#Miz Cracker | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

artificialqueens · 2 years ago

Text

Galactica, Chapter 104 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: We know that it’s been a long time in between updates, and we’re so grateful to everyone who’s stuck with the story. XOXO! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Previously: Courtney scored a record deal, Shea met her newest subject, and Adore vowed to keep things casual with Alaska.

This Chapter: Courtney works out, Fame searches for stress relief, Shea has a theory, Jinkx tries to forget the past, and Violet gets a late-night visitor.

***

“Okay, five more,” Kameron said, “Come on! Five…four…almost there…”

Courtney groaned, abs burning as she pushed herself to do the last few crunches, before collapsing backwards onto the mat.

Kameron wasn’t having it though, and slapped her hand on the mat, right by Courtney’s ear.

“No way! No rest yet! Turn over and give me sixty seconds of Mountain Climbers.”

Courtney’s only response was a pathetic little whimper.

“Come on, lady. I’m not starting the timer until you’re in position…”

She hauled herself off the mat with another groan, getting into a plank position as she started doing the Mountain Climbers, eyes squeezed shut.

“Good girl. Keep going…only 55 more seconds to go…” Kameron said.

“I…hate…you…” Courtney panted, and Kameron laughed.

“Perfect. That means I’m doing my job. Fifty seconds.”

Courtney had been in the gym with Kameron since 6 that morning. It was barely past dawn now, and they’d already been working out for over an hour. However, with the recording schedule, this seemed like the only reasonable time she had to work out.

When she’d first learned of the exact timeline for recording her EP, she was shocked. They were supposed to write and record six songs in five weeks? Sure, one was a cover, but still. It didn’t seem possible, but time in the studio was apparently already booked. Yesterday, she’d listened to tracks from a bunch of different producers, and chosen her top 10. Today, she was supposed to have Skype meetings with all of them and then she and the label would choose 3 or 4 to move forward with. (It was already decided, much to her relief, that Olivia would be producing at least one of the original tracks in addition to the cover of ‘Crazy.’)

“Come on girl, pick up the pace!” Kameron called out, “Make these last 30 seconds really count.”

Kameron was, at this moment, Courtney’s worst enemy, but she was grateful for her too, whipping her into what promised to be the best shape of her life. Courtney was already starting to see muscles that she never knew existed. At least it would build up her strength and endurance, and hopefully her flexibility too, so that when she needed to get into the studio with a choreographer, things would come easier.

“Ten seconds! Double time! Right! Left! Right! Left!”

“Auuuuuugh!” Courtney pushed through the last ten seconds, sweat pouring down her back, every muscle on fire.

“Time!” Kameron said with a chuckle, as Courtney dropped onto the mat, gasping for air. “There ya go, excellent.”

She knelt down, handing over a bottle of water, which Courtney barely managed to take from her.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“You’re the Devil.”

Kameron laughed again, then clapped her hands. “Okay, one more minute of rest and then let’s hit the elliptical!”

***

“Oh,” Fame bent down, touching the edges of the skirt, a backstage assistant practically taking it off the model to show it to her. “This is great.”

Fame had only meant for a brief drop in at the Marc Jacobs show, Marc's tendency to incorporate elements of streetwear so far from her own design aesthetic, but this year, as the last few pieces of the collection hit the runway, she had been captivated.

Marc had made the most fantastic geometric white skirt, the stitching in the layering forcing it to keep its shape when it moved. She showed one of the seams to Shea, who seemed equally impressed.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

“Absolutely. Are you going to buy it?” Shea asked.

“Well…”

Fame didn’t usually shop during fashion weeks, didn’t show such direct respect to other designers in public, even when she knew them personally, at the risk of cracking her tough exterior, but she needed to own this.

She looked around, trying to spot someone, anyone, who wasn’t some wet behind the ears intern or assistant with a clipboard and actually had a say at Marc Jacobs, when she saw her.

Bianca had just entered the backstage area, an inescapable vision in a bold red, black and white, the graphic prints and sharp lines drawing every eye to her.

At first, Fame felt ice cold, and then burning hot, her fingertips tingling, her throat dry, her heart hammering away in her chest.

Bianca’s brown hair was up in a bun, sparkling clips holding the neck hair that never managed to grow long in place. She was so achingly familiar, one of her favorite pairs of earrings dangling from her lobes, her ruby red lips parting in a smile as she spotted someone she knew, Bianca’s laugh breaking her heart.

Fame didn’t even notice the skirt slipping from her fingers, didn’t hear it hit the floor, didn’t think as she turned around and walked away, even the thought of having to interact with Bianca making her stomach churn.

She needed a distraction, and she needed it now.

***

“Bob!” Maxwell groaned, reaching in front of his boyfriend, turning off the coffee machine and stopping the overflow of Bob’s cup, the machine gurgling as it swallowed up the excess liquid. “Watch what you’re doing!”

“What?” Bob looked up from his phone, only now noticing his cup. “Oh!” He smiled, taking it from Maxwell’s hand. “Thanks babe.”

“Just pay attention.” Maxwell sighed, though he couldn’t hide his amusement completely.

“You two are being ridiculous.” Jovan took a sip of his coffee, the three of them having one of their unofficial morning meetings by the coffee machine, all of them gathering their strength to go see the venue where the Galactica show would take place tomorrow.

“But the V List just updated!” Bob waved his phone, the signature pink of his favorite gossip blog visible in the browser. “Don’t you care?”

“About what the rich and famous are up to?” Maxwell smiled, this discussion one Jovan and Bob had had a bazillion times. “I doubt it.”

“Come on…” Bob said, “You’re a designer, you care about Fashion Week.”

“Everything I’ve ever learned about Fashion Week gossip has been against my will,” Jovan said. “I literally could not care less about the glitterati.”

“You literally work in the fashion industry.”

“Fashion just happens to be my chosen medium of artistic expression,” Jovan said.

From anyone else, a statement like that would have sounded incredibly pretentious, but for Jovan, it was just the truth. Bob rolled his eyes, but Jovan continued undeterred.

“It’s true! I don’t make clothes so that millionaires will like…” Jovan changed his posture, putting a hand on his hip and speaking with an affected, Valley-girl accent, “Oh my god, buy them and wear them and use them as a status symbol on social media because late stage capitalist decadence is like, so cool!” He finished by blowing a raspberry to show how he felt about late state capitalist decadence.

“Werk,” Bob deadpanned. “But, your ‘artistic expression’ is clothes for millionaires. Like…that’s literally what you make.”

Jovan wrinkled his nose and Maxwell put a hand on Bob’s arm, saying, “Bob. Please. That’s not fair.”

“Thank you!” Jovan said, clearly happy to have Maxwell on his side, while Bob bristled.

“Are you seriously-” Bob began, gearing up for a full-on debate.

“Yeah,” Maxwell continued, cutting him off, “I mean, some of them are billionaires.”

Bob burst out laughing, pulling Maxwell in for a hug so tight, it practically lifted him off the ground. For a few seconds, Jovan looked annoyed, but then a smile began to creep across his lips and soon, he was laughing along, the braying sound of genuine delight that they probably heard all the way in Connecticut.

***

After Fame fled from the Marc Jacobs show through the back exit, not caring that she probably looked insane, she beelined straight for the pickup area on 6th, praying that her driver from the morning would be there so she could get the fuck away. Shea was close on her heels but quickly losing ground.

