#1 inch circle on throat / neck

[gutsby]

License to Kill

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marital bliss becomes a bloody massacre within hours of your wedding. Bucky has run the gamut of organized crime from gunrunning to public extortion, but an attempt on your life is a whole different ballgame. A honeymoon-turned-manhunt has Bucky out for blood.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Semi-public sex. Beefy, mob boss Bucky really wants to give you a baby. Praise kink. Size kink. Facefucking. Sex on a private jet. Attempted murder. Arms trafficking. Guerrilla warfare.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Any postnuptial banquet was bound to be the talk of Santorini when a groom arrived beaten half to death.

At least that was what you’d told yourself, what had plagued your mind for hours before the start of brunch, and what Bucky presently refused to acknowledge with so much as a bat of his eye or a word spoken in between.

“You worry too much,” he said as he sheathed himself inside you for the third time that morning.

Bucky seized your throat in one hand and tilted your chin to make sure you were capable of eye contact while he fucked you in front of the mirror. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that the face in his own reflection was bruised, bloodied, and sewn up like a patchwork quilt behind you.

Hazards of the job, he’d said.

Three masked assailants breaking into your villa the first night of honeymooning? Customary. Being yanked out of bed and made to kneel as your husband took the beating of a lifetime just minutes after consummating your marriage? More common than you would think.

Bucky hadn’t even blinked when he got pistol whipped by a gold-plated Beretta. Didn’t flinch when he was held to a wall and pummeled like a freestanding punch bag.

Almost smiled when he took a hard right hook to the nose and felt a torrent of blood flood out of his nostrils.

If anyone were to be accused of behaving too calmly in a home invasion, it would be Bucky Barnes. It seemed as though he’d seen this all before and had no qualms about getting the shit kicked out of him every now and then. Why he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to fight back was still beyond your comprehension, though.

At length, he tightened his grip on your neck and tried to smile, his upper lip slashed in two and bruised a grim, violet hue.

“Who’s my girl?” he murmured an inch from your ear.

You whined when he delivered a particularly hard thrust, both of your hands flying to the mirror to steady yourself as he pounded you from behind.

“I-I am,” you whimpered.

The stretch was still something you were getting used to, but now Bucky knew just how to spread you open without making it hurt. He’d glide a thick finger between your folds, slide it down to your clit, and leave it there as long as you’d let him, rubbing quick circles while you bucked and moaned under his touch. And, in spite of all his cuts and bruises, your husband made sure to kiss your shoulder every now and then to let you know he still loved you—even if he was fucking you like he didn’t.

Bucky trailed his lips behind your ear and watched you writhe in time with every stroke he gave. Pressed his face close to yours, watched a desperate, fucked-out expression take over your features, and smiled to himself knowing that no one but him got to see you like this.

“Who likes getting stuffed full of this cock?” he taunted.

“I do.”

“Who loves making daddy feel this good?”

“I do.”

He never thought the sound of your vows could be repeated out loud in such an obscene way—his sweet bride bent in half with a thick, throbbing cock wedged between her legs—but he loved it nonetheless.

Bucky was rutting his hips at a breakneck pace and holding your head to the mirror like he’d never let go. Your climax was quickly coming close into view, and you felt your toes curl in the hardwood floor beneath them.

Suddenly, the chirp of a ringtone diverted your attention.

Bucky brought his phone to his ear as he continued to pound you mercilessly.

“Yeah, Steve?”

The mob boss’s business never took a break, it seemed.

“So what?”

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time.”

“Well, I’m plowing my wife right now, can it wait?”

Your cheeks warmed with embarrassment at Bucky’s blunt choice of words. You saw his brow pinch behind you, his thrusts getting faster and sloppier, and in spite of the distraction, you sensed he was getting close too.

You yourself were right on the brink. Your gaze met Bucky’s in the mirror with a soft, pleading look, and before you knew it, your husband was bidding an abrupt farewell to his friend and chucking his phone to the side.

“Ready to cum for me, honey?”

You whimpered and nodded.

“Alright then,” Bucky said with a near-expectant look, weaving the fingers of one hand into your hair and pulling it back, tight, “Cum all over daddy’s cock.”

With a shriek you feared might carry throughout the whole banquet hall, you finally reached your peak and released around Bucky’s length, tears springing to your eyes as you closed them tight and moaned his name.

And, ever the cheeky fuck, Bucky leaned right in and kissed the sides of your face to collect all the moisture he could—‘Shit, honey, you taste as good as you look’—while he smirked. Would’ve grinned even bigger if he wasn’t so overcome with pleasure; but, as it was, he couldn’t keep from blowing his load just seconds after the last spasms of your orgasm. Bucky leaned over your torso and squeezed your body tight to his, fucking his cum deep inside you as far as it could possibly go.

For a few, dizzying moments, the man’s mind wandered to more primal thoughts of making it stick, knocking you up, and Bucky had to clench his jaw hard to suppress the groans that were threatening to spill through his teeth. Every time he fucked you, it was like something just clicked; he couldn’t rid the thought of giving you a baby.

But no, for now, the two of you were still on wedding time; before you could jet off to your real honeymoon destination—someplace in the Caribbean, if Bucky remembered correctly—your mother had insisted that you host one post-wedding event that day: a brunch.

Naturally, that meant you were obliged to serve a four-course meal on the terrace of the Canaves Oia Hotel.

The mother of the bride had been one hell of a staunch advocate for keeping this wedding party going as long as possible, and who was Bucky to tell her no? He reasoned he would have plenty of time to get you pregnant after all the wedding festivities had ended, so he didn’t mind.

At present, you tugged your panties and your dress back into place with a wince.

“I think you displaced my cervix, James.”

Bucky couldn’t deny he felt the smallest twinge of pride seeing you walk a little funny to collect the rest of your belongings and attempt to freshen up. It also gave him the perfect excuse to scoop you back up in his arms and pretend to be apologetic about your present dilemma.

“Did I really?” he asked as you giggled and tried to swat him away, “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Like hell you are.”

With Bucky still draped over your body, proffering his apologies again and again as he assailed your face with tiny kisses, you’d barely made it two feet toward the door before you collapsed against a table and almost toppled a centerpiece. The pair of you would be expected outside any minute now, where the rest of your post-wedding party was likely trickling in and wondering where the hell the bride and groom had gone, but Bucky seemed adamant on keeping you to himself a little while longer.

That was until the back exit swung on its hinges and a familiar, frazzled groomsman stumbled in.

“Can you horndogs hurry the hell up?!”

So Sam had heard you after all.

You just might’ve blushed if you weren’t being pushed out the door a second later, the hurried, chiding tone of your husband’s friend ringing low in your ears.

“Your old man’s ready to hit the roof,” he mumbled to Bucky, “Won’t start drinking until you two show face.”

“Probably still thinks my bride escaped in the middle of the night,” Bucky mused, flitting a look to you.

The man behind rolled his eyes and continued to usher you both outside. Sam Wilson knew exactly what had happened last night; he’d been the one to bring in the cavalry to save you both from imminent death, after all.

As you had come to find out, Sam wasn’t just a friend of your husband’s but also a close associate of sorts—the kind that would wait in the wings and do whatever it took to keep Bucky safe. When the wait staff at the villa hadn’t been able to reach you for room service delivery last night, reporting some ‘strange sounds’ inside, Mr. Wilson had sprung into action. Called the rest of your husband’s entourage and was up to your room in minutes, where they’d dealt a swift, and final, blow to your attackers. You hadn’t asked many questions after—just thanked him. Profusely.

“You look like hell,” the man observed with a sidelong glance in his friend’s direction.

“Really? I feel great,” Bucky replied.

The three of you weaved through a crowd of partygoers—every single one of whom, without exception, stopped and stared at your husband’s mangled face as he passed—and you started to chew the inside of your cheek. People were gawking, talking amongst themselves as they wondered aloud what the hell could’ve happened to the groom overnight. You felt their stares turn to you in a mixture of pity and reproach, and you wanted to hide.

“Ja-ames!” a sing-song voice trilled across the way.

You, Bucky, and Sam all stopped in your tracks to regard the duo that was making their swift approach over.

Bucky’s mom and dad.

As the older couple drew near, you half-expected to see them take on the same wan, horror-stricken look worn by all those around you, but to your surprise, they didn’t.

In fact, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Seeing their son’s face all gnarled and bloody barely even registered.

“Good, you’re here! The photographers just arrived.” Bucky’s mother swept you into her arms for a brief embrace before shooting her son a frown. Your husband, in turn, offered her an apologetic peck on the cheek.

“Sorry, ma. We got caught up,” he said.

“Sure looks like it.”

That came from the elder Mr. Barnes, who had stopped to give his son a quick once-over. He looked amused.

“Get in a fight with a grizzly last night?” he quipped.

“Three, actually,” Sam answered for Bucky, who was already grinning from ear-to-ear—or as much as his facial lacerations would allow him.

You saw father and son exchange a brief, knowing look, before it was extinguished just as fast as it had come. Clearly, some sort of understanding had passed between them, and the old patriarch seemed pleased. Proud, even. You couldn’t begin to imagine why.

“The bruising shouldn’t be too hard to edit out of the wedding pictures,” Bucky’s mother turned to you as she started to lead the group away, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “It’s those damn lesions on his face that always give us trouble.”

She spoke so coolly about the trauma done to her son it damn near chilled you to the bone. You never thought the wife of a mobster would be oblivious to all the violence, but to talk as though this were just another day in the life as far as brutal beatings went was a little unnerving.

You strolled along and silently wondered what the fuck was wrong with this family. Then you realized, slowly, that this was your family now. Your stomach twisted.

When you got to the garden where the photographers were stationed, you saw your parents waiting, enrapt.

And, in a matter of seconds, you watched their expressions morph from exuberance to confusion to outright trepidation. Your father was quick to look away, but your mother clearly couldn’t be bothered to stop ogling Bucky’s gruesome appearance. She forced a tight-lipped smile at the very last second and stretched her arms out to you as the five of you approached.

“You’re glowing, my dear.”

She hugged you and, over your shoulder, tried to mask a discomfited look.

Your mother and father exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the group but seemed loath to linger on Bucky for more than a minute. Like they couldn’t quite tell whether the honeymoon beatdown was fair game for discussion.

“Places, people!”

The photographers were lined up like a flock of paparazzi. Each standing, crouching, squatting with their cameras in their hands, trying to get just the right angle.

The person in charge quickly busied herself with directing and adjusting every one of your positions before the pictures were taken. Telling Bucky’s father to straighten his tie, your mother to brighten her smile, the bride to tilt her shoulders just a little bit more, and Bucky, would you please stop groping your wife?

That last command had come from his mother, actually. Bucky had been palming your ass above your dress, and his mom couldn’t stand the thought of one camera capturing such crude behavior.

“My hand slipped,” Bucky retorted, much to the amusement of a few photographers.

You and his mother gave him identical admonitory looks, but it was you who was close enough to say something.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak, though, an odd sense stopped you on a dime.

There was a warmth. In your panties. Then a slow and silent oozing sensation. You squeezed your thighs tight together and, instinctively, lowered your hand to your stomach, as if that would have any chance of stopping it.

A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips just as the lead photographer told you all to smile and hold it.

“My cum dripping out already?” he whispered, low as he’d ever spoken but still too loud for you to bear. His parents were literally standing right there.

“Shut. Up.” You replied through gritted, smiling teeth.

“Chin to me, Mrs. Barnes,” the lady in charge called out.

You did as you were told, and Bucky’s hand on your side pressed the flesh ever so slightly.

A series of shuttering sounds, then another directive.

“Think it’ll stay in your panties?” Bucky managed delicately under his breath.

You didn’t respond. At length, his seed was seeping out of your underwear. You bared an even brighter smile for the cameras and tried not to flinch when he squeezed you again.

“Feel it sliding down your thighs?”

“Eyes forward, Mr. Barnes. Head up, and—here, please.”

The man could barely peel his gaze, much less his hands, from your body. He stroked your hip with his thumb. Then, without warning, that same hand slid down to your rear and pushed into the fabric. You sucked in a breath.

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Behave,” you hissed, and from the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you saw your mother turn her head.

Unfortunately for you, your husband would do no such thing. He just moved his hand even lower down your back and brushed the space around that spot with the tips of his fingers. You felt a shiver pass over you, along with a whole legion of goosebumps spreading fast across the skin.

If you weren’t on camera and surrounded by family, you probably would’ve liked to smack him upside the head.

As the cameras continued to fire away, Bucky’s touch trailed down to the outline of your panties through your dress and started rubbing small circles over the area.

“Now just the bride and groom!”

The rest of your family members stepped to the side, and it was only you and Bucky before the cameras now. Still smiling like bright, shiny dolls and communicating like ventriloquists, your lips barely moved as you spoke.

“How ‘bout I push it back in?”

“Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Now kiss!”

At the direction of the lead photographer, you kissed your husband and felt a mixture of lust, hate, and love swell up inside of you. When you pulled apart, it was the latter of these three that was searing hot in your veins.

“I love you,” Bucky murmured with a grin.

“I love you, too.”

The rest of the morning passed away in much the same fashion—being pulled from place to place, person to person, while your filthy-minded husband kept whispering in your ear all the depraved things he was planning to do to you once he got you alone. It was romantic, in a way; just terrible for your poor panties.

You reluctantly mingled and laughed with some of the most boring people you thought you’d ever met in your life—though perhaps you were a touch too horny to make a fair appraisal—and gradually, family and friends pulled you and Bucky further and further apart until you were just being carted around like show dogs and forced to hold the same conversation over and over again.

“You look stunning.”

“Buck’s a lucky guy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you planning on having kids any time soon?”

You just smiled, nodded, and didn’t have the guts to tell them that Bucky’s baby batter was baking inside you right now. That would’ve been a fun one to watch the reactions from your uptight, intrusive relatives, though.

And speaking of Bucky, where the fuck had he gone?

Just twenty minutes ago he’d sworn he would have you bent over one of the hotel balconies overlooking the Aegean Sea, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Your parents were currently preoccupied with their second helpings of spanakopita, your in-laws draining mojitos like water, and Sam, like Bucky, completely MIA. No one else had seen hide nor hair of your husband in a little while, and frankly, your legs were growing tired of looking.

You let out a small sigh of relief when you saw Bucky sitting a ways away on the terrace with Sam and Steve huddled on either side of him. They looked to be deep in discussion.

Steve, Stevie, Rogers, or, simply, your husband’s second in command, seemed strangely out of sorts as he clenched a fist and said something close to Bucky’s face.

You decided to let the three of them hash it out and to take a rain check on that balcony rendezvous for now.

At any rate, a pack of Pall Malls was calling your name.

You would fully concede this was a filthy habit you never should have started—like most fun things in life—but the reprieve of a nicotine buzz was too tempting to refuse. You grabbed your clutch and took off toward the far end of the lawn, set for a small alcove apart from the party.

You slipped the lighter and cigarettes from your bag as you walked. The scent of pure salt and sea foam greeted your senses as soon as you drew close to the spot—less than a stone’s throw away from the ocean.

Your hands had jammed the cancer stick in your mouth before your mind could make a single word of protest. You brought the lighter to life in your right palm and raised the flame to your cigarette until the end was lit.

Then you inhaled. Exhaled. Hoped no one would see you. You fanned the smoke from your face every so often.

You’d taken up residence on a bench just shy of the beach, and finally, you could stretch your legs and rest.

Maybe indulge in some disgusting thoughts about your husband while you were at it.

If you’d told yourself just twenty-four hours ago that your mind and body would be on the fritz craving Bucky’s touch, you wouldn’t have believed it. If someone had said sex, and cumming around someone you loved, was a worthwhile experience, you probably would’ve told them they were full of shit. But here you were, splayed out on a bench by the shoreline thinking of nothing but the way your husband’s cock felt inside you. Feeling his seed dried on your thigh and aching for a fourth helping.

You felt pathetic. Maybe you were.

In any case, you didn’t really care.

You brought the near-spent cigarette up to your lips for the last couple puffs. When you’d plucked it back out, you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

Bucky! Your lust-addled brain all but squealed.

You turned much quicker than you meant and nearly jumped in your skin to see who was standing there.

A grinning, bright-eyed blond.

In a panic, you flicked your cigarette over your shoulder and forced a smile.

“Hi.”

“Howdy.”

Okay, John Wayne, what the fuck? The man sounded, and looked, like something straight out of a western film.

“No need to stop on my account,” he tipped his chin toward the cigarette on the ground, “I won’t snitch.”

His smile took on a shade of condescension, but the face seemed friendly enough. Then, to your surprise, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved something small and silver from it. He held it out to you.

“Courtesy of your husband,” he said.

You frowned. A flask?

“It’s not even noon,” you answered.

“Bucky wanted me to relay the message that your mom invited a boatload more folks, and it don’t seem they’re fixin’ to leave anytime soon. Said you might need this.”

Gingerly, you accepted the gift and unscrewed the cap. You almost gagged when you got a whiff of pure vodka.

“Fuckin’ A,” you coughed, “What’s this, nail polish remover?”

“Stolichnaya. Can’t talk shit until you’ve tried it.”

Your eyes were still watering from the pungent stench of 80 proof spirits when you saw the man’s outstretched arm again—this time, to shake your hand.

“Joey, by the way.”

You shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, blinking back a few tears.

“You’re a friend of my husband’s?” you asked.

“From the service, yeah. We go way back.”

You couldn’t help but raise both brows in question.

“The service,” you repeated.

“Russian Armed Forces,” Joey smiled.

And when the hell did Bucky plan on telling you he was a former foreign operative? You stared at the man before you in a medley of confusion and disbelief. Surely the thick Southern drawl had to mean he was joking.

“Sorry—I thought you knew,” he said sheepishly.

Your husband’s old comrade seemed genuinely contrite, blushing a shade of pink as he turned his gaze from you. You quickly regained your composure and flashed him a smile, insisting it was fine, just surprising to you is all.

“Perks of arranged marriage,” you said, “We’re wed for life and I don’t even know the guy’s job title.”

That earned a laugh from the tall, gaunt figure in front of you. His features visibly relaxed, and he wasn’t smiling so smugly anymore. He motioned toward the bench.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

You fished for a cigarette as Joey sat down beside you. When he’d taken a seat, you offered it to him, and he politely accepted.

With time, the two of you got to smoking and joking around with a little more ease. You didn’t normally get to see that happen—rarely seizing the opportunity to make friends of near-strangers—but this weekend had already presented a bevy of firsts. What harm could a quick smoke break with Bucky’s old friend possibly do?

You found the man to be quick-witted and charming, if not marred by the slightest stain of conceit under the surface. He was objectively handsome: all cool, clean features with an unblemished demeanor and a set of brown eyes so light they almost appeared the color of honey in the sun. The only imperfection to be detected was a skewed, razor-thin scar on his chin. You weren’t ashamed to admit he might’ve been your type maybe four or five years, and several degrees of naïveté, earlier. But you had Bucky now; not even the most sublime, finely-chiseled Adonis could set your sights off of him.

You continued to smoke and shoot the shit.

“So you’re a Puritan, then?” Joey said at length.

“Huh?” You leaned back to stretch.

“You haven’t touched that flask.”

You glanced down at the silver canteen between you. You picked it up.

“Haven’t been into straight liquor since college,” you shrugged.

“But it’s your wedding weekend,” Joey smirked, “Think it says somewhere in the rule book you’ve gotta be hammered the whole time.”

“Does it? I must’ve missed that one,” you hummed.

Rather than answer you verbally, Bucky’s old friend opted to snag the flask from your fingers and unscrew the top himself. Made an unusually bold move and took your chin in his other hand.

“Open.”

“No!”

You bared a tight smile to be polite, but inside, you were more than a little put off by his behavior. Maybe this was some stupid rite of passage into their ‘brotherhood.’ You had to assume he was just being friendly.

“C’mon. Quit bitchin’ and open up,” he chuckled, pinching your face even tighter.

That left an even more sour taste in your mouth. You jerked your head to the left and were just about to inform the man it’d cost him nothing to fuck off and stay off, when a voice broke out through the foliage behind you.

“Honey? Hon, you there?”

Immediate relief at hearing your husband’s voice.

You craned your neck to look around.

“I’m here, Bucky!” You waved an arm to try and get his attention, wherever he was.

It took him a second, but shortly, he appeared on the other side of some trees. He had a stern, if not slightly sallow, look on his face as he made his way over.

You turned back to Joey but found that he’d vanished. Your eyes scanned the beach, the lawn, even the bushes behind you and couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere. All that was left was the flask.

“Bucky, I just—”

“We need to go,” your husband cut in.

His narrowed, steely gaze sent a jolt of apprehension through you.

“Go wh—”

“Now, baby, please. I’ll tell you in the car.”

Your face dropped.

“We’re leaving?”

Shortly, Steve trotted over. Bleak as you’d ever seen him with his hands balled in fists at his sides. And a deep-set scowl.

“Whole fuckin’ swarm of ‘em now,” he pronounced.

Bucky didn’t wait to hear another word. He just grabbed your hand and joined his friend sprinting back up the lawn. You could barely keep apace with their steps and, still clinging to Bucky, almost tripped and stumbled.

“Get the fuck up,” Steve spat.

You tensed. For a second, your feet scarcely moved of their own accord as you trailed behind Bucky and felt a stabbing feeling in your gut. Bucky’s best man had surely been a little rough around the edges before, but never this needlessly cruel. What did you do?

Your husband delivered an uncharacteristically gruff shove to the man’s shoulder and made sure he felt it.

“Don’t you start this shit again,” he said, “Lay off.”

Steve ignored him entirely and took the lead around the hotel’s perimeter. You glanced to the throngs of partygoers still scattered along the veranda and saw similar looks of disquiet and alarm all around.

Just when a dozen different questions of what was going on, where were they taking you, and why the fuck did everyone look so afraid bubbled to the tip of your tongue, a thunderous sound brought you to a standstill.

At the opposite end of the plaza, a cluster of tents, tables, and catering stations all splintered apart in a single, headlong explosion. A bright red column of fire shot up toward the sky, and following its ascent rose a wave of shrill and horrified screams alongside it. A barrage of gunfire rained over the crowd, and before you could even spare a look toward its source, Bucky yanked you flat on the ground. Your hands and knees were shredded across pavement, had less than a second to register the pain, and were shortly made to snake along concrete and glass toward the garden down below.

You crawled, then crouched, then bounded down the lawn following Bucky and Steve like a bat out of hell. Another explosion sounded nearby—this time much closer, sending a shower of flames sailing through the air and all over—and whole droves of people just dropped. Facedown in the grass and covered in glass. Bucky clamped your hand in his own with a force that could’ve snapped it in two, but you didn’t blink. All of your senses were kicked into overdrive and focalized, unflinching, on the sight of more carnage than you could comprehend.

“Here!” Steve called presently.

He caught sight of a jet black sedan at the edge of the lawn and held a hand up to Bucky. A set of keys were promptly pelted into his grasp, and the three of you closed in on the car, quick, without another word.

Bucky tore the back door open and practically flung you inside. He primed himself to climb in right after, when a set of footsteps and a shout held him locked in place.

“Hangar’s clear.”

Sam, by the sound of it.

He jumped in shotgun while Steve seized the wheel. Bucky hadn’t gotten the back door so much as halfway shut before the engine roared to life and the car lurched ahead. Not thinking, you grabbed hold of a seatbelt, but Bucky was quick to pull you in and jerk you down.

You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting then, but it certainly wasn’t your husband’s weight crushing you from above as he pinned you to the floor of the car.

This wasn’t the seamless, smart exit that the heroes of the action-packed stories always had. Bucky didn’t hold you tight in his arms or cradle your head to his chest. He just draped the weight of his whole body over yours and begged you strenuously not to move or make a sound. By the looks of it, too, the car was tearing up the turf of the lawn and anything else that happened to cross its path; there was no rhyme or reason to Steve’s driving, it seemed, just frantic desperation and a will not to die.

Minutes, seconds, sights, and sounds—or what little of the world you could grasp from your cowered position—all bled together in a haze. Your pulse leapt and throbbed between your ears, and little more could be heard above that sound apart from the thrum of Bucky’s own heart, the thunder of gunfire, and the wail of sirens, coming low and faint and far too late to make much difference now.

You pressed your nose to the floor and got a dizzying whiff of nylon and bleach. Would’ve like to retch but gritted your teeth instead, lying in silence and wondering without humor if the splinters, the soot, or the blood would be hardest to wash out of your white satin dress.

The price of admission to board Bucky’s Boeing 787 came surprisingly cheap: just sit back and be ‘pregnant.’

You’d been flanked by medics as soon as you arrived at the hangar—a place tucked away just a few short miles from the hotel, where Bucky kept his aircraft for speedy escapes, apparently—and had been carried onto a jet. You didn’t squirm or protest, just hung limply in their arms and let them tend to you however they needed.

After all, you looked like fucking Carrie White on prom night: coated in blood and stiff as a board. Sitting with a thousand-yard stare and a frozen, muted expression as you tried, and failed, to process what had just happened.

You watched Bucky kneel down in front of you and hardly saw him at all. You sensed him stroke your hair but felt it from a place somewhere far outside your body. Bizarre was an understatement. All you could do was blink.

“It’s not— not her blood, is it?” your husband stammered, gesturing toward your dress.

“Some of it,” one nurse answered quietly.

Aw, hell. Bucky squatted on the floor and slotted himself between your knees, trying to get as close as possible so he could make you say something, even just see him. One of the attendants raised a warning look and placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off in a second.

“She’s not looking at me,” Bucky’s lip visibly trembled as he drew you closer, “Honey, I’m here— I’m right h—”

“She’s in shock.” Another voice came flatly.

Sure, shock works. In truth, your mind was floating somewhere even higher than the 43,000 feet the plane had ascended, and your brain had gone as soft as a clump of cotton candy in the rain. You couldn’t speak, but you could think in bits and pieces. You blinked again.

“She looks like death warmed over.”

Thank you, Steve.

Off to the side in a plush, leather seat of his own, the man nursed a scotch on the rocks and frowned. Bucky didn’t have the strength to throw a punch or a pillow at his head and instead said only to shut the fuck up, man.

Your husband turned to the nurses again.

“She’s pregnant.”

I beg your finest pardon? You blinked a bit harder.

“No, she’s not, Buck,” Sam said from down the aisle.

“Well, she could be,” Bucky chided, “We’ve been going at it like rabbits since the—”

“Fuck’s sake,” Steve slapped a palm over his forehead. If you weren’t currently balls-deep in a state of mental disarray you probably would’ve done the same.

