone with your lousy matchmaking skills.” Bucky throws the rag he used to clean his bike at Steve.

The blonde easily catches the rag and throws it back at Bucky. Right into the brunette’s face. “Hey, I matched Natasha and Yelena. Do not underestimate the power of Steve Rogers.”

Bucky scoffs. “Last time you tried to set me up with a woman, she tried to steal my bike and was into women. She was all over Yelena.”

“It’s not my fault you lost your mojo, Buck.” Steve shrugs and turns his head to watch you carry flowers into your house. “Hm…big event this time. A birthday or an anniversary, maybe?”

“UH—I think she said something about an anniversary.” Bucky rubs his scruffy chin, trying to remember what you were talking about with your neighbor next door. He tries not to give away that he was listening to your conversation. “I bet she’s going to host the anniversary dinner.”

“And?” Steve cocks his head, a smirk on his face. “Did you ask if you can join them? As her alpha, you should finally meet the family.”

“You’re an ass only to be an ass,” Bucky grunts and kicks a stone at Steve. “She’s not my omega. Y/N is a neighbor, a good one. Whenever I need something, she helps me out and tells me to keep it.”

“Yeah, because she’s courting you, Buck.” Steve laughs and dodges another attack with the rag. “Just saying, grab the girl and make her yours.”

“It’s not that easy, Steve. You know that.” Bucky sighs deeply while running one hand down his face. “Mating is complicated. Most of the time, omegas are scared of alphas like me.”

“Buck, with all due respect, you’re a coward.” Sam laughs in his friend’s face. “You want that omega. She’s the one, and you are still looking for an excuse to not mate her.”

“Who asked you, man?” Bucky angrily replies. He wants to scold his friends, but then you open the front door, looking left and right only to walk back inside. “Huh, what was that?”

“I don’t know. It looked like she was looking for someone to show,” Sam replies. He looks at your door, watching you step outside to sit on one of the front porch steps. “Hmm…what’s with her?”

Bucky, Steve, and Sam glance your way. You’re sitting on the step, getting your phone out of your pocket. You sigh while staring at the device.

“Should I go over and ask if she’s okay?” Bucky says more to himself than to his friends. “I think she looks sad.”

“You could go over and ask for some sugar,” Steve grins at his idea, proud of himself.

“What?” Bucky can’t believe his friend sometimes. “She looks sad, and you want me to ask her for some sugar? I don’t think she’s in the mood for naughty things.”

Steve groans. “Not like give me some sugar. I meant the sugar you put in your tea.”

“Oh—OH!” Bucky grins. “That’s not the worst idea you ever had.” He looks down at his body and checks his outfit. “How do I look?”

Sam snorts. “Honestly? Like a needy alpha close to his rut. You look like shit, but Y/N is a kind-hearted person and won’t send you away.”

“Asshole,” Bucky growls in Sam’s direction. “Next time you want me to fix your bike, you can go to Brock.” The alpha huffs before stalking toward your house.

“Aw, look at them,” Steve snickers. “They grow so fast. I bet he already has hair on his sack.”

Sam snorts, watching his friend nervously walk toward you. “What can I say? We are witnessing young love, Steve. Young love.”

Bucky ignores his friends’ laughter and walks a little faster toward you. “Y/N…hey.” He clears his throat to get your attention. You look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun with your hand.

“Bucky…hi.” You sniffle and try to blink the tears in your eyes away. “Do you need something?”

“I—” Bucky tries to come up with a lie, but he stops himself, seeing the tears in your eyes. “What happened, Angel?”

“Nothing,” you sniff and look away, embarrassed because Bucky saw right through your façade. You don’t want to bother your neighbor with your problems.

Before you can protest, Bucky sits next to you to snatch your phone out of your hands. He frowns deeply, reading the message your mother sent you a few minutes ago. “This doesn’t look like nothing to me, Y/N.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you lie poorly. “They want to eat food from a professional cook, not their daughter. It’s their anniversary, and they can do whatever they want. My brother invited them, so…”

“They canceled plans right before they should have arrived at your place. That’s not okay, Angel. That’s shitty.” Bucky growls loudly, catching Steve and Sam’s attention.