Of course, when she got there, he was nowhere to be found. Fame whipped out her phone to call Violet, her assistant somehow not picking up by the third ring, which was an unforgivable offense.

Fame was about to burst with frustration, the task of keeping it off her face killing the very last ounce of her self control, the only reason she hadn’t lost it completely the fact that she was imagining firing Violet in great detail.

“Um…” Shea managed to catch up by then, breathlessly jogging alongside her, the journalist apparently not used to running in heels. “Is everything alright?

“Yes!” Fame snapped, then took a deep breath, pausing to slow her stride.

“Miss?” Violet’s voice sounded from the phone, her assistant finally picking up now that Fame no longer needed her, this short spurt of insanity not an image she could project to Vogue.

This was exactly why she never talked to the press, the pressure too much, the charade unbearable.

Fame hung up the phone without answering, shoving it to the bottom of her purse before turning to Shea, the smile she usually reserved for her mother-in-law plastered on her face.

“I apologize. I tend to get, some would say, a little unsettled-“ The word burned in her mouth, even saying it causing her anxiety to rustle, “the day before a show, and I simply…lost my head a bit. There I was, dilly-dallying and enjoying myself. Admiring a fellow designer when there’s so much to do.”

The thought had thankfully taken a somewhat coherent form, Shea clearly believing her, giving her an understanding nod.

“Loose ends to tie up, lists to go over. I’m a bit of a…” Fame had to force the final words out, the truth of them making it so much harder to say, “...control freak.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Shea said, giving her a friendly smile, the two of them now just standing on 6th Avenue in the pickup zone with no chauffeur, like a couple of impoverished Dickensian urchins about to hail a taxi.

“Exactly.” Fame smiled, her cheeks starting to hurt. “I simply realized that the list was a little long, and I had a bit of a… panicked moment. Sorry if I came off as….somewhat unstable.”

“Miiiiiss…”

Fame turned her head toward Pearl’s familiar voice as it rang out down the block. She was strolling towards them in what looked suspiciously like last night’s party clothes: combat boots, painted-on leather pants, a white crop top, a shaggy black fur coat falling off her shoulders. She was a sloppy mess, and on anyone else, Fame would have found the whole ensemble appalling, an insult to Fashion Week, but the annoying thing about Pearl was always her effortless, just-rolled-out-of bed beauty, her thick blonde curls and smudged eyeliner just as stunning whether she was fresh from the salon or rolling up after a week-long bender. Which she might have been at the moment, from the look of her.

Fame straightened her spine. Just because she personally found this disheveled party girl infinitely charming did not guarantee that Vogue magazine would. It was time for a bit of damage control.

“Hello, Pearl,” she said, using a firm, ‘Be on your best, professional, big girl behavior’ warning voice.

“Heyaa,” Pearl drawled, her sleepy smile growing, absolutely not catching the hint as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a bra—though the camera strapped across her chest made it clear that she probably needed one. Fame tried to avert her eyes. “You headin’ uptown? Can I get a ride?”

“Perhaps, if you behave,” Fame said sharply, daggers in her eyes, an icy smile on her lips trying to play it off as a joke. Pearl blinked, not picking up on the clue, and she groaned internally, pushing through. “Have you met Shea? She’s spending the week with us while writing a feature for-”

“Oh yeah. We go waaay back. Hey there, Shea,” Pearl grinned, giving Shea a wink, which Fame absolutely did not like. “Been awhile.”

“Hi Pearl. Nice to see you again,” Shea said, her smile dazzling.

Pearl leaned in for a hug, sliding her arm around Shea’s lower back and up under her jacket.

Fame’s breath got caught in her throat as she watched the way Pearl pressed a kiss against Shea’s cheek that lingered—far, far too long. Her breathing still hadn’t recovered when Pearl turned back to her.

“So, how about that ride? I’m sure I saw Nicky-“

“I need to talk to you about the press release for the party,” Fame said quickly. “You forgot to add that thing we discussed. And we need to get it done. ASAP.”

“Oh?” Pearl paused, her eyes widening. It was one of their old codes for sex, so to speak—Fame demanding to speak to her alone, about an urgent but nonexistent work situation.

Fame wondered for a moment if Pearl would turn her down—if she even felt like she could.

“I thought you changed your mind about that…” Peal said slowly, eyes bright, “but of course, I’ll happily add whatever you want. My only goal is to make sure you’re happy.”

Fame nodded, secure in the knowledge that Pearl still wanted her. She turned to Shea with a slightly exasperated eye roll.

“Shea, I’m so sorry, this is a bit of a sensitive internal issue, so…do you mind if I stepped away for a few minutes to speak to Pearl, off the record? Publicity can be a bit of a minefield, you know.”

“Right, of course. I completely understand,” said Shea.

“Thanks. We shouldn’t be very long.”

“Take as long as you need.”

***

Wearing sneakers to work was its very own, special kind of luxury, and one of the few perks of not attending fashion week.

Even though Kiara worked in design, it was common knowledge at Galactica to never come into work looking less anything than your absolute best, if there was the slightest chance of bumping into either Fame or Raja.

She didn’t know if she actually believed it, but Bob swore that Raja had once fired an intern for wearing a backpack, Alexis getting dismissed from a meeting with Fame because her manicure was chipped and it had been ‘too distracting’.

Kiara pushed the door to design open, having just returned from tailoring. Tailoring had been as close to chaos as it ever was under Dela’s firm grip, everyone working on the final details and rushing to meet their deadlines, while the design floor was fairly chill, everyone either twiddling their thumbs or biting their nails while waiting for the Galactica show to happen.

Everyone, except one.

As Kiara walked over to her and Aurora’s station, she was greeted by the sound of a sewing machine. When she had left for tailoring to check up on her pants, Aurora had been running ruffles through her machine. Now, she had an insane couture jacket almost fully completed, her pitches for Raja’s Met Gala look coming to life through some of the fastest working hands Kiara had ever seen.

It had been the talk of the department when Trixie handed over the folder of Violet’s sketches to Aurora, everyone talking in hushed tones as they flipped through it, Maxwell even gasping at one particular page when he saw how harsh Raja’s notes were.

It didn’t sit right with Kiara that they had essentially done it behind Violet’s back, but it wasn’t like she and Violet were friends, and this was a major opportunity for Aurora.

“What the fuuuck.” Kiara stepped up behind Aurora, hands on her shoulders, leaning over her, unable to understand what she was seeing. “How long was I gone? Did I fall into a wormhole?!”

“Excuse me?” Aurora looked up, letting go of the sleeve she was making to focus on Kiara, the hum of the machine stopping.

“You did all of this in an hour?”

“Yes?”

“Oh my god,” Kiara bit her lip, swallowing the outburst that was threatening to erupt, the rest of the department for once thankfully minding their business. “This is insane.” Kiara’s finger dug into Aurora’s shirt, “It looks like you’ve been working on it for 3 days.”

“Oh,” Aurora’s lips curled into a smug smile, and Kiara couldn’t help but focus on the plumpness of them, a delightful sprinkling of pink settling on Aurora’s cheeks. “I’m fast.”

“No shit.” They were so close, Kiara only needing to lean forward the slightest bit to get the kiss she was suddenly longing for.

