#black tie affair

[gentlemensarts]

[margeauxxadkins]

[levixmatthews]

[donniexmiller]

[frankiexvanderbilt]

[shirtandties]

I've waited so long for the opportunity to inspect you on parade...

[zombified-queer]

If you guys need me I'll be imagining the Manager in Hannibal Lecter's suits all morning.

[butchlifeguard]

normally ive got friends in low places is somewhere in the spectrum of 'gives me flashbacks thats not a joke' to 'straight up ass' but i heard it at the game today snd it kind of hit

[nefretemerson]

i hav changed my pfp for the first time in years. identity crisis.

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Raw 7/3/23

Samantha wore the Black Tie Affair Midi Dress in Black / White from Fashion Nova (on sale for $31.99)

[miloxcole]

[mandoalorian]

mile high club [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: When you and the Congressman cross professional boundaries, Bucky finds it hard to keep his hands off you, but you still worry that he sees you as a distraction to his upcoming campaign.

Word Count: 1700

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, p in v, fingering, just general filth, smidge of plot.

Author's note: this was written because it was highly requested. if people enjoy the way i write for congressman!bucky, i am happy to turn this into a series of smutty one shots. but please let me know! if i don't know i can't do it. thanks! <3

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The hum of the jet engine filled the private cabin, a low, steady sound that did nothing to settle the tension crackling between you and Bucky. The air up here felt thinner, charged with something you couldn’t name—something you hadn’t been able to shake since earlier that evening, when he had kissed you breathless in his office, his hands tangled in your hair, his body pressed flush against yours.

For years, it had been strictly professional. You prided yourself on that. You were Bucky Barnes’ personal assistant, the woman who kept his schedule tight, his image pristine, his affairs in order. He was a congressman, after all—one of the most powerful men in Washington, and you had always been painfully aware of the stakes. Of what would happen if you blurred the lines.

But you had always noticed him, too. The way his sleeves strained against his forearms, the rasp in his voice when he was exhausted, the rare smirk that made your stomach tighten. You had harboured your crush in silence, burying it under professionalism, refusing to acknowledge it. Until tonight.

That had been only hours ago. Since then, you had barely spoken, but the weight of what had happened lingered between you. Now, on this flight to Tokyo, where the air was warm, the whiskey in your glass burned sweet, and Bucky Barnes looked at you like he was ready to devour you whole, the tension was unbearable. You, on the other hand, were looking everywhere but him, afraid to catch your boss’ line of sight. You weren’t scared of him — no. As a matter of fact, you were probably one of the only people in the world who was not scared of the ex-Winter Soldier because you saw Bucky for who he really was: a man who wanted to implement change and focus on the greater good. 

He sat across from you, his tie loosened, his blue eyes dark as he watched you sip your drink. He looked at ease—relaxed, even. But you knew him better than that. There was a tension in his jaw, a hunger in the way his fingers tapped idly against the armrest.

��You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, his voice smooth, controlled.

You smirked, setting your glass down on the polished table between you. “You’ve been busy, Congressman.”

His lips twitched, amusement flickering across his face before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “That’s not what I meant.” Bucky murmured, reaching out to trail a single finger along the exposed skin of your thigh. Goosebumps erupted in its wake. 

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch sent a slow, deliberate ache between your legs, and God, you wanted to fight it. You wanted to be strong, to resist. But it was impossible when he looked at you like that—like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, exactly how you would come undone for him.

“Bucky— you should really rehearse your speech for the Tokyo conference…” your words trailed off, not a single part of you meaning them, displaying every effort to keep your boss hard at work and not helplessly distracted by you. You felt a familiar heat between your legs as his pupils blew black and he looked up at you with lust. 

Wearily, you called his name again and it was barely a whisper before he was in front of you, his large hands gripping the arms of your chair, caging you in. His cologne wrapped around you—clean, woodsy, intoxicating. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips inches from yours. “Tell me, and I will.”

You should have. You knew you should have.

Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with a challenge. “You’re not very good at following orders, Congressman.”