Bucky had made sure to tell all medical personnel aboard the plane that you were—or very well could be—carrying his child, so would you please take all precautionary measures possible? She’s my wife. You suspected if the doctors and nurses weren’t all on Bucky’s payroll they probably would’ve rolled their eyes and reminded him that all you needed were stitches, dressings, and extra fluids. And no, Mr. Barnes, your wife probably isn’t pregnant, even if you think your sperm is ‘built different’ than most.

“She’ll be fine either way,” the medic on your left said, stifling a chuckle. Wondering if the man had ever taken a sex ed class in his years of prudish, private education.

Bucky wasn’t convinced. Against all physicians’ wishes, he climbed up beside you in the seat and pulled you into his lap with both arms wrapped around your waist.

By turns, the world was coming back into focus for you. You met Bucky’s gaze for the first time, and the man looked overjoyed.

“See? See? She’s back.” Bucky squeezed your hip—and immediately released it when you winced.

“Mind the bandages, Mr. Barnes.”

Your caregivers pro tempore shot your husband a couple wry looks as they packed their supplies and started to leave, getting the sense that their boss wasn’t going to stop badgering them, or you, anytime soon. That worked just fine for Bucky, because then he would get to hold you any way that he liked, as long as you’d let him.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite as thrilled.

Sam watched the medics’ departure with a wary look.

“She probably needs to rest, Bucky,” the latter said, careful with his words.

Bucky’s eyes never strayed from yours.

“She’s okay, Sam. She’s good.” Perhaps speaking more to himself than anyone else. Steve shifted in his seat.

In your periphery, Mr. Wilson was approaching with a glass in his hand. You turned your head, and Bucky accepted the cup of water for you.

“Feelin’ alright?” Sam asked.

You tried to nod, but your husband was already cradling your head like a baby, urging you to take your first sip.

A spate of water splashed down the front of your dress. You shot Bucky a look as he hastily tried to dry it.

“She’s not a child, Barnes,” Steve muttered.

“Should probably keep that elevated,” Sam cut in, nodding toward your swollen ankle, “We’ll get some ice.”

Sam tilted his head again, this time to motion to Steve. His friend pretended not to see him, and then Bucky was back on his feet, keen as ever,

“I’ll go.”

He kissed the top of your head and assured you he’d be right back. He’d just started off toward the door, when Sam hesitated. He flitted a quick look between you and Steve and looked like he wanted to say something, but Bucky was already ushering him out of the room.

When you turned to Steve, you understood why.

The man had you pinned with a stare that could’ve killed you ten times over, fisting his drink in a white-knuckled grip.

You watched him right back. Tried hard not to blink.

“Something wrong?”

You weren’t sure how you’d even mustered the strength to speak. Steve just brought it out of you, you figured.

“You tell me.” Tone dripping with disdain.

You raked your gaze over the man for a second, finding him dressed head-to-toe in his three piece suit—muddied with blood here and there, but still no worse for wear than you’d seen him an hour or two ago. It was that frown you couldn’t shake.

What had you done to piss him off so much? Shit in his cornflakes? Step on his toe? Had he seen you with Joey and jumped to the worst possible conclusion? You sincerely couldn’t make sense of the man’s indignation, so you wanted to ask him directly; before you could, though, Steve was interjecting, at length,

“We should’ve left you to die with the rest of your family.”

Your jaw slackened a bit.

“What?”

“You, your mother, your two-timing shitstain of a father. Every one of you should’ve stayed there to rot.”

Never mind the fact that he’d just wished you dead to your face—what did he mean about your parents?

“But they’re coming with us. Bucky said,” you managed.

“He did?” Steve grinned humorlessly, “He lied, doll. Your folks are probably bound and gagged at the bottom of the ocean right now.”

That sent the first real wave of fear pulsing through you. You slowly rose to your feet but, feeling yourself restrained by the makeshift IV line stuck in your skin, you stopped. You plucked the needle out of your arm.

“What are you talking about?”

You drew closer to Steve, who only sat back and sipped his scotch with amusement.

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan?” he quirked a brow, “Didn’t think anyone would dare lay a finger on your precious, self-righteous fucking family—”

You hardly even noticed you’d swatted Steve’s drink out of his hand until the glass went shattering on the floor. You blinked and raised a shaky, bruised finger about an inch from his face.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Your jaw was clenched so tight you had to speak through your teeth.

Steve was beaming.

The door to the room flew open, and Bucky and Sam strolled in with their ice packs and pillows. They stopped when they saw the glass on the floor and your figure looming over Steve.

“You picked a real spitfire, Buck,” the blond called out, his hands raised in surrender as he smiled up at you.

Bucky seemed more surprised that you were able to stand, much less take that menacing stance over his friend, and he quickly tried to guide you back to your seat. You wouldn’t budge.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Where are my parents?” You tried to shake your husband off as Steve’s grin grew even bigger.

“They’re fine, honey. Sit down, please,” Bucky mumbled.

“No! He said they were dead!” you shot back, eyes never leaving the smug, smirking face that seemed to be enthralled by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why don’t you tell her, Buck? Girl deserves to know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers,” Sam uttered quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s nothing, your parents are fine,” Bucky seemed pensive now, gaze scanning the ceiling for a second as he tried to collect his thoughts. You shoved his hands off.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, James,” you said, diverting your attention to glare up at him, “What’s going on?”

“Either she’s a world-class actress or she really doesn’t have the first clue about this. Enlighten her.” Steve seemed a little more serene as he unscrewed a bottle of Talisker and reached for a second glass. You would’ve liked to knock back one or two—or ten—yourself.

You turned on your heels to face Bucky. At the moment, he seemed torn between imparting a death black stare on Steve and a placating, apologetic one to you. The tips of his ears were tinged pink.

“Baby—” He reached for you, but you pulled back.

“No.”

You wouldn’t ask him again. Your husband was wounded by the sight of your recoil—and perhaps by some painful truths he’d be compelled to share as well—and he wrung his hands. Started to chew the inside of his cheek.

Sam snagged the scotch and made a heavy pour.

“Why’d you marry him?” Steve said suddenly.

Bucky’s face dropped; you raised a brow in question. Before your husband could stop you, you answered,

“Because my dad was in debt.”

“For what?”

You paused.

“Real estate. Gambling. Fuck if I know.”

Steve nodded. Ignored Bucky’s sharp, reproachful gaze.

“And how much money did he owe?” he asked.

“Steve,” Sam warned.

“Four, five million—more than he could ever repay.”

This time, it was Steve to raise both brows as he mulled over your response. He almost looked surprised.

“You’re forced to marry a man just to settle a debt and you don’t even know the price that tight little body’s paying?” he scoffed.

His words hadn’t hung in the air for much longer than a second before Bucky decked him, shoving him square in the chest and sending him stumbling back a couple steps. A splash of whiskey was quick to join the bloodstains adorning Steve’s tux, and the pile of broken glass on the floor grew even bigger. The man hardly flinched when Bucky shoved his head to the end table.

“Say it again.” Your husband sounded dispassionate as ever. Like this was something he was used to doing.

“She should’ve known!” Steve snapped anyway.

You shared a brief look with Sam but found his expression inscrutable. He kicked a few shards of glass with the toe of his shoe.

“I wasn’t exactly in a place to negotiate,” you grumbled, “They were going to kill my father if we didn’t settle it, so I wasn’t all that interested in knowing how much money my A1 cunt was gonna cost Bucky. Personally.”

If he could go low, you would go lower. Fuck him.

You saw Steve grin through a freshly busted lip and straighten himself back into a seated position. He wiped the blood with the pad of his thumb while Bucky seemed to contemplate swinging again. The look in your eye cautioned him against it.

“Fair enough,” Steve conceded. He stopped to consider his words—ones that wouldn’t prompt Bucky to punch him directly in the throat—and looked to you, curious,

“Why would the mob kill him over a few million dollars?”

You shrugged.

“He’s a real estate broker. They probably knew he couldn’t fork over that kind of cash.”

Something akin to a stifled chuckle and a cough sounded from Sam, while Steve outright broke out laughing. Even Bucky’s expression softened a little as he rubbed his knuckles and paced closer to you.

“What?” you spat, “Did I say something funny?”

Sam shook his head slowly, starting, “I don’t think—”

“Your daddy’s a fucking gunrunner, sugar,” Steve wheezed, “Head of a multinational arms trafficking syndicate—motherfucker is not selling houses.”

Your insides churned with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion, but you couldn’t let them see that. When Bucky reached for your hand, you yanked it back again.

“And how the fuck would you know?” you said to Steve.

“We work with him. Used to work for him, at one point,” Sam answered.

“And the man is horseshit at business”—Steve paused to see if Bucky had shot him a warning look but found your husband far too concerned with capturing your attention—“He was $90 million in the hole when Bucky came to the rescue.”

“James?” You finally turned to him.

“And your daddy didn’t even owe the money to Bucky, he owed it to HYDRA,” Steve sneered.

“James,” you pressed again.

You couldn’t understand why your husband refused to speak—going as deadpan and radio silent as the night before. He stood there and watched you with a rigid, inflexible gaze.

“HYDRA as in— the Russian mob?” you asked him.

“No, the Girl Scouts,” Steve huffed, “Yes, the mob.”

“Schröder’s boys. Your dad’s been in business with them for years—owed them a lot of money,” Sam added.

“And your dad and Bucky’s dad have been friends even longer. So Bucky figured he’d do yours a favor and pay the debt himself.” Steve seemed eager to tell this story.

All the while, the hue of Bucky’s cheeks grew even deeper—like he didn’t want this coming to light. He sensed you wouldn’t stand down until you’d heard the whole ugly truth, though, so he held your gaze and watched you grow more repulsed by the second.

“Then why’d he need me? Just another bartering chip?” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, “A pawn?”

“A peace offering,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve and Sam finally clammed up long enough to let him speak, but your husband seemed taciturn as ever.

“Your father didn’t owe me anything. I would’ve paid his debt and left it at that, but he insisted I— that we marry. He wanted an alliance no subsequent financial incentive could disrupt. He would take the money I gave him, pay HYDRA, and bow out of any future dealings with them. Our marriage was supposed to guarantee that.”

Bucky spoke slow, like every word was a labored breath. Hardly the same could be said for his friends.

“That was until your dipshit weapons dealer daddy decided he’d have his cake and eat it too. Struck an even sweeter deal with HYDRA and played in our faces,” Steve said.

“At the direction of Mr. Schröder, your father tried to intercept a shipment bound for one of Bucky’s warehouses in Brooklyn,” Sam continued, “Only problem is he fucked up the execution and cost Schröder a dozen men and tens of millions of dollars in artillery and blow.”

“So Schröder paid him a visit today,” Bucky muttered.

Without realizing it, you found yourself sinking into the nearest seat and bringing a hand to lay flat on your stomach. You felt sick. More than woozy, truthfully. Your head was spinning and your stomach was twisting something terrible, as if you’d just ingested cyanide.

Fuck, did you need a drink.

You couldn’t look at Bucky or Steve or Sam any longer.

You reached for your clutch and pulled out Joey’s flask.

And, bloodlusting mobsters and outlaws be damned, the Russians knew how to make the hell out of some vodka. A single sniff of the stuff told you this was exactly what you would need to cope with your current situation.

“So you think I had something to do with the new HYDRA deal?” you asked, “You honestly th—FUCK!”

Bucky lunged for the flask in your hand before you could take a single pull. He snatched it away in the blink of an eye and shot you a look.

“Liquor? For our baby?” he barked.

You audibly groaned and were just about to tell him that his understanding of human reproduction was a crock of shit when you stopped. You saw his expression change.

“Where did you get this?” Bucky asked, suddenly pale.

“You, dumbass!”

“Me?”

Bucky was presently passing the flask around to his friends, who were eyeing a spot on the bottom of the container with shared looks of alarm.

“Your friend gave it to me earlier saying that you wanted me to have it,” you said.

All three men looked up at once.

“What friend?” Sam asked.

“Joey,” you answered, “Bucky’s friend from the army.”

If it were possible for your husband to get any paler his skin might’ve turned the color of cottage cheese. His eyes were wide with fear.

Then he was hurrying to your side. Taking your hand.

“What friend from the army? What’d he look like?”

You were still scanning Bucky’s face, trying to make sense of the apprehension etched into his features, when you managed,

“I-I dunno. Blond. Light brown eyes.”

“Tall fella?” Steve asked.

“Very.”

“Have a German accent?” Sam pressed.

“No, a real thick Southern accent,” you shook your head. It didn’t occur to you then that it could’ve been fake.

You were about to turn your attention back to Bucky, brow still knit in confusion, when a vague memory crossed your mind. You looked up at Sam and Steve.

“He had a—” You tapped your chin lightly, “—a little scar right here.”

You would’ve thought you’d just announced you had a bomb strapped to your ass the way the three men reacted. Each wore identical looks of disbelief and muted horror, exchanging looks between themselves as if they’d just discovered the Atlantic Ocean—and found the Loch Ness Monster lurking somewhere underneath.

Bucky looked the worst out of all of them. His face had drained of all expression and color as he stared at you.

“Joey?” he intoned feebly.

“Yes,” you answered—feeling ineffectual, even dense, for not catching on to what the rest of them had discovered.

Fortunately, Sam wouldn’t let you wallow in ignorance.

“Johann Schröder,” he supplied in a second, “The man you were talking to was Mr. Schröder, head of HYDRA.”

Steve held the flask in his grasp for you to see the bottom, where a skull with six tentacles was engraved. Then he tipped the canister into a glass he’d taken in his other hand and watched a frothy pink liquid spill out.

“Looks to be a serum of his,” Steve said, hollow as you’d ever heard him, “Kind of like…roofies.”

“You didn’t drink any of it, did you?” Sam asked.

“Nuh-uh. Bucky showed up right as he was trying to, uh— to pour it in my mouth.”

A beat of silence gripped the room.

Bucky looked like he might burst a blood vessel, or someone’s skull. Or both.

Still, he wouldn’t speak to you.

The inside of your head was throbbing.

You almost preferred the ruthless, irate glint in Steve’s eye when he’d suspected you of being a traitor the first time around; this cloyingly sympathetic gaze he was giving you now had to be the most maddening thing. He and Sam both looked on at you like you were a victim. Like you were something to be pitied, or coddled, or left to the capable hands of your husband—a motherfucker who couldn’t even speak so much as a syllable to you.

You felt a pressure build, then swell, then peak between your temples, and you wanted to wince but couldn’t stand the thought of looking weak in front of them.

Then your nose started to bleed.

That, at least, woke Bucky from his reverie as he fumbled around for a napkin and helped you to your feet. He looped an arm around your waist and led you off to the bathroom, his grip tightening on your frame with every step you took.

In two minutes flat, you were flooded with fifteen feet of toilet paper and tissues. Bucky cupped the back of your head in one of his broad, warm palms and kept it plastered there as he instructed you to hold it, honey, hang on, I can grab a few extra rolls right here and guided you toward a private area at the back of the plane.

You could scarcely see above the bunched up wads of Charmin Ultra Strong pressed close to your nose, but you trusted Bucky wouldn’t lead you astray. You felt the welcome touch of a bed underneath you, and then your husband was helping you settle in amongst the pillows and the blankets and the rose petals that had been scattered around before—not entirely appropriate now, but a nice touch nonetheless—and slipping your shoes off your feet. You felt his hand graze your ankle, and then he was saying he’d be right back with those ice packs.

You reached for his hand before he could leave.

“I don’t want it,” you said, your voice slightly muffled by the tissues, “Want you to talk to me, James.”

Bucky’s brow pinched inward. He kneeled down in front of you, where you were sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I am— I’m talking to you right now, honey, I—”

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky wiped his hand down his face and shook his head. Like he was trying to rid himself of a thought.

“I don’t want to talk about HYDRA. Or your father,” he said simply.

“Why not?”

“You’re not in the right place to hear it.”

You plucked the toilet paper away from your face long enough to give him a stern glare.

“We’re on a plane. Fleeing Greece. After you got curb-stomped in our honeymoon suite, our post-wedding brunch was bombed by the Russian mob, I was almost drugged by their leader, and my parents are probably as good as dead, if not being held for ransom, as we speak. Please tell me a better place to have this conversation.”

Bucky was left stumped for a second. Then he slowly rose back to his feet.

“Okay.”

Infuriating.

“Okay?” you snapped, “We could’ve died five times today and all you can say is okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuck this guy. You wiped your nose and stood up too.

Bucky tried to nudge you back onto the bed, wary of the ever-growing number of bumps, bruises, and nosebleeds afflicting your body. He tensed when you nudged him right back.

“I need to see my family,” You stood firm, “As soon as we land wherever it is we’re going, I’m on the first flight back to New York—or wherever they are.”

You dabbed at your nose once more and looked up at him.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky returned.

“What? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Yes, I will.”

The worst part was he wasn’t even smug about it. Just calm and self-assured. You flung your tissues to the side and threw your hands up in exasperation, feeling the need to step away from him and start pacing the room. The man’s reticence was grating on your nerves.

“Why bother, Buck?” you snorted, “It’s not like I’m even your wife, really. I’m just a peace offering that you get to bend over and fuck every now and then, right?”

You turned to make your first circuit around the foot of the bed but were shortly met with the expanse of Bucky’s chest. You looked up to find him frowning.

“Don’t say that again,” he glowered down at you.

Unlike most times before, you didn’t flinch. When he reached for your wrists, you didn’t let him win.

“I’m not your wife,” you repeated, “We may be playing the most fucked up game of mob charades, but this is not a real marriage.”

You ignored Bucky’s evident desire to grab hold of something of yours and side-stepped easily, expanding the gap between you two as much as you could. It was almost amusing to see him not in control for once, and floundering to recover what semblance of it he could.

“You are my wife,” he insisted, frown growing deeper as you crept along the edge of the room, “Everything I do now is for you—it’s not a goddamn game to me.”

“You used me for some Machiavellian marriage ploy! That is the definition of a game, James!”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” Bucky said, “But I love you.”

“You met me yesterday, motherfucker!”

You could feel another bloody nose rising in your bones. You turned around, swiped your lip with the back of your hand and were surprised to see nothing there. You waited for the bleeding to start back up again. When you turned, Bucky had closed the distance between you and was holding something in his hand.

Before you could protest, he was smoothing the thing over your face—apparently he’d grabbed a washcloth and dampened it—and laced his fingers through the hair at the back of your head. He held you firmly as he blotted the blood.

“Is it so hard to believe that I love you?” he asked quietly.

He was trying hard to placate you, but his actions were having just the opposite effect. You let him wipe the blood from your face but watched him begrudgingly.

“You want someone to control, Bucky,” you said, “Love is not a power play that you get to manipulate at will.”

Bucky blinked, trying to conjure up a response as he daubed the skin with a little more force. You weren’t finished.

“You look at me and see a victim. Someone you need to watch over— who can’t take care of themse—”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? That’s not what a ‘good little wife’ is to you?” you retorted.

At last, Bucky tossed the hand towel to the side and ran a hand through his hair. He stepped toward the dresser, shrugging off his suit jacket.

“That’s a— a bit I do when I’m horny. I don’t actually want you subservient to me,” he muttered as he looked around for a hanger. Finally, he just draped the coat over the back of a chair and sighed.

“So holding me hostage from my family is a bit, too?” you quizzed.

“To keep you safe from the people who tried to kill them. I’m sorry I don’t want to see you butchered because of me,” Bucky returned with just as much biting sarcasm.

“That’s rich coming from you.” You despised the indignation in your tone but couldn’t help it. These thoughts had been brewing inside your skull for hours. You watched Bucky struggle to undo his bow tie—just like the night before—and, again, your brain barely registered the action before you were reaching for the garment and tugging at the fabric to loosen it yourself.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asked, brow furrowed.

“Last night,” you yanked harder than you meant to. The knot just got tighter, “And today. Tonight. You’re as still as the fucking grave and won’t say a word when something bad is happening. You just let it happen.”

You tried to pry your fingers through the tie but found it stiff as ever. You groaned inwardly.

“No, I don’t,” Bucky objected.

“You’re doing it right now! You wouldn’t tell me about HYDRA, or my father, or the guy who could’ve— hurt me. You didn’t say a word of that to me, and you expect me to believe we’re in this together? That you’re trying to keep me safe? You couldn’t even—” you paused to pull at that stupid tie your husband had tangled about four times over, finally feeling it give way a little—“couldn’t even pretend to give a fuck when those men broke in last night and almost killed us!”

Just as you freed the silk from its knot, Bucky seized your wrist. Shoved your hand off of his collar.

“I had to do that,” he snapped.

He threw his tie to the floor and started to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. The sight of his broad, veiny forearms were only visible to you for a second before he headed toward the closet, peeling off bits and pieces of his ensemble as he walked.

“You didn’t do anything, Bucky! You just sat there and got the shit beat out of you for no fucking reason! You didn’t even try to fight back.”

Bucky had just muscled his way out of the confines of his dress shirt, leaving him in a tight, plain white tee. He turned to you with what seemed like the most pointed look of disdain.

“You think I wanted to do that?!” he barked. Suddenly facing you head-on, skin flushed a shade just shy of crimson.

“You were too chickenshit. Didn’t wanna get your hands dirty, so you let Sam do it for you,” you seethed.

Your husband looked as though he wanted to put his fist through a wall and pummel it several times over. Seemed like he did, anyway. In truth, he didn’t move—just watched you with the most cruel, unflinching gaze as he clenched his jaw.

“I’m chickenshit?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Coward,” you spat.

“Too much of a coward to keep you safe?”

“Precisely.”

At long last, you saw Bucky smile. It was the tightest, most humorless grin that had ever crossed his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless. He raised a hand over your head and bracketed his arm against the wall so he was leaning over you. Not meant to intimidate per se, but the sight of that smirk was unnerving, to say the least.

“Did you hear what language they spoke?” he asked, voice unbearably low as he drew his face closer to yours.

“It sounded like—”

“Russian, that’s right,” Bucky cut in, “Do you know what they said to me when they pulled us to the floor?”

You swallowed and said nothing. Bucky’s breaths were fanning hot across your cheeks, sending waves of a strange sensation all throughout your body—you weren’t sure if you were meant to be aroused or scared shitless.

“They told me, ‘If you move, we’ll kill her,’” Bucky deadpanned as he began to trace the wallpaper beside your head with a single, bloodied finger, “‘If you fight, we’ll dismember her and set fire to every piece of her body in front of you.’ Or something to that effect.”

The repetition of their words seared your veins like a legion of flames. You could picture them saying it. Grabbing hold of Bucky’s head by the roots of his hair and beating him over and over and over, threatening your life if he made a single move to stop it.

“Bucky—” you started.

“I know they meant it, too. HYDRA operatives make good on their promises if they really set out to harm someone.”

Your husband’s grin had transformed into something more of a crooked, downcast grimace, just baring his teeth as he tried not to lose his composure. Guilt flooded his face.

“I know I should’ve told you then. And after. I should’ve told you about your father as soon as Steve’s informant told us. I just—” Bucky stopped to swallow; he couldn’t meet your gaze—“I didn’t want that hanging over your head. Not after everything that happened last night.”

It was like a blade had just twisted in your stomach. Your throat ached. You wanted to touch him but were almost too scared to ask. He looked so fragile.

“I am a coward. And controlling. Probably the most chickenshit, overbearing son of a bitch you could’ve been unfortunate enough to marry.” For a moment, Bucky’s gaze flickered to yours, and you saw a blooming red hue around the blues of his irises, “But that’s not how I’m supposed to love you—or going to love you.”

You weren’t sure how to reply; you tried raising a hand to his cheek, just to touch the skin, but decided against it.

“I’ve been a shit husband, fake or not. I’m sorry.”

Fake husband maybe, but the look on his face was intractably authentic. Palpable. He blinked as though trying to clear the warm and heady feelings from his expression—suddenly not wanting you to see the shades of his emotions painted there—and focused instead on a few stray strands of hair that had blown over your face. He got very invested in those, all of a sudden.

While your husband stroked the corners of your face and fixed his gaze away from yours, you felt the smallest prick of warmth spark within you. Bucky looked soft and serene and sincere in his apology, defenseless now as he grazed his knuckles over your cheek and said it again,

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

He paired his apology with a rapid succession of little kisses pressed to your forehead, moving his hand to the nape of your neck to pull you closer to him.

You wanted to touch him, too. You almost felt as though you didn’t know how.

So you stood there and accepted his affections and tried to nod your head when he asked if you were alright, were you hurting any, baby? You leaned into the gentle pressure of his fingertips taking stock of every cut and bruise you’d sustained over the course of that day, watched Bucky’s brow furrow with each new discovery, and tried not to let his touch stray far down your body.

You wanted to be the one with your hands on him—now more than ever.

When Bucky’s hand trailed over your chin, you tilted your head just slightly to kiss it. Your husband didn’t think much of it, just smiling down as tender as he always did, when your lips really grazed over the skin. You pressed a kiss to his finger and wordlessly urged him to move it further. Now it was Bucky’s turn to be at a loss for what to do as you took the tip of his thumb between your lips and suckled it, gently.

“Honey,” he let out a sigh, half-encouragement and half-warning—what were you trying to do?

You glided your mouth down his finger so half of his thumb was enveloped inside. You sucked it again.

“You can’t…” Bucky maintained feebly, eyes briefly scouring all the cuts and bruises across your skin. He didn’t want to see you strain yourself any further.

But whatever pain this might cause was ancillary to you; you curled your tongue around the digit and moaned lightly.

The taste of one finger alone was enough to send you into a frenzy. That and the fact that he had been so open and honest and attentive to your needs made every bone in your body want to jump his. Something about a man taking accountability for his actions and communicating them in a way that didn’t intimidate or belittle you was refreshing. Sexy, almost. Admittedly, the bar for mob boss husbands was hovering somewhere deep in hell, but you admired Bucky’s efforts all the same.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and smiled.

“You worry too much, Mr. Barnes.”

The echo of his words from earlier—the ones he’d said as he was railing you against a mirror—made Bucky’s cock twitch. His gaze trailed down to the sheen of saliva on your lip, and he almost folded on the spot. He swallowed.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, bunny,” he murmured as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and peered up at him.

“Hurt me how?”

You really hadn’t meant to sound like such a tease when you’d said it, but it was hard not to come across that way when you were watching him like that.

And sinking to your knees, with your eyes glued on his.