“Do my nimble fingers make you horny?”

“Desperately.”

“Let me finish this sleeve.” Aurora grinned, “and I’ll get right on you.”

***

“Mmh,” Fame moaned, the sink digging into her lower back. She shivered as she felt Pearl’s familiar fingers on her inner thigh, her blunt nails dragging in the most delicious way. Lips touched her neck, Pearl’s mouth on the sensitive skin.

They were in a handicapped bathroom, Fashion Week thankfully full of enough wardrobe malfunctions that no one had looked twice when they disappeared together.

“Ah!” Fame’s tightened her grip on Pearl’s hair, the thick blonde locks between her fingers.

“Shhh,” Fame could practically feel Pearl’s grin, her lips curling into a smile, her breath hot on her neck. “I didn’t wipe off my lipstick for you to make noise.”

“Oh please,” Fame whispered, snarling a little. She didn’t want to have sex in a bathroom stall, didn’t exactly enjoy the knowledge that her clothes were touching unsanitary surfaces, but she hadn’t been able to keep her hands to herself. “You wiped your lipstick off so that you wouldn’t make marks.”

“I know,” Pearl pulled back, their eyes meeting, a smug expression on her face. “Discretion above all else.”

Fame hadn’t expected to be so completely seduced by Pearl, but there was a reason that they ended up in this position again and again and again.

Pearl was annoyingly charming, and she knew it.

“Shut up,” Fame used her hand in Pearl’s hair to push her down, her pussy throbbing the second Pearl’s knees hit the floor.

“Yes ma’am,” Pearl took hold of her thigh, lifting it over her shoulder before disappearing under her skirt.

Fame braced herself, tilting her hips forward, the porcelain of the sink cold under her fingers.

“Hurry up,” Fame hissed, Pearl’s teeth grabbing the edge of her panties. “Everyone is-“ She yelped as Pearl released, the fabric snapping her skin.

“Fuck,” Fame groaned, using her thigh to trap Pearl’s head. “I’ll strangle you if you don’t move.”

“Well…” Peal paused, and Fame felt hot lips against her hip bone before she continued, “Death by pussy would be a glorious way to go.”

Fame laughed, Pearl so utterly ridiculous, her heart aching with how much she had missed their sex life. “Good girl.”

***

“Where is she?” asked a sharp voice.

Shea turned around. Violet and Nicky were hurrying down the block, and as usual, Violet looked tense and high strung, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Nicky attempted to calm her by putting a hand on her upper arm, but she shrugged it away. Yikes.

Obviously, Shea didn’t know anything for sure. Nor did she know what Violet and Nicky did or didn’t know, but she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to bring up any suspicions. After all, it was a feeling more than anything.

Everything Fame and Pearl said sounded completely plausible. Pearl worked in publicity, and revisions to a press release for a party the next day would be a timely and sensitive matter. It would also be something they wouldn’t want in a magazine article, or even known to someone outside of the company, if there was something particularly sensitive to consider.

All of it made perfect sense.

However…there was just…the look in Fame’s eyes when Pearl first strolled up. And the note in Pearl’s voice when she said ‘my only goal is to make you happy.’ After all, there had to be some reason that Pearl had such a plumb position at her age and with her reputation—she wasn’t exactly the picture of responsibility. And sure, she was a perfectly decent PR person, and savvy about social media, but this was New York.

You couldn’t walk three feet without bumping into PR cunts of every level of experience, and the city was just swimming with all kinds of social media experts.

Fame was obviously on edge today, obviously desperate. And Shea had known Pearl for a long time—if there would be anyone at Galactica who’d be an obvious ‘connection,’ she’d be it. Would it make more sense for Fame get some kind of prescription from her doctor like all the other Upper East Side ladies? Yes, maybe, but if Shea had learned anything about Miss Fame in the short time she’d spent with her thus far, it was that she didn’t trust people very easily.

But…it was all conjecture. And honestly, truth be told? Shea didn’t give a rat’s ass about drugs, prescription or otherwise. Or who did them, or why, or when, or how. That wasn’t the point or focus of her story. So instead of saying anything that could cause a problem, she just gave Violet and Nicky her most winning smile, saying, “Oh, she and Pearl needed to discuss something. They’ll be right back. I also think she might want to skip the Carolina Herrera show and go back to the office for a bit? She mentioned something about loose ends for tomorrow. She seemed a little stressed when we left Marc Jacobs; I think that’s why she left through the back.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Maybe she didn’t even see her,” Nicky said. “You don’t know when she left.”

“Her?” Shea asked. “Who’s ‘her’?”

“Nothing,” Violet said sharply, giving Nicky a look as if she could murder her, effectively shutting her up, then turned to Shea, her voice as sugary sweet as Shea had ever heard it. “I’m sure you’re right. Just some pre-show jitters.”

“I’ll check on the car,” said Nicky.

“Thank you.” Violet took a deep breath as Nicky stepped away, and Shea gave her another kind smile.

“To be honest, she actually already seems calmer.”

“Okay,” Violet sighed. “Okay.”

“So…are you gonna tell me who ‘her’ is now?” Shea asked, her interest piqued.

“No.”

“Well. Alright then.”

***

“This is so stunning,” Jinkx commented, flipping through the color charts that Alaska was showing her of looks for the Galactica show. “I can’t wait to see the photos.”

“I wish you’d come see it all in person,” Alaska said.

Jinkx sighed, shaking her head. She’d never really talked much about how her friendships had fallen apart all those years ago, how Sutan breaking their engagement had been a catalyst for one of the worst downright spirals of her life.

Without all the disgusting, shameful details of the story, Alaska was probably imagining something a lot prettier and less painful than what really happened. Jinkx was still deeply scarred from what a horror show she’d been, what a mess she’d made, how she’d alienated everyone with the unfortunate luck of being close to her, destroying almost every relationship that mattered in an absolutely spectacular shit-show.

Her only consolation, the only thing that allowed her to sleep at night, when it came down to it, was that for the worst of it, for the most humiliating moments and deplorable behavior, she didn’t remember it. The upside to blacking out for months of her life, she supposed.

It hadn’t been her first stint in rehab either, but it was the first time she took it seriously, staying for the better part of a year and then coming back to New York to rebuild her life from the ground up. She only relapsed once after that, and caught it quickly—that was the one Alaska saw, pretty early into their friendship so all she really knew was that Jinkx was a Good and Responsible Addict who checked herself into rehab after a few weeks of drinking, before any hard drugs entered the picture, and had been sober as a fucking Mormon ever since.

So Alaska didn’t know—couldn’t know. And Jinkx didn’t want her to. Jinkx didn’t want to risk her finding out what a terrible person she’d been, why her friends giving up on her wasn’t just understandable, but actually smart. She thankfully didn’t remember when or what, but she knew something had happened at one of Kelly’s dance recitals, and to this day, looking Juju in the eye gave her the sickest feeling in the pit of her stomach, even though she was the least stand-offish of all her former friends. And sure, Bianca had stuck around, but Bianca was crazy, so that didn’t count.