“I cooked all day, baked and prepared the table for ten people, and…” You whimper and hide your face on Bucky’s shoulder. “They not only forgot to tell me earlier but didn’t invite me either.”

“Fuck, that’s just awful.” Bucky carefully wraps his arm around your shoulders. “You put a lot of effort into cooking for them, and they stood you up.”

“I asked if I could come along, and they said no. There’s no chair for me because they invited one of their book club friends and their partner.” You choke out a sob. “Why are they doing this to me? I made so much food, pie, and dessert for ten or more people.”

“Food?” Brock suddenly stands in front of your house, rubbing his growling stomach. “Sweetie, do you want me to eat it all?”

“Uh—wait!” You gasp, grabbing Bucky’s hand. “Do you want to eat with me?” You look at Bucky, hoping he won’t turn you down too.

“I’ll get some food too, right?” Sam is quick to offer help. “I’m a hungry man, Y/N. I can eat for ten!”

“Guys, Y/N cooked for her family. I don’t think she wants to share with us.” Bucky grunts at his friends. “Leave her alone. This is not the right time to get free food.”

“But…” You sniffle and wipe your eyes. “I have so much food, and you have many friends. You can come over. I know Natasha likes my food. She tried everything I made for my test cooking.”

“She did?” Glaring at Natasha, who is standing across the street, Bucky huffs. “She didn’t say a word.”

“It’s free food, Barnes. Don’t overthink things,” Brock mutters under his breath. “I haven’t had homemade food in ages.”

“I don’t want to throw all the food away,” you murmur and lean into Bucky’s embrace. “If your friends are hungry, I want them to eat the food.”

“You heard her, Bucky.” Rumlow pats his belly again. “We are going to dine like kings thanks to this wonderful lady. Let me get something for her.”

He walks off to get some booze and chocolate ice cream from Natasha’s secret stash.

“Do you really want to feed the whole gang?” Bucky asks, loving the feeling of having you in his arms.

“My family let me down. If they do not want the food I cooked, let me feed your family. I bet they’ll be better guests than my family.” Your voice cracks, but you feel your heart flutter because Bucky presses you even closer to his body.

“You belong to my family now too, Angel,” he simply states. The alpha doesn’t waste time on courting or making his claim on you known. He’s your alpha, and you are his omega—it’s that simple. “You’re my omega.”

You smile and even laugh as Brock, Yelena, Natasha, Sam, Clint, Thor, his brother Loki, Steve, Bucky, and Okoye sit around your dining room. They all cheer for you, your food, and the booze Brock smuggled into your house.

“Cheers to Bucky, who finally told his omega he wants to court her!” Sam grins at you.

Bucky grits his teeth, glaring at Sam. “Mind your own damn business for once, Wilson,” Bucky grunts, but his tone is playful. “Now, let’s all thank Y/N again for feeding the hungry pack and for being a selfless person.”

Everyone cheers for you, your food, and the bond Bucky and you will soon form.

[valsworldofcreativity]

Skilled fingers

Summary: Art meets Steve

Pairing: Steve Rogers x ArtModel!Reader

Warnings: injured reader, mentions of an attack, kind of love-struck/obsessed Steve

Steve doesn’t know what brings him back to the community college every Thursday night. No, that’s a lie. He knows what draws him in like a moth to the flame.

In the beginning, he only wanted to find out if he could turn his talent into more than a hobby. Steve longed for more than the next battle or to get used to the modern world.

He signed up for a drawing course at the community college to have something outside of the Avengers and fight for justice.

It started as a distraction but turned into something more when the teacher introduced the new art model to the class.

Steve tried not to look at you for too long. His cheeks were red, and his hands were trembling when he glanced at the swell of your breasts.

With time, his look wandered further, to your thighs, stopping at your knee. No one else saw the tiny scar on your left knee or the scratch from your cat on your calf. Steve did.