Bucky sucked in a breath as you kneeled between his feet and nudged the seam of his pants with your nose. He felt so big against your face, you almost couldn’t fathom how he’d fit inside of you the night before. You were amazed how quickly he’d gotten hard—as if the two of you weren’t just having a heart-to-heart a second ago—and you felt your own arousal pool in your panties.

“You know I don’t mind if it hurts. Love the way you stretch me out anyhow,” you continued, and tried not to smirk as you imagined a dozen filthy images from last night flash before Bucky’s mind.

You heard him stifle a groan when you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his pants and felt him swell even more. Your mouth watered at the sound, the sensation, the raw anticipation of what was to come and knowing that you got to dictate what happened. You undid the button and the zip of his pants and damn near drooled at the sight.

Even confined to his boxers, Bucky looked fucking huge.

Suddenly, you began to understand how needy he had been the night before when he’d first wedged his face between your legs and gotten a taste of you. You hadn’t so much as sampled an inch of his cock, and you were already aching to swallow him whole.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bucky grunted as he planted a hand on the wall in front of him. You kissed the outline of his clothed erection and earned a full-throated groan.

Well, that makes two of us, you wanted to say but were too busy palming him through his boxers to utter a word. Soaking in the sight of him with every sweet, soft groan he made and wanting to be the reason for even more.

“Can I take you in my mouth, daddy?” you asked softly.

Bucky flattened his palm against the wall and nodded. Beyond words as you worked him out of his boxers.

For one, fleeting moment, you almost wanted to walk back your big talk when his cock sprung out of the fabric. You really hadn’t seen his length at all last night—too busy having it stuffed inside your cunt to get a good look—but holy shit was it an intimidating sight. You weren’t sure if it was just the nerves of this being your first time giving head or if Bucky truly was that massive, but you felt your courage start to crumble before your eyes.

My husband is hung like a fucking horse and I’ve never fit anything bigger than a couple fingers in my mouth. This should go well.

Bucky was evidently so turned on that he didn’t notice the apprehension in your expression. After all, you were moving your lips down his cock and seizing the base of him with what looked like excitement.

Should I…lick it first?

It seemed you would have to learn all of this on the job. You stuck your tongue out and ran it up the length of his shaft.

When Bucky groaned in response, you sensed that that was okay. You pressed a few kisses on the underside of his member and scrambled to think of what else to do.

“Fuck, baby,” your husband let out the most guttural sound as you squeezed his length in your hand. Then, to your surprise, he seized a fistful of your hair between his fingers and rutted his hips, pushing the head of himself against your lips, “Take me in your mouth.”

You heard the Kill Bill sirens blare between your ears but said nothing. You could do this—you’d be fine.

Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and Bucky gripped your hair even tighter. Let out a deep, satisfied moan like this was exactly what he needed. You liked that noise and wanted to take him even further.

What you didn’t expect was four more inches shoved inside your mouth before you could stop to take a breath.

The whole girth of his cock made a sharp intrusion, causing your cheeks to stretch and hollow out around him. The head of his member barely grazed the back of your throat, and still, you gagged. And not only gagged but choked, as though someone had just tried to scrub your tonsils with a fine-bristle toothbrush. Unfortunately for you, Bucky’s dick did not taste like spearmint.

He pulled his cock out as quickly as he’d pushed it in.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry.” Bucky blinked twice to get out of that blissed-out headspace and shot you a sheepish look.

The man had rarely been obliged to slow down or take five when his old, ever-changing flavors of the night sucked him off before—most blew him without trouble. But you, kneeling there batting your lashes through a few more tears than expected, seemed uncertain. Even half of his shaft made for a tight fit in your mouth, Bucky thought with some guilty feelings of arousal. He watched you wipe your chin with the back of your hand and frown.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, baby,” Bucky said, stroking the top of your head.

Suddenly, the frown was turned in his direction.

You raised a brow.

“Why? That all you got, Barnes?”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle—and grunt, a little—when you grabbed the base of his cock and brought it down to your swollen pout. His hand instinctively moved back to the wall.

“Honey, are you s—”

He stopped the second you rubbed him up and down and pressed a kiss on the most sensitive skin.

“My mouth isn’t made of paper mâché. You can fuck it a little harder than that,” you said, running your touch down his length while holding his gaze. You looked eager.

Before Bucky could respond, you took the tip of his cock between your lips. Flattened your tongue and glided your mouth down as far as it could go before your cheeks started to hurt—then bobbed your head even further. One of your husband’s hands made a fist in your hair while the other scraped the wall, and you could tell it was taking some serious effort not to rut his hips out of habit.

Be gentle, be gentle, your dick barely fits in her mouth—

“—fucking hell you feel good,” he groaned.

Bucky took one look and could have cum on the spot.

It was one thing to feel you licking and sucking and stretching to accommodate his length, and another thing entirely to see you knelt in front of him with the world’s sweetest gaze, mouth stuffed full of his cock and eyes all but rolling back at the overwhelming sensation. You’d nearly made it all the way to the short tufts of hair on his lower abdomen—and looked so pretty doing it.

Bucky fucking loved it. And you. And fucking you, your face, any place he could fit himself, quite frankly. He stared down at you struggling to take his cock and felt a strange new wave of desire pulsing through his body.

“You like that, doll? Like when daddy fucks that slutty little mouth of yours?”

“Barely fits but you take it so well, bunny.”

“My good little wife and her pretty fucking mouth—likes sucking daddy’s cock however deep he needs it, huh?”

You liked it more than the air in your lungs, to be honest. Only problem was you couldn’t quite speak your mind with your mouth full of Bucky, so you had only to nod. Your husband groaned when you hummed along his length and bobbed your head to answer ‘yes.’ He saw you try not to gag and decided to thrust a little deeper.

He watched his cock drag back and forth along your tongue and took hold of your hair like a vice, fucking your face until your chin and cheeks were drenched with spit. Every now and then he’d pull his cock out just long enough to ask how bad you wanted him in your mouth, how desperate you were to taste him again, and every time you’d answer a little more sweetly and incoherently than before, eyes glazed with desire and mouth open for more.

You were amazed you’d lasted as long as you had—how quickly you’d devolved into this pliable, doe-eyed cocksleeve for Bucky and how keenly you desired to please him even more. It felt pornographic and lewd and somehow still loving as he plowed in and out of your mouth and sang your praises like no man had before.

Above you, Bucky was aching for release but adamant that he wouldn’t cum down your throat—not yet, at least.

His mind was alight with those pesky, primal thoughts again, and every time he watched you swallow him whole, he just wanted to fuck his cum someplace else.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was smitten or simply dominated by carnal desire; all he knew was that he wanted to give you his babies.

Lots and lots of babies.

A hundred or more, if he had it his way.

Again, you barely had a chance to take a fresh breath before Bucky threw you onto the bed. You’d just tried to steady yourself in a semi-seated position when the man shoved you back in the pillows and slotted himself between your legs, pupils blown wide with hunger.

In a blink, you were flipped onto your stomach with your ass yanked high in the air. Back made to arch, toes about to curl, you closed your eyes and sank your teeth into the sheets, moments away from begging your husband to fuck you right then and there, but Bucky had other plans. He seized the hair at the crown of your head and jerked your head to face forward.

The first thing to greet you was your own reflection—in a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the foot of the bed—followed by Bucky’s broad form steadying behind you. You watched him wet his lips, furrow his brow, and use one careful hand to guide the head of his cock to your entrance. Completely piqued with arousal as you were, weeping beads of desire from that place between your legs, you almost wanted to buck your hips and fuck him yourself.

You refrained.

Bucky pressed the tip of himself to your clit and met your gaze in the mirror when you let out a whimper.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” he asked, tone suddenly dropped to that of a stoic.

“Mean what?”

It took an unbelievable amount of willpower to fight the moan in your throat when Bucky dragged his cock down the seam of your cunt and rubbed every hot, throbbing inch of himself in the slickness between your folds. You were quick to take the sheets in your hands and squeeze as tight as you could—you wouldn’t let him win that easy.

“When you said you weren’t my wife. Did you mean it?” Bucky was coating himself now, rolling his hips back and forth while you seized the white linens for dear life.

“No. I didn’t,” you said through your teeth. Your eyelids fluttered with the feel of him circling your sensitive hole.

“Do you want to be my wife?” Bucky had to have known it was an asinine question, but he asked it all the same.

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I do. Now will you just fuck me already?”

In response, and as if to make a mockery of your request, Bucky just pressed the head of his cock inside you and watched you close in the mirror—daring your hips to move back another inch.

“What else do you want to be, doll?”

To say your mind was an empty slate bare of anything but the desire to be fucked was an understatement. You fumbled to find words.

“Your wife, your girl— that’s it, Bucky.”

Your husband nudged his cock a little deeper.

“A good girl?” he hummed.

“Yes, daddy,” you cried and clenched around him.

Bucky stayed where he was and stretched your wet, aching hole with just his tip, making the world’s most shallow thrusts as he flattened his hand on your back and made sure it stayed arched while he teased you.

At this point, you didn’t care what the man saw or heard. You fought with your hips and whined into the sheets.

“Bucky!”

“Wanna be my obedient little cockslut?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“My bunny?”

“Yes, James.” Your cheeks were enflamed, almost hot to the touch.

Bucky suddenly drove himself inside you all the way to the hilt. He squeezed your hip in one hand and with the other slipped a finger between your folds to rub vicious, tight circles against your clit as you bucked and moaned beneath his touch.

“How about a momma?” he pressed, almost too low to be heard, “Wanna be that, too?”

His hips fell into a quick and easy rhythm against your ass, stretching you wide and filling you up almost seamlessly. Your mind was too consumed with pleasure and him to think much else, but barely, you managed,

“W-what?”

Bucky delivered a thrust that knocked the breath from your chest, leaning down to rub your clit even harder.

“Do you want to be a mommy? Have me fill you up and put my baby inside you?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking—what the fuck? Your toes curled as a new jolt of pleasure shot through you, and your gaze locked with Bucky’s in the mirror. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No— James, we’re not, shit—” you stopped to take a breath as he fucked you rough from behind, smirking the whole time, “We’re not ready for that.”

“Look pretty…ready to me,” Bucky stifled a groan when you squeezed around him and made obscene little noises sliding up and down his cock. He watched the way your pretty, wet pussy stretched and swallowed him down to the base and imagined it dripping with his cum. He snapped his hips against your ass even faster.

It wasn’t clear just who was more overcome with desire—both of you blissed out and fuckdrunk as you’d ever been—and then Bucky flipped you onto your back.

He wanted to see your face as he fucked you slow this time, lips hovering mere inches from your own as he dragged his cock gently in and out of you.

“James,” you breathed, digging your heels in his back with a wordless plea to speed up, baby, please.

In truth, you just knew what would happen if Bucky had the advantage of slow and soft sex with a mouth lowered close to your ear. How he’d shower you with kisses and bring you right to the edge, rolling his hips against your body with strings of sweet praises flowing fast off his tongue.

“Just one, honey,” he mumbled, lips grazing the edge of your jaw, “One baby and I promise we’ll be done.”

Yeah fucking right, you wanted to return with a roll of your eyes but felt your insides churn as he grazed that spot.

“Can you do that for me, doll?” he eased his dick back and forth and snaked a hand between your bodies until his palm was laying flat on your stomach, “Fit my baby in there?”

You couldn’t deny the feelings of pleasure were heightened to no end when he rubbed the heel of his palm into your tummy and continued to rut into you. That feeling of fullness, the delicate nudge against your most sensitive place, paired with the warmth of Bucky’s hand on your lower abdomen, was as close to euphoric as you’d ever felt before orgasm, and it wasn’t hard to tell from the way your body responded. Bucky worked his touch even deeper and watched you writhe beneath him.

“My sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing that spot, “You’d look so pretty all swole up down here, don’t you think?”

Fucking hell, this guy was good. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to shake your head.

“Someone…tried to kill us…twice in the last twenty four hours,” you managed between labored breaths. Trying not to whimper when the head of Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix and you felt him bottom out inside you.

Balls deep and enamored with the expression on your face, Bucky laid a kiss on your forehead and smiled.

“I’ll take Schröder’s life with my own two hands if it means keeping you—” he paused to press his palm even firmer on your stomach, “—and our child safe, honey.”

You wanted to believe him. You sincerely hoped your husband could make good on his promise—even if it meant delivering an agonizing, bloody death to a man you barely knew—but you sensed deep down that there were no guarantees in the world Bucky Barnes inhabited. From what little you’d seen in the last day and a half, it had become clear as ever that there were no certainties; no promise of tomorrow, much less a probability that things would pan out exactly as you planned. Add to that a living, breathing child between you two, and the prospects for a safe, secure, and peaceful future were small. Infinitesimally so, in the grand scheme of things.

“No, Bucky,” you finally opened your eyes to find his tender gaze watching over you. Still moving his hips gently, still blanketing your body with his own, “That’s entirely just— just irresponsible. You know it would be.”

“Making a child together?” Bucky seemed wounded saying the words.

And, in spite of the serious turn your conversation had taken, you could see and feel with the growing pace of your breaths that both of you were close. You wanted more than anything to repair that muted, injured look in his eyes, but then Bucky was blinking it away, to the best of his abilities, and lowering his head back down to yours to impart a soft barrage of kisses along your skin. He resumed before you could even think to speak again.

“Okay. No, you’re right. It’s your choice, my love,” he murmured against your cheek, getting back into the more deliberate rhythm of his thrusts before. He stayed there holding his body and his lips as close to yours as possible, and when you felt tempted to say something again, you found the sound drowned by a cresting wave of pleasure.

Your legs tightened around Bucky’s sides, and your head fell back on the bed. You felt Bucky’s drop right beside you, turned just slightly to graze his lips against your ear.

“Gonna cum for me, doll?”

You nodded.

“So close, Bucky,” you breathed, a tremor passing over your thighs as they squeezed him even tighter.

You felt your husband’s hand move from your belly to a place just below it—taking care to bring the pad of his thumb to that wet, aching bundle of nerves—and started drawing circles. Your back arched from the bed, into him, and the coil of pleasure in your lower half swelled.

“Good girl,” Bucky growled, “Good fuckin’ girl, taking me so well.”

The praises and gentle circuits of his thumb continued as he fucked you harder into the bed and panted against your skin. Increasing the speed of his thrusts before catching your mouth in a sloppy kiss, body sinking into yours.

“Gonna make a mess of this cock, huh? Show daddy just how much you love it?”

You whined in response, feeling your muscles start to ache from how hard your legs were wrapped around him. Bucky invaded your mouth with his tongue, kissing and licking and craving your taste as he fucked you stupid—and begged for your release.

“Cum for daddy, honey, I know you got it. Let daddy feel it, baby, please.”

A couple more snaps of his hips and you gave him just that: a hot, cascading ripple of bliss spreading all throughout your body, sending your mind in spirals and every muscle under your command a tense, throbbing mess. You swallowed a scream and took a bite of Bucky’s shoulder instead, causing the man above you to grin and fuck you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled with an audible hint of pride.

The smile only started to waver when his own release was coming close. Suddenly, his grip was moving to your hip and pinning you down to the bed, brows pinching in and breaths starting to hitch.

“Honey— honey,” he said, voice strained, “Baby, you— you gotta let go of your— ah, fuck.”

Still riding out the highs of your orgasm, you hardly even noticed how tight you were holding him with your legs, and shortly, this raised issues for Bucky, who was trying like hell to heed your wishes and not cum inside you.

“Baby, let go, I gotta—”

He probably could’ve fought to shake you off a little harder, been a bit more adamant about his efforts, but you looked so comfortable and lithe and sweet beneath his frame, so blissed out and happy to be taking his strokes, Bucky almost had to pinch himself to rouse his lust-addled brain to action and remind himself that this was how babies are made, man, get the fuck off of her.

Bucky let out a long, strangled groan as the ropes of cum left his body before he could think, or move, fast enough.

He hastily pushed your legs away and pulled out, but not before painting your walls with a good portion of his load. His hand fell to his cock and started jerking the rest of it out over your stomach, body washing with pleasure.

Vaguely, thoughts of babies and ballgames and neat white picket fences crossed his mind, but those views were fleeting; he remembered what you’d told him and forced himself back to earth, dropping a quick, apologetic kiss to the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. Should’ve pulled out quicker,” Bucky panted against your neck.

You stroked his bicep and shook your head.

“You’re fine. I kinda had you down like a boa constrictor for a second,” you breathed and shared a weary laugh.

Before you knew it, Bucky was sliding off the bed and shuffling toward the bathroom in search of a towel. You prodded the warm, gooey mess on your belly with your finger and raised an eyebrow. Curious, and only slightly worried.

Bucky had been hitting it raw for a day now—surely one more half-load of his wouldn’t get you pregnant, right?

Fortunately, you didn’t have much longer to ponder that thought because a trill of a ringtone sounded from the nightstand.

A phone call? At 45,000 feet?

“Just the intercom,” Bucky called out, “Probably Steve about to start complaining that we fuck too loud.”

Huh. You stared at the trimline-looking telephone on the table and let it ring. Then the sound stopped.

“You think they could hear us?” you asked.

Bucky had just wet a washcloth under the sink and was rifling through the cabinets for something else.

“Hope so,” he said with a shrug, “You know I’d never miss a chance to let ‘em know I took a trip to poundtown—”

“Please never say that again,” you groaned, closing your eyes in sudden fear of what Steve and Sam may or may not have just been made privy to outside of the room.

You were just about to speak up again—perhaps to tell your husband there would be an indefinite travel ban to poundtown if he didn’t hurry the fuck up with that towel—when the intercom’s jarring peal started up once more.

Fuck this. Ignoring the sticky-sweet puddle of love still painted on your stomach, you sat up and crawled over to the phone and ripped it off the hook.

“Barnes residence,” you announced without ceremony. Then, imagining how smug Steve was probably looking on the other end of that line, you decided to be crass and add, “Bucky Barnes is very busy laying pipe on his wife right now, but if you could leave your name and number, he’ll be sure to call you back as soon as possible!”

You heard the caller burst out laughing, and you smiled to yourself. Pleased to have made an otherwise moody and brooding Steve Rogers crack at one of your jokes, you were just about to hang up when the caller cut in.

Bucky was returning with your towel in hand, lips curled in the faintest of smirks at hearing your crude declaration, when he stopped at the foot of the bed.

He saw the smile fall from your face, and his did, too.

From the other end of the line, a soft and familiar Southern drawl crawled out of the phone’s receiver.

“Sure thing, doll. Tell him it’s Joey Schröder calling.”

Taglist: @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut

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[strangerstilinski]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐭. 1 — 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐞

minors/ageless blogs please DNI.

REBLOGS are important. please reblog to share.

| 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟑 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟒 |

You'd both sworn. You'd sworn that you wouldn't subject yourselves to sex in the Jeep ever again. Not after the last time ended with so many unnecessary injuries between the two of you. Following one rolled ankle, a noticeable egg on the back of your head, and a bruise to Stiles' elbow that had been so worryingly dark that the purple had been mottled with spots nearly black in color, it was decided that handjobs were fine, blowjobs were great, fingering was.. sufficient. But full-out sex — You had sworn, never again. And, yet..

You can't find it in yourself to care when the dizzying warmth of Stiles' breath falls against your spit slick, kiss swollen lips. Your mouths have separated only as a result of the way he's trying to maneuver you into a better position, a closer position, large hands encasing your waist as he drags you over to straddle his lap. The moment you've settled against his thighs, his hands are already pushing their way up underneath your skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties as his mouth finds its way to your cheek, your jaw, your neck.

And fuck if your own hands aren't already scrambling to undo the button on his jeans, tearing them open and pushing up on your knees just enough that you two of you can work his pants and boxers down his thighs just a few inches.

His cock springs free, already almost fully hard with the anticipation of what's to come, and your mouth nearly waters at the sight. You will never tire of the sight of Stiles' cock, you're sure of it. When your hand wraps around him, your fingers don't meet, and when you give the fat length of him a gentle tug, he groans deliciously into the skin of your throat, hips jerking up as he chases the feeling.

“Hey, slow down, why don'tcha?” Stiles teases softly, “Why're you in such a hurry, huh? Got somewhere else to be or-” He cuts off with another quiet groan as you twist your wrist the way he likes, “Or something?”

“Shush, you.” You reply with a smacking kiss to his mouth.

His fingers are moving in a teasing touch beneath your skirt, skimming the sensitive skin of your belly before finding home on your thighs. He gives the softness a pinch just hard enough to have you gasping before he's slipping beneath the fabric to drag long fingers between your folds.

“Shit, babe,” Stiles groans, his lips finding your cheek again before he drops a light kiss to your chin, “You're this wet already?” He asks, as if you haven't been working each other up for the last twenty minutes with heated touches and even hotter kisses.

He punctuates his question by slipping two fingers inside you in a ridiculously easy glide, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together as your jaw falls slack. He's giving you shallow thrusts, trying to open you up a little and get you ready for what will come next, and your free hand falls to his arm, tethering yourself with fingers circling his wrist in a firm grip. The way the muscles in his arm work with each drag out and then back in has your fingernails digging little crescent moons beneath the dark hairs on his forearm.

Your head is thrown back in pleasure, and it feels like it might weigh a million pounds when you drag it forward again to drop your forehead to his, your hips rocking down onto his fingers and your hand still working him to full hardness, closing over the head of his cock and collecting his precome just to slip back down his length again and again.

It had been days of longing glances across crowded rooms, and lingering touches that were a little unnecessary but desperately craved, and pushing maybe a little too far into each other's space when one of you needed to grab something just to feel the sparks along your skin. Each tiny moment shared had built upon one another slowly, day after day, and now that you're together, skin on skin and teeth and tongues on lips — that fire between you finally burns bright again.

You're both panting a little breathlessly already, worked up beyond belief after not finding moment alone like this in what feels like ages. Hot breaths mingle between your parted lips, the sound of it broken up by the quiet little noises clawing their way up your throats.

You've missed him desperately amidst the chaos that the week has brought. You find yourself wanting him to wreck you beyond repair, to turn your brain inside out until he is all that remains — no stresses about infuriating assholes in the form of college professors, or pack disputes, or the supernatural threat of the week — and the way Stiles continues to work his fingers inside you, pushing in deep until he's caressing that spot that makes your vision white out a bit at the edges, you think he's well on his way toward that wreckage.

“Condom?” You question desperately, tugging at his wrist in signal for him to extract himself from you.

He's muttering to himself while he fumbles to get access to where his back pocket is scrunched up beneath his thighs and you push up onto your knees all the while, maneuvering your underwear down one leg and then the other until you're free of them. When he produces the little foil packet, you take it from him without prompt, tearing it open and rolling it down over him in a quick, practiced motion that has him biting his lips together to hold back a curse.

Stiles slides his hips down the seat a bit further and grips the backs of your thighs to support you as you guide his tip to your entrance. The moment you start to sink down, his fingers dig into the doughy flesh of your thighs, fingertips curling below the curve of your ass to help spread you wider as he fills you up nice and slow.

“You got it, baby,” Stiles praises quietly, lips catching against your cheekbone to leave a small peck to your flushed skin, “There y'go.”

You're shuddering through your breaths as you accommodate to the stretch, knowing that every inch just a precursor to where he's thickest at the base. It's slow going, painful and delicious all at once, but when your hips finally meet his, clit nestling right up against the thatch of hair that trails from his belly button down to where you're connected, you let out a breathy sigh of relief.

Now that you're seated, his hands leave your backside to skate higher, rough fingertips dragging up to the back of your skirt to massage at your spine. You feel him fiddle with the zip at the back, his eyes meeting yours in silent question before you're nodding and he's giving it a tug and freeing you from the thick fabric.

You can't help but look down, and that first glimpse of where you've sucked him in, where he's filling you to the brim, has you eagerly rocking your hips a little to test the stretch. There's still a bit of an ache, a sharp little sting where you're stretched the widest, but it's lessening already and you can feel that pleasurable fullness behind your navel settling in.

“Almost,” You update him quietly, combing your fingers through the strands of his hair and grinning softly when he cranes into your touch, “Jus' need another minute.”

“Take as much time as you need,” He returns earnestly, “You know I'm just enjoying gettin' you like this. Missed you. This week was the worst.”

And it truly has been. Nearly every minute of every day, start to finish, has been an onslaught of lectures and assignments due and pack bullshit that you're both inevitably dragged into every goddamn time — the presence of the token pack humans always necessary if only to give another perspective to a mundane issue that, really, probably could've been solved by your brother and his co-alpha alone. Scott and Derek really shouldn't need to drag the two of you into every little problem — which in turn would leave the two of you with ample time to sneak off somewhere to do this, perhaps in a bed, without the risk of bonked heads or twisted ankles or the bruises that came with ravishing each other in such close confines. And yet, and yet.

You nod in agreement, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape to give it a soft tug, “Been so busy with classes. N' there've been way, way too many pack meetings,” You complain in a quiet huff, “Not enough time for this..” He grumbles his own agreement as your thumb finds the large beauty mark beneath his ear, “I missed you too.” You return softly.

Stiles is patient as ever, his fingers taking the time to explore every bit of exposed skin on your body with a gentle touch. His arms circle your waist only to release you a second later to run his warm palms up your spine and give your shoulders a squeeze. His movements slow for a moment when he finds the band of your bra, pinching and unclasping it in a practiced motion, and then his big hands are making their way back to the front of your ribs, thumbs dragging against the soft underside of your breasts as he dips his head to press kisses to the newly exposed skin.

You lean back a bit to give him more space to work, savoring in the feeling of his mouth peppering soft kisses over your breasts as your own hands fall from his neck to rest on his pecs. Your fingers trail over dark freckles that dot his skin, nails scraping ever so gently into the patch of hair at the center of his chest.

Even with the windows cracked to let in a bit of the crisp autumnal air, the temperature in the Jeep creeps higher, the windows already fogged over with a thin sheen of condensation that smears lightly when you brace your right hand against the window. Five little streaks through the microscopic drops of water covering the cool glass, one to mark where each of your fingers scrape across the surface as you finally rise up onto your knees.

A pitiful little grunt falls from your lips as you drop back down, the sound pushed out with the sheer depth that his cock manages to reach in this position, so full that you can nearly taste him at the back of your throat.

You settle into a slow rhythm and Stiles grabs a hold of your hips as you do, but he's not guiding you, no. He's not aiming for control, not pushing you to go harder or faster, but rather simply holding on and following your movements, his thumbs tracing little concentric circles against the sides of you belly as you go at your own pace.