Jinkx closed the leather portfolio, swallowing hard. Sure, she was used to seeing everyone around, at parties and events. New York was a small town, when it came down to it. But Galactica was Raja and Fame’s turf, and even Jinkx, with all the chutzpah she’d always had, wouldn’t dare show up uninvited.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said simply, handing the portfolio back to her, and Alaska nodded. She looked disappointed, but didn’t push, and for that Jinkx was grateful. “But I do want to see the pictures.”

“Of course.” Alaska gave her an understanding nod and then slipped the color charts back into her handbag, glancing quickly at her phone in the process.

Jinkx watched her face, seeing a hint of a smile pass across her lips before putting her phone down again.

“Do you need to answer that?”

“No,” Alaska replied, looking back up to meet Jinkx’s eyes, that smile still pulling on her mouth. “It’s just a friend, I can reply when we’re done.”

“Hmm.” Jinkx found herself wondering about this friend, who seemed to be texting her constantly. “Is your friend…anyone I know?”

Jinkx was a great actor, but even so, she was too neurotic to pull off the faux-casual tone she wanted. The result was a little shrill and she cleared her throat, covering with a shaky smile.

“Yeah, actually,” Alaska said, taking a sip of her latte. “Adore Delano.”

Bianca had warned her, of course, that this was still going on. But even she didn’t know whether things were serious, since her sister was keeping a tight lid on things (for once). She was also admittedly distracted by her own relationship, and her job, and didn’t exactly seem to appreciate Jinkx’s repeated requests to play detective. Alaska’s use of the word ‘friend’ indicated maybe not so serious, but her face…there was a brightness to her expression that Jinkx knew all too well, although she hadn’t seen it in years.

“Ah. Are you two, um…” Jinkx faltered. She didn’t want to be a bitch here, or say anything to indicate that she disapproved. Lord only knew that Alaska deserved to be happy, and if she was honest with herself, Adore was the perfect match for her. Fun, sweet, sexy without trying too hard—sometimes without trying at all. (Jinkx wasn’t ashamed to admit that Adore’s posts on both Instagram and Facebook often popped up first for her.) Things with Adore would be easy, and that was something that Jinkx knew she could never offer. Something she knew Alaska would appreciate.

“We’re having a good time,” Alaska said, that smile growing ever so slightly before shrugging and adding, “It’s nice to have such a no-pressure situation, you know?”

“Right.” Jinkx sipped her own coffee, trying to buy herself some time to think of something supportive to say. She landed on, “Sounds like exactly what you need.”

***

“Violet!” Sutan knocked again, trying not to wake Violet’s neighbors up, but also feeling sillier and sillier, and like he had made a mistake just showing up in the middle of the night.

He was just about to give up, order a cab and go back home, when he heard the rattle of a door latch being pulled back, and there she was, peeking out, his girlfriend in all her glory.

“Sutan?” Violet opened the door fully, a concerned expression on her beautiful face. “What are you doing here?” She reached out, touching his arm and pulling him inside, closing the door behind her. “It’s like, 3:30? Is everything okay?”

“Do you always wear that to answer the door?” Violet was wrapped in her robe, the knot barely tied, a sheer negligee and bare breast visible underneath, a weird flare of jealousy rumbling in Sutan’s stomach. Who lived in the building besides his girlfriend? Did they ever come to visit? Had her neighbors seen her like this?

“I don’t usually have someone knocking at this time.” Violet crossed her arms, looking up at him, the only light in her apartment coming from the bedroom. “You didn’t answer my question.” She took a step forward, coming into his space. “Are you alright?”

“You didn’t answer my text.” Sutan knew he was being petty, knew he was being stubborn and ridiculous, but Violet hadn’t answered his goodnight text. Sure, he had sent it after midnight, and he knew she had the Galactica show the next day, but Sutan had been at a party, his phone burning in his pocket, a nagging voice in his head forcing him to check it again and again and again.

“I was asleep. I have to get up at 5. Are you drunk?”

“... A little.” Sutan scratched his chin, realizing that he really wasn’t drunk enough to pull off behavior like this. He had no idea what was going on, had no clue why he was acting like every jealous girlfriend he himself had hated. “Maybe a lot.”

“You ridiculous man.” Violet smiled. “Come here.” She got on her toes, giving his cheek a brief but sweet kiss, reaching for the buttons of his jacket. “You’re chugging a lot of water before I’m letting you into my bed,” Violet pulled it from his shoulders, throwing it on the couch, taking his hand to take him to the kitchen, “and don’t you even dare think about hogging the blanket.”

3 notes · View notes

gifsbysimplysonia · 5 months ago

Text

Me seeing the final part has been posted

Me realizing sexy time is happening right from the jump

Sexy time being something I had not read too much about before

Continuing the journey

Realizing I didn't hate it and am intrigued

Seeing how much more story there is and that I should stop cuz work BUT I have something for later to enjoy

HE WAS [REDACTED SO AS NOT TO SPOIL] FOR HER

Devour: HEAT (4/4)

Collection: DEVOUR Characters/Pairings: Mob Boss!James Buchanan Barnes x Chef Female!Reader Word Count: 7k

Summary: James returns from business in another city with the intention of spending the mornig with you, more than a few surprises up his sleeve, whether you're ready for them or not.

Content & Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT - somnophilia, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, vibrating dildo, anal plug, brief masturbation, unprotected vaginal intercourse, double penetration, creampie. Feelings, so many feelings.

Logistical Notes: Salt, fat, acid, and now heat - this is the long-awaited final chapter of their series. Happy Mob Boss Monday!

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

You were vaguely aware of feeling much cooler than you should as you registered your hip being nudged so you were lying flat against the mattress. You were still clinging to slumber, not fully roused to the world of the waking, so you didn’t move when you felt the flat edge of a knife slipped between your skin and the silk of your panties, and you didn’t react to the snick of the clean cut of fabric over your right hip and then the left. You weren’t interested as someone peeled away the exquisite and expensive piece of underwear.

Though your legs were slightly open after being shifted from your side to your back, there was another gentle push against your leg to open your thighs a little more. Distantly something stirred in you as fingers gently caressed up your thigh and to your pussy laid bare to the morning sun. Those fingers began to gently play with your folds, eliciting wetness at your entrance. One finger gave a whisper of a press into your vaginal opening a few times, drawing a soft, short, breathy moan from you, and you subconsciously parted your legs further.

For all of that you were drowsy and docile.

The warm fingers left you for a moment, and then there was a cool pressure against your cunt, the sudden temperature change prompting a small sleepy, “Oh,” from you. More of the cool, firm pressure was applied, and then the sudden vibration of the cool object against your clit jolted you awake, eyes flying open and torso contracting suddenly upwards from the bed.

That dark, deep chuckle that always flooded you with heat poured into your ears, and a strong, now-familiar, calloused hand smoothed over your stomach and forced you gently but firmly back onto the mattress.

“James,” you keened.

“I’m disappointed,” he tutted, then pressed a kiss just above your knee.

“What?”

You racked your brain – not an easy feat when you were only just coming into consciousness for the day and being accosted with teasing pleasure at your core – but you couldn’t think of anything he could be disappointed in. Not with that tone, not with you, but he seemed genuinely disappointed. You detected even a tenor of anger in his tone.

“You’ve left some of my gifts entirely untouched,” he explained, pressing the vibrator insistently against your clit.

You groaned, and the heat of embarrassment surged rampantly through your body along with the pleasure. Your hands flew to your face, and you tried to close your legs, but he held them firmly open to his ministrations.