He discovered every scar, every mole, and every blemish. Not only because of his higher senses, but because he wanted to know every detail about you.

Today, he studies your feet, especially your little toe, the one you painted pink. Steve smiles as you try not to give away how nervous you are. If not for his super-soldier abilities, he’d never know your heart is beating wildly whenever you sit in front of the class.

“That’s all for today,” the teacher says too fast for Steve’s liking. He’s not a creep wanting to see you naked.

Some would call it an obsession. Steve calls it dedication. He wants to catch every little detail of your body for his drawing.

“Thank you, class.” You are quick to put your robe on and quickly avert your gaze. For half an hour, every person in the room saw you naked. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Steve is the only one to reply. All the other students hurriedly leave the room, not wanting their object to be more than a body they can draw.

You glance at Steve, nodding before you, too, leave the room. Mrs. Rollins, today’s teacher, accompanies you. She doesn’t want anyone to bother you on your way to the changing room.

Steve sighs as he looks at the drawing. It’s still unfinished. Something is missing. “The expression isn’t right.” He concludes and looks at the drawing one last time. “Maybe I’ll get it right next time.”

“A drawing? That’s Capsicle’s secret.” Tony scoffs. After their turbulent past, Tony got suspicious when Steve disappeared on Thursdays without a word. “He’s drawing little bunnies.”

“Uh—it’s not bunnies,” the agent hands Tony the pictures he took of Steve’s drawing. “He’s got talent.”

“Oh, I see. That’s keeping Capsicle awake at night and away from his teammates.” Scoffing, Tony looks at the pictures. “A girl, I see.”

“Tony, leave him alone. He’s had a rough century,” Natasha sasses. “Let him have something nice. You have your robots, and Steve has…well…whatever he does when he draws. It’s called having a life outside the Avengers.”

“He can have hobbies here, at the tower. Not go out there to draw naked women.” Natasha laughs at Tony’s excuse for being nosy.

“Steve can’t just run around and draw naked ladies. This is…not what we stand for.” Tony is adamant about his opinion.

“It’s called art, Stark,” the redhead bites back. “Steve is not some creep drawing naked girls. He captures their beauty and whole being in his drawings. Now stop playing the overprotective dad.”

Another Thursday evening comes, and Steve patiently waits for you to show up. He wants to get your expression right and is more than disappointed when a new model takes your place.

“Uh—where’s the other model?” He hears himself say. “I-I was almost finished with her expression.” Steve hates how disappointed he sounds, only because you didn’t show up today.

“Unfortunately, Y/N won’t come back,” the teacher explains before turning toward one of the students.

“Why?” Steve asks.

“Why what?” The teacher sounds annoyed but tries to be polite. She doesn’t care Steve is Captain America. To her, he’s just another random student she’ll forget about sooner rather than later.

“Why won’t Y/N return? I was almost finished with her portrait, and now it’s a waste of time. I have to redo it with a new model.”

“Listen, I don’t know why she doesn’t want to sit on a chair, naked and vulnerable, while people stare at her. She called, told me that she won’t come back, and that’s it. I didn’t ask.”

“Oh—okay.” Steve turns his attention toward the unfinished portrait, sighing deeply. If he hates one thing, it’s unfinished business. “I think I’ll call it a day. If I can’t finish today, I’ll start anew next time.”

He grabs his drawing and utensils, already planning not to come back. Steve wanted to finish one drawing, and now it was all for nothing.

“What are you doing? Does Tony know you are using his equipment?” Natasha looks at Steve’s shoulder, smirking as he tries to find out where you are living. “I see, you are stalking your art model. What did she do?”

“Nothing.” He hastily says. “She didn’t show tonight, and I was worried something could’ve happened to her. Y/N was always reliable, and I know she wouldn’t just bail on us.”

“Alright, let me handle this,” Natasha playfully pushes Steve off the chair to take his place. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, finding the information Steve needs within a few seconds. “I hope you won’t make me regret helping you. If you turn out to be a creep, I’ll end you…”

Steve knocks at your door, still unsure if coming here was the right decision. He doesn’t know more than your name and the shape of your body. If it comes to interacting with you, it was limited to hello and goodbye.