“Fuck,” You groan when your knees slip a little against the leather seat. It pushes him impossibly deeper than before, driving his tip against your cervix in a way that erupts goosebumps along your skin even in the warm car. “You’re so deep. 'S so big, baby. You're so big-”

You're not even sure what's coming out of your mouth, already a little drunk on the feeling of being filled so completely, on the slick drag every time you rise up and then the sharp jolt to every one of your nerve endings with each thrust back down. Despite the ramblings falling from your lips, or perhaps because of them, Stiles begins to make little noises of his own — guttural moans against the curve of your throat, quiet grunts each time he hits deep.

He tips his head back and the warm brown in his eyes is almost completely taken over by black with how his pupils have blown wide. You catch sight of a small bead of sweat as it works its way out of his hair and begins a slow trail down his temple but you're kissing it away before it can reach his cheekbone. The salt of it lingers on your lips when your tongue runs over them just a moment later.

Dark eyes watch you move with rapt attention, his lips parted to let out low groans of encouragement. It takes a few minutes for him to find his voice, but when he does, his words send heat flooding through you.

“So good,” He tells you, hand tucking a lock of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear before his wide palm settles against the side of your neck, his voice thick with arousal, “Always so good. You're- Shit, y're so tight. So warm. So perfect.”

The thumb resting at the bottom of your cheek creeps up higher, rubbing the plush of your bottom lip until your jaw falls slack in acceptance and then he's cupping your chin and pushing the pad of his finger down against the softness of your tongue. You bite down softly with a moan and your bottom teeth dig into the meat of his palm with just how deep he's got his thumb before you're pulling off just a little and closing your lips around it, sucking and swirling your tongue and reeling at the way his eyes flutter shut with a groan, like he can't quite handle the sight in combination with the way you're riding him slow and deep.

When he removes his thumb, you suck harder to combat the spit that threatens to cling to the digit, but it doesn't make much of a difference because he's already sliding his hand around the back of your neck and bringing your mouth down against his.

You brace one hand on his stomach to aid your moments as your tongues meet in a hungry kiss. A whimper finds its way up your throat when he rubs his free hand achingly slow up and down the front of your thigh, around to grope your ass and then back, smoothing and squeezing along your skin like he wants to be touching you more — Harder, tighter, everywhere all at once.

He's so, so deep like this and you can tell it's affecting him too. His kisses are hungry as he licks into your mouth, a little messy while his nose presses into your cheek and his fingers graze your waist on their journey toward your chest. He's thumbing over the peaks of your nipples, swallowing up your moans with his own, breathing a little like he's the one getting the air punched out of his lungs every time you seat yourself, burying him deep enough that the head of his cock is driving into that spot that makes you see stars.

Your brain goes a little hazy with your budding orgasm, tiny noises becoming more frequent, falling against his mouth a bit like a plea. You don't need to explain, Stiles is already dragging his hand up to push between your thighs, thumb circling your clit the way he knows you like. Your eyebrows furrow as you slip from the kiss, far too focussed on chasing your high now. You bounce a little faster, shallower, fingers scraping at the pale skin of his chest, eyes pinched shut as your thighs tremble with exertion and your knees ache.

Heat licks across your body, a bead of sweat trickling down your spine as your movements start to become a little more difficult. You're so close — so close-

“C'mon, you're doing so good, baby.” Stiles says with far too much tenderness, far too much amazement.

“Fuck,” You whimper, shaky breaths tearing from your chest as you teeter closer and closer, “Fuckfuckfuck-”

“You got it. You can do it. C'mon-”

His gentle praises send you careening over the edge and your whole body shakes as you try to work through it. You're struggling, but then Stiles' hands are under your ass again, guiding you this time, gripping the backs of your thighs tight as he supports some of your weight and helps you ride out your high. Every nudge of his cock against the deepest parts of you has you moaning louder, brain going a little fuzzy as your orgasm peaks but never quite dies off.

Your arms curl around his shoulders, digging your face into his neck as you gasp against his skin, thighs shaking as he keeps guiding you back and forth, not pulling out nearly as far now before he's dragging you against him and filling you back up. Your breasts are pushed tight against his chest. The smell of his aftershave is in your nose and your forehead is pressed into his sweat slicked neck. You're panting, nearly drooling on his shoulder as you try to lock your knees to hold yourself in place, thighs feeling exhausted and like jelly all at once.

“Sti. Fuck, baby, I can't-” A moan cuts you off as it rolls off your tongue, “My legs can't-”

“Aw, your legs too tired, baby girl?” He asks, and it comes out a little condescending. You can practically see the satisfied little smirk on his face, even from where your own is buried in his neck as you nod. He lifts you up a little higher, hands still grasping at the crease where your thighs meet your ass as he adjusts his hips beneath you, “Need me to do the work now?”

The teasing in his voice has your body going traitorously pliant, your voice weak when it finally comes, “Please.”

“I got you,” Stiles promises, taking a little pity. He drags one hand toward the center of your spine while the other falls to the outside of your knee to hold you steady, “I got you..”

The first thrust up into you has you crying out. Not hitting nearly as deep as before, but he's driving in so much harder, so much faster. It pulls whiny little gasps from your lips with each thrust and your jaw's gone slack where it's buried in his neck as his skin slaps against yours with every snap of his hips. The sound of it is loud, and the combination of noises both lewd and salacious only proves to turn you on that much more.

“Shit.” Stiles grunts, voice a little hoarse and yet somehow high as it catches in his throat, “You make the prettiest noises, baby. Fuck. Just listen t' you.”

You don't entirely mean for it, but your next moan is just a little louder in response, unabashed and desperate even as you attempt to muffle the sound of it in the curve of his shoulder. The pitch his voice has taken is one that you only get to hear when he's getting unbearably close to his own peak. The sound of it is so, so sweet to your ears, mingling with the obscenely wet glide of his cock sliding in and out of you.

“'M gonna come,” He warns, his hips jerking just a bit rougher, a bit less coordinated as he fucks up into you, “Shit. Shit, sweetheart, 'm.. gonna.. come-”

His arms curl and lock around your waist as he does, dragging you down against him and burying himself so deep that it has you crying out again, fingers digging into his shoulders where your arms have curled under his to hold tight. He comes with a moan and a grunt that both get muffled with the way his face is now hidden in your hair, his cock kicking up inside you as he releases into the condom.

The increased stimulation against your sensitive walls has you going a little teary in the best way, overwhelmed but loving every moment of it, and you roll your hips over him despite the soreness in your thighs just to hear the way he groans in response.

You pull back just enough to lock your fingers in the hair at his nape and tug him into a sweet kiss, it's warm and a little sweaty as your lips slide together but it's also so full of unspoken thanks and emotion and undeclared love.

When you lean back again to collectively catch your breath, his thumb finds your wet eyelashes and swipes at them gently.

“Oh- hey, you good?” He checks with concern, his free hand already at your waist and drawing soft patterns along your skin, “You okay?”

You turn your head into the hand on your cheek and press a kiss to the center of his palm, scraping at his scalp beneath sweat-dampened locks, “I'm good,” You promise, “Gonna be sore as fuck tomorrow though, God.”

A smirk finds its way onto his face, “Fucked you so good you're gonna have trouble walkin', huh?”

“Shut up,” You huff, a laugh slipping out in contradiction to your weak display of annoyance, “But with the way my thighs feel right now? Yeah.”

You wince as you push up onto your knees, both from the ache left behind as he slips out and from the soreness in your legs. When you rise up a little higher, your head hits the roof with a painful thump and you can't bite back a curse.

Stiles is quick to bring a hand up to the back of your head with a sympathetic wince, cradling the tender spot on your skull softly, “Oh, shit, y'alright?”

“Ow,” You respond with a pout, your own hand reaching back to cover his over your hair, “Stupid Jeep n' stupid metal roof..”

“Hey,” Stiles frowns, “Don't blame the Jeep, alright? It's not Roscoe's fault you bumped your head.”

“Is too.”

It comes out in a huff and Stiles chuckles in amusement at your disgruntled expression as he slips his hands under your thighs to help you dismount from his lap completely. You fall into the seat beside him and drop your calves over his knees, bumping your forehead against his shoulder in a silent gesture of gratitude.

After a few long minutes wrapped up in each other as you collect yourselves, you both gather your haphazardly discarded clothing and redress. Stiles digs out a new air freshener from the glove compartment and adds it to the hoard of them already hanging from the rearview mirror. Another little tree to the collection, this one a pretty shade of purple and smelling of berries, dropping to sit right atop number of similarly shaped scented hangers in a wide array of colors.

And later, when you're forced to part ways, you push up onto your toes as you lean back in through the driver's side window of the Jeep for one final kiss. The breeze is cool against your thighs as it catches beneath your skirt, goosebumps causing you to tighten your fingers around the window frame as you prepare to lean back. Stiles has a hand coming up to the back of your neck to hold you in place at the first sign that you're about to pull away, stretching the kiss out for as long as he can get away with. It's a sickly sweet press of lips. One that will hopefully be enough to hold you over until you get the chance to have him like this again.

A glance over your shoulder as you walk away has your gaze meeting Stiles one last time, elation and melancholy both pulling at the edges of your lips until you're left with a saccarine smile to pair with your tiny wave goodbye. Your fingers come up to brush your lips as you begin to turn away, and when you extend your hand in his direction Stiles nearly throws himself out the open window to catch the invisible kiss that you've sent his way. His unnecessary enthusiasm has you stifling a giggle as you finally turn your back to him and make your way down the street.

You're forced to jog around the block from where Stiles has dropped you a safe distance from your house, hopping into the shower the moment you get home to wash away any and all evidence of the afternoon from your skin.

It's with skin scrubbed clean and a heavy heart that you head to the washing machine and dump your clothes inside to extinguish the lingering smell of Stiles that you know clings to the fabric, of you and Stiles, together.

And when Scott pauses the load mid-wash with the intention of throwing a shirt in, your brother is sure to complain about the way you've pointedly used the scented detergent — the overpowering artificial smell of lavender much too strong an irritant to his overly-sensitive, supernatural, wolfy nose — But, you remind yourself, if you want to keep up this thing with Stiles, which you desperately do, then that's just how this has to go, because, well.

𝐒 𝐜 𝐨 𝐭 𝐭 𝐲 𝐃 𝐨 𝐞 𝐬 𝐧 ' 𝐭 𝐊 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 .

𝐚/𝐧; 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝!𝐌𝐜𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠!! 𝐢 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬. 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐦 — 𝐬𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬.

again, REBLOGS are important.

please have the curtesy to reblog to share/save your ur fave fics.

[mapis-putellas]

Five times you find an excuse to carry Natasha and the one time she asks

Paring: Natasha x you

Words: 4756

Warnings: some swearing i think

1.

You tenderly grip the side of Natasha's thigh to keep it still as you graze the disinfectant wipe over the shallow cut placed just above her knee, your thumb absentmindedly grazing soft circles across the warm skin.

She was sat on the closed toilet seat clad in nothing but her sports bra and underwear, her hand clinging to both your index and middle finger as her eyes watch your every move.

Scrapes and bruises littered seemingly every inch of her pale skin, marring the already scarred, yet still beautiful canvas that sat before you. Some were sunken in and white, old from years of healing. Some were newer, still pink and raised. Each and every one told a different story. Some of which you knew, but most of which you didn't and probably never would.

You didn't necessarily mind honestly. Because all that you cared about right now was the fact she was letting you take care of her. That she'd allowed you to tenderly undress her without a single word of complaint. You had her trust, and if that's was all she was ever willing to give, it would forever be enough.

Not a single word had been spoken between you since she'd gotten home from her latest mission with Steve just twenty short minutes ago, and you weren't in a hurry to break whatever comfortable silence had settled upon you and you knew Natasha wasn't either.

You give the flesh of her thigh a comforting squeeze when a small, pained hitch of breath emits from the back of her throat at the sting the wipe against her skin, giving the damp skin a soft kiss before covering it with a large bandaid.

You then look up at her from your spot knelt between her legs, content to find her green irises already staring right back at you. They looked exhausted. She looked exhausted, and all you wanted to do was scoop her up into your arms and take her to bed.

The sudden shine of her eyes is what halts you in your tracks.

It was oh so rare to see Natasha cry. To witness her completely drop her walls and allow you to see the true pain she always seems to mask without an issue. It was a sight that has your own throat constricting and without a word, you place your hands underneath her armpits and coax her off of the closed toilet seat and onto your lap.

She straddles you, legs tight around your hips as arms rise to settle around your neck. Your own arms settle around her shaking frame, one hand cupping the back of her head as the other traces soothing circles over the bare expanse of skin.

"I've got you, baby." You finally speak, nuzzling your nose into her neck and taking in soothing scent of slight sweat and vanilla. Your lips press a soft kiss to the skin as you pull away just slightly, tightening your hold around Natasha to reassure her you wouldn't be letting go until she requested it.

She was trembling in your arms, tears hot against your neck, yet her sobs of grief don't make a single sound. Natasha had always been a silent cryer. No matter the circumstance; no matter the situation, it was quiet. All of the time. And you absolutely hated it.

She deserved to feel her grief just as loud and freely as everyone else, yet she fails to agree. She'd never outrightly told you so, but the look in her face as you'd spoken those words had been enough. And so you simply hold her. Love her. Cherish her, hoping that one day she'd realise she deserves the entire world.

Natasha soon stills in your embrace, those once barely audible hitching breaths easing into just quiet sniffles. With a soft kiss to her shoulder to let her know you had her, you place a hand beneath of each of her thighs and haul yourself to your feet.

It was an easy feet considering her slight frame, but that doesn't stop the quiet squeak of surprise that escapes her lips as you bounce her up in your arms slightly to get a better grip, forearms slipping beneath her behind as opposed to her thighs as you carry her through to your shared bedroom.

"I've got you, baby."

2.

"Babe, can you help?!"

At the sound of your girlfriends voice, your eyes instinctively flicker away from the tv and towards the kitchen doorway. You don't wait for her to ask again as you pause the show you were both currently binging before rising to your feet, shuffling through to the kitchen where you were greeted with the sight of Natasha trying, yet failing to reach something on the top shelf of the cupboard.

She was clad in nothing but one of your oversized shirts and underwear, her typical attire after a long day at work.

She jumps, and you couldn't help but snort in amusement when she doesn't even come close to reaching the desired item. She glances back at the sound of your stifled laugh, an unamused look appearing on her face in the form of a pout. Without a word, you walk towards her and cup her cheeks before pressing your lips against the warm skin of her forehead. She all but melts into your touch, and you allow your lips to linger just a few seconds longer than normal because of that.

As you pull away and Natasha falls against your chest, you look up to see the item she'd been attempting to grab was a bag of popcorn. You knew you could easily reach up and grab it for her. After all, you weren't exactly small. But a part of you wanted Natasha to be able to grab it herself. She was miss independent. Always had been and you knew she'd appreciate it if you didn't treat her like she was incapable.

With that in mind, you give her body one last squeeze before bending down and wrapping your arms underneath her backside.

Natasha glances down at you with an adorably confused expression on her face, and you press an affectionate kiss to her clothed chest before standing up straight and bringing her with you. She lets out a undignified yelp at the unexpected action, her arms all but clinging to your head as it settles in between her breasts.

Keeping your arms hooked tightly beneath her butt, you bounce her up slightly wanting her to be able to reach her popcorn without fearing she'd fall.

"What are you doing?" She laughs as she looks down at you. You were greeted with an adorably tiny double chin, and you couldn't help but nuzzle your nose against the soft flesh before gesturing with your head towards the popcorn.

"Grab your popcorn baby." You coax, and Natasha rolls her eyes fondly as she releases you with one arm and successfully grabs her snack. Once it was in her grasp, you don't put her down. You simply allow her to slide down your body so her legs were hooked around your waist. Your arms remain beneath her ass, and you give it a playful squeeze earning yourself a quiet squeak of surprise.

"Snuggle time?" You ask, and Natasha sends you a playful glare before nodding her head and allowing you to carry her back through to the living room.

3.

"Nat? Are you coming to bed baby? It's late and-" the remainder of your words get stuck in your throat when you fully take in the sight that greets you. There your girlfriend was, sprawled out on the gym floor, still clad in her workout gear, fast asleep. She was curled up on her side, hands tucked beneath her chin with legs curled up against her chest.

Slipping into the large room through the small gap you'd created, you kneel down next to her and rest a gentle hand on her bare side. She doesn't make a peep at the touch, telling you that she must be exhausted because Natasha was notoriously known for being one of the lightest sleepers ever.

"Oh baby..." you trial off, unsure as to why she'd allowed herself to fall asleep here when there was a perfectly good bed available just upstairs. It was past eleven at night now, way too late for her to still be working out but getting that into her head was proving to be exceedingly difficult.

You contemplate your next actions for a few silent moments as you stare down at your sleeping girlfriend, not wanting to wake her but unsure if you were able to carry her such a far distance to your shared room. It wasn't that she heavy. In fact, when she was awake you could carry her miles because at least then she was holding up some of her own weight. But she was asleep now, and you knew she'd be a complete dead weight.

Knowing you had no other choice, you carefully manoeuvre her onto her back and situate yourself between her legs before leaning down and placing your chest against her own. Her arms seem to instinctively rise to cling to your shirt, and you couldn't help but smile at the action as you hook one arm beneath her back, placing the hand of the other against the back of her head before easing her into a sitting position.

She was now straddling your lap, head heavy against your shoulder as her hands dangle limply over your shoulders. You take a few moments to prepare yourself before hooking an arm beneath her backside and rising to your knees. Two arms would probably be easier, but you needed that to keep her chest flush against your own so she didn't fall backwards.

With a quiet grunt, you lift one leg so your foot was planted firmly on the padded floor before using all the strength in you to rise fully to your feet. You manage the task with no more than  a small wobble, and you silently congratulate yourself as you gently bounce Natasha up into your arms so she'd be more supported.

"What?" You hear her grunt in confusion as her legs instinctively tighten around your waist, and you shush her quietly as you rest a tender hand on the back of her head.

"It's just me, pumpkin. Go back to sleep." You murmur into her ear as you muzzle your nose into her neck, and Natasha let's out a heavy sigh before once again falling limp against you.

Once you were sure she wouldn't wake again, you bring both arms back beneath her behind and begin making your way out of the gym and towards the elevator. You silently curse Tony for making the compound so freaking big as the sliding doors open, arms already aching as you step inside and use your elbow to press the button to the floor your shared room was on.

Natasha, just like you'd suspected, was now a dead weight in your arms, legs limp around your waist and head heavy against your shoulder. You could feel the soft breaths of her quiet exhales against your neck as she sleeps peacefully against you, and you allow yourself to take comfort in the feeling as the doors slide open allowing you to stop out.

The journey to your room was thankfully quick, and you gently bounce Natasha up again so she was at less of a risk of falling when you release her momentarily with one of your arms to type in the code. Soon, you were inside your room, and you let out a quiet sigh of relief as you place one of your knees against the mattress before cupping the back of her head and easing her down onto the bed.

Knowing your next task -stripping her of her tight work out gear and into some comfy pyjamas- would be exceedingly more difficult than the last, you decide to take a few moments and climb into bed next next to her. She seems to instinctively sense your presence, curling up against your chest and throwing one of her legs over your waist, her hand slipping underneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your back.

You immediately return the embrace, the hand of the arm acting as her pillow grazing gentle patters against her back whilst your other hand trials affectionately just beneath the waistband of her yoga pants.

With the knowledge that you wouldn't be moving for the remainder of the night, you place a tender kiss to her forehead and murmur a quiet I love you against her hairline before allowing your own eyes to flicker closed too.

4.

When you hear Natasha sigh for the third time in just a few minutes, you force yourself to look away from your book and stare at her with a single eyebrow raised. You were both lounged on the couch, Natasha at one end with her blanket and laptop, and you on the other with your book. You'd both just eaten dinner -Mac and cheese courtesy of Yelena, and you had both taken it upon yourselves to have a few minutes of personal time before you inevitably ended up snuggled together.

When you receive no response to your silent question, you bookmark your place in your book before setting it down onto the coffee table.

"What's wrong miss pouty pants?" You tease affectionately as you poke her with your foot, and the red head sends you an unimpressed glare before seemingly reluctantly bringing her attention back to her laptop. Her hands were frozen on the keyboard, and you could see by the reflection in her glasses that was was working on what appears to be yet another mission report.

Understand her frustration, -because this was the fifth document today, you rise to your knees and shuffle over to her, wedging yourself in between her body and the back of the couch.

Your cheek settles on her shoulder, and though she hesitates, you do eventually feel her cheek come to rest atop of your head. You smile at the action as your arm settles around her waist, fingers creeping beneath her shirt to rest against bare skin. 

"When do these need to be in?" You question quietly, and you feel her stomach rise and fall as she takes a deep breath.

"Tuesday." She responds, and you hum in acknowledgement as you reach forward to save the document before closing the laptop.

"What? No! What are you-" she attempts to grab the computer as you reach over to set it on the coffee table next to your book.

"Baby, it's only Friday. You have time." You attempt to assure her as you grab her hand, but Natasha simply shoves you away from her and attempts to make a grab for her computer. Her fingers skim it before you decide enough was enough. Without a word, you rise from the couch, grab Natasha by the underarms and haul her up with you.

She lets out an undignified yelp her chest collides with your own, "What the heck are-"

"No more computers for Natasha today," you interrupt her as you bounce her up in your arms, your arms beneath her backside to keep her supported as you carry her out of the room and up the stairs. She squirms relentlessly throughout the entire journey making it much harder and longer than it needed to be, but you eventually make it upstairs without dropping her on her ass.

"I will kick your ass," she warns in an almost silent growl as you kick your bedroom door open. "Put me down, right no-ahhh!" you toss her onto your shared bed. She glares at you as you climb in next to her, placing a hand on either side of her head.

"What in the actual fu-mhhhfff."

You smirk against her lips when you feel her kiss back without hesitation, knowing you had her right where you wanted her.

5.

Though the sight in front of you was becoming rather amusing, you knew for a fact that if you didn't put a stop to it now, Natasha would hand Tony's ass to him served on a silver platter.

You see, she was sick. And not just a little sick, but a full on fever and flu that had left her so congested she sounded like a duck when she talks. She needed to be in bed. You knew that also, but convincing her was a quiet the fucking task.

You'd attempted to get her into bed, but she'd simply pushed you into it instead, muttering -if you like the bed so damn much, you get in it- underneath her breath before storming out of the room.

Ten minutes later, you were in the meeting room, and the first five minutes had been fine. Natasha had seemingly been able to get herself under control and not a single peep was made. That had changed rather abruptly when Yelena had teasingly poked her sisters red nose, and Natasha, with a sharp glare towards the blonde, had sneezed four times in a row earning herself a look of disgust from Tony.

"Listen red, you're gross and contagious. You're going to make everyone else gross and contagious if you don't get out of here." Tony attempts to be nice about it as he shields himself with a piece of paper, but the damage had already been done if the look of pure anger on Natasha's face was anything to go by.

"You're a man. That automatically makes you gross and contagious. No one likes you and your stupid tin suit so shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you." She growls, and Tony winces as he sends you a helpless look.

You shrug a little helplessly yourself, not knowing what to do without angering the red head further. As they continue to bicker, you feel a poke to your arm. You look over and see Yelena staring at you with a smirk. It was clear to see she was amused also, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes that wasn't hard for you to miss.

"How much do you like your face?" She asks, and you frown in confusion as you glance between the red head and her sister.

"Quite a lot." You admit, and Yelena clicks her tongue in thought for a second before turning back to you.

"I won't be able to carry her myself, but we have more of a chance if it's two against one." She murmurs, and you hum in thought as you watch Natasha take yet another step towards a terrified Tony.

You knew this may be your only option to get her out of here. After all, it was becoming increasingly obvious that she wouldn't willingly leave herself and there was no way you could talk her out of whatever this was when the threat -Tony- was still within close proximity. You couldn't exactly ask him to leave either, because this was his building.

"Okay. I got her arms. You get her legs." You tell her as you shrug off your jacket, and Yelena nods as she rises to feet and shakes out her arms as it preparing for battle. You snort slightly at the sight, but do the same knowing that by the time you're done, you may no longer be alive.

Yes, Natasha was small, but she was still a former assassin, probably stronger than you and Yelena put together. This was not going to be fun for any of you.

With Yelena close behind, you make your way over to Natasha, stopping just a few feet away. Tony see's you and his eyes light up, proving as a temporary distraction for Natasha who looks confused at the abrupt change of emotion.

Without warning, you lurch forward and grab the red head by the waist, trapping her arms beneath your own as you lift her from her feet. An undignified yelp was your response, and Yelena was quick to step in and grab her flailing legs, wrapping her arms around her calves and effectively pinning them against her own chest.

When it becomes clear she was trapped, Natasha squirming ups a tenfold and you grunt slightly as you begin carrying her out of the room. "What the fuck? Let me go! Stop fucking manhandling me you fucking assholes!"

"Thank you Y/n and mini Romanoff. Bye red!" You hear Tony call, any both you and Yelena share a smirk as you successfully manage to carry the unhappy Russian into the hallway.

"No sex for a week! A month! Yelena I'm stealing your vest and setting it on fire! This is not fair! Let me go!"

Yelena looks mildly disgusted at Natasha's words towards you, but when she hears the threat towards her vest, she looks as though she may cry. When she meets your eyes, you shake your head, silently letting her know Natasha didn't mean it, and whilst she seems doubtful, she does nod her own head in understanding.

Soon, you were in the elevator, a much needed break for your arms and legs because this was way worse than any workout you'd ever done.

"Nat, you're sick," you start as you tighten grip around her. By now, she was becoming increasingly close to getting herself out of your grip, and that would not be good for either of you. "You know what Tony's like with germs. And you need to be in bed. Preferably with some medicine and soup. Doesn't she lena?"

Before Yelena could get a word in edgeways, Natasha throws her head back, and it collides painfully with your nose. You immediately see stars at the action, your eyes burning with the familiar sensation of tears that immediately escape and fall down your cheeks.

Fucking hell that hurt. What was her head made of? Cement?!

Natasha, thankfully, seems unaware of what she'd done, but Yelena see's it and cackles. The elevator doors open, and without a word, you yank Natasha's legs out of her grip, set her down onto the floor, press a kiss to her head to let her know it wasn't her you were mad at before storming off.

"Y/n, no! I'm sorry." You hear Yelena cry. "Don't leave me here with her!!!"