His lips parted, a low groan slipping from them before his mouth crashed into yours. He loved when you called him that, and you knew it. The kiss was slow at first—hot, teasing, meant to drive you insane. But when you sighed into him, his patience snapped. His hands were on you, dragging you up, pressing you against the cool leather wall of the cabin, his hips flush against yours.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he growled, kissing a hot trail down your neck, his fingers working the buttons of your blouse.

You arched into him, your hands raking through his hair, tugging at his tie. “Then it’s mutual.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nipping at your pulse point before spinning you around, pressing your front against the wall. His hands roamed lower, lower, hiking your skirt up.

“You ever done this before?” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Thirty-five thousand feet in the air?”

You gasped as his fingers slid beneath your panties, tracing the slick heat waiting for him. “No.”

His smirk was wicked against your skin. “Guess I get to ruin you all over again.”

Bucky didn’t waste time. His fingers teased, tracing lazy circles over your sensitive skin before pressing into you, stretching you, filling you so deliciously slow you nearly whimpered. His other, Vibranium hand, came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound as his lips brushed over your ear.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice thick with control he was barely holding onto. “Wouldn’t want the pilot to hear, would we?”

You remembered how just hours earlier, you were nearly walked in on, and heat coiled deep in your stomach, your nails digging into the leather wall as Bucky worked you open, curling his fingers just right, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. His mouth moved along your shoulder, kissing, nipping, soothing, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmured, his fingers plunging deeper, his thumb circling in just the right way. “Falling apart for me. Only for me.”

You bit your lip, desperate to keep quiet as the pleasure built, hot and overwhelming. Your knees threatened to buckle, but Bucky held you firm, his body a solid, unyielding force against you.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely a breath, a plea, and he groaned, twisting his fingers just so, sending you tumbling over the edge.

The world blurred, heat surging through you, white-hot pleasure crashing down in waves as Bucky swallowed every sound, pressing kisses to the back of your neck as you trembled in his arms.

As the aftershocks faded, he slowly withdrew, his hands smoothing over your hips, grounding you. But he wasn’t done.

A rough hand tilted your chin, his lips claiming yours in a slow, heated kiss before he hoisted you onto the polished table, nudging your legs apart with his knee. His breath was warm against your lips as he smirked. “What do you want, doll? Come on, use your words for me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. “I want you to fuck me, Congressman.” You said it without shame and just sheer desperation. 

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he grabbed your hips, dragging you to the edge of the table. The sound of fabric rustling filled the cabin, the cool air brushing against your fevered skin as he freed himself.

His thick length pressed against your entrance, teasing, stretching you just enough to make you squirm. His thumb found your clit, circling lazily, coaxing another desperate whimper from your lips.

“Patience,” he murmured, watching you with dark, hungry eyes as he inched inside, sinking into you with a slow, deliberate thrust.

The stretch was exquisite, overwhelming, stealing the breath from your lungs. You clung to him, nails raking down his back as he filled you completely, groaning at the way your body clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he ground out, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—Jesus, you feel perfect.”

He pulled back only to snap his hips forward again, the force making the table creak beneath you. You gasped, your back arching, pleasure sparking along every nerve ending as he set a slow, punishing rhythm, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until you were a trembling, desperate mess beneath him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the way your lips parted, your breath coming in ragged pants. “Taking me so well. So fucking sweet for me.”

You whimpered as he angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you, sending stars exploding behind your eyes. Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails biting into the firm muscle.

“Bucky—please—”

He grinned, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Please what?”

Your head fell back as he rolled his hips again, slow and deep, leaving you gasping. “Please—I need—”

His smirk darkened as he drove into you harder, faster, the intensity building, the pleasure unbearable. “Say it,” he growled against your throat. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you choked out, hands fisting in his shirt. “Need you. Need to come.”

He groaned, his movements turning rougher, desperate, his fingers slipping between you to work your clit, pushing you closer, higher—

Until you shattered, pleasure ripping through you in waves, leaving you breathless, boneless, clinging to him as he followed with a low, guttural moan, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours.

As you both caught your breath, Bucky let out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Hope you’re not too tired, sweetheart,” he murmured, running a hand up your thigh. “We’ve still got a long flight ahead of us.”