“Y/N, hi. It’s me, Steve from the art class. I was worried because you didn’t show up today,” Steve nervously stammers. “Crap… I didn’t want to appear to be a creep. I only wanted to make sure that you are safe and sound. I’ll leave now.”

“Steve,” you murmur behind the door. “Thank you for checking in on me. It was just…a bad day to go out, you know.”

“I get it,” Steve says and nods. “I’m glad you are alright. I’ll be leaving now. If you ever need help…uh…here’s my card.” He slips his card under the door.

“Steve…wait.” You unlock the door, poking your head out. “Hi.” You nervously rub your left arm, hissing as the bruises all over it still hurt.

“What happened?” He carefully reaches out to touch your swollen face. “Y/N, who did this to you?”

“One of the guys in the art class didn’t want to take no for an answer. He asked me to come home with him so he could finish his drawing.”

Steve winces. One of the reasons he came here was to ask you to be his model again. He wanted to finish his drawing too. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He runs his thumb over your cheek. “Did he get arrested?”

“They arrested him, but I’m still worried he’ll show up here.” You give Steve a weak smile. “You found me too, right?”

“How about you come with us?” Natasha asks. She silently followed Steve, not trusting him to not do something stupid. “We have guest rooms at the tower. Tony and his lawyers can look into the case, and maybe you can give Steve the chance to apologize for showing up at your place uninvited…”

[valsworldofcreativity]

Ash and After

Ghosted by a Ghost 💔 Pairing Bucky Barnes + fem!reader WC: 1,400 + Summary:

You find Bucky alone in the training room. He won’t speak. You’ve begged, waited, broken for him — and he shut you out anyway. So you bleed, yell, drink, storm. Sam holds your hand. Steve doesn’t have the answers. And Bucky? He listens from the doorway but says nothing. The storm outside matches the one in your chest. The next threat hits before you’ve even stopped shaking. You call the one man who always answers. Wayne. TW: Anxiety, Blood, Drinking, Bucky Barnes (as most have said here, he's a warning, ok?)

The compound is asleep in that uneasy way only war produces — still, but never silent. Somewhere in the belly of the building, the ventilation system hums like a warning. Outside, thunder rolls over New York in slow, exhausted waves. The rain slaps the windows without rhythm.

You pad barefoot down the corridor, dressed in a black tank and loose pj pants. No need to check the time. This isn’t about sleep. It’s about the noise in your head, and the one man who keeps making it worse just by being alive.

You hear the bag before you see him.

The rhythmic thump-thump of fists into leather echoes down the hallway. You step through the door of the training room and find him in the corner, half-shadowed. Shirtless. His left arm a dull glint in the low light. The speed bag snaps with every hit. He hasn’t even wrapped his hands.

“Bucky,” you say.

Nothing.

You walk closer, boots crunching on broken bits of chalk from someone’s earlier training.

“Barnes.”

Still nothing. The hits don’t slow. They don’t speed up. Machine rhythm.

Your jaw flexes. “You were supposed to be the quiet one. You know that?”

The bag stops. Not a punch — he just lets it hang, swaying on its chain.

He doesn’t turn around.

Your voice drops. “I begged you. For weeks. For months. For a word. A look. Something. You shut me out like I was never in.”

Still no response. Just the creak of the chain above the bag as it swings.

“You don’t get to pretend you did this to protect me,” you say. “You didn’t. You did it because it was easier.”

Bucky reaches out slowly and steadies the bag, his flesh hand gripping the top like he wants to crush it. Still doesn’t speak.

“Say something,” you snap. “Anything.”

His shoulders tense.

You step forward. “You owe me that.”

Bucky finally turns. Face blank. Eyes dark. Not cold — gone.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he says.

The silence that follows isn’t quiet. It buzzes like a live wire under your skin.

You step closer until you’re chest to chest, inches apart. You don’t look up at him. Not yet.