You knew immediately what he was talking about and what exactly was between your legs.

A sleek, black dildo that you’d only looked at for a few seconds before slamming the box shut again – long enough to register that it was a size you’d bet dimes to dollars was close in size to the cock of the man who sent it to you. Were you having copious amount of sex with notorious mob boss James Buchanan Barnes? Yes. Were you wearing the high-end bras and underwear he spoiled you with, a constant reminder of the intimate place he was establishing in your life? Yes. But using the sex toys he had selected and sent to you was the line you’d drawn at too intimate.

And now instead of using it solo, the man had the audacity to torture you with it himself.

And the torture was exquisite.

Six weeks of this man, and your body knew when to yield and drip for him. He had prepared your pussy, coaxed enough wetness, to take the dildo with ease even through the intrusion of its size, lacing the discomfort with pleasure. You moaned as he finished driving it in to the hilt. He played with the angle, pushing it up and back, teasing you with different points of pressure that made you pant and cant your hips.

“Feel good?” He asked in a smug tone.

“Yes,” you huffed, knowing he knew how you felt and only wanted you to admit it out loud for his own satisfaction. But if you didn’t, he’d delay your satisfaction, and audacious bastard though he might be, you craved him now, and delighted in the indulgence of him. “More, James, more.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Chef.”

And he did. Immediately.

He twisted the dildo, then pulled it halfway out before pushing it back into your slick channel. You closed your eyes, but you knew he watched your face closely for what made you feel good, adjusting his pace until your breath hitched and you clutched the sheets. Then he kept that pace and only applied a bit of additional force in the thrusts.

He drove you on and on until he finally pushed you over the edge, and you gave a sharp cry of ecstasy.

He worked the toy in your cunt just a bit more, making you twitch in response, and then he crawled up your body and you pulled him in for a few heated kisses.

“What are you doing here, James Buchanan Barnes?”

Though you had spent increasingly more time with him, this was the first time he’d been to your apartment. It was small and modest, and you were in no way ashamed (since he had also started to regularly send either a housekeeper or cleaning staff of some kind to take care of you place, you also weren’t worried about any mess), but you were surprised.

“I know it’s your day off.”

You chewed lightly on your bottom lip.

“And I know that look,” he continued with a smirk. “You’re not quite happy with me. I’ve shown up unannounced when I know you have plans and certainly have intentions for your unplanned time, but I wanted to see you this morning. Give me breakfast and then I promise to let you send me away as soon as you want.”

He kissed you again.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mmm, missed you, too.” You wrapped your arms around him, pleased that he’d stripped down to his boxer briefs before joining you in your bed. “Breakfast would be nice.”

He grinned and then continued the kiss. You encouraged him, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck and chest. You hitched a leg up around his hip, and then groaned when he pressed his bulge into your core as it pushed against the dildo still lodged inside of you.

He chuckled again, then reached down and drew out the black silicone in one slow pull. There was no ignoring the sound it made, the shlick as it came out of your messy cunt.

Then he drew it up to your mouth.

“Lick it,” he said.

Eyes locked with his, you stuck out your tongue and he slid it slowly over it. Then he set it aside and resumed kissing you, purposely circling his tongue around yours, sharing the taste of your arousal in your mouth. He groaned his approval and plundered your mouth for long enough that both of your chests were heaving against each other when he pulled away. James slowly pressed hot kisses over your face – softly on each of your closed eyes, your cheeks, your nose, you chin, your forehead, then back down to your lips. You pressed your forehead to his and sighed in sleepy contentment. You twined your fingers with his at your hip. He rutted his hard cock insistently against your core, watching your face. And he kept at it until you were all but begging for him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“Good, I’m ready to fill you up.”

But you whimpered as his actions immediately indicated the opposite as he abruptly rolled off you and slid out of bed.

“What? What are you-“

“Breakfast.” He smirked down at you, already pulling on a pair of lounge pants. “Going to fill you up with breakfast. What did you think I meant?”

You groaned at the blatant mischief in his eyes and hurled a pillow at him. He caught it with ease, laughed, and tossed it back to your bed as he left your bedroom. “See you in the kitchen,” he called back.

“Handsome bastard,” you grumbled as you rolled out of bed and padded along after him. You grabbed the silk robe hanging off the back of your door on your way, knotting and trying it off around your waist.

The incredible smell of some kind of warm bread hit you as you stepped out of your room. You inhaled deeply and moved more quickly, drawn by the heavenly scent, but you paused on seeing him in the kitchen. You had expected to see him at most plating up something that he’d brought or had delivered.

That was not the case.

Instead, he stood behind the counter next to your stove, handling ingredients that had come from a small crate like he was on a Food Network show.

He glanced up. “Yes, I’m cooking for you. Sit and relax,” he said, gesturing at the stool on the other side of the counter.

“James Buchanan Barnes, did you actually bake something?”

You tried to sidle into the actual kitchen, but he quickly blocked you off with his broad body.

“I. Am. Cooking. For. You.” He paused between each word, his tone serious.

“Are you really barring me from my own kitchen?”

You tilted your head up and fixed him with a look half amusement, half incredulity.

He leaned in, cupped your face in both of his hands, and kissed you soundly until you melted against his chest. When he pulled back, your lips chased his.

“Let me take care of you,” his words were gentle but firm, spoken tenderly against your lips.

One last indulgent kiss, and then he turned you around by your shoulders, and you finally did as you were told and took the seat across the counter from him.

James reached for an English muffin out of a small basket on the counter, split it open easily with a knife, and then buttered it. The butter melted immediately, and you grinned.

“You made English muffins from scratch?”

“You never dreamed I could cook on top of everything else – too good to be true?” He winked and you rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Try it,” he said and slid you a small plate with half the muffin on it, taking a bite out of the half he kept back.

You lifted the bread to your lips and gingerly took a bite. It was soft, warm, and beyond the smooth tang of the melted butter that bled through the crumb, the taste far surpassed any English muffin that you could buy at the store. You let out a content hum, and your shoulders relaxed, the delight from the simplicity of the rich flavors in your mouth flooding your body with serotonin.

James smiled, just a hint of his cocky confidence lacing it, and then he got to work, filling a saucepan with water and setting it on the stove to bring it up to a simmer. He pulled more supplies from his box as you watched. Butter, lemon, eggs.

Given that your life was devoted to food and cooking, this was a bold gesture - and one no one you had ever been involved with had attempted. They were either too lazy or too intimidated or too dim to realize that even though you could cook, someone taking care of you in this way was a beautiful and indulgent gift.

“When did you get back?” you asked. He’d been gone for three days, but you hadn’t expected him back in the city until tomorrow.

He looked over at the clock on the wall. “Two hours ago.”

You blinked.

“You come straight here?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed in the affirmative without looking up from the frying pan as he slapped a healthy amount of butter onto its surface and set that on the stove as well.

Your heart soared, beating happily, and you folded your arms and rested them on the counter, leaning forward on your stool. The corners of your mouth unable to do anything but smile. You saw his mouth had relaxed into a soft smile as well.

While the butter melted, he separated yolks from egg whites, and beat them together in a glass bowl. When the pot of water was steaming, he took the glass bowl with the egg yolks and set it over top of the saucepan and continued to whisk them.