---------------------- <3

Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @mybuckynotyours @sunday-bug @bunnyfella

[kiwiplaetzchen]

“🎶✨When you get this, list 5 songs you like to listen to.🎶✨”

ᕕ(⌐■_■)ᕗ ♪♬

Thank you for tagging me @theravenchild 💚🫂

(love your songs! (｢⌐■_■)｢ ◙▒◙ ♫♩♬)

Tagging @theodoradevlin @adallegra @ask-sebastian @esolean @valyrra @heyitszev @traceyc-uk @cyan1decandy @adeline-tinley @savingsallow and everyone else that wants to join!

(But no pressure!💚)

“🎶✨When u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask tag 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool)🎶✨”

Thank you so much for tagging me @faustinio27! 😘 If you follow my main you've probably seen some of these songs before.

Tagging @kiwiplaetzchen @raenegade-accio @theodoradevlin @lil-grem-draws @valyrra @localravenclaw @enotracoon @queen-of-stoneharts @heyitszev @metal-mouse and you if you want to join! (No pressure)

[endless-ineffabilities]

Official Business

President Aemond Targaryen x f!reporter reader

a/n: I caved in and listened to the depraved gremlins in my mind. I hope you enjoy this official intro, you're welcome.

also, thank the gods for Rue (@peachysunrize) for creating the hottest gif of all time.

themes/warnings: language, barely-there smut, infidelity, unequal power dynamic, gross misuse of a fancy desk, getting involved with a politician (also gross)

main masterlist

Update! - upcoming series

President Aemond demands the company of his favourite reporter, whom he has been eyeing for quite some time.

You try to walk with your head held high, but your clammy hands and racing heartbeat betray your nerves.

“President Aemond wishes for you to grace his suite,” was all they said. They, being two imposing bodyguards in impeccably tailored black suits, occasionally touching their earpieces as if confirming orders.

“What does he want?” you asked, your voice coming out weak and tentative. More importantly, why you?

They only shrugged, impassive. Whether they didn’t know or didn’t care, it wouldn’t matter anyway. The President always gets what he wants.

You’d only spoken to President Aemond in your capacity as a reporter, part of the small circle allowed to amplify his words to the public. The first time was at the annual Westerosi Gala, where he arrived with First Lady Floris Baratheon on his arm. Your colleagues whispered incessantly about how the uncut footage showed his gaze barely straying from you, even with his stunning aristocratic wife beside him.

Your supervisor even had the footage edited. “You don’t need the media vultures swarming you,” he reasoned, trying to sound reassuring.

Now, after covering yet another event in Highgarden, it seems you’ve been summoned for an exclusive interview in the President’s suite. You hope that’s all it is.

After all, you can’t be another victim of President Aemond’s wandering eye. Socialites like Alys Rivers and Lara Lannister had been publicly shredded after being exposed as his mistresses.

You never understood his affairs. They seemed so juvenile, reckless even for the youngest President ever elected. Barely thirty and in the highest position imaginable. And yet, what truly baffled you was why Floris stayed.

“Ma’am, the Presidential Suite,” one of the guards states as he opens a set of ornate ivory doors for you. “The President is waiting inside.”

Your feet move automatically, sparing you from blurting something that would inevitably fall on deaf ears. But as you cross the threshold, you turn and ask, “Will you be waiting to escort me back to – ”

The doors shut behind you. Of course.

The suite is grand – no expense was spared for the President. A perfect blend of classic Valyrian architecture, all white marble and gold accents. It’s more impressive than you could have imagined, having marvelled at the Highgarden Hotel from the outside for years.

“Come,” you hear a voice command, smooth and authoritative, from the room to the left of the main parlour. 

You head in that direction, mentally steeling yourself. Just get this over with.

There he is, leaning casually against a wide desk, dressed sharply in a tailored blue suit and crimson tie. The moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows catches the scar across his left eye, the glint of his prosthetic eye giving him an almost sinister allure. The kind that draws people in despite themselves.

Maybe it wasn’t immaturity driving his affairs. Maybe he was just too beautiful to resist. You roll your eyes at the stupid thought, surprised with yourself.

“Something amusing?” His voice is tinged with laughter.

Gods, you just rolled your eyes in front of the President.