“You’re right,” you say softly. “You don’t.”

Then you raise your hand — and slam it into the wall just beside his head.

The crack of bone-on-concrete echoes like a gunshot.

His eyes flinch.

Yours don’t.

“I should’ve let you rot in Wakanda,” you whisper.

Then you turn and walk out, blood trailing faintly from your knuckles.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to. He’s not following you. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The kitchen lights are too bright.

You blink as they hit your eyes, momentarily stunned by the sharpness of it. Cold tile under your feet. The low hum of the refrigerator. A coffee pot that hasn’t been cleaned since yesterday.

And two voices.

Sam Wilson is perched on the counter, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, socks mismatched. Steve Rogers leans against the island, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to say he’s already annoyed.

They both stop talking when you walk in.

Sam’s brow furrows. “Damn, (Y/N). You fight the walls again?”

You glance down. Blood smeared across your knuckles, already drying. “Training accident.”

Sam snorts. “Bullshit.”

Steve steps forward. “You okay?”

“I’m peachy,” you say flatly, reaching into the cabinet for a glass.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Not from anything vital.”

“(Y/N)—”

You turn around. Slowly. The glass still in your hand.

“You wanna do this now, Steve?” you ask. “You wanna run defense for him again?”

Steve exhales through his nose. “I’m not running defense for anyone. I just think—”

“What, that I should be more understanding? That I should wait a little longer while he pretends I don’t exist?” Your voice doesn’t rise, but your eyes flare. “He’s not broken. He’s just a coward.”

Sam takes a long sip from his drink, then looks at Steve. “Go ahead. Tell her she’s overreacting. I’ll wait.”

Steve shoots him a look. “Sam—”

“No, really. I’d love to hear it.” Sam sets the bottle down, eyes locked on you now. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re being real fucking calm for someone who got ghosted by a guy with enough guilt to drown a continent.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Thanks, Wilson.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m just here for the fireworks.”

Steve looks like he’s aged five years in one conversation. “This isn’t helping.”

“No,” you say, stepping around him. “You’re not helping.”

You grab the bourbon bottle out of Sam’s reach and pour yourself two fingers. Down it in one go.

Steve crosses his arms. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to admit it,” you say, turning to face him. “He’s regressing. Isn’t he?”

Steve doesn’t answer immediately. And that pause — that tiny hesitation — is all you need.

“Fuck,” you whisper. The word falls like an exhale, not a curse.

Sam stands up. Walks over. Takes the glass from your hand before you can smash it, because you look like you’re about to.

“Steve, go,” he says.

“Sam—”

“I’m serious. She doesn’t need the Captain America guilt trip right now.”

Steve looks between you — your tight jaw, Sam’s steel expression — then finally nods once. He leaves without a word.

The room falls into a hush.

You lean your hands on the counter, head bowed. Your shoulders tremble once, then go still.

Sam leans beside you, quiet.

“I asked him,” you say eventually. “I begged him.”

“I know.”

“I did everything right. I was there when he fell apart. When he couldn’t sleep. When he didn’t talk for three days. I didn’t run. Not once.”

“I know,” Sam repeats.

Your voice breaks, just a little. “So why do I feel like I fucked up?”

Sam turns to you, gently pulls your bloodied hand toward him, examining the raw knuckles.

“Because you loved a broken weapon,” he says. “And he made you think that made you the trigger.”

You look up at him, startled.

Sam shrugs. “I loved that guy too. But fuck him for this. For you.”

You don’t cry.

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t pull your hand away either. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The storm hasn’t let up.

Rain hammers the terrace like it’s trying to punch its way through the world. The wind bends the trees until they moan under their own weight. Lightning flickers on the horizon like paparazzi flashbulbs — sudden, cheap, blinding.

You step barefoot into the storm anyway.

The glass door slides shut behind you with a hiss, cutting off the hum of artificial light. Out here, the only sound is the rain — and the low roar of the sky pulling itself apart.