Now you knew what he was making.

“Eggs Benedict?” you asked.

“It’s one of your favorites.”

“How did you know?”

“I know more about you than you give me credit for.”

You didn’t want to touch that yet, but perhaps later, you thought.

“You’ve ordered it a few times when we’ve been out for brunch. It’s also one of my specialties.”

“Homemade English muffins, whipping up a hollandaise without much effort… you can actually cook,” you remarked.

He kept his focus on incorporating the butter into the yolks properly, but still responded. “You somehow continue to underestimate me in many areas, Chef.”

That assertion nudged your conscience a little, but his tone was teasing, so you kept the level of banter going. “You still have to successfully poach the eggs and make sure your hollandaise doesn’t split. But if you manage to pull it off, I might have to take you back to bed after breakfast.”

He chuckled, and your core rumbled a little.

You sat with rapt attention and watched. You didn’t scrutinize, but it crossed your mind that there were probably very few men who would have had the self-assurance to cook in front of you without worrying or getting irritated, even though you knew you weren’t judging, only interested in observing someone else at your craft.

And as you sat, you did turn over his comment in your head – that you were underestimating him.

It had been seven weeks since everything started with this mob boss. He had insinuated himself into many aspects of your life, but as you navigated whatever it was that was developing between you two, most of the time his intrusions were welcome, if somewhat hesitantly by you at first - like fully exchanging your intimates, or hiring a housekeeper for your apartment (you had yet to see them, and you had to confess it felt nice to have some work eliminated from your plate). He had been incredibly aggressive about folding himself into many aspects in your life. Some of the evolution of this relationship had been thrilling, had you giddy, or quite simply stunned over the moments of softness or seeming adoration. Through any of the challenges, James had been open to any wants and needs you expressed when you brought them to his attention. What’s more, there hadn’t been many things to address with him – the time he spent with you wasn’t merely additional hours clocked, but as you looked back you had to confess it was time he spent truly getting to know you.

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways, but had you gotten caught up in trying to preserve yourself?

The morning after the first night you’d slept together and stayed the night at his penthouse, you had been able to dress out of the closet he had already stocked for you. While a little shocking, it had not ultimately been surprising. It had bordered on overwhelming. The novelty and spoiling had been fun and flattering. That he had been able to stock a closet so well-suited to your taste and needs had been the part that edged toward the overwhelming side, but you ignored the more serious parts of the grand gesture, classified it as yet another audacious choice, not a sign of his knowing you or the clear signal that he was ready to have you seriously embedded in his life – in his home. He hadn’t said anything or even insinuated that you should move in, he just let that closet of clothes exist for you. It was a statement, but not a demand.

Aside from the housekeeper he’d started to send around to your place, he also had enlisted some kind of laundry service to take care of more of your needs, and last week before he left for his business trip he personally slipped a black card into your wallet.

“There,” your mob boss declared, spinning the two plated masterpieces toward you. “These would certainly be approved for service, would they not, Chef?”

You were impressed. “They look stunning. Final judgement at the table.”

You started to reach for one of the plates, but James tutted at you and carried them both over to the table, seating you at the corner next to each other where place settings had already been laid out. He was thorough, including going back to the fridge to retrieve a carafe of juice.

“And did you press this by hand?” you asked as he poured a glass for each of you.

He laughed. “No, I didn’t have time to grow and harvest the fruit myself, so it felt like cheating. This is the one my home chef keeps on hand for me.”

“I do like your chef. Do you think I could steal them for my restaurant?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he took his seat next to you. “Enough. Eat.”

You took up your knife and fork and made the first, signature cut into the egg draped with its silky hollandaise sauce. The yolk oozed, slow and gorgeous. “That’s a top tier poach,” you shot the praise truthfully.

James smiled and watched as you lifted the first bite to your mouth.

“Mmm,” you hummed, your eyes closing momentarily. “Nothing beats a beautiful benedict.”

“Success,” he crooned, finally digging into his own dish. He didn’t ask if for further accolades, didn’t ply you for more praise, again speaking to his nature – confident, perhaps too confident at times, but sure of himself.

After your second bite, you still reaffirmed your assessment. “Really, James, the sauce is the perfect consistency, and that English muffin could have carried the whole dish on its own if the rest had been just okay.”

He squeezed your thigh under the table. “Thank you.”

The two of you eat in silence for a few moments before James spoke again. “Where’s your lovely head this morning? You went somewhere while I was cooking.”

You looked at him, tilting your head while you chewed. His blue eyes, strong, piercing, warm, captivating, looked directly into yours. He really did see you in more ways than you had been giving him credit for.

Being with this man for the past seven weeks had changed something in you. Over the years you had learned to be direct and go after what you want, but not in romantic endeavors. When you were younger, you didn’t have the skills, experience, or confidence. Over the past few years, you had been clear and direct in the rare forays into talking or dates, but there had been nothing long or meaningful enough to require directness and vulnerability from you. You had been able to be direct with James, but you had skirted around being exposed to some of the moments of vulnerability.

But there was not much more skirting that you could do.

James had shown he was willing to show up.

It was time for you to do the same.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said – that I’ve been underestimating you. I think… You might be right.”

James leaned forward, reached for your hand, and brought it to his lips. He murmured your name softly against the palm of your hand and then pressed a long kiss there. You took a breath to calm your suddenly racing heart. “I know who I am. I don’t blame you having certain ideas of who that is or putting on your own armor to keep yourself safe.”

He let your hands fall to the table but kept a tight hold on your fingers.

“I ate at Devour for the first time a few months ago. The food was immaculate. I was looking to invest in new ventures and diversify my portfolio, so I started looking into buying the restaurant. It had a good track record, its reputation had been steadily growing, the location was prime, the service impeccable. The only point of debate that came back in my team’s assessment of whether to buy the establishment was our discovery the head chef was retiring.

“You were the heir apparent and confirmed successor, so we researched you, too. Clean background, solid career building; I saw that you were pretty, but that was immaterial – merely a PR bonus if we wanted to generate more buzz for the restaurant at any point. We ordered out and dined in many times the month leading up to your takeover so that we could have a solid handle on the standard we expected and could gage if there would be any significant changes night one.

“A third of the dining room that night was filled with my people. You introduced a few new dishes to the menu, bit it was conclusive all around that the quality had been maintained, and nothing had fundamentally changed. I walked in that night planning to make my purchase as long as I was satisfied, and I was.

“The last thing I wanted was to see the new head chef face to face before making the deal so I could get a sense of who you were off the page and beyond your plates.”

“I remember being summoned to a table rather inconveniently on the biggest night of my career,” you interjected.

He chuckled. “And I could see that fire in your demeanor. It confirmed my purchasing decision, but it also made me want to devour you.”

And he had. He had temporarily dismissed your staff, told you he was tripling your salary, and then roughly sexed you up according to his pleasure – giving you some of the best sex you’d had, but not because you wanted it that night, only because he had.

“New business acquisition, new girl,” you teased. But it was defensive.

He grunted and shook his head. “No. You’ve invested so much of yourself into your career and the restaurant that you assume they’d be tied together, but they’re not. To me there was the restaurant and then there was you. I only played my hand to my advantage to keep you there. If you’d walked after that night, I would’ve gone looking for you.”

You frowned at him, but he continued before you could argue.