“N-no,” you stammer, immediately flustered. “I’m sorry, Mister President. It’s just... I thought of something funny. Not about you! I mean, I’m sure you can be funny, but - ”

“Relax, angel,” he chuckles, raising a hand to stop your rambling. The term “angel” lingers in the air, branding itself into your mind.

You quickly introduce yourself, fumbling through your full government name like a nervous schoolgirl.

“We’ve met before,” he reminds you, smirking. “Am I that forgettable?”

“No, I know we have,” you nod quickly, “just not in such a… private setting.”

The corner of his mouth quirks at your choice of words, and his gaze sweeps over you with an intensity that sends heat rushing through your body. He hums softly, and the sound settles uncomfortably low in your stomach. Gods, get it together.

“I was told you wanted to see me, Mister President?”

“Aemond,” he corrects. 

You nod, offering your nickname in return, but he only smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Thank you, but I think I’ll stick with ‘angel.’”

Weird, considering how this is your first proper conversation with him, you think, but nod regardless.

He gestures to the plush chairs in front of the desk. “Sit, please.”

You comply, smoothing your dress nervously. Thankfully, it’s modest enough – a safe choice that flows just above your knees.

“How are you?” he asks, his voice polite but edged with something else. Part of you wishes he’d just get to the point, but another part – one you’d rather not acknowledge – wants to stay, to drink in the sight of him. Aemond Targaryen, the most powerful man in Westeros, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“I’m doing well,” you reply, your smile faltering under his heavy gaze.

He hums again, eyes dipping to your lips. That same maddening hum that sets your nerves alight.

“You must be wondering why I asked for you tonight,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “I wanted us to get better acquainted. You’ve caught my attention, angel. I find you… intriguing.”

“But you don’t know me,” you counter quickly, heart racing.

“I know more than you think,” he says, eyes narrowing playfully. “You studied at the Casterly Rock Institute for Journalism. Top of your class, until your grades dropped in your final year because you were taking care of your ailing aunt. That says more about you than any degree.”

He continues, “You’re an only child. Estranged from your parents, especially your mother, after she remarried. You’ve moved city to city since, keeping your distance. Avoiding attachments, especially romantic ones.”

You freeze, his words hitting too close to home. There’s an amused lilt to his voice at the end, and you desperately want to respond with a defensive retort, but you hold your tongue. You like your job after all. He’s the President. One call and he could have you right back in the unemployment pool.

“Am I correct?” His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

You manage a small nod. Damn him.

“How do you know all this?” you ask quietly, stunned. You wonder if there are hidden cue cards somewhere in the room, informing him of the details of your relatively uneventful life. There is no way he actually made the effort to memorise all these details about you. But then again, he is the Commander-in-Chief of the country. He must have trained himself to know everything about everyone. You’re not special – just another face in his immediate vicinity. 

“I make it my business to know people,” he replies smoothly. “Especially those who interest me.”

He reaches out to take your hand, pulling you gently to stand before him as he perches on the edge of his desk. The proximity is intoxicating. “And you, angel, have caught my eye. You’re the object of my desire. Can you say the same of me?”

His words leave you breathless, the floor slipping from under you. You’re no better than the others, drawn into his orbit. “I’d be an idiot not to find you attractive, Aemond.”

He smirks. “I adore the way you say my name.”

“There’s nothing special about the way I say it.”

“There is,” he insists, his voice low and rough as his hand moves to smooth a stray hair from your face. “You’re so fucking beautiful, angel.” His expletive takes you aback, so unbecoming of someone of his status. 

“I’m not a fool,” you shoot back, forcing yourself to remain steady. “I’ve heard about your... doings.”

“My doings?” He raises an eyebrow, amused.

“You’re married obviously,” you say bluntly. “And you’ve had affairs. Women like Alys Rivers, Lara Lannister…”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’ve had lovers, yes, but my marriage is... loveless. Floris and I, we’ve always been an arrangement for political convenience.”

“That doesn’t justify anything.”

He steps closer, his eyes darkening. “I’m trapped. I can’t leave her. It would destroy my reputation. But she has her own lovers too.”

“And so you feel entitled to have yours?”

He breathes deeply, gaze unwavering. “Not just anyone. I want you, angel. Only you.”