You stand at the railing, fingers curled around the cold metal, your tank soaked through in seconds. Hair plastered to your face. The bourbon buzz in your blood isn’t enough to warm you now.

You don’t want to be warm.

Behind you, inside — movement. You don’t need to turn around to know.

He’s there.

The air shifts in that particular way it does when Bucky Barnes is in a room — or outside it — or haunting the edges of your life like a half-formed thought.

You don’t look at him. Don’t move. Don’t give him the power.

Instead, you speak to the night.

“I used to wait for you to come home,” you say. Your voice doesn’t rise over the storm. It doesn’t need to. He’ll hear you.

“I used to sit on that couch — the grey one, the ugly one that creaks — and I’d wait. Even if it was 3 a.m. Even if I knew you weren’t coming. I’d wait anyway.”

You let the rain pour into your open palms.

“Sometimes I’d hear the door. And I’d think, This is it. He came back. He remembered.”

A bitter laugh slips out. “It was always the pipes. Or the wind. Or my own stupid hope making noise.”

Lightning flares. Your silhouette cuts sharp against the glass.

“I should’ve left the minute you stopped touching me,” you say. “But I didn’t. I thought maybe if I held on tighter, you’d remember what I felt like.”

Your grip on the railing tightens.

“I loved you so hard it gave me nerve damage.”

Silence.

Behind you, the glass reflects just enough — a ghostly image of Bucky standing in the doorway, barely a shape. Watching. Not moving. Not even breathing, it seems.

“But you didn’t leave me,” you say softly. “You just disappeared with the lights on.”

And then, quieter — almost gentle:

“You should’ve let me die when I still had dignity.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to make out his outline in the glass. You don’t face him. Just acknowledge.

And then you walk away. Dripping. Silent. Unapologetic.

You leave him standing behind the glass like the ghost you finally buried.

Your boots squelch faintly against the hardwood as you walk back into the compound. You don’t bother drying off. Let the rain leave its mark. Let the water stain everything. You’re done pretending you need to be clean.

The hallway is empty. Bucky’s gone. Of course he is. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t pause as you pass the kitchen. The bourbon sits untouched where you left it. Sam is nowhere in sight. Maybe he knew better than to follow. Or maybe he trusts you to survive your own grief now.

You make it to your room and lock the door behind you with a quiet click.

The lights stay off.

You peel off the soaked tank top, let it fall to the floor with a slap. Your hands are shaking, but not from cold. You look at them. Bloody. Bruised. Familiar.

You could’ve stayed like that. Could’ve curled up and drowned in silence, like you always do.

But then the SHIELD alert pings in the dark — a soft vibration on your tablet from the command center.

INCOMING: ALERT LEVEL 7. CONTACT WITH EXTERNAL ENTITY LOST — COSMIC SIGNATURES MATCH HOSTILE CLASS (PRIOR: THANOS, RONAN). RESPONSE UNITS MOBILIZED. 0400 BRIEFING.

Of course.

Another world-ending threat. Another enemy with a god complex and a cosmic rock collection.

You sit on the edge of the bed, soaked hair dripping onto your thighs. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe.

Then you reach into the drawer beside your bed and pull out an old, worn burner phone.

Black. Scratched. Burned on one side.

There’s only one number in the contacts. The name on it is blank. Just a black bat emoji.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then press CALL.

The ring doesn’t even finish once.

“Wayne,” comes the voice. Gravel. Cool. No hello.

You close your eyes. Swallow the part of you that hates needing this.

“It’s (Y/N).”

Silence.

You don’t fill it. Don’t explain. He knows better.

When he finally speaks, it isn’t a question. Just steel.

“Where?”

You look at the cracked ceiling. Think about lying.

“Upstate,” you say. “Avengers Compound.”

Another pause.

Then: “Who’s coming?”

“Whoever you trust not to die,” you say. “And whoever doesn’t mind saving a world that isn’t theirs.”

A beat. Then a dry note in his voice — like a ghost of humor.

“I’ll bring Kent.”

You almost hang up. Almost.