“You weren’t easy. There are so few people in my life who don’t bow or bend to me, I wanted more of that.”

“You wanted the challenge?”

“No, more than the challenge, I wanted you for your strength. I was the mob boss you thought I was that night, but then you turned me into a man – demanded I be a version of myself who was worthy of you if I wanted more, and I did want more of you. You stopped making time for men because they kept disappearing or disappointing, didn’t you?”

You sighed.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Neither of us are content with easy. You wanted someone to romance and adore you, but you also needed someone who would challenge you, meet you stride for stride.”

“Don’t be smug,” you said.

“I told you the first night we slept together, I’m not smug about you. After things started unfolding between us, you drew me in. I wanted more than just sex. I knew I could get that.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head and put a finger to your lips. “We were both eager for it – those first encounters, and especially the first night together, now let me finish.”

You huffed, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. The sex had been heated and irresistible every time.

“I think you’ve worried more than you needed to over whether I want you, or if I knew what I was getting into.”

It was like he was reading pages of your most private thoughts. His eyes were impossibly intense now, and it made your chest ache.

“This has never been about someone to warm my bed. I’m too busy, and my life was just fine before. I want you, and, yes, glorious amounts of sex with you, but it’s your passion and your spirit I crave. You’ve seen me for more than who you thought I was in the beginning.”

“You’re remarkable, I couldn’t help being drawn to you,” you confessed. You’d called him audacious so many times, but that was only one facet of James Buchanan Barnes. He was passionate, intelligent, bold, calculating, and decisive.

“You’ve let down some of your guards around and let me in, and because you do, I let you see pieces no one else knows. We’re swimming in deeper waters with each other all the time.”

You brought your hand up to his cheek and kissed him fiercely but briefly, needing to feel his lips on yours for a moment. You wanted so much more, but you knew he wasn’t finished, so you drew back.

He drew both your hands into his, resting them on the table between you two.

“I knew that if I ever married, I wanted a partner, not another yes person. The more time I’m with you, the more my soul hungers for you to be that part of my life. I want your company, your opinions, your soft snores, your teasing, your ideas. I’m insatiable for you, in every way. The first night I knew I wanted you, but that second night I saw in you my wife.”

“Your wife?” you gasped, your jaw going slack with surprise. But you didn’t make another sound or even a movement as his words swirled every thought in your head.

He waited, eyes still locked on yours. It was more than a full minute of silence before he finally spoke again. “Eventually, yes. Does that scare you?”

“No,” you said, without hesitation.

His words had brought you back and seemingly brought your frenzied thoughts into alignment. The only potential barrier your brain identified was time. But he wasn’t asking you to marry him right now, he was only asking if you were scared of potentially being his wife.

And that didn’t scare you.

Truthfully you would have cut things off if there had been any moment you didn’t see a long way down the road with him – you’d done it plenty of times with men before. Like him, you were too busy to trifle with men just to be coupled. You’d fought not only to make something of yourself in your career, but to make something of yourself in your life so that you didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy.

“It doesn’t scare me either,” he said.

Then he swept his napkin from his lap, laid it on the table, and, in no rush, pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. He tugged on your hand gently, invitingly, nodding toward the hall and back to your bedroom.

Your head and your heart were full – clear but full – so you let James take the lead.

His hands moved deftly and delicately as they untied the knot of your silk tie of your robe, then pushed it down off your shoulders, letting his fingers skim enticingly over your skin, and turned to hang it on the back of your bedroom door. Next his hand found the hem of your silk chemise and pulled it up you’re your hips, and you lifted your arms so he could sweep it clean up off your body. He set it gently on the end of your dresser before turning back to you. Then he stepped closer than he had been before, cupped your jaw in both hands, and lowered his face to capture your lips in another kiss. Slow, warmth and fire behind it, but still no rush. You slanted your mouth against his and darted your tongue out to tempt entrance, which he granted, licking into your mouth in kind.

From the very beginning, whether they were slow or frenzied, his kisses have always been so passionate they were intoxicating, and you never wanted that to end between the two of you.

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways. He had seeped into your bones and your veins and so many of your waking thoughts, like the thrumming undercurrent of your heartbeat.

James eased you back slowly until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he gently urged you back. “Get up there for me,” his voice husky and his pupils taking over his blue irises.

You scooted as smoothly as you could manage until you were most of the way up the bed, not wanting to put distance between you, but knowing it wouldn’t last long. You leaned back on your elbows, a slight shiver running down your spine as your eyes met James’ gaze, drinking in the full form of your naked body – far from the first time he’s seen it over the past few weeks, but the intensity still affected you, there was still vulnerability of newness in this relationship.

James pulled the soft t-shirt up and off his torso. Then, not looking away from you, he pushed down his lounge pants and stepped out of them. The sight of his thick, hard cock made your breath hitch, eager to feel the way he stretched and filled you up, but he remained rooted to his spot and began slowly pumping one hand up and down his length while he looked at you.

“Spread your legs for me, love,” he said.

You gasped because it was the first time either of you had vocalized the word to each other.

“I do,” he confirmed, “I love you.”

“James…”

He smiled. “Now, show me that pretty cunt, my love.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you let your legs drop open like a butterfly.

He moaned appreciatively and continued to slowly stroke his cock as he stepped forward. “Pretty and wet and mine.”

He joined you on the bed, quickly slotting his large form in the cradle of your thighs. He pressed heated kisses along your collarbone, but you guided his head up to yours.

“I love you, too,” you murmured fervently against his lips.

His eyes flared with happiness and satisfaction - a look you had grown familiar with, and one you relished in knowing you caused.

As he kissed you again, he propped himself up on one arm by your head, but his other hand landed on your puffy and dripping folds to lavish languid attention, not designed to drive you to orgasm, but only to dole out pleasure while his expert fingers played with your body. As ever, you were simultaneously eager for more but ready to relish the experience.

While James had you pinned down with the weight of his body, eventually you began to squirm and rock your hips, seeking more. Soft mewls tumbled out of you, and you scratched your nails down his broad back.

“Need,” you gasped when he broke off the kiss.

He pecked your lips to cut you off. “I know what you need.”

He pushed himself up, grabbed a pillow, placed it down next to your hip. You hummed as he and rolled you over and onto the pillow, propping your hips up for him. Spreading your knees with his, he knelt behind you. You stretched your right arm up above your head, grasping at the sheets to steady yourself for whatever he had in store for you next, and reached your left hand back, silently seeking his hand to twine with your, which he complied with, settling your entwined fingers together at your hip. Meanwhile, his free hand passed soothingly up and down the length of your right side, from knee to ribs, down and up and down again. He planted kisses from the base of your spine up to your neck, and it was so soft and intimate your eyes welled with tears, nearly overwhelmed with just how adored this unhurried worshipful moment made you feel. You blinked back the moisture in your eyes and focused on breathing.

His kisses continued up the side of your neck, and when he suddenly nipped at your ear, you laughed and swatted playfully at him.

He rolled away from you, and a whine of protest escaped your throat.

James chuckled.

“Just a moment,” he reassured you as he reached for something on the bedside table. You heard a small click you couldn’t place, then some other soft sounds of movement. When he rolled back to face you, you looked down to see what he’d retrieved.