You feel yourself dangerously close to giving in, especially when his gaze drops to your lips and he shamelessly licks his own. Desperate to stay composed, you ask, “Am I just another lover to add to your collection? I may be a lowly journalist compared to you, Mister President, but I have a reputation to protect too.”

“I know this, angel,” he whispers, his voice softer now, yet drawing closer with every word. “I’ll protect you.”

“Did you protect Alys? Or Lara? Or the others?” you challenge, though your voice falters.

“They orchestrated their own downfall,” he says coolly, his expression unreadable. “They used me for power. That was out of my hands.”

Oh. His words momentarily rattle your resolve, but you shake your head, trying to pull yourself out of the spell he’s weaving over you. “No, this is wrong,” you murmur, the words weak on your tongue. But his warm breath fans your face, luring you into the same madness he claims to feel.

“Is this wrong?” he whispers, his lips grazing yours – featherlike, teasing, barely there. Then, as if something shifts within him, he kisses you again, harder this time, his mouth pressing hungrily against yours. His tongue traces the curve of your bottom lip, sending a rush of heat through your body as you teeter on the edge of reason.

You cave, for a few seconds, letting your lips dance with his own in a battle for dominance. You elicit a growl out of him, and he picks you up and swaps your bodies so that you are perched atop his desk. 

“Gods,” he purrs, against the heat of your neck. “Sweeter than I imagined. You’re a fucking angel.” His gaze is arresting as his hands slide from your ankles to the hem of your dress, lifting it higher and higher until your moist panties are exposed to the cool air. 

You collect yourself as if hit by a dizzying wave of whiplash, pushing him away with a sharp shove. “Stop – wait, Mister Pres – Aemond…”

He stumbles, lips swollen and slick, his good eye darkened, pupil blown wide. “Right, sorry…” His breath comes heavy as he averts his gaze, and you smooth your dress down, feeling the weight of the moment between you. He straightens, his posture stiffening as if suddenly remembering who he is. “I didn’t mean to push you, angel.”

“You didn’t –”

“It was wrong of me to –”

“Aemond,” you cut in softly, your hand slipping between you to squeeze his in reassurance. “It’s okay. I wanted it too.”

A genuine smile blooms on his lips, innocent and sweet, but it fades just as quickly at your next words. “But this can’t happen again. We can’t happen.”

"Why not?" His voice is low, measured, but there’s an edge to it. "Why can’t we? You say you wanted it too."

“We both know why,” you murmur, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. You turn to leave, but hesitate just long enough to say, “Goodbye, Mister President.”

“Angel,” he calls softly, and it’s the only word he offers.

As you step out of his suite, the door closing behind you with a quiet finality, a thought begins to take root, unsettling in its persistence – he never actually said goodbye.

And deep down, you know this isn’t over. Something stirs in your chest, an uneasy certainty - while this is the first of these kinds of encounters, it won’t be the last. 

Taglists (refer here to be added)

vhagar - @gwaynehightowerswhore @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @hotdismylife @joyismm @itseunaimonia @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @zaldrizzes @all-for-aemond @ajantanijhum @darylandbethfanforever9 @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @anukulee @decaffeinatedparadisepost @iloveallmyboys @inesdiary96

Targaryen - @angel6776 @different-tale-student @binchissimo @teasweeter @raging-panda @rhaenys-nyra @gelacat0413 @simplymurdock @yariany02 @barnes70stark @stupid---person @lonan-hane @thescooponsof @donalesaa @rosey1981 @misssanzthings @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wabi-sabi1090 @girl-lost-not-found

Some notes in the margins...

Knowing me, this will inevitably turn into more than just a oneshot. Do bookmark this or my masterlist to keep updated! Or you may join the taglist using the link above ~

[dadvans]

Once you’ve been to Cambodia, you’ll never stop wanting to beat Henry Kissinger to death with your bare hands. You will never again be able to open a newspaper and read about that treacherous, prevaricating, murderous scumbag sitting down for a nice chat with Charlie Rose or attending some black-tie affair for a new glossy magazine without choking. Witness what Henry did in Cambodia – the fruits of his genius for statesmanship – and you will never understand why he’s not sitting in the dock at The Hague next to Milošević.

- anthony bourdain, who is probably smiling down from heaven on henry kissinger’s cold, dead body