But then you say, very quietly, “Make sure he understands I don’t need saving.”

Bruce’s answer comes without hesitation. “He already knows.”

The call ends. The screen goes black.

You stare at it for a second longer.

Then toss it across the room.

It hits the wall and cracks. But it doesn’t break. Neither do you. Not yet. Part 2

[valsworldofcreativity]

Part 5: The Girl Who Stopped Begging

Word Count: 1400+ Pairing Bucky x fem!reader, Clark x fem!reader

Summary: You spar with Clark. You see Bucky watching. You don’t chase him. You tell the truth, but you don’t unravel for it. You start making peace with all the versions of yourself — the ones who needed, the ones who waited, and the ones who might be done.

_______________________________________________________

The training floor is quiet.

No music. No audience. Just the sound of fists hitting mats and the occasional thud of bodies meeting the floor.

You circle Clark slowly, wrapped hands flexing, breath steady.

“You sure you can take a hit?” you ask.

Clark nods. “I can take yours.”

You move fast.

Duck, jab, sweep — he dodges, blocks, twists.

You’re not trying to hurt each other.

You’re trying to see.

After the fourth round, you step back, sweat clinging to your neck.

“You’re too careful,” you say.

“You’re too fast,” he replies, smiling.

You look at him.

Look too long.

Then turn away.

Above you, along the walkway, Bucky leans against the railing, watching.

He didn’t say a word when you entered. Just appeared sometime during round two. Silent. Still.

You see him from the corner of your eye.

Clark does too.

You reach for a towel, toss one to him, and mutter, “You don’t have to pretend not to notice him.”

“I wasn’t.”

You pause.

Clark adds, “You keep waiting for me to flinch, (Y/N). I’m not going to.”

That lands somewhere deep.

You look up at the walkway.

Your eyes lock with Bucky’s.

He doesn’t look angry.

He looks… exhausted.

And sad.

You want to hate him for it. But all you feel is tired.

You walk toward the stairs.

Clark doesn’t follow.

You take them slowly, your breath steadying, towel still around your neck.

When you reach the top, Bucky stands straight.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You don’t respond.

He swallows. “Can we talk?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Now?”

“I’ve been waiting.”

Your jaw flexes. “I waited too.”

A long pause.

He looks down.

Then back up.

“You don’t even look at me anymore.”

You laugh — not mean, but cracked. “You disappeared with me in the room, Bucky. What the fuck did you expect me to look at?”

His face tightens. “I didn’t know how to be with you while I was breaking.”

“So you broke me instead.”

That hangs between you.

You take a breath.

“I’m still in love with you,” you say.

His eyes widen.

You nod. “I never stopped. But I don’t think that means what it used to.”

Then you turn and walk back to the floor.

Back to Clark.

You don’t hold his hand.

Don’t touch him.

But you stand beside him.

And Bucky watches the woman he loves try to learn how to breathe in someone else’s atmosphere. ___________________________________________________________

The debrief room is silent.

No screens. No mission logs. No fluorescent hum. Just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and Clark’s breathing across from you.

You sit in the chair, hands curled around a glass of water you haven’t touched, hair damp from the shower you barely remember taking. Your bruised knuckles rest on your thigh, like they’re trying to remind you: you’re still here.

Clark sits on the floor, back against the far wall. Not in the chair beside you. Like he knows you need space. Or maybe just doesn’t want to take any from you.

You finally break the quiet.

“I still wait for his voice sometimes.”

Clark doesn’t move.

You look down at the water.

“I’ll hear footsteps and think it’s him. Hear Sam laugh and expect Bucky’s smile next to it. I open my door too fast. I flinch when my comm goes dead.”

Clark says nothing.

You look up — eyes sharp, voice cracking. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just—”

“Living in two timelines,” he finishes gently.

You blink.

He meets your gaze, calm.

“I know what that feels like.”

You lean back in the chair, exhaling slow.

“I don’t know who I am without the grief,” you admit. “Without the guilt. Without him.”

Clark doesn’t try to deny it.

Doesn’t say you’re more than that.