You gasped and then looked back up to his face immediately, heat rising in your neck and cheeks.

But it wasn’t embarrassment that you felt, it was the rush of trepidatious arousal, hesitant because this was an area you’d never ventured in the sexual realm.

In his hand was the smallest from a set of platinum anal plugs set with sapphires, and it was prepared with lube.

“Oh,” the soft syllable fell from your lips.

“Trust me?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded.

He squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back. Then he released your hand and settled back to his kneeling position between your splayed thighs again. He caressed the swell of your ass, first one cheek, then the other. His thumbs spread your crack open, and gently nudged at the tight ring of muscle at your entrance a few times before he placed the rounded metal end of the plug at the puckering.

“Relax, let me feel you breathe,” he said. You took a deep breath in. Out. And with your next breath in, he pushed the plug softly in. You held your breath as he slowly finished slotting it inside of you. Then he was up near your cheek, nuzzling you softly. “How does that feel?”

You took a beat to think before answering. “Full.” You breathed in and out again. “Good.”

You felt him grin against your skin. “Good.”

His thumb lightly tapped against the jeweled end, and your breath hitched slightly. He waited a moment, tapped again, and again your breath hitched. He chuckled. “So responsive, love.”

You huffed and burrowed your face into the sheets.

“But still good?” he checked in.

“Yes,” you groaned. The feeling of your tight hole being full was unbelievably intense because it was so foreign, so insistent, so much. The plug provided an ever-present push, and the more moments that passed, the more your body latched onto it the rush. It laced every thought. His light taps on the plug had jolted that pleasure, giving it sharp, blissful pulses.

Another laugh at your reluctant acknowledgement. “I’ll stop teasing,” he promised. “For now,” he added.

He lined up the tip of his cock at the entrance to your weeping channel, hunched down over your back, and then slowly, deliciously, pushed his thick length inside of you. You moaned openly through every second of it, then took a deep breath when he settled in at the hilt.

James waited there, chest pressed against your back, letting you adjust to the sensation of being filled in both places at once. He peppered kisses along your shoulder.

“Mmm, ready for you to move,” you drawled through your haze.

One hand held the top of your hip, and he planted his arm at your side so he could get the right leverage to begin thrusting in and out of your cunt. He took a slow approach, but it still engulfed you immediately. His cock moving within your cunt while you were plugged, immovable fullness in one hole and a shifting fullness in the other, was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. The presence of the plug dialed up every other sensation you were experiencing as James started to speed up his thrusts.

You fought to acclimate to the overwhelming fullness, as he gradually increased the pace of his thrusting, but your orgasm crashed over you earlier than either of you expected. Your body seized up and then shook as you cried out in ecstasy beneath him. He groaned as you milked his cock, then growled as he sped up even more.

His hand circled your hip to dive beneath your pelvis, in search of your clit.

You keened when his expert fingers found your swollen bud.

“Have to give me another, need you to cum with me,” he demanded, chest rumbling against your back.

His fingers dealt out exquisite torture as he circled your clit.

Your second orgasm built and crested, drawn out in longer bliss this time, and as your walls clenched this time, they triggered the release of your mob boss as well. He gave a shout, muffled into your neck as he pumped you full of his cum. You could feel the heat of it as he emptied himself fully inside you, and you relished in it, arching your back and stretching your arms out satisfyingly in the bursts of pleasure that rolled through your body in the aftershocks.

You turned your head to kiss your lover, full and satiated. He indulged and returned the kiss in kind but broke it off much too soon for your liking, also withdrawing his cock from your well-used cunt. You gave a little moan of protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he assured you.

Too blissed out and loathe to move yet, you stayed exactly where you were, listening to James’s footsteps moving away to the bathroom. The running tap signaled a quick clean up, and when he returned, he had a warm washcloth to tend to you as well. He carefully removed the plug, and murmured, “You did so good for me.”

A little something fluttered ever so slightly at his soft praise. After he wiped away the mess of your combined spend, he tossed the washcloth to your laundry hamper, removed the pillow from beneath your hips, then settled down on his side on your mattress and collected your boneless body in his arms. You sighed in contentment.

“You ready to send me away yet?” he asked.

“No, you’ve earned at least a few more minutes.”

“Good, because I have one more thing for you.”

You laughed. “I might need a little more recovery time, muscles don’t want to move.”

He reached over to your bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled something out, but your eyes were drifting closed. You thought maybe he would relent and leave you be for at least a short amount of recovery time if you fell into a light doze.

But of course, he would not.

No.

James Buchanan Barnes, endearing but audacious bastard that he was, couldn’t let you rest.

He withdrew your hand from his chest and deposited something into your palm, wrapping your fingers around it, before he kissed your knuckles.

As your fingers registered the size and shape of the object in your hands – small and square, smooth surfaces, but tied with a satin bow – you stopped breathing, and your eyes flew open.

His face held the softest smile you had ever seen on his features. His thumb brushed smooth, reassuring circles, over the inside of your wrist. “Marry me.”

Your eyes flickered between his piercing blue gaze and the Tiffany blue box in your hands, mouth agape. You had resumed breathing, but you were speechless – happiness tinged with hesitancy. Your eyes went back to him, searching his face, and you knew he was searching your again. “In the other room, you said eventually.”

“Marry me tomorrow, or marry me in five years, but I know what I want,” his tone underscoring his evident resolve. “I told you, I’ve known since very early on, and every moment only solidifies how certain I am I can’t see a future I want more than one that involves you.”

You leaned in to kiss him. He was clever, your mob boss. Strategic. But you also believed he was sincere.

You broke the kiss this time. “I won’t marry you tomorrow, but I don’t want to wait five years, either.”

“We can set the timeline later, but now I want to see my ring on your finger, Chef.”

He reached to start tugging the white bow loose, but you tsked at him and went to work, untying the satin. You opened the blue box, then let your fingers run over the smooth velvet of the smaller box within. Neither of you spoke, the moment charged with anticipation. You tilted back the top half of the ring box.

“Oh, James,” you marveled.

The ring he’d selected could not have been more perfect. The setting of the stones was stunning.

You let him withdraw the ring from its cushion and slip it onto your finger.

Already having proven his track record when it came to knowing things about you, you didn’t question how he had managed to get the perfect sizing for your engagement ring.

Hours later, after hours of kissing and numerous post-engagement orgasms, you did ask how long that ring box had been in your top drawer, but he laughed and assured you only that morning.

You were reasonably sure that was the case, but with him, there was no telling for sure.

And now you knew this mischievous man and mob boss would continue to surprise and challenge you for a lifetime.

THIS CONCLUDES THE ARC OF THEIR SERIES! I hope it provides a satisfying ending that you were able to devour! I have already written a few pieces for them that take place after this, and I imagine there will be drabbles here and there (there were two things I cut from this chapter already because of how things ended up flowing, and one of them I do at least still see as a conversation they will have in the midst of some smut), but we have at least gotten them from the beginning of their journey to where I wanted them to land in the original four parts I sketched out over a year ago.

Let me know what you think, now that you know how their story has been told! I can't believe we made it!

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

#feedback #fan fiction #marvel #bucky barnes #animations #drag queen #sapphira cristal #trixie mattel #miz cracker #alaska thunderfuck #brooke lynn hytes #nymphia wind #AND mine

805 notes · View notes