It was your turn to laugh. Serves her fucking right.

A week later, you still had two black eyes.

6.

When the clock strikes one AM and there was still no sign of Natasha, you let out a quiet sigh and kick off the blankets before climbing out of bed. You shiver slightly at the coldness that greets you, pulling on the closest hoodie you could find. It just so happened to be one of the many oversized ones that Natasha's owns.

It falls to your mid thigh and just about covers your ass. You smile in amusement the sight, knowing that this very hoodie all but buries Natasha and falls to her knees.

With a fond eye roll at your tiny girlfriend, you leave the room with the intention of figuring out just where she'd disappeared off too. Instinct tells you she was in the very place you'd left her after heading to bed yourself about four hours ago, and when you reach her office, you figure yourself to be correct.

There Natasha was, still sat at her desk, glasses perched on her nose as her tired eyes flicker over her computer screen. Next to her sat at least three empty cups of coffee, and you sigh at the sight, knowing she'd done everything in her power to keep herself awake despite being exhausted.

Pushing the door open further, you step inside and lightly clear your throat to let your presence be known. Natasha looks up at the sound, her lips quirking up into a small smile at the sight of you in her clothes. It didn't happen often due to your size difference, but either way she absolutely adored it.

"Hi baby." she greets tiredly, and you hum as you step closer and perch yourself at the end of her desk. Her hand immediately settles on your thigh, and you set your own on top of it, trailing the pad of your thumb over the soft skin.

"Hi you. How are you getting on?" You decide not to bombard her with the why aren't you in bed question just yet, knowing it wouldn't do either of you any good.

Natasha sighs as she uses her free hand to pull off her glasses, setting them down next to her still open laptop, "Good. Nearly done actually." She tells you somewhat proudly, and you couldn't help but smile as you gently reach forward to cup her cheek before pressing your lips in a tender kiss against the spot between her eyebrows. Her eyes flutter closed at the gentle affection, allowing you to linger for a little while longer than normal.

"It's late pumpkin." Is all you say as you reluctantly pull away, gentle fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, and Natasha sighs quietly as she nods her head. Her eyes flicker between you and her computer, and you sense that maybe there was something she wants to say but can't quite bring herself to do so. Not wanting to push her, or able to read her mind much to your dismay, you simply perch yourself on her lap and wrap an arm around her shoulder.

Knowing this wasn't something you did frequently nor often, Natasha was quick to wrap her arms around your waist and tuck her head just beneath your chin. In response, you cup the back of her head with your free hand, nuzzling your nose against her hair and taking in the comforting smell of vanilla.

About fifteen minutes pass before you feel her breathing deepen signalling she was growing dangerously close to falling asleep, and knowing her bed would be much more comfortable than her chair, you kiss her head before pulling yourself away from her and rising to your feet.

Natasha looks up at you with an unhappy frown as she grabs the material of your hoodie and tugs in a futile attempt at pulling you back down to her lap.

"No baby," you shake your head as you pry her hands off of you, "let's go to bed, okay?" You attempt to coax, and Natasha let's out a rather quiet, unhappy whine as she attempts to reach for you again.

"Nat, baby, bed. Your chair won't be comfortable." You strive to persuade, bending down and cupping her face in your hands. Tired eyes blink back up at you for just a moment before she pouts and holds out her arms, and you go to take her hands, assuming she wanted your help standing up.

Natasha, however, frowns and shakes her head, only furthering your confusion.

"What is it, my love?"

You watch as hesitation peeks in through the sleepiness lingering in her eyes for just a moment before she swallows heavily and once again holds out her arms. Her lips part, a barely audible question slipping through.

"Carry me?"

It was said so quietly, so nervously it was obvious she was scared that you'd say no. Of course you'd never. Not once has she ever asked you to carry her before. Each and every time you'd done so, you'd been the one to initiate it and not a single complaint had ever slipped from her lips.

It leaves you to believe that maybe, just maybe, there had been many times she'd wanted to ask, but was simply just too scared. Heart melting, you place your hands underneath her armpits and tug her to feet.

"Of course I'll carry you baby. You never have to ask." You murmur, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before bending down slightly and wrapping your arms beneath her behind. You stand, bringing her with you, and almost immediately her legs hook tightly around her waist, arms loose around your neck as her small hands tangle through the baby hair at the nape of your neck.

Keeping one of your arms beneath her for support, you rest the other across her back and begin to carry her out of the room.

"I love you." You hear her murmur, and you smile softly as you give her body a squeeze.

"I love you more than you could ever imagine."

[bubbleebubz]

I can't sleep and I got an idea inspired by @briefkittenearthquake post saying

SO HERE WE ARE. WITH THIS BLUES THAT I DIDN'T PROOF READ BC IT'S 11:35 PM AND I'M IN A DARK CREEPY ROOM

Boy interrupted

WARNINGS: SMUTTTTT

Spencer was a late bloomer, not to mention the fact at the ripe age of 12 he was in high school. To say he didn't get the "full experience" is an understatement. But now, at age 25, Spencer is no better than a teenage boy, he hit puberty at 15, and when I say he sprouted up I MEAN IT. he went from a 5'6 skinny boy to a slim 6 foot something genius.

And now as we sit at our desks in the BAU, he is like a mosquito in my ear.

"Please Y/N, it hurts" he whined in my ear, grinding against my ass as we wait for the elevator to arrive at our floor.,finally getting to end the long day. "Spencer stop, you can wait" I squeak out as k feel his erection pressed firmly against my ass. He begins kissing down my neck when-

*DING*

The elevator doors open, I speed walk into the box of death and turn, waiting for Spencer to follow. "Cameras baby" I whisper out through a smile, to which he rolls his eyes. He is ancy and fiddles with his bag the hole ride down, which was only 1 minute but felt like an eternity to him.

Once we arrive to the apparent, as soon as the door shuts with a click,y back is pressed against the wall, my purse being gently set down onto the table next to the door and kisses are being placed down my neck. I remove my heels as he guides me to the couch. He sits down, looking up with his big brown eyes. Before both his and my own gaze falls down to the evident bulge in his pants, causing my breath to catch in my throat. I walk over before sitting on his lap, not giving him near enough friction. I kiss down his neck at a torturous pace.

"I'm so sorry" he says. "Wha-" before I can even finish the word I'm being lifted and carried to my bed, under him as he kisses me sloppily, passionate with need and desire. He pulls down my skirt and panties before diving in between my legs, lapping up my leaking arousal that had released due to the built up tension. He groans at my taste, probing my entrance with 1 finger before adding another.

"Fuck Spencer just like that" I moan out, my back arching at the pleasure, but he stops.

"Need to be inside you" he whinoers out, un buckling his belt and pants, pulling them down far enough for his cock to be free.

I whimper st the sight, his cock stands tall at a proud 7 inches, his rip is a pretty pink colour, matching his flushed cheeks.

He pumps his cock once then twice before thrusting into me, his cock twitching the ment he enters me. Due to his earlier ministration of eating me out like a man starved, it doesn't take long for me to get close to bliss, especially when he shoves his fingers in my mouth before rubbing my clit in fast tight circles, causing a high pitch moan to leave my lips which is quickly silenced by his lips on mine. "Cum on my cock please, need to feel you around me when you cum" he begs into my ear, his thrusts getting sloppier as he fucks into me, still carring about my own pleasure as well as his own. I cry out as my orgasm breaks through, causing everything to go quiet, only when I feel his hot sticky seed filling me up, do I regain awareness.

"Feel better? " I ask with a chuckle only to moan out as he begins fucking me again. "Not yet" he whines causing me to moan out.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Resting Time

Eris x reader

For Day 1 of @acotar-omegaverse-week — Nesting: Surely there’s a perfectly normal, completely unsuspicious reason they’re feeling an irresistible urge to arrange and rearrange the blankets and pillows…. right?

word count: 1,233

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Are you done?” Eris asks, shoulder pressing to one of the four thick, dark-wooden posts that make up your grand-sized bed. 

You take a few steps back, looking over the covers: the sheets are a dark red; the duvet and pillowcases are in a lighter shade, edged with maroon coloured inch-thick hems; the thin blanket that goes atop the duvet has a floral pattern on its underside, with burnished gold stitching embroidering vines onto its topside; the five pillows are stacked symmetrically, two on each side with one in the middle. The pillows at the bottom of the pile are square, each case matching the colour of the duvet, while the two atop the square ones are rectangular and have the matching floral pattern of the blanket, and the smallest pillow propped atop the other four is a flattened cylinder, with golden tassels hanging off its circumferences. 

Teeth chew your lower lip. You shake your head, starting forward. “No, the rectangular cushions should be below the square ones, so they’re propped up at a diagonal.” 

“Honey, we’re going to take them off anyway to sleep.” 

“You most certainly will not—wait!”

A pair of broad palms have slid around your waist, turning you half a circle before lifting you effortlessly to the air and tossing you into the plush centre of the bed, your body sinking into the plush duvet and mattress. “Eris, you’ve ruined it,” you whine, looking at the wrinkles that are now pressed into the freshly ironed sheets. But your mate follows, hovering over you, his two powerful arms settling either side of your head, muscles shifting beneath the crisp, pale linen of his shirt as he dips down, nosing at your throat. 

Heat warms your cheeks, lips curving at the ticklish lick of breath fanning across your neck, his tongue tentatively licking once, twice, over your skin. His hair falls forward from his shoulders, brushing your collarbones, bringing a wave of his scent to your attention. He smells good. Fresh, and crisp, and clean. Like an autumn day but perhaps without the dampness of morning dew. Just that fresh, hazelnut scent. Golden sugar dusted over fire-roasted chestnuts. Pecans and marzipan. Warm spices and woodsmoke. 

“You smell good,” you mumble, arms lethargically pulling themselves up over his back, wanting to bring him down to your level to better feel him. 

“Fawn,” Eris begins, pulling up from your body, making you whine. “Are you nesting?” 

Your brows furrow. “I can be particular about how things should be displayed without it meaning I’m nesting, Eris. Don’t you want things to look nice?” 

“You spent ten minutes rearranging your breakfast this morning…” 

“I just wanted it to look appetising. And I wasn’t that hungry then.” 

“And changing all the covers on the cushions in our living chambers? And the parlour?” 

“They hadn’t been changed in months. Don’t you think they look good?” 

“They look lovely. But what about the painting yesterday? And now the bedsheets?”

You glance sideways at the bedsheets, worrying your lower lip. “I thought so too. I should have chosen the maroon ones instead… Wait, we have pale duvet covers don’t we? The ones with the black and rouge trimmings? Those would look much better.” You make to scramble out from beneath him, but he lays one palm firmly over your hip, keeping you still. “Honey…” 

“I’m not nesting.” You grumble, glaring at him playfully. Eris’ expression is a portrait of skeptical doubt. Your brows furrow. “I’m not.” 

“Mhmm.” 

Your tongue clicks, half rolling your eyes. “I think I would know, Eris,” you remind, folding your arms across your chest. “But if it’s bothering you…” 

“It’s not bothering me. What’s bothering me is that it’s half eleven at night and you’re wanting to change the covers again. They look perfect.” He adds on swiftly when you make to glance at the sheets again. “You’ve done a lovely job. Now let’s go to sleep.” 

Lips pressing together, you avert your gaze. “You really think they’re perfect?” 

“Yes. They look wonderful—so good I want nothing more than to sleep in them.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Believe me, I’m sure.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “They’re perfect. Now please can we sleep?” 

Reluctantly you give a nod of your head. “Alright…sorry for keeping you awake so long…” Eris’ lips curve faintly, a soft twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure I’ve kept you up for much longer in the past, for different reasons.” Heat flutters in your lower tummy, eyes flicking down to the collar of his shirt, the pale skin it’s showing off with the slight V-neck. Your eyes do feel pretty heavy…

Eris chuckles. “See? You’re tired too. You need to rest.” 

“Okay…” 

You clamp down on a complaint when he pulls the duvet back, disrupting the smoothness you’d so carefully aimed for. “Come over here,” Eris instructs, a note of affection in his fatigued voice. You grumble, but roll to your allocated side of the bed, allowing him to tuck you in properly before he slides in beside you. 

Without a second’s delay you’ve squashed yourself up to his front, pressing your face into his chest, dragging his scent down in lungfuls. He really smells good.

Eris pauses, before he’s shifting his arms to be around you, a palm pulling hair out from under you. “Sweet little omega.” You hear him murmur to the crown of your head, stroking your skin soothingly. You eagerly squeeze closer, so you’re pressed together from your feet to your head, your legs having twined with his. Fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it to your nose to take a full inhale. 

“I’m wearing this tomorrow,” you mumble, crawling a few inches further up his body so you can take his scent from his skin, wanting to lick up his flavour; wrap yourself in him. His reply is muffled. “It’ll be going in the wash tomorrow. This is the third night I’ve worn it.”

“I’ll take it out before it can be washed.” 

“I’m telling you,” he sighs, exasperation underlying his voice, “you’re—”

“I’m not,” you huff, lips curved in a smile. “I would know. Besides, it shouldn’t be happening for another month.” 

“Maybe it’s coming early.” 

“It’s not,” you mumble, mouth slurring your words together. “You’re just seeing what your alpha mind wants you to.” 

“Mhmm. Because it’s happening right before my keen alpha eyes.” 

You shoot him a withering glare, able to hear his deadpan drawl. He offers a sleepy smirk, and your temper is mellowed almost instantly, clutching tighter to him. “I’m just saying I know my omega well. The Mother knows I’d have no quarrel with you starting to nest earlier than we expected.” 

“That’s lovely, but I assure you I’m not.” 

“We’ll see,” he laughs softly, tucking the crown of your head beneath his chin, large palm stroking across your back. 

A beat of silence passes, and you’re on the verge of falling asleep when he speaks again. “I’d be happy to give you my shirt tomorrow if you were nesting, though.” 

“You won’t be leaving the bed if I am,” you mumble back. “I’ll be burying us together beneath all your clothes.” 

Eris groans, but beneath your palm you can feel as his pulse quickens, his heart betraying his true emotion. 

Maybe you are starting earlier than you thought…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

[gloomwitchwrites]

Kitchen Quickies (1 of 4)

John Price x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, breeding kink, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, established relationship, married couple

Word Count: 948

A/N: part of the Imagines & What If series

So what that you already have two kids? John wants to make a third.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // kitchen quickies masterlist

The early morning sun filters through the kitchen window and illuminates the sink full of soapy water. Reaching in, you remove the drain plug. The water begins to recede, and you flip on the faucet, rinsing off the plug, clearing it of soap suds. Sighing, you place it on the edge of the sink near the window.

Without looking, you reach for a dish towel, glancing out the window as your two children play in the yard. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, but then it turns downward as your hands only find counter and not the towel.

Frowning, you turn to the left and immediately laugh.

“Give me that,” you chide, snatching the dish towel from John’s grip.

As you dry your hands, John steps into your space, his hands falling to your hips. “Good morning,” he croons, those large fingers of his curling around the bone to pull you flush against him.

“John,” you breathe, a little surprised. “The kids are outside.” Through his sweatpants, you feel the hard outline of him.

“Good,” he murmurs, his head dipping towards you.

When his lips touch yours, you smile against them, and then squeal as John twists you around to press you against the counter. John’s hand slides over your hip and beneath the oversized t-shirt. It’s one of his old shirts he always worked out in. You wear them all the time because they smell of him, and his scent brings you comfort when he’s away for work.

John’s fingers find the edge of your cotton underwear. He pulls them to the side, revealing you to him. His mouth presses against your throat at the same moment his fingers slide over your sex and begin to play with your clit.

Your hips jerk backward, as if trying to pull away from his teasing hand. But you only end up rubbing your ass against his cock. One of his fingers slides lower and circles your entrance.

“You’re fucking wet, love,” groans John against your throat.

“You do this to me. You know that, John.”

His grip on your hip intensifies. John is always insatiable when it comes to you. He releases your hip to push up on the shirt, pressing on your lower back, bending you forward slightly over the counter. The position is a little uncomfortable, and you have to shift onto your toes to match what John is asking for.

Then his hands are on your hips again, shifting them up to give him easier access.

“We’ve been talking about having another. I think we should start trying.”

“John—fuck,” you groan as the head of his cock starts to push in.

“Right. Fucking. Now,” groans John, lightly thrusting into you with each word. He rolls his hips, and another inch slides in. You both moan, and he turns his face into your neck, breathing in your scent.

“Do you want that? You want me to breed you?” John’s presses his hand against your stomach and you whimper. “Hm? I need an answer, love.”

Rarely do you ever say no to John, and in this, you won’t ever say no. You love him. He is your oxygen and your anchor. You’ll give him everything he asks for without question.

“Fuck me, John. Please.” Your voice breaks on please. The groan that he makes goes straight to your pussy.

He slides in further until he bottoms out. He holds himself there for a moment with one hand between your legs to play with your clit while the other rests on your lower back. Against your throat, John’s lips mark a line from the curve of your shoulder to your jaw.

“Hold on to the counter,” he murmurs into your ear.

The moment your hands find the counter, John retreats, slowly sliding from your warmth before he thrusts forward again. Hips meet hips in rapid succession. His strength behind each thrust pushes you against the side of the counter, the edge scratching at the spot it makes contact with.

You might have some marks there afterward but you don’t care. John’s cock is too good, and his fingers swirls around your clit in perfectly slow movements that have you fluttering around him. He’s an expert with your body. He knows every sensitive spot, and every move to help you find your end before he does.

Every thrust of his hips is a desperate one, and it is so different from how his fingers play with your clit. They are opponents and yet effortlessly working in tandem until you squeeze around him, causing his hips to stutter and faulter.

John’s breathing is ragged when he speaks. “Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck.”

Another swirl of his finger sends you into a shiver, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from crying out.

John thrusts a few more times, and then he’s holding you flush against him, his face buried against your throat. The rush of his release floods your womb, and he doesn’t pull away until he’s emptied himself. The moment his cock slips free, John presses his palm against your pussy, keeping his cum from leaking out of you.

“My beautiful wife,” he murmurs against your neck. You twist into him and wrap your arm around the back of neck, kissing him with all your love behind it.

“Think we made that third?” you tease.

John grins against your lips. “Not sure. We’ll have to do it again tonight after the kids have gone to bed. Maybe the next night too. And the next—”

You playful smack his arm and John adjusts your underwear back into place before lightly smacking your ass.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @pearljamislife @wrathofcats @keiva1000 @pertinentpostmortem @enfppixie @bbyfimmie @kittytiddywinks @berarenado

[skywalkerslvt]

Pitching Tents And Crossing Lines- Ellie Williams x AFAB!Reader

❥Pairing: Camp counsellor!Ellie Williams x AFAB!Camp counsellor!Reader

❥a/n: Holy shit guys it's been over a month since i last posted a fic 😭 This is for everyone who wanted a part 2 to my camp counsellor!ellie fic!!! This could also be read as a oneshot but for those of you who want to read part 1 I'll link it here. hope u guys enjoy!!

❥CW: 18+ smut, fingering, semi-public sex sorta, teasing, dirty talk, secret sex, praise kink sorta, a tiny bit of marking, tent sex, pet names (ellie calls reader baby), 1k words

❥Summary: Ellie fingers you in a tent while another camp counsellor is sleeping in the same tent

You were going to kill Ellie. You swore to yourself the next day you were going to kill her. Kill her for being such a tease, kill her for looking so perfect, kill her for turning you on and sticking her hand between your legs while you shared a tent with your currently sleeping colleague.

But that would mean getting through the night first, which was a challenge in itself. Ellie’s body was pressed against your back, her fingers dangerously close to where you needed her most, but maddeningly still. Her breath was steady, like this was nothing, just another night under the stars, while your heart pounded in your chest, every fibre of your being on edge.

“Ellie,” you hissed quietly, voice strained as you tried not to wake the sleeping counsellor a few feet away. “What the hell are you doing?”

She hummed softly in your ear, her voice low and teasing. “What do you think I'm doing?”

You bit your lip, your body involuntarily responding to her proximity, the warmth of her fingers brushing against your waistband. You wanted to shove her hand away, to remind her where you were, but part of you—a very reckless part-didn't want her to stop.

You inhaled sharply as she began kissing and sucking marks into your neck, her hand inching down agonizingly slow. “Tell me to stop and I'll stop.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing as her words hung in the air. You knew you should push her away, that this was wildly inappropriate-your colleague was right there, for fuck's sake. But Ellie's lips were warm against your skin, her hand teasing you just enough to make your body crave more.

You didn't tell her to stop.

Instead, you let out a shaky breath, your silence giving her all the permission she needed. Ellie smirked against your neck, her teeth grazing your skin before she whispered, "That's what I thought."

Her fingers slipped lower, finally slipping under the waistband of your shorts, brushing over your underwear, and you stifled a moan. You pressed your thighs together, torn between wanting more and the nagging worry that you could be caught any second.

Ellie seemed to revel in your struggle, her hand moving slowly, deliberately torturing you with each light touch.

"You like this, don't you?" she murmured. "You like that anyone could wake up and see how fucking needy you are."

Her words sent a wave of heat through you, your body reacting to her every word. You pressed your hips back against her, grinding slightly, desperate for more friction.

Ellie chuckled softly, her breath warm against your ear. "That's it," she said, her fingers slipping past the fabric of your underwear, finally making contact with your aching core. "Let me take care of you."

And then, she did.

Her fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch in your throat. You bit your lip hard, trying to keep quiet, the pressure of her hand driving you wild while the reality of your surroundings kept you on edge. Every time you exhaled, it felt like you were walking a tightrope between ecstasy and fear, the risk of waking your colleague sending an illicit thrill through your body.

Ellie's mouth was still on your neck, sucking gently, her hot breath sending shivers down your spine. She knew exactly what she was doing, how close you were to breaking, how much you needed this-needed her. And she was enjoying every second of it.

"You're so quiet, baby," she whispered, her voice low and teasing. "What's wrong? Afraid they'll hear how bad you want me?"

You wanted to respond, to tell her to shut up or slow down, but all that came out was a strangled gasp as her fingers dipped lower, sliding easily through your wetness. Ellie's grip tightened on your hip as she pressed against you, her teeth grazing your earlobe.

"Fuck, you're soaked," she murmured, the amusement in her voice impossible to ignore. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"

You whimpered, unable to stop yourself from grinding back against her fingers, desperate for more. It was maddening how good it felt-her fingers, her mouth, her breath, all working to unravel you bit by bit.

Ellie moved faster now, her fingers expertly sliding inside you, curling in just the right way to make your legs tremble. You had to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out, every nerve ending lit up like a live wire.

"That's it," Ellie breathed, her voice a low growl in your ear. "Come for me, baby. Show everyone how good I make you feel."

The combination of her fingers inside you and her filthy words was too much.

Your body tensed, the wave of pleasure crashing over you so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out of you. You bit down hard on your lip, barely managing to stifle the moan that threatened to escape as you came, your body shaking against her.

Ellie didn't stop until your legs were trembling and you had to push her hand away, your body too sensitive to handle any more. She pulled her hand out of your shorts, her lips brushing your neck one last time before she whispered, "Good girl."

You were panting, trying to catch your breath, the weight of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Your colleague was still fast asleep, oblivious, but the tension in the air between you and Ellie was thick.

You turned to look at her, and Ellie gave you a lazy smirk, her eyes dark with satisfaction. "Better get some sleep," she whispered, lying back against her sleeping bag like nothing had happened. "We've got a long day tomorrow."

You glared at her, your body still buzzing with the aftermath of your orgasm. "I'm going to kill you," you muttered, though you both knew you didn't mean it.

Ellie just chuckled, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Get in line, babe."

[raitonsfw]

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Never again will you tolerate Eren's arrogant behavior- you said mindlessly as he pounded into you with a poisoned feeling running through your veins.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader, asshole!eren, doggy style, choking, bruises, hair pulling, dirty talk, begging, clit play, cumshot (on reader's back), rough p in v intercourse, dubcon, slight edging, implied second round, degrading names (slut, whore), he calls you baby once.

a/n: wrote this in maybe 30 minutes with nothing but slutty thoughts in my mind. wc: 600ish. v-day m.list | m.list

thirst count: 1

divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics

“Damn, you take dick so well…” You heard from behind you, the bed creaking from his momentum and… fucking never again. 

This was a one time thing– you couldn’t fucking do this again or else you’d scream. Eren Jaeger was such an asshole, but Mikasa swore him to be a sweetheart ‘once you got to know him.’ 

Yeah, sweetheart my ass as he pounded you from the back so harshly he left nasty bruises. His fingertips dug into you, blood welling to the surface as they marked your skin and you yelped, your cunt accidently squeezing his cock harder. Eren groaned at the feeling, his hips smacking even harder into you and you swore you heard him growl from the pleasure.

“Shit– too deep!” You whined out as he angled himself deeper, aiming to ram relentlessly into your cervix. All you got from him was a cruel laugh, his hands running up your back now to grasp at your hair and your neck. A strong arm held you in place by your throat, his fingers squeezing at just the right amount of pressure and his other hand yanked you back to look at him as he hovered over you now. 

“Too deep, huh? But ‘re moaning like a slut– shit…” His eyes rolled back as you tightened around him again, quiet whimpers escaping you as he pounded you with no remorse. His cock pulled all the way out each time, long broad strokes, as he fucked back in with low grunts leaving his throat. You couldn’t really see him, trying your best to turn to face him but his grip made it so hard and your vision blackened slightly as he choked you out. 

“Fuuuck, gonna cum baby–” Eren breathed out, his thrust growing sloppy as he chased his release and you wanted to cum too; you were so close, your pussy fluttering around him as you inched higher and higher but you knew he was going to pull out before you even had to chance to. 

And– yeah, there it was; his cock pulling out of you quickly– a sharp gasp falling from his lips as he painted your back white with his cum, some catching in your hair and you clenched around nothing with a desperate whine. Your fingers chased towards your clit, but a brutal hand stopped you. 

“Please, need to cum. Do something– anything.” You begged, arching your back as you breathed out a frustrated sigh. You swore you saw a pout from him– maybe he felt bad? You never knew with this fucker. 

“W-Wait a fucking second…” He gritted out and you felt your orgasm fleeing, dissipating as you pleaded for Eren to just fucking touch you. A few seconds later, his fingers brushed against your clit and you shuddered at the feeling with a quiet whimper. “You’re so goddamn needy…” 

You didn’t care what he said to you now, endless babbles of nonsense spilling from your lips as you rolled your hips against his circling fingertips. They tapped incessantly against your clit, his nails delicately scraping against it once in a while to get you to jolt at the hinted pain. You drooled into the pillow beneath you, your body quivering as you fell apart with a wanton moan; his name becoming the only thing you knew. 

Boy, was he fucking lucky that you even moaned his name this time around. Why did you ever listen to Mikasa– there was no way Eren Jaeger was a sweetheart. He was an asshole, through and through, his cock prodding into you once more as you came down from your high. 

“Aw, c’mon now… a whore’s gotta have her fill– wouldn’t want you getting loose for other men besides me…” 

[kleftiko]

❦ KITTEN PT. 2

cw: mature, mdni!, fem!reader, slight choking (like the most minuscule amount), p in v sex, unprotected sex

PART 1 | MASTERLIST

shota digs his phone out of his pocket, you still in his lap. he hits play on a song before tossing it to the other end of the couch. the music isn’t as loud as the club, but it’s something you can dance to.

“c’mon, kitten.” he pats your thigh for encouragement.

a part of your professionalism takes over as you start to move, his hands wander along your costume and you stand up in an attempt to free yourself but they stay stationed on you.

“i don’t normally allow customers to touch me.” your back is facing him, so you don’t notice his finger going under the elastic of your costume until he snaps it back against your skin.

you instinctively slap his hand away.

“the material’s cheap.” he says.

“excuse me?” you continue to dance.

he snaps at the elastic again and you turn to face him with a stern glare. he’s not looking at you, though. instead, his finger slips under the garter on your thigh this time. with one curl, he breaks the flimsy material.

“shota!” you gasp.

he chuckles deeply.

“you expect me to believe this would last longer than a set?”

“well people don’t come on stage and start breaking my shit.” your hand comes to his chest and he allows you to push him back against the couch.

“it’s not gonna work.” he says, maintaining his look.

you kiss your teeth at him.

“fine then.” you say and start to turn around. “i’ll just go take this off.”

his hand grabs your wrist as he stands, pulling your back into his chest once again.

“let me help,” he murmurs into your ear, pulling your ass back into his boner that you didn’t realize he had. he was getting you so worked up you didn’t even bother to check the effect you had on him. “you did such a good job, let me repay you.”

you tilt your head to the side, allowing his nose to brush against the skin on your neck.

“you think after annoying me like that you can just do what you want?”

his hands start exploring your body. one travels up to cup your throat over your collar, the other inches down to your panties that have become more exposed from your dancing.

a sound escapes you.

“this alright, kitten?” he asks, placing a hot kiss on your neck.

“of course, shota.” you hum and he placed some pressure on your neck, guiding you to face him. “s’about time you did something.”

he shakes his head slightly, planting a soft kiss on your lips to distract you from his finger circling your clit.

“should i apologize for treating you with respect?”

“only in the bedroom.” you whimper at the feeling of his fingers slowly becoming wet.

“or the living room.” he corrects, hand from your throat going to your hips to help stabilize you.

your arms go around his neck, kissing him desperately as he makes you fall apart on his fingers.

he doesn’t allow you to muffle your whines with his lips, pulling back just to make you chase him like you’ve been doing all this time.

“shota!” you cry as you begin to shake, just wanting his lips and his fingers and all of him. you were selfish and you didn’t care.

he just chuckled lowly and continued teasing you.

his fingers move quicker and harder, the slick that you dropped onto them helping him glide over your clit with ease. he brings you to your orgasm quickly, but you make the mistake of announcing it.

he removes his fingers.

you whine his name again, eyes closed and trying to get a sense of your surroundings again when shota pushes you onto the couch.

it’s only a small yelp you let out when your stomach makes contact—he would never hurt you.

and he pulls your hips towards him with one hand, the other pushing down on you to arch your back.

“that’s it, kitten.” he purrs. “is this finally what you wanted?”

you nod your head as best you can.

the sound of metal is muffled somewhat by the music you blocked out, but you definitely recognize the sound of a belt being undone.

that, along with the cool air on your pussy as he slides down your panties paints a pretty straightforward picture.

and you want to pinch yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.

without warning, shota slides in.

a strangled sound comes out from your lips, but he just takes that as a sign that he’s doing good.

his thrusts start slow, building up to faster and harder paced as you let the moans and whine freely exit your mouth. you can’t hold back how much pleasure this man is giving you. and all those times you touched yourself to the thought of him would never live up to the feeling of his cock stretching you cunt.

you gasp when his fingers move back to your clit, and his pattern starts getting unsteady as he’s harshly pounding into you and touching you so well.

his grunts and groans are mixing in with the sounds that you make, and it’s too hard to speak but you muster a “close, shota.”

“me too, kitten.” he huffs and your entire body tightens at the feeling over going over the edge.

you whine his name as you cum, but that just pushes shota to go harder, chasing his own orgasm.

he nearly screams your name as he releases into you. within a minute, he collapses, hands holding his body just over top of you and you feel his hot breath on your back.

he placed a soft kiss on your skin.

“let’s go to bed.” he says.

you don’t move, needing a minute to recover as you feel his cum start to slip out of you.

“mine?” you ask.

he laughs a bit.

“well mine is too far.”

[nyrandrea]

hiii I’d like to request (again if that’s ok, it’s me the one who asked for the injured ) but if so then may I ask for this time so what if everyone’s at camp all asleep when a few people sneak in and kidnap reader but Astarion wakes up hearing something wasn’t right seein what’s going on watches as reader disappears then ofc hunting them down to see them being used in an ritual all tied up and weak dndeueududid ( sorry it’s like 1:18am I’m laid awake thinking about random things 💀 )

Helloooo again! I enjoyed your last request and certainly had fun with this one too so thanks again! (1:18am is the best time for random thoughts :D )

Warnings for canon typical violence, kidnapping, rituals (kinda), blood and swears

Word Count - 2.9k

Enjoy!

xxx

Under the silvery embrace of the crescent moon, nestled within the heart of a tranquil forest, you and your companions had surrendered to the gentle clutches of slumber, a collective of soft snoring weaving its way through the rustling leaves and whispering trees. 

A clearing in the woods served as your base for the night after a long, grueling day of travelling. The grass beneath you was like a plush carpet, and a delicate blanket of dew kissed the blades, glistening like diamonds. The air was crisp, yet tender, cradling you in its nocturnal embrace. 

Your team had all gathered in a sort of semi-circle, heads pillowed upon hands or nestled into makeshift cushions fashioned from backpacks and rolled-up cloaks. You weren’t sure how or when, but throughout your sleep you had unconsciously rolled over and inched yourself closer to where Astarion lay, his delicious scent drawing you in. 

One could observe the group and note the serene expressions etched upon their faces. They appeared as though they were sculpted by dreams, their features softened by the embrace of rest. Your eyes fluttered beneath closed lids as you chased the remnants of recent adventures.  

Unfortunately for you, you were being observed. 

You flinched as the corner of your vision registered a goblin kneeling beside you, the tip of his dagger against your throat before you could even scramble for your own weapon. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you," he purrs, smiling smugly down at you. “Not if you want your friends to keep their innards intact.” 

Your eyes widen and dart over to where the rest of the group lay, completely oblivious to the goblins that threatened their very lives. You were even surprised to see Astarion still in a deep trance of meditation; he was usually so much more alert at night. 

“What do you want?” you whisper. 

“For you to come with us, true soul,” the goblin answered. “We are in desperate need of your... assistance.” 

‘Great,’ you thought. ‘Just what I need, more Absolute nutjobs.’ 

“Look, I don’t think I can help you.” 

“Oh, but you are the only one who can,” he retorts, slowly pulling the knife away from your throat. “It’s our leader, you see. She is gravely ill and only a true soul like yourself can cure her.” 

Your face scrunches up in disbelief. “If she’s ill, then it’s a healer you need, not me.” 

The goblin frowns. “It’s you she needs, she said so herself.” His blade edges closer to you once again, signaling for you to get up. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to come with us. Or am I going to have to resort to a bit of… persuasion?” 

He exchanges a glance with one of his men, who seemed all too giddy to slash Astarion’s neck. 

“No…!” You almost shout but restrain yourself so as to not alert the others and incur a massacre. “I-I’ll come with you, just... leave them be.” 

The goblin grinned up at you, and you had to force down the bile that was rising in your throat. 

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he crooned, gesturing for you to follow.  

You hesitate for a moment, your gaze darting between your weapon and the goblin, his eyes are trained on you, almost as if he was daring you to try. Ultimately, you were outnumbered, and they held the element of surprise over your companions. No matter which way you tried to cut it, there were going to be casualties if you didn’t do what you were told. 

So, you begrudgingly allowed yourself to be led into whatever hellish fate this cult of the Absolute had in store for you. A plan of escape would have to come later, when you were far enough away from your friends. 

Unbeknownst to you, one of them was already on your trail. 

xxx 

Amidst the shroud of night, when the moon hid its luminous face behind a thick blanket of heavy clouds, you and your merry little band of kidnappers ventured into a meadow cloaked in long, swaying grass. The air had an eerie stillness about it, broken only by the distant whispers of nocturnal creatures. 

As you traversed the meadow, moving with cautious steps, your feet sinking into the cool earth with each stride, you silently weighed up your options. The grass was like a sea of shadows, their whispers brushing against your legs like ghostly fingers; it would be so easy just to blend in and disappear. 

You would have considered it, if it were not for the worgs. 

The air was imbued with the scent of dew-drenched grass, but those beasts would still be able to track you down within seconds. Only... there were most certainly four of them the last time you checked. But looking around now, you only noticed two. 

It appeared the goblins had noticed too; their hushed conversations were like faint echoes in the vast expanse, mixing with the symphony of crickets and the occasional haunting call of a night owl. You couldn’t make out a damn word they were saying, but they looked nervous. 

“It would seem that we have a stalker in our midst,” the leader of the group growled, holding up a hand for everyone to come to a halt before he grabbed your wrist, forcing you down to his level. “Sod it, change of plan. You’re with me,” he commanded one of his men before turning to the rest. “You lot deal with the bastard while we take our friend here back to base.” 

“Hey!” You grabbed his wrist and tried to wrench yourself free. “Let go!” 

“With pleasure,” he grinned as he simultaneously released his grip and struck the back of your head with a blunt weapon, rendering you unconscious just as the ambusher seized the opportune moment. With lightning speed and calculated precision, he pounced from the grass, launching himself like a shadowy wraith. Long grass bent and swirled in his wake, mimicking the dance of phantoms. 

In that fleeting moment, you caught the glint of a blade unsheathed, reflecting a cold, silver streak in the night. Chaos ensued, and the long grass became a battleground, hiding the combatants in its tangled embrace.  

The clash of steel rang through the night, intermingling with the desperate cries of your name as you slipped away into darkness. 

The ambusher moved with ruthless determination; his scarlet eyes ablaze with a wild, unholy fervor. In the end, silence fell upon the meadow, broken only by the ragged breaths of the victorious, standing amidst the long grass, a solitary figure bathed in the haunting glow of the moon, his cloak billowing like a specter as he followed the trail of broken grass the other goblins had made as they carried your prone form away. 

 xxx 

The first thing you could feel was a pounding in your head. You try to sit up, to pull your knees up so you can curl up and settle the turning in your stomach. Slowly, your eyes opened as your breath sped up. 

You were lying on the dirty floor in the middle of some sort of temple, hardly able to move due to your wrists and ankles being bound by chains. You struggle to draw in shallow gasps as you blinked through the blurriness of tears that clung to your eyelashes. 

“What?” you whisper to yourself, wiggling to try and find an opening in the chains, trying not to hyperventilate as the bindings dug painfully into your skin the more you tried to move. 

You bite your lip as your mind races with ideas to escape, to get away from this place, to kill these people for having the audacity to kidnap you, to threaten your friends. 

Different scenarios play out repeatedly in your head, but the reality was that you were powerless to do anything. 

“Comfortable, are we?” 

A goblin slinked her way over to you from the shadows, she was unlike the crude and menacing stereotypes that often plagued her kind. She possessed an eerie, captivating beauty and moved with an uncanny grace; as sinuous as a serpent. Her skin, the color of moss, bore intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.  

Your skin tingled, hairs on the back of your neck prickling up as the goblin prowled behind your back to watch over your shoulder, her warm breath brushing behind your ear.  

“I do hope so - it is truly an unimaginable honor to have a true soul like yourself amongst us, especially one with such... soft, tender flesh.” 

A soft whimper pressed from your throat as warm hands slithered over your shoulders, kneading gently into tensed muscles. It sent a shudder down your spine, pressing your entire body in on itself.  

“No need to be so coy, dear,” she said. “We’ll be getting to know one another, after all. For what is to come.” 

Your lips pressed tight together as you swallowed down a knot in your throat, but your chin was forced up so that your eyes locked with hers. The symbol of the Absolute flashed on her face like a dazzling light, but no matter how much the tadpole wriggled and pulsed inside your head, nothing was happening. 

You held no authority here. 

“Those little mind tricks won’t work with me,” she sneered, pointing a clawed finger to her temple. “For I too, am a true soul. In fact, I am the one and only true soul!” 

“W-w-what do you mea-?” 

You were silenced with a hard slap. 

“You may not speak in my presence, worm,” the goblin growled. “Speaking of, I’ve got so many of the little buggers up there, I may as well be as powerful as the Absolute themselves!” She barked a laugh and grinned maniacally down at you. “And your parasite will make a fine addition to my collection.” 

‘Gods, this bitch is fucking crazy,’ you thought, but your mind immediately seized up and burned as she pried her way into it, and she was not too happy with your choice of words. 

“You haven’t even seen crazy yet,” she growled as she traced a claw down the side of your face, drawing a thin line of blood. “I think I’ll pry your worm out myself with my bare hands and make you watch as I consume it before we gut you and roast you on the spit with the rest of the pigs.” 

Strong hands took hold of your arms and legs and dragged you onto a slab of stone that had markings etched along the edges. You could just make out they were in Infernal—akin to the ones on Astarion’s back—but like his, you couldn’t decipher their meaning.  

You kicked, flailed and screamed in desperation, but you were soon silenced by the goblin as she wrapped her hands around your throat while the others formed a circle around you and started muttering some sort of ritualistic prayer. 

Your senses were dulling further by the second and a part of you wanted to give in to the pain, to just let yourself black out and fade away, but something within you pulsated with the will to live. To fight to your very last breath. Was this the parasite’s doing? Or was it something else? 

“Just give in to the Absolute, dear, "the goblin said, her tone almost sickeningly gentle. “You’ll be all the better for it.” 

“F...f...” 

“Aw, your last, dying words,” she purrs, leaning in closer to listen. “I will permit it.” 

“...Fuck you,” you spat. 

The goblin’s smug expression warps into one of pure fury, and she bares her teeth at you as she grabs a hold of your face with one hand, using the other to slowly inch her claws towards your left eye. Her hiss garbles into a shrill wheeze as a dagger is plunged into her back and through her chest several times, relentlessly. A stray drop of blood trails down her mouth as she screams silently before she is rolled away from you, her body plopping onto the ground with an unceremonious thump. 

You try to catch your breath, thanking whatever Gods were out there that they decided to spare you today. 

“Don’t thank them, darling, thank me,” a familiar voice teased, though his shaking voice betrayed his light tone. “They would have done bugger all, anyway.” 

A tiny, joyful laugh escapes from your raw throat as your eyes fall onto the welcome sight of Astarion, who seems just as relieved to see you.  

“Are you alright?” he asks, quickly approaching with what appeared to be a pair of bolt cutters. 

You nodded desperately, holding out your wrists. 

Astarion took a moment to get the teeth of the bolt cutters properly in place where they wouldn’t bite through the skin but snapped them together fairly easily. 

You shuddered a soft sob, relief dripping from your eyes as you rubbed at your wrists. Astarion didn’t wait for further instructions, you needed to move. 

He knelt by your feet, slotting one link of the chain between the thick metal teeth, then braced one handle against his thigh. It bruised and dug into the flesh of his leg, but he didn’t stop. 

The metal didn’t relent, but neither would he. 

“Astarion-”  

“Just... hold on, darling!” he says, pausing only briefly to give you a reassuring smile. “I’m no Lae’zel or Karlach; strength isn’t exactly my forte but I’ve... almost got it...!” 

Teeth grit, fueled by fear and desperation, Astarion pulled harder and harder, feeling the bruise work against the bone and listening to his back crackle at the strain. He shifted, readjusting – maybe one half of the link would be enough? It was dented – that was a good sign. 

You rested both hands on Astarion’s shoulders, steadying you both as he groaned under the effort. He jerked the handle to and fro, desperately trying to force the iron link to submit to iron teeth. 

With one final effort, the metal finally crunched, and you were free. 

Astarion’s arms encircled you with a strength that made you feel safe and cherished, while you nestled your head against his chest. 

“You... how did you...?” 

“I knew from the moment they took you,” Astarion said, smoothing down your arms, the motion was slow and helped calm you down a little. “I was, let’s say, aware of their presence in camp. But like you, I wanted to avoid a messy fight and so I tracked you down myself and... thank the gods I did.” 

“Guess they helped out a little, after all,” you weakly joked. 

“Oh shush,” he softly retorted. “It was fairly easy, what with that awful stench those creatures' reek of.” 

“So, it was you... in the meadow.” 

“It was,” he smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. “I almost had you, if only I’d been quicker, or less sloppy, you wouldn’t have...” 

His eyes, pools of worry and tenderness, never left your face. He reached out with a hand that trembled, his fingers brushing away strands of your disheveled hair. His touch was feather-light, as if he feared causing you any more discomfort. 

With a voice softer than a whisper, he asked, “Did… did they…?” The words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. 

“It’s okay,” you said, reaching out to caress his cheek. “I’m okay.” 

He nodded, his lips curling into a tender smile as he leaned into your touch. Gently, he began to inspect your injuries. His fingers traced the contours of your throat, seeking out any sign of any permanent damage. With each touch, he was meticulous, ensuring that he didn’t aggravate the forming bruise. 

"Does it hurt much?" he inquires softly, his expression unreadable, almost dazed. 

You wince slightly but shake your head. "It's bearable.” 

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're so, so strong, my dear," he whispers, his words a soothing balm to your wounded soul. 

 His soft gaze hardens as he glares down at the goblins' bodies that littered the room. “Death is too good for them. I’m almost tempted to have them revived so I can make them suffer just a little longer.” 

“How did you even manage to kill so many?” you ask, you knew he was a dab hand at killing but even he couldn’t take on a whole horde by himself. 

“They were all so engrossed in their little ritual, they didn’t even see me coming,” Astarion said with a shrug. “That’s what you get for blind faith, I suppose.” 

You wanted to laugh, but your throat hurt too much. 

“Come on, darling,” Astarion gently looped your arm around his shoulder and guided you, going as slow as your aching legs would allow. “Let’s get you home.” 

Your eyes met his in a gaze that transcended words, a silent conversation of empathy and understanding. In that moment, the world ceased to exist beyond the contours of your bodies, and the only reality was the sensation of skin against skin, the intoxicating scent of each other's presence, and the unspoken promise that he would never allow this to happen to you again. 

xxx

Links to my other Astarion works

Everything's Fine

Restless

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt2

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Part 1

I am posting this at almost 1am AND I have to get up early tomorrow to do work for class before the actual class haha I plan my time accordingly

I was going to make this chapter longer. I had an idea and I started to write it, but it just wasn't coming out like I wanted it to (bc I'm writing at 12am duh) so I'm gonna put that in another chapter

Warnings: mentions of torture, trauma, hints of paranoia, hints of self-deprecation

Word Count: 1,390

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

After a grueling battle yesterday, you chose to give everyone a day off. It gave them time to rest aching muscles, repair and sharpen weapons, relax. It gave you a chance to bathe.

You didn't neglect your hygiene, but most of the time, once camp was set up, the sun would be dipping below the horizon. On those days, you'd run into the water, scrub the gunk out of your hair and get out, back to the safety of company before the first stars faded in. Now that you had the chance, you weren't going to squander it.

Once you were certain you were alone - an uncomfortable thought soothed only by the sun filtering in through the canopy above - you stripped down and waded into the water. It was cool, but not unpleasantly so. You wasted no time scraping the dirt and blood off your skin.

Once you cleaned your body within an inch of its life, you ducked your head under the water and scrubbed at your hair and scalp. It was disgusting - you could only imagine the smell your companions had put up with this last week. You were just so happy you were clean. Your hair was smooth as water soaked it through, no knots or clumps of blood to be found. As you squeezed out the excess water, you caught your reflection between the ripples. In moments where it stilled enough, you could see the scar on your neck. It was still deep and prominent, but it was beginning to heal. It'd never healed before.

"Enjoying yourself?"

You nearly shrieked when you turned, sinking into the water up to your neck for protection. Astarion chuckled at your reaction.

"Would it kill you to stop sneaking up on me?"

"I was practically stomping like an ogre, dear, it's hardly my fault you weren't paying attention." You shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. It was your fault you let your guard down. In the day, you were safe from (most) vampires, but there were any number of things ready to attack at any moment. "Mind if I join you?"

You shake your head, but you're already wading to shore to grab your clothes. "No, go ahead. I'm done."

"Leaving already?" You nod, not making eye contact. "I won't look, darling, if that's what's got you so flustered."

You pause mid reach for your shirt as he removes his, placing it haphazardly on a rock by the water's edge. His pants came next and you looked away until you heard the water sloshing around him.

"Though, I don't mind if you look," he teased, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before he got to work cleaning himself.

Gods, if he could hear the way your heart raced... You peek over, just a glance, before you look back at your clothes. But then you're looking again.

An intricate scar of circles, lines, and curved symbols marred his back. You feel your throat close just looking at it. You'd been forced to watch spawn and slaves alike punished by the cracking of a whip. Forced to keep your eyes forward by a hand on your jaw as the leather snapped and tore into their skin. This was worse. This was deliberate.

"Did..." You swallow, forcing your voice not to crack with the sorrow you felt for him. "Did your master do this?"

He hummed, continuing to wash his arms as though you'd asked him about the weather. The only hint it bothered him at all was the way his muscles tensed and the disdain in his voice. "Cazador," he spat. "He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas." His movements slowed to a stop. "He composed and carved that one over the course of a night. He made... a lot of revisions as he went."

You couldn't stop staring. Your mind kept replaying the torture you witnessed, but it replaced their cries with Astarion's voice. You hated to be so lucky. To be so fortunate that your master wanted you to look absolutely perfect and unmarked. You never received physical punishment. You were too precious.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, shakily. "If I could, I'd..." What? Remove the markings forever? Take away his pain and suffering? Go back and change everything so he never had to be a puppet? You couldn't do anything. You can't help. You can't remove that pain. All you can do is witness the aftermath.

He sighed and ducked his head so he could wash his hair. Drops of water slid down his back, only drawing your eyes in further. “It won’t matter when we get to Baldur’s Gate. I’m going to kill that bastard for everything he did to me.”

You know you should leave. Put on your clothes and slink away. But… being around Astarion isn’t entirely unpleasant. You’re still a little scared of him - of what he could do, but you trust him enough to believe he wouldn’t do those things. He probably understood your plight better than anyone else.

So, you slide down into the water until you’re resting on your knees in the silt. It doesn’t quite cover your neck unless you duck deeper in. You want to hide the scar, the damn mark showing everyone else who - or rather, what you belonged to. But it felt wrong to try hiding it when Astarion was fully showing you his.

“I never asked who your master was.” He turns his head slightly, eyes just barely catching sight of you. He did promise he wouldn’t look, after all. “Where she…” He waved a hand noncommittally and scowled. “Rules.”

Her eyes flash in your mind, wicked and burning. You almost flinch just thinking about them. When you speak her name, your voice trembles. “Kir Parthene. I… don’t remember where she lives. It’s been years since I’ve even been outside - I must have forgotten.”

He slowly turns, giving you time to tell him to turn back again, but you don’t. You watch him through a fog of memories. “How long were you enslaved?”

It’s harder to answer than you thought it would be. Time begins to blur when you can’t tell if it’s night or day, when everything is fuzzy and incoherent because you never had enough blood to think straight. Sometimes she’d feed and then leave you for days. Others, she never wanted to stop feeding - drinking from you morning and night before you ever got a chance to recover. You were a slave to her hunger - time never mattered.

“I was… 16 when I was taken.” You wrap your arms around yourself. Safe. “I don’t even remember home. My parents… I’m all alone.”

He’d never heard your voice so small before. You weren’t the most demanding leader, but you could still bark commands when things were getting rough. You even held yourself well in conversation, shutting down lopsided deals or uncomfortable topics with all the authority of a royal guard. It was easier, seeing you like this, to imagine your life in servitude. Meek and quiet.

“That’s not entirely true.” He kneeled in the silt a few feet from you, smirking. “You have us for as long as this adventure lasts, as long as we don’t transform into tentacled Mind Flayers.”

“And then after that?” He shifts uncomfortably at the question. “Everyone will go their separate ways, and when you do I’m a sitting duck. I’ll be captured again. Used again.”

You trail off, but the weight of your words sit heavy. You’ll never be free. You could help everyone else with their quests, help them free themselves from what ties them down, help them get stronger - but the same couldn’t be done for you. Without knowing where your master lives, there’s no way to seek her out and kill her, too.

The water is too cold now. The cool summer breeze only freezes you more. Astarion watches as you get up and slink back over to your clothes. He looks away before he can see anything you wouldn’t want him to. In no time at all, your clothes are back on and you’ve pulled on your boots. But before you walk away, you turn to him. Your eyes are so sad.

“Thank you. For… showing me.” He says nothing. So you head back to camp. Alone.

---

Tag List:

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[sluttywonwoo]

[1:47 a.m.]

hwang hyunjin x f!reader

smut 18+ (unprotected sex)

“oh god,” hyunjin whines against the column of your throat. the words, spoken softly, tickle as he breathes them into your skin. goosebumps follow his lips as he works his way down your neck, kissing you wherever he pleases. you lean into the feeling of his mouth on you, wanting it to last forever.

“i’m not going to last.” he confesses, stilling his hips before he’s even really begun.

his admission makes you moan and wrap your legs even tighter around his waist. you aren’t going to last very long either at this rate, not with your boyfriend already on the verge of whimpering in your ear. it’s only been a couple of days since you fucked but it feels like ages.

any amount of time away from hyunjin feels like an eternity. you thought you’d be over it by now. you thought it would pass, or at the very least dim, like a well-loved dress that’s been through the laundry time and time again, faded from years of wear. you’ve waited for the colors to start to bleed from the fabric, but they haven’t. even after all this time.

“just don’t look at me,” you try, your own voice barely above a squeak.

“i’m not looking at you,” hyunjin groans. no wonder he’s got his head buried in the crook of your shoulder. “it’s not enough.”

“don’t think about me, then.”

“you know i can’t do that.”

“sure you can!”

“no, it’s literally impossible. every time i try, you’re all i can think about.” he sighs, lifting his head tentatively and blinking you into focus. “fuck, that was a mistake,” he swears. “we need to start fucking in complete darkness.” you roll your eyes at him but he just shakes his head like you’d never be able to understand the effect you have on him. as if he doesn’t have the same effect on you.

he isn’t even moving but you’re right there on the edge too. and when he opens that filthy mouth of his—

“how can anyone feel this perfect? how can anyone look that pretty all ruined and fucked out?” he draws his hips back and pushes in again. it’s agonizingly slow, for both of your sakes, but it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head nonetheless. “always take me so fucking well, baby. always get so wet for me, yeah? making the prettiest faces when i slide into you…. i swear every inch of my cock i give you makes me fall in love with you all over again—”

you moan, unable to help the way you clench around him. “jinnie, stop, i’m seriously going to cum if you keep talking.”

“don’t…” he pleads “because if you cum, i’ll cum, and then this’ll be over way faster than either of us want it to be.”

you’re holding onto his biceps for dear life, trying to anchor yourself even though he himself if shaking, but it’s too late. “i can’t stop it— fuck, i’m trying but i can’t!”

hyunjin accepts his fate while you’re still fighting yours and gives you a few quick thrusts to push both of you over the edge. you don’t need anything on your clit to get you there this time, but being the gentleman that he is, hyunjin frees up one of his hands so that he can make you cum ever harder by circling it with his thumb.

“atta girl, let go.”

[gravehags]

Hello!!

Would you be willing to do a NSFW continuation of the Cardinal Copia book club one you did??

If so that would be awesome!! If not no biggie!! 😃

i had way too much fun with this oh my god. also jumped through many hoops to get this posted while the internet is out at my house lmao. enjoy!

part 1 here

~~~

For all your confidence leading up to this event, you sure are filled with doubt.

You arranged to have the seminary classroom all to yourselves, a nice cozy little rendezvous for your and your sweet Cardinal to discuss your book. Gnawing on your lower lip and wringing your hands anxiously, you groan. Would he be angry when he found out this club was only comprised of the two of you? Would he be frightened off? He was such a skittish little thing, always gesticulating and hurrying around the abbey. You adored that about him. You're halfway through a sigh when a knock happens at the door behind you. Right on time, you think as you steel yourself and open the door. He's wearing the red cassock today - your favorite - as he stands there gripping his book and gazing at you with such infatuation it makes your heart melt. Fuck you wanted him.

"Good evening, sorella," he begins, sidestepping you to enter the classroom, "eh, I'm the first one here!"

"Uh-huh," you confirm with a bright smile, hand on his lower back to usher him to a seat. "Punctual as always, Cardinal. Tell me, what did you think of the first chapter?"

"Shouldn't we eh…shouldn't we wait for the others to arrive?"

"The others…right. I'm uh...afraid it's just us tonight Cardinal."

He regards you with a peculiar gleam in his eye.

"I have you all to myself then, don't I?" he purrs with a level of seduction you hadn't expected from him, and it shows from the way your cheeks flush. Oh this is going to be fun.

"And I, you," you murmur, reaching a hand up to brush along his bicep, delighting when you see a shiver ripple through him, "I've always been fond of you Cardinal."

"H-have you?" he chirps, setting his book down and removing his biretta, placing it on top of his book. "Perhaps you should know then..."

"Mmhmm?" your hand continues to toy with the wool of his cassock as you bring yourself closer to him. Close enough to see the freckles that spatter across his cheeks and long nose.

"I have you right where I want you," his steady voice and the sinister grin that curls his lips make your jaw drop in shock but before you can say anything, do anything, he’s on you like a man starved. His lips slam into yours, tongue sliding into your gasping mouth as he backs you against the desk at the front of the room. It takes you a few seconds but the feel of his gloved hand gripping your hip through the thin black material of your habit makes you moan into his mouth.

He's delighted as he grins against your lips, the fine hairs of his mustache tickling you. When he pulls back to lay a line of fiery open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and throat, you're finally able to speak.

"H-how..how did you know?"

He chuckles into your neck, pushing his hips into yours so you can feel the curve of his cock through the abundant fabric he currently wears.

"Not quite as shy and awkward as everyone thinks, eh sorella? All but ignored - except by you. Oh I saw the way you looked at me from the moment you stepped foot into this abbey."

He pulls away for a moment, only to spin you around, one hand inching the fabric of your habit up your leg and over your hip. When his fingers dance along the waistband of your underwear, the breath is knocked from your lungs and he laughs against your hair.

"How long have you wanted your Cardinal, sorella?" he asks as he cups the wet heat of you. "How long have you wanted this poor, little, strange old man to fuck you?"

His fingers slide in and tease you open, making you sigh and lean back against his chest.

"Always, Cardinal," you breathe, "it was always you. No one else."

He rewards your candidness by circling your clit, the leather gliding through your slick with ease.

"Dolcezza,” he groans, grinding his cock against the curve of your ass. "Mi lasci avere te? Give yourself to me. Let me make you mine and you will want for nothing."

When two fingers dip down to tease at your entrance you cry out, arching backwards against him.

"Yes! I'm yours Cardinal, make me yours, please.”

He's got you bent over the desk within seconds, rucking your habit up over your hips and your underwear down them. He murmurs in Italian - you don't catch much of it - as you hear him curse while lifting his own garment. You cant your hips back to present yourself to him and grin lazily when you hear him fussing with the zipper of his trousers.

When he finally frees himself and guides the head of him along your slit, you moan wantonly.

"So wet for your Cardinal," he breathes, soaking his cock in your slick before prodding at your entrance. You nod through your haze of pleasure, mouth falling open as he pushes his thick length into you.

You don't know what you expected of him but he's big - delightfully so - and you keen aloud at the way you stretch around him. Your arms are already shaking as they support your body and he reaches around to tilt your head his direction.

"Ti benedica, preferita tra le sorelle."

"Thank you, Cardinal," you gasp and he rewards you by sliding out of you then slamming back in with such force you nearly collapse. He sets a steady but deep pace, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises, panting and mouthing at your shoulder. Each movement within you brings you closer to not only your beloved Cardinal but the Olde One himself, His light filling you up just as surely as Copia’s cock. You've never had a coupling like this and you plan to tell him so as soon as you've regained your senses. Streams of filth slip from the Cardinal's lips as he ruts into you, each thrust more powerful than the last.

"So fucking tight," he growls, sliding a hand down your spine, "I've w-waited so long for this. What d-delicious temptation you have provided. My mind has been f-filled with how your cunt would feel."

“I'd--ah!" You attempted to respond but the speed with which he fucks you now makes your eyes roll back in your skull. "I'd fuck myself to the t-though of you since that f-first day. Don't stop, please don’t stop."

Your confession and demand only spurs him on, cock slamming inside of you repeatedly and hitting that sweet spot you never seemed able to reach on your own. Your moans echo through the classroom and you know others outside can hear you but all you can care about right now is the man standing behind you giving you the most intense pleasure of your life. When you come undone, gushing over his cock, you let out a wail and reach a hand behind you to grasp at your Cardinal's hair. The tugging of your fingers on his greying brown strands is enough to push him over the edge and he comes with a shout, filling you up in spurt after spurt. When you finally relinquish your grip on his hair, your body sags against the desk, arms finally giving way. Your Cardinal has you though, arm wrapped around your middle to bring you close to him.

"Divino,” he pants into your ear before placing a kiss at your temple.

You nod dumbly as his cock slips out of you and his cum slides down the insides of your thighs to gather at the tops of your stockings. His gaze briefly follows its path with a glint of hunger in his eyes but ultimately he lowers your habit and turns you around to face him. When your eyes meet his, a goofy little smile makes his mustache twitch and you're reminded why you like him so much.

"Take me to bed, Cardinal," you request with a goofy smile of your own. His expression becomes deathly serious all of a sudden.

"But sorella, our book club.”

[acourtofidiots]

Kinktober Day 1: Breeding & Creampie [Rhysand]

DAY ONE LETS GO!!!! Honestly, I've been super super behind on writing for Kinktober and this is probably going to be the longest piece I'm going to write. Between work, and my ADHD meds on backorder, my attention has been GONE every time I try and sit down to write, so hopefully I can at least get a few things going on my days off so I don't have to scramble together and fall behind on prompts.

warnings: breeding kink, creampie, dirty talk, inappropriate use of daemati powers (idk the word for this lol)

Kinktober masterlist | askbox | main masterlist

18+ ONLY

“Cauldron, you looked absolutely ravishing tonight, my love,” Rhysand purrs, teasing the tip of his cock along your drenched folds. You whined, wiggling your hips back to get some friction, but your mate tuts, holding you still with a hand on your hip. 

“Patience, my dear Y/N.” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, the damn male knowing how weak his teasing made you.

“Rhys,” you whined, voice catching in your throat when he started to tap his cock against your clit. “Please!”

“Please, what?” Your mind was spinning, and it took your energy to respond to him. 

“P-please, I need your cock so badly. ‘M so empty it hurts!” And with that, he slides into you, one glorious inch at a time, moaning at your slick walls clenching. 

The world is holding its breath, anxiously awaiting for the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court to make their move, show Pyrthian the power they have over their court. Your hands clench at the quilt, nails digging in to restrain yourself from wiggling your hips. 

“Oh, my darling,” Rhysand breathes as he places feather-light kisses up your spine before gently biting the crook where your neck and shoulder meet. “I cannot wait to fuck a child into you, have you practically dripping at the end of the night with my seed.” 

You clenched at his filthy words and could feel his claws tap at your mental shield. You let it down briefly, only to be shown what he was thinking: You, your arms holding a small bundle of joy as Rhysand chases another child around the House of Wind. Your heart swelled at the sight of your mate scooping the child up with a laugh and placing a kiss on their head. The two turn towards you, and Rhysand takes your child’s small hand in your direction. 

You groan at the sight as your mate retreats from your mind, hips slowly thrusting in and out of you. “Rhysie, please. I need your cum. I need to cum on your cock.” You could practically feel yourself start to shake the longer he kept his leisurely pace. It would be a matter of moments before you grew frustrated and would take matters into your own hands. 

Teeth grazed your neck, the dragging of his cock against your sensitive walls was driving you more and more out of your mind, and you didn’t know how much longer you could take. “Hold on tight, darling.” 

You practically exploded when his pace increased tenfold, the lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and groans filled the air, and you were thankful to have a place of your own. You wouldn’t hear the last of Cassian’s teasing if he walked in. 

You could feel the telltale signs of your orgasm, your hands digging into the blankets beneath you, walls clenching around your mate’s cock that was hitting the right spot over and over again. But it all came crashing down the moment you felt Rhysand bring his fingers down to swipe over your clit once before rubbing it in harsh circles. 

“Come, Y/N. I want you to come for me. Let me fill you up,” Rhys groans, and you let out a particularly loud moan at his words. “Let me put a baby in you.” The world comes crashing down around you, waves of pleasure flying through your veins as you come undone. Your mind was racing, unable to comprehend your mate reaching his own peak and shooting his load deep inside you. 

The room was silent for a moment. Only your collective pants filled the air as you both took time to come down from your highs. Placing a kiss on your bare shoulder, your mate pulls back, and you whimper as his cock slips from your sore pussy. 

“Shh, it’s ok, my darling.” You hear him coo behind you before you feel calloused hands grip your cheeks and pull them apart, watching a mixture of your releases slowly drip down your thighs. He sucks in a breath before slowly inserting two fingers back into you, making sure to press as deep as he could. 

“Can’t let anything escape,” Rhys purrs, and you shiver. 

[myosotisa]

Old Heart - Part 1 - Barely

‖ chapter summary: Faced with tragedy, you are forced to travel across the country with a series of people you barely know in order to reunite with your only remaining family. The second leg of your journey, and your traveling companion for it, promises to be way more than you bargained for.

‖ tags: enemies to lovers, age gap (41 and 25), forced proximity, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, HEA, "zombie" apocalypse, reader uses she/her pronouns, no y/n, no physical description given, minors dni

‖ chapter warnings: death of a parent, gun violence, grief, existential dread

‖ word count: 8.3k

‖ ao3 ‖ masterlist ‖ tag list request ‖ next ‖

Tuesday, August 9th, 2016 – Quantico, Virginia - 13 years Post-Outbreak

Out of everything you’ve learned in life, you know without a doubt that it really only takes one moment to change everything.

One moment, you’re walking through a safe zone you’ve lived in for the last 10 years with your dad. It’s a normal Tuesday morning and the two of you are on your way to the mess hall for breakfast. It’s the only time you have to see him because he normally works late on the base. So, despite your hate for mornings, you got up, met your dad in the hallway of your tiny apartment, he’d hold out his arm and you’d loop yours through it before going on your way together. It’s a routine, same time everyday. Has been for years. And today is no different. It’s raining lightly but the sun still shines. You wonder if you might catch a rainbow after you’ve had your eggs.

The next, you’re on your knees in the mud. There’s blood on your hands. There are people scattering, ducking for cover, running and crying out in fear. Your whole body trembles as you reach out toward the prone form in front of you. The familiar tan of his sunkissed skin. The smattering of freckles across his collarbone and up his neck. Your eyes, the ones everyone said matched perfectly, staring straight up into the sky. Unseeing. A bullet hole completes a 3 point triangle with them as they dull.

The one after, there are hands dragging you away from him, through the mud, through the crowd. You’re kicking and you’re screaming but you can’t even hear it past the shot still ringing in your ears. Armed guards descend, reaching to check for a pulse. As if someone could survive a shot like that. They circle like vultures to a carcass.

You lose sight of the gathering crowd as you’re dragged around a corner and pushed up against a wall. Every instinct in your body screams run, fight, lunge, survive but there’s a forearm to your throat and a single finger on your lips. When you blink away the tears, Helen is there. She works with your dad, you’ve had dinner with her more than a few times. Her eyes are bloodshot, her breathing heavy as she presses you to the wall with her entire body. The pressure and the brick digging into your back ground you for the moment.

“We need to get out of here, now.” Her voice is a soft hiss, her eyes darting toward corners and through alleyways. She’s anxious for sure, maybe even afraid. “You’re not safe here.”

There are a million questions you want to ask. What happened, how did someone get past the defenses, what are they going to do with him, how is she here, how did she know, what is she so afraid of. They all get lodged in your throat in a chokehold worse than the one she’s applying, the only sound that comes through is a broken sob.

Her posture folds then, taking an inch back and moving both hands to cradle your jaw. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I know. But we need to go. There’s no time.” Her thumbs wipe across the tears on your cheeks as she holds you just a bit tighter. Like that’s the only way to keep you together. “Do you understand?”

You don’t understand. Not at all. There is not a single thing that you currently understand. But you nod and let her hold your hand anyway. You follow her through side streets away from the mess hall. Away from your life as you know it.

Here one moment – gone the next.

Saturday, August 13th, 2016 – Louisville, Kentucky

“I really think you’ll like him, he’s still the coolest guy I know. Always has been.”

This is your 3rd time meeting Dustin Henderson. You’d been deposited into his care (mostly against your will) 3 days ago. The only thing he had going for him as a traveling companion is his bright smile and infectious enthusiasm. He’d accepted your silence with the ease of someone who was used to running their own conversations, even seemed excited just to have a new audience, no matter how little you participated. If you were being honest, you were grateful for the noise.

“I think this is the 7th time today you’ve said that I’ll like him.” You hear what you think is him huffing, but you’re too focused on tossing a stress ball into the air above you to bother looking over. You’re laying on a brick wall outside of St. John’s United Church of Christ, a few miles from where you and Dustin had slept for the night. “Why a church, anyway? There must be a million other potential drop off points in this place.”

“Dunno, Eddie always wants to meet at churches. Maybe because they’re normally pretty big and recognizable.”

The ball drops into your hand and you lower your elbows to rest, turning your head toward him with a small frown. “He a man of God or something?”

Dustin lets out a snort of amusement, his curls wobbling from where they stick out underneath his hat. “Definitely not.” He offers you another bright smile before he returns to scanning your surroundings. You would assume from his demeanor that he’s goofy – well intentioned, undisciplined. But you’ve seen how he wields the shotgun slung across his torso, how he seems to be able to hear things you’d think impossible, how he navigates through the ruined cityscapes of his domain with ease. He’s sharp as a whip and not afraid to get his hands dirty. A clever disguise of prey to lure in predators. He’s a part of this team for a reason after all.

Struggling to sit up with a groan, you lean forward to drape your forearms over your knees. “So, how much does he know?”

“About?” Dustin pauses, then shifts toward you when you don’t reply. All you offer is a loaded look, waiting for him to catch on to what you’re really asking. His eyebrows draw together in confusion before it appears to hit him. “Oh. Well. He knows you’re Robin’s sister.”

“Half-sister,” you correct easily.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “He knows you’re Robin’s half-sister and he’s tasked with getting you from point A to point B.”

“So nothing, is what he knows. Absolutely nothing.”

Dustin’s arms, brushed with dirt and a subtle sheen of sweat, cross over his chest as he leans further back against the wall you’re sitting on. “Yeah, I guess.” It’s your turn to roll your eyes as you pull your pack into your lap, digging through for your water bottle. “Listen,” you make a noise to let him know you’re paying attention, “you know it’s not my call who knows. Nancy decides when to bring people in.”

Immediately, you dig your palms into your eyes in frustration, rubbing in tight circles and unable to keep the tension from leaking out into your tone. “Why does everyone just do whatever Nancy says? Who the fuck even put Nancy Wheeler in charge?”

“Your dad did,” he replies, as if it isn’t an absolute punch to the gut. As if it doesn’t make fire burn up your throat and beg to burst from between your lips in a scream. He seems to recognize it soon after he says it, and decides the best way to move on is to sit in an awkward and tense silence for the next 30 minutes. Which is fine. Whatever. Works for me.

In fact, the next time he makes any sound or movement at all, he’s shifting forward, primary hand gripping his shotgun. “Dustin?” He holds out a hand for you to stop as his head tilts a bit down, his eyes closing to focus. You search the area visually and listen hard to see if you can get even an inkling of what he’s hearing. Coming up short, you simply watch as he trots down the small set of stairs between you and the street, directing his weapon west. You flounder, trying to decide if you should hide or pull your own pistol.

Just as you’re about to roll off the wall to duck behind it, a long whistle rings out. 4 distinct tones that echo past the debris of nearby fallen buildings and through the gothic architecture of the church behind you. Dustin’s posture immediately softens, his gun lowering slowly as he repeats the whistle back, adding an extra note at the end. He turns back, taking the steps two at a time as he returns to where you're sitting. “Your new babysitter is here.”

“Dustin, I swear to God, that’s not funny, and I will break your fingers.”

He barks a small laugh until he catches sight of your glare, then quickly raises his hands in surrender with a muttered apology. You’re about ready to continue to tear into him when you see a figure in black appear in the corner of your eye.

You’ve heard a lot of stories about Eddie Munson over the years, most you doubt are true, but have never actually met the guy. You know he's a little bit older than Steve, putting him in his early 40s. He’s been running the smuggling train through Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, and Arkansas for close to 10 years. He’d been part of Hopper’s original team, loosely connected via radio and scattered across North America. While you’d heard more about him in the last 2 days from Dustin than you had the entire rest of your life, you know he worked with Robin, Steve, Nancy, and your dad already. While you couldn’t say you’d ever stopped to wonder what he looked like, it definitely was not this.

But walking out from behind a solitary pillar, it couldn’t have been anyone else. A pair of dusty blue jeans and black boots, a red flannel tied around his hips, a white t-shirt that almost shines from how bright the sun beats down, a black biker jacket layered over it. His near-black hair is pulled back behind his head and, despite having a pair of aviators on, he still raises a hand to block the sun from his eyes as he surveys the area. When he catches sight of the two of you, his arm swings down to his side and he begins his approach. You watch carefully – studying his gait, the length of his legs, the broadness of his shoulders, the narrow waist tucked beneath leather. He’s tall, lean, strong. Intimidating, even without any weapons visible on his person. While Dustin is a predator disguised as prey, Eddie is a wolf, plain and simple.

Your sweaty palms press to the dusty, sun bleached concrete on either side of your knees as you face him. Dustin meets him halfway, arms wrapping around torsos to clap on backs as they exchange a happy greeting. While you had become very aware of Dustin’s fondness for Eddie over the last few days, you’re still surprised to see the affection returned in almost equal measure. By all appearances, the older is gruff, unapproachable, untouchable. But he still hits the underside of Dustin’s cap to knock it off, and, when the younger dips to reach for it, loops an arm around his neck to ruffle his unruly hair. They start elbowing each other and pushing lightly, messing around like brothers and acting half their age. Acting like there isn’t an apocalypse, isn’t a war, isn’t death all around them.

It’s hard to believe something like that is still possible. Relationships like that still exist.

Dustin is pulling Eddie back toward you before you’re ready for it.

“And this is your package to deliver,” Dustin offers with a grin, ignoring the hard glare you send him once again. Eddie raises the sunglasses from his eyes and it takes everything in you to stay firm as he studies you just as you had studied him. This close, you can see a bit more – the bits of gray woven into the dark waves of his hair, the sun-creased laugh lines that remain despite his neutral expression, a scar that arches down the corner of his lower lip and chin, disappearing into the subtle fuzz of a salt and pepper shadow across his jaw. But you mostly get caught on his eyes. They’re youthful in appearance: wide, bright, and a rich, beautiful shade of warm umber. Despite the crow’s feet that arch out beside them, if you’d looked at his eyes alone, you’d assume he was your age and no older.

“Hey,” he seems to finish his study of you first, offering nothing more than a slight head tilt of acknowledgement before his aviators hit the bridge of his nose again and he redirects back to Dustin. “So I get her from here to Three Corners, right? When are they expecting us?”

Doesn’t even ask your name or anything. Like you weren’t even there. Like you weren’t even a person, just a package to be delivered. Dustin doesn’t seem to notice as he whips out his map and they discuss the route the two of you will be taking so the younger can report it back to Colorado when he gets home. The frustration boils in the base of your gut again, a bubbling pool of lava that is desperate to erupt.

“We’re gonna have to stop in Memphis for a day or two,” Eddie explains, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck with his palm as they look over the map.

“And why’s that?” You cut in, some of the heat invading. Both men look toward you, as if just realizing you’re still there, before Dustin finally acknowledges your question.

“Memphis is Eddie’s base of operations. The two of you can get some actual sleep, bathe, and stock up for the rest of the trip there.” Eddie grunts an affirmative, back to facing away from you and leaning over the map Dustin has spread over a concrete pillar.

Your tongue presses against your cheek in annoyance, staring hard at the sun-faded leather that drapes over his back. “So how long until the next hand off?”

This seems to humor him, a small laugh huffing out of his nose as he shifts back toward you and lowers his sunglasses. “Desperate to get rid of me already?” There’s a bit of a tease in his tone that makes the boil bubble faster, the tension in your jaw getting tighter. Without waiting for an answer, he grabs the map and slaps it down next to you. “4 days to Memphis,” his finger tip touches the paper map, dirt under his nails, and drags from Louisville to the southwest corner of Tennessee. “2 or 3 days in Memphis to stock up. Then another 4 or 5 days to Three Corners.” Before you can really see where Three Corners is, he’s folding the map back up into its usual rectangles and holding it toward Dustin. “So I’ll be outta your hair and you’ll be outta mine in 14 days max.”

Your former partner gapes at him, taking the map and slowly drawing it back towards his chest with a dropped jaw. “Eddie, come on-”

“Jeez Henderson,” you interrupt with full disdain, hopping off your perch and wiping the dust off your clammy hands, “this is the guy you were so excited for me to meet? Whatta riot.”

This, finally, gets a reaction out of Eddie. Strong eyebrows raise as his head tilts, gaze hard on you as you turn away toward your backpack. “Listen, I don’t know what you think this is supposed to be, but it’s not a fucking field trip. I don’t care who you are or who you’re related to. We’re not going to be friends. I’m going to get your privileged ass from here to where it needs to go, alive mind you, and you’re going to shut up and do what I say.”

Steam billows out of your nose as you whirl back toward him, hands clenching into fists at your sides. “Privileged? Field trip? Look man, I get you’re old, but this complex that’s radiating off of you is really a bit delusional. We get it, you’re so seasoned and experienced and that makes you so much better than everyone else. I feel like I’m about five seconds away from getting ‘y’know back in my day’d.”

His own jaw sets tight as his neutral expression falls into a sharp glare. “You fucking brat, I should just-”

“HEY.”

Dustin’s voice isn’t loud – not when anything or anyone could be nearby and hear, but the volatile nature makes it feel as though it should be a scream. Both your and Eddie’s mouths snap shut as you face him, his cheeks flushed with something that looks like embarrassment. “Is this going to be a problem? I thought you were both adults.”

A scoff. “I dunno, is she actually legal?”

A glare. “Does a senior citizen count as an adult?”

“Guys.” Dustin looks furious. You aren’t sure if you’ve ever actually seen him mad. “I don’t need a guarantee that you two are going to be friends. I don’t care, actually. You can both be stubborn idiots if you want to be. But I do need a guarantee that you won’t get each other killed.”

A harsh silence falls over you all like a blanket of fresh snow. You’re fully capable of putting your sudden negative feelings toward your new escort aside to get through the next 2 weeks. Making a fast enemy out of anyone you meet isn’t the best way to go about life in this world, but making friends isn’t exactly a great idea either. If he can keep his ego in check, you can easily make it through 2 weeks of silence and then forget about each other at the end of it.

The two of you make eye contact again, the shape of his eyes barely showing through the tint of the lenses. A silent appraisal. Can I trust you? And the answer looks to be a resounding: When pigs fly.

“We’ll be fine.” Eddie answers first, breaking away from your gaze to look over at Dustin again. “Haven’t died yet, have we?”

The younger looks at you, like he also wants your word on if this will work out. As if you have a choice in the matter.

“All good, boss,” you offer with a half-assed salute and smile before shouldering your pack with a huff. “On the road we go.”

Eddie gives a stiff nod then claps Dustin on the back once more as he passes. “I mean it, you guys,” Dustin continues as he holds out a hand to you. “If she ends up dead, Steve and Robin will kill you. And if you get him killed, Max will hunt you down.”

“Not going down without a fight, Henderson,” Eddie’s cocky grin is back, the tension that built quickly between the two of you immediately pushed to the side. “Don’t worry about us.”

He begins to walk back the way he came, motioning over his shoulder for you to follow, while you give Dustin one last pleading look. “And get home safe to Sally, okay?”

Dustin nods, hitting the brim of his hat with a finger. “Will do. Check in when you get to Memphis.”

All you do is wave back at him as you scamper to catch up with Eddie before he disappears back into the debris he emerged from. You keep your eyes on the wiry bun of hair at the base of his skull as you follow in his footsteps, leading you in the direction the sun will inevitably set at day’s end.

Very little is exchanged between you and Eddie over the next 3 days. As soon as you’re out of Louisville city limits, he leads you to where he stashed an old pickup truck. It won’t have gas to last even a few hours, but with some luck, there will be enough to scavenge along the way. You offer to trade off driving, explaining you’d learned on the base, but he says it won’t be needed.

Luckily, there’s a CD player in the car. You don’t recognize any of the songs, but the music helps fill the silence. It doesn’t help with your boredom however. After spending way too much time trying not to notice Eddie’s mannerisms – like how he bounces the leg that isn’t on the gas pedal almost all the time, how he taps one finger to the beat of whatever song is playing, how he mostly drives with his right hand and his left elbow propped up on the door – you start digging through the glove compartment.

“What are you doing?” His voice makes you jump, having not heard it in hours.

“Snooping,” you answer plainly, not even bothering to look at him as you dig through the mess of papers and trash in the small space. He lets out a long suffering exhale but makes no move to stop you. Eventually you find a paper map, slightly stained and a bit tattered, but it will do the job for a little while.

You unfold it over your lap and find Louisville. It becomes a challenge to see if you can figure out which way Eddie took you out of the city, but you find your sense of direction in a moving vehicle a bit lacking. South and west, that’s for sure, but you’d made more than a couple turns before getting onto this long, clear stretch of road and you’re not even sure where you started beyond the city. There had been a few hazards along the way, mostly broken down cars, but they were easy to maneuver around and Eddie had seemed entirely prepared for them. It made you wonder how often he made this same trip back and forth.

The next 15 minutes are spent looking out the window waiting for a road sign to fly by. With that info, you should be able to get a better idea of what highway you’re on and maybe even where on the highway based on the exit. Your patience rewards you with a faded green sign in the distance – a shield symbol with the number 62 in the center and says the upcoming exit is for ‘Central City’. Really? Couldn't it be something more unique?

Regardless, you bend back over the map and use your finger to trace across the weave of roads and cities, trying to find where you might be. You’re able to find US Highway 62 stretching west across the northside of Kentucky, but nothing that says Central City. The tension builds between your eyebrows as you pull the map a bit closer to your face, thinking maybe you’re just missing it.

“Look at Nashville,” you whip toward Eddie, who is looking between the paper in your hands and the road. He sounds wholly bored, but tilts his chin to direct your attention back to the map. “From Nashville, trace your finger straight north until it hits 62. We’re a little bit west of that.”

There’s still no ‘Central City’, but you figure it’s probably just too small to show up on a map this size. “Why didn’t we drive down through Nashville?” You find yourself asking, eyes scanning the wrinkled paper. “It seems more direct than this.”

“Roads into and out of Nashville might as well be graveyards.” He goes back to leaning his cheek on his left fist. “Nashville itself is totally wiped out. Well, not wiped out, but you get what I mean. All that's left is clickers and corpses.”

“Oh, okay.” 

Having completed your goal, you carefully fold the map back up and set it on the dashboard. The gravity of his statement hits you hard despite the casual nature he shares it with. You remember reading in a book a couple years ago the population of Nashville had been over half a million people. Half a million. There’s no guarantee they’re all mindless Infected now, some probably got out, but statistically speaking…

Better not to think about it.

The rest of the days are spent listening to the same 14 songs on repeat, stopping along the way to siphon gas and hit supply caches he has set up across the state, breaking to eat or go to the bathroom, and sleeping. You take turns keeping watch while the other sleeps in the bed of the pickup. He explained he didn’t want to drive at night and risk trying to siphon gas in a dangerous area while it’s dark, so when the sun starts to set, he pulls the truck off the highway and into the closest tree line to hide away.

During the first night, you find another reason to resent Eddie. When he lays down on top of his sleeping bag, it only takes moments for him to lose consciousness. The second his eyes close, his breathing slowly gets deeper and the tension in his face falls slack. He wakes just as easily, but the rate at which he’s able to fall asleep is more than enough to keep the heat in your veins from fading. When he does wake up and gruffly order you to get some sleep, you lay down and stare at the stars overhead. Sometimes you actually manage to drift off.

Sleeping in the car is easier. Especially because it keeps you from more awkward silences with Eddie.

The third night is colder than before. You’re at a higher elevation than home and edging closer to winter every day. In the woods at night, the wind kicks up and sends shivers down your spine no matter how tightly you pull your jacket around you. While Eddie softly snores in the truck bed, you sit on the running board below the passenger seat, your sleeping bag wrapped around your shoulders to combat the cold, in silence.

You’ve come to learn that silence is your worst enemy. Infected have patterns, ways to outsmart them. People have weaknesses, morals, and desires. Hunger, thirst, FEDRA – they all have motivations for why they exist and ways to beat them or get around them. Silence, on the other hand, is overbearing, all encompassing. The quiet settles into your bones, leaks into the marrow, infects the white blood cells that are born there, uses them as weapons to subdue the boiling in your blood. Silence lays across you like a heavy, fiberglass blanket suffocating all of the air out of a fire.

It's a fertile breeding ground for thoughts better left alone.

One thing about living most of your life on the base at Quantico is you never saw too much of what the rest of the country looked like. The tall walls of concrete kept your community mostly secluded from the rest of the world and people like you had very little reason to venture outside those walls. You knew how to use a gun, how to drive, how to fight. For emergencies, your dad had insisted. Because you never wanted to catch yourself wishing you could when you really needed to know. Now, after days of driving past dilapidated towns, broken down cars, cracked streets, and the odd infected, it’s a harsh dose of reality. One you had thought you were prepared for, but evidently not. So you sit in your sleeping bag and remember the quilt from your bed, the one your mom had given you, with its faded pastels and fraying edges. The random poster of some boy band on the wall after you’d found it in an attic and put it up just to have something to look at. You miss the Christmas lights you’d hung along the ceiling after convincing your dad they used less electricity than a normal lamp. The walk to the mess hall in the morning when the world was just waking up and most people around didn’t have reason to be in a bad mood yet. The Carolina Wrens that rested along power lines and sang their high pitched songs. The guarantee of scrambled eggs and oatmeal for breakfast, and maybe some jam and toast if you were lucky.

You miss your dad.

Mistakenly acknowledging the grief you’ve been avoiding – just forcing yourself to keep moving, to keep fighting, to keep going – feels like releasing something long kept captive. It claws its way up your throat, starts to buzz in your ears, presses hard against the backs of your eyes. You try to scare it back down into the pit it came from, but you realize too late the path you’ve gone down and don’t have enough fire left to keep it at bay. It roars and howls, tears and bites, grows and climbs until it overtakes you completely.

You press your face into the polyester around your shoulders to muffle the first sob as it rips out of you. Let it soak up the tears that pour out as your back bends, drawing you in towards your knees, instinctually trying to make yourself feel smaller. Like maybe if you curl in tight enough, you can compress the waves that start to batter you so forcefully that they won't have room to move. Make it so the churning in your gut can’t erode at the concrete you’ve poured down your spine to keep yourself upright. This can just be a small release to take the pressure off the top. This won’t be the breakdown. The breakdown will never come.

If you’d been lucky, Eddie wouldn’t have heard your muffled cries. Would’ve slept right through your unwilling moment of weakness. But he wakes just as easily as he goes down to rest and has ears like a bat even in REM sleep. He sits up in the truck bed and leans over the side toward where you’re sitting in what you assume is panic, but you don’t dare to look. Instead, you just beg your body to stop sobbing, to stop trembling, to hold it together in front of him.

It doesn’t listen.

Dead leaves muffle the steps of his boots as he hops down to the ground and approaches slowly, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. Your choked cries and gasps are still muffled by the fabric pressed to your face – but it’s not exactly hard to guess what’s going on.

Eddie kneels a respectful distance away, his voice soft as the night itself. “Are you hurt?”

The gentle tone, the concern he shows in something so small almost destroys you. Almost tears you right in two. Almost makes the breakdown happen right here and now. But remembering how he’s acted since the two of you met – how this is the first time he’s asked you anything at all – has enough heat roaring to life to stifle your sobs and stop the tears. It takes a few moments of harsh swallowing and rubbing at your damp skin before you straighten up, blinking the last tears away to face him head on. “I’m fine.”

He huffs through his nose, his head tilting a bit to the side like a curious dog. “Yeah, you look real fine.” And if he hadn’t said it so sarcastically, with such disdain…

Better not to think about it.

Pushing off his own knee, he rises to his feet with a groan, arms stretching skyward. “You should try to get some sleep. I’ll watch for a while.”

Running the backs of your hands under your eyes, you shake your head harshly and focus your gaze back out into the woods. “My shift isn’t over yet.”

“No offense, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly keeping a good watch like this.”

Your eyes roll and you pull the sleeping bag tighter when another shiver rolls down your spine. “Oh yeah, none taken. Asshole.”

Leather ladened arms cross over his chest as he cocks one hip back and looks you over. “You’re cold, you’re tired, and you’re crying. Use my sleeping bag to warm up and get some rest. I’ll wake you up a few hours before sunrise so I can get another nap in before we hit the road.”

You want to fight him. You want to tell him to fuck off and go back to sleep, let you keep doing your job. But the small amount of kindness he’s shown, added to the way you’ve lost all the heat and steam that kept your engine running, makes it near impossible to argue. So instead you stand and shuffle toward the back of the truck, brushing past him without a word. You’re about to lift your shoe up onto the back bumper when a soft call of your name has your attention drifting toward him.

Eddie is barely illuminated in the moonlight. A shadow of himself in the dark. You can’t read his expression, can barely see the vague outline that implies he’s looking in your direction. “I’m sorry, y’know. About your dad.”

“Yeah,” you lift yourself up onto the truck bed with the very last bit of energy you have left. “Yeah, me too.”

Neither of you say another word as you shuffle down into his sleeping bag and layer yours on top. It’s still heated from his time spent in it and it smells of pine, whiskey, and something human. With the warmth surrounding you and the stars above, you find just enough comfort to allow you to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

Tuesday, August 16th, 2016 – 10 miles outside Memphis, Tennessee

The pickup rumbles to a stop, waking you from your nap. Your head tilts up from leaning hard against the window in shock. After wiping some drying drool from your chin and stretching your shoulders in the limited space, you look to the shadows out the windshield in confusion. Eddie flips the engine off and pulls the emergency break from beside his seat. “How long was I out? Do we need more gas already?”

“No, Sleeping Beauty, you were only out for an hour.” It really is comical how easy it is for him to take you from half asleep to wanting to snap his head off. “I know you need your beauty rest, but we gotta walk the rest of the way.” His door swings open with a creak, echoing in the concrete room you’ve parked in. Choosing to keep your mouth shut and just follow his lead instead, you open your door and slide out of the seat, your legs already protesting from how they were contorted while you slept.

“Is this a garage?”

“Yup.” Walking around the front toward him, he already grabbed his backpack and has it laid out on a table littered with gear. Pistols, rifles, ammo, machetes, metal pipes, baseball bats, knives, canned food, batteries – a spread perfect for any survivalist. It must’ve taken ages to collect it all, and even more work to keep it stocked this well.

Your curiosity gets the better of you. “Is this all your stuff? Or do you work with other people?” Eddie throws an annoyed look over his shoulder, like you should know better than to ask him anything. Embers fire to life as you walk up right next to him, looking directly into the side of his face while he keeps his eyes on cleaning his pistol on the tabletop. “Is it so horrible just to make conversation? Would it really kill you to be a normal person and talk to someone?”

“Maybe it would. Why the fuck do you even care?” The retort is cold but provides you with a bit of clarity. The chill isn’t directed toward you, but at the idea in general. The issue isn’t just you. The issue is someone caring. You just happen to be the one doing it.

“I don’t care,” you assure him as you swing your own pack onto the table next to his, opening it a little too aggressively and pulling out your own pistol. “Just bored.” The magazine clicks out of the grip at your request, falling into your opposite hand. You silently count through the remaining bullets and reach for the box of 9mms on the table. Your skin tingles with the heat of his glare but he doesn’t make any move to interrupt. You take enough to fill the empty space and let the rest clatter back into the box.

“I share the garage with someone else.”

The admittance falls as he rocks the slide back up the frame and clicks the parts back into place. He doesn’t look away from his work so you don’t either, trying not to react too much to him answering a question. The last thing you want to do is say something wrong and make him clam up again. Would probably be safer to talk about the plan than potentially ask anything else about him as a person. At least, if you wanted to avoid the silence. “How far out of Memphis are we?”

“Couple hours walk,” he’s much quicker to answer as he slots his pistol into a holster near his waistband and goes digging through a box full of what looks like rocks. “Too many patrols and blocked roads to bring the truck further without getting caught.”

“Why are we worried about getting caught? By FEDRA?”

He glances over at you, eyebrows drawn together tight like he’s confused. “Civ’s aren’t supposed to leave the QZ. If I got caught and they recognized me, we’d be fucked.”

Nodding once in understanding, you started putting your things back together with a bit more care than you’d ripped them open. “So we’re sneaking in.”

“We have a few routes in and out of the zone that we rotate through for safety. The closest one had some Infected lurking around last time I was there, but they might have cleared out by now, so we’ll try there first.”

You shoulder your pack again and spend the rest of your time waiting by snooping more. The garage is small and pretty dark, the only light coming from the open door to the outside. Just big enough to fit the truck, the work table, and room to stand between them. There’s nothing personal that could be traced back to anyone and most of the weapons are in locked containers. Nothing a pair of bolt cutters couldn’t get through with a little bit of elbow grease but still better than nothing.

Eddie claps his hands together in what seems like an attempt just to startle you – and it succeeds in making you jump as it echoes against the walls. When you turn on him, steam rushing up from below, his shit eating grin is the happiest you’ve seen him since you left Louisville. “Ready?”

Choosing (again) to exhale the heat instead, continue to avoid the animosity for as long as you can, you tuck your hands into the pockets of your jacket. “When you are.”

The sun is absolutely blazing when you both step out of the shadowed garage and into the bright heat of the morning. You’re surrounded by light gray concrete on all sides, the sun’s rays ricocheting off of every surface until the light is hitting you from all directions. Even squinting hard with your hand over your brow does little to assist your eyes in adjusting to the new normal. When Eddie steps back up, garage door lowered and locked behind you, he has his aviators back on and looks perfectly content.

Prick.

“Must be shit around here in the summer.” You’ve only just made it outside and you’re already tempted to take off your jacket despite the subtle breeze.

“It’s shit everywhere in the summer,” Eddie’s grumbled reply is almost quiet enough for you not to hear, but offers another piece of information. He hates the heat. “Come on, ‘s this way.”

Outer Memphis is utterly deserted. Both by humans and infected. Hell, even seeing an animal at this point would be shocking. But that doesn’t mean it’s missing life, not at all. Greenery stretches all around you as you walk through the suburbs and toward the city center. Vines climbing up walls and poles, grass and weeds pushing out from between sidewalk cracks, bushes weaving their way into chain link fences. Trees left to go wild grow towards each other, making canopies of shade here and there as you walk down the empty streets. The leaves have just started to turn into yellows and oranges, some falling and scattering in muddy piles across the pavement. If you hadn’t known any better, it would’ve looked like humanity just disappeared one day and left the Earth to reclaim what was hers. But you do know better. And the signs of what actually happened are everywhere if you know how to look.

Shattered shop windows of every pharmacy, liquor store, gun shop, and grocery. A rusted and warped metal sign calling the area a FEDRA quarantine zone, matched with another that tells you to look out for signs of cordyceps infection. An apartment building with a yellow ‘X’ spray painted across the door and dried fungus peeking out through the cracks in the frame. Lines of cars in off street parking with the wheels stripped, hoods open to scavenge for parts, gas caps hanging from tanks siphoned. Deep brown streaks of long-dried blood arching across the pavement towards alleys and behind buildings. 

While it can be easy to look at the plant life thriving and feel serene, really focusing on the details produces a sulfuric taste in your mouth. One that can only be washed away with liquor or enough time to forget.

You’ve been walking for close to two hours when a wide palm suddenly lands on your chest, halting you in place. It mostly freezes you in shock and disbelief at the touch, but when you look up and see Eddie staring at you with a single finger pressed to his lips, it’s enough to make your heart rate kick up in your chest and a cold sweat break out across the back of your neck. Neither of you move for a few moments. You try to focus your ears in to listen, wanting to try to understand these stimuli Dustin and Eddie seem to instinctually respond to. At first, all you can hear is the brush of leaves across concrete. Attempting to push past that, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will help you extend your senses further, you pick up on the edge of something deep. It’s a rumble in the distance, pitched low and long as it rolls through the air. Almost like a groan.

Brown eyes pitched black by tinted lenses meet your own as soon as you look for them. Wordlessly, Eddie directs you towards the sidewalk where a car sits with its wheel wells flat to the ground. He follows close behind as you cross over and duck behind it, shuffling towards the back bumper to try and peek around the other side. You’re looking out over a 4 way intersection and you spot the source of the noise towards the northern end.

Three infected stand in the street, deep moans pouring from their throats as their heads twitch erratically. One’s arm is broken, bent unnaturally backward, and all three have torn clothes and are covered in dirt. There’s visible fungal growth along their skin, indicating they have been this way for some time, but their eyes remain uncovered. Runners.

Shifting back to being fully behind the car, you hold up 3 fingers to Eddie. His expression is stone as he circles his finger in the air before him. Confused for a moment, you realize he’s probably asking you to check the perimeter and make sure there aren’t more. A careful glance around yields nothing. You return to him with a shake of your head. His middle finger and thumb pinch together 3 times in quick succession, his eyebrows raising in a question. It takes you another pause to consider what the motion means, what exactly he’s trying to ask you. It’s not like the two of you had considered beforehand how to communicate in case danger arose. But some part of your brain nags at you: He’s asking if they’re Clickers.

Going with your gut, you give another small shake of your head and mimic a person running with your own pointer and middle finger. He exhales through his nose in what seems like both relief and amusement before motioning for you to get behind him and reaching for something in a side pocket of his bag. By the time you’ve inched your way around so he can look out beyond the car, he’s produced an intense looking slingshot and a small tan pellet. Unable to ask what the hell he’s doing, you can only watch as he places the pellet into the sling and begins to pull it back hard, his bicep straining against leather with the movement. The tip of his tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth as he takes aim.

It goes sailing – your eyes can barely track it as it arcs high and sails directly over the heads of the infected. You think maybe he missed trying to hit one of them, but his true intention becomes clear when it makes contact with the ground. There’s a small flash of white accompanied by a sharp crack that echoes between the buildings on either side of the intersection. All 3 heads immediately turn on the noise, one so forcefully it almost knocks itself off its feet, before they take off running. Eddie counts to 3 under his breath and then grabs your bicep, pulling you along with him as he jogs across the intersection and a couple blocks further. You rip your arm from his hold but continue to follow close behind as he ducks around a corner and into an overgrown city park.

Once you deem you’re a safe distance away, you chance talking again. “That was a pretty neat trick. What are those things?”

His long legs don’t stop moving so you try to keep the pace as he continues to hurry away from the scene. “Little mix of gunpowder and a couple other things. Some brainiac made the recipe as an alternative to fireworks or sparklers for the kids, which then turned into kids throwing them everywhere and pissing off the guards, which got them banned and confiscated. And, well…” The corner of his mouth pulls toward his ear, dry lips spreading in a sly smile. “FEDRA contraband is fair game if you know where they keep it.”

For the first time in what feels like weeks, you laugh. It bubbles up unexpectedly, the feeling foreign by now, and bursts from between your lips in a bark, one you’re quick to stifle with your hand as it trails off. “Y’know, I thought people were supposed to grow out of their rebellious phase by your age.”

His smile disappears just as fast as it occurred, a flat look directed your way. “Very funny,” is his grumbled reply, huffing as he adjusts his pack. “Come on, we’re not too far.”

You perk up at the idea of this hike finally being done, especially with the promise of a bath on the other side. Jogging up to his side from where he’s walked away, you ask for confirmation with a little bit too much enthusiasm. “Really?”

“QZ was set up in the Medical District, just east of the Mississippi,” he explains without looking your way, his head swiveling on an axis. Ever vigilant, circling his surroundings like a hawk. The two of you approach a small, wrought iron arch, bracketed on either side by hedges that have to be 9 feet tall. You assume it leads out of the park but Eddie stops you before you can cross through. “Wait here a second.”

Eddie leans his head through, looking both ways like he’s about to cross the street before disappearing to the right. Unease prickles up your spine as you hear the shift of greenery ahead, your lower lip drawing in between your teeth in a nervous habit. The silence builds, starting as a pressure at the base of your skull and growing into a ringing in your ears. It spreads down through your nerves like radio static as you shift uneasily, anxiety setting in quickly the moment you’re left alone. Adrenaline drumming up, you’re close to either yelling for him or bolting when he finally calls out:

“Okay, we’re clear, come on out.”

You pass through the archway and into a tunnel of vines. The sun filters through as the leaves shift, projecting dancing shadows on the packed dirt floor. You turn right and push ahead, using your arms to part a curtain of hanging vines. There’s a concrete staircase on the other side leading up. Halfway to the top, you look ahead and see Eddie.

His back is to you as he stands tall and proud. His silhouette is surrounded by bright blue sky on all sides. The red flannel around his hips and loose bits of his hair sway in the breeze as the sun beats down on the cracked leather of his jacket. His hair is frizzy, his jeans dusted and worn, his boots spread wide as he raises a hand to his brow to look out. A few steps further and you see he’s standing on a sort of balcony over a decorative town square, a murky fountain in the middle and dilapidated statues lining the walkways. It’s situated on a hill, well above the city center that stretches beyond. You can see straight over the buildings of downtown, to the barbed wire-lined walls of the Quarantine Zone, and beyond to the Mississippi River as it rolls.

Eddie turns to you, slowly walking backward toward the stairway down into the square, hands in his pockets with the thumbs sticking out. “You coming or what?”

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thanks for reading!! if you liked it, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment, they make my day 💜

[naughtynoodle]

On the Edge - Part 2

Description: Gag gift from the Inner Circle takes an interesting turn.

18+ only

Modern!Azriel x f!reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, exhibition, edging, adult language, unprotected PIV (don't do IRL), oral sex, breeding kink because I can't help myself, just some good ole smut

A/N: I love the thought of modern IC, like can you imagine the carnage they would reap? Minors DNI

Part 1 -> On the Edge

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"The higher the stakes, the bigger the reward Shadowsinger."

That comment is how you ended up in the stairwell leading to the top of the House. Your drunk friends didn't even seem to notice the disappearance of the pair of you.

Azriels chest heaved as he shoves you against the railing.

"Do you have any idea how fucking crazy you make me?" His face a mere inches from your own, your lips part slightly as you look up at him through your lashes.

He pulls you even closer to his body and you arch into his touch.

"You show up in this damn dress-" His hand hikes up the leg that was exposed from the slit of the fabric, "and of all colors, you chose blue. And not just any blue, my blue."

You gasp as his hand grips the flesh of your leg tighter.

"Maybe I did it to rile you up." You say and he growls, his hand moving from your thigh to cup your ass. His fingers toyed with the lace of your panties. "What are you gonna do about it?"

That was the only encouragement he needed, and he lifted you up so your legs could wrap around his waist. Your core made contact with his bulge and you moaned softly at the friction.

"Dirty girl." He grumbles, your face not even an inch from his.

"Would you like to find out how dirty?" You nipped his lower lip and played with the hair at the base of his neck. He suddenly slams you into the wall which makes you gasp and his mouth is on yours in an instant.

The kiss was hungry, it felt like all the tension that had been building between the two of you finally exploded. He tasted like the berry wine he had stole from you in the kitchen.

He grinds his hips into yours and you moan into his mouth, he feels deliciously big. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, very similar to your own heart.

"You better keep quiet." He murmurs into your mouth, you pull back slightly to ask him what he was talking about when you felt his hand in your panties. Your breath hitches in your throat as his shadows disappear with the vibrator and his fingers replace it.

You whisper his name and he captures your mouth with his own once more. His fingers lightly stroked your folds, teasing you. Your grip on his hair tightens and he groans into your mouth.

His nimble fingers find your clit and your hips jolt involuntarily. He chuckles against your lips and applies more pressure. Gods he was good with his hands.

You could still hear your friends talking and laughing in the other room, which added more excitement to this whole thing.

As if he knew what you were thinking, he sinks a finger into you and you throw your head back and gasp. His shadows creep up your back and neck and cover your mouth before angling your head back to look at him.

“What did I say about being quiet?” His dark eyes look into yours, “Do you want them to come out and find us like this? Hm? Find you pinned against the wall and gagged because you can’t keep it down?”

You clench around his finger and he smirks.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Letting them see what a dirty girl you really are.” You moan and nod, which seemed to please him because he added another finger and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He attaches himself to your throat, licking and kissing everywhere he touched. It was like he left a trail of fire across your skin, it was intoxicating. His fingers never once ceasing their slow but steady assault.

It was hard for you to stay quiet; one because he was so damn good, and two you wanted him to know how good he was making you feel.

You tugged on his hair and he detached himself from the hollow of your neck to look at you through hooded eyes. His shadows pull back from your mouth so you could speak and his fingers slowed and teased your clit.

“Either we go back to my place or yours.” You barely got the sentence out before you were winnowing, hoping that your startled shout went unheard by the rest of the group.

The room was dark, and smelled like Azriel so you knew he took you to his room in the House. You had been in here many times before- either before training, just sitting and reading in silence or tumbling in drunk and passing out.

This though. . . this was different.

You could barely see his outline as your eyes struggled to adjust to the lighting. Your whole body was on fire and you just wanted to jump his bones.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" His deep voice