Doesn’t say he’s not worth it.

Instead, he says:

“Then let me love the part of you that doesn’t know yet.”

You stare at him.

Something in your chest shifts — not pain. Not comfort.

Something in between.

“You’d wait for that?” you ask.

“I’m already waiting,” he says.

That silence returns — not heavy. Not fragile.

Full.

You stand slowly. Cross the room. Sit on the floor beside him.

You don’t touch.

But your knee brushes his.

And you don’t move it.

____________________________________________________________

The weapons room smells like oil and old memory.

Nat sits at the long metal table, knife in hand, cloth moving in steady rhythm. She’s not sharpening it. Not really. Just thinking with her hands.

You stand in the doorway for a long time before stepping in.

“You always clean that one,” you say.

Nat doesn’t look up. “Only when I’m trying not to overthink shooting someone.”

You snort. “Anyone specific?”

Nat finally meets your eyes. “Should I be asking you that?”

You step closer, hands in the pockets of your hoodie. You lean against the table, eyes on the knife.

Then: “If he asked me to come back, I’d still go.”

Nat doesn’t blink.

You laugh — bitter, sharp. “God, that sounds pathetic out loud.”

“No,” Nat says. “It sounds like addiction.”

You look at her.

Nat shrugs. “You shared hell with him. Of course your body still thinks he’s home.”

You sit across from her, elbows on the table.

“I want to be free of it,” you say. “Of him. Of the part of me that still wants him.”

“Then stop trying to erase it,” Nat says. “Start making peace with it.”

Your throat tightens. “That easy, huh?”

“No,” Nat says softly. “But it’s better than tearing yourself in half every time someone new looks at you like you’re more than what you survived.”

Silence.

Then you ask, “Did you love him too?”

“Bucky?” Nat smiles faintly. “No. I just know what it’s like to love someone who only knew how to bleed in your hands.”

You exhale.

Then say, “I saw Bruce again.”

Nat raises a brow.

“Didn’t kill him,” you add.

“That’s growth.”

You pick at a tear in your sleeve. “He doesn’t say sorry. He just shows up.”

“Good,” Nat says. “So do earthquakes.”

That earns a laugh.

Then — quieter — you say, “I think I still need him. Not like I used to. But he still feels like… the last version of me that made sense.”

Nat looks at you, calm.

“Then tell him that.”

____________________________________________________________

The garage smells like fuel and regret.

Bruce is under the hood of a matte-black armored SUV — SHIELD-issued, Gotham-modified. It doesn’t need tuning. It’s already perfect.

But he’s adjusting the same set of wires for the third time.

You step in without warning.

Boots silent on the concrete. The only sound is a low jazz station playing from the overhead speakers — static-crackled saxophone, something old and slow.

You don’t announce yourself.

Don’t clear your throat.

Just walk to the other side of the car, lean your back against the cold metal, and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, arms resting across them.

Bruce doesn’t stop working.

Doesn’t say a word.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time.

Then finally say, “I don’t hate you.”

He pauses.

Still doesn’t speak.

“I wanted to,” you continue. “When I left Gotham, I wanted to burn every inch of that city out of my lungs. You included.”

“I know,” he says.

You look over at him.

“You weren’t there when I needed you.”

“I was,” he says, quiet. “Just not in the way you wanted.”

You let that sit.

Then say, “I needed you to see me. Not as a weapon. Not as a liability. Just me.”

Bruce closes the hood slowly.

Sets the wrench down.

Walks around the front of the car.

And sits on the floor beside you.

Not too close. Just with you.

“You called me,” he says. “I answered.”

Your voice cracks. “I needed you sooner.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I got here as fast as I could.”

You turn your head. Look at him.

He’s staring ahead — at the wall. At the floor. Anywhere but you.

But his hand is between you on the concrete.

Not open. Not reaching.

Available.

You rest your fingers against his — barely there.

And he doesn’t pull away.

You stay like that in silence.

Until the song ends.

And neither of you say goodbye. Because you don’t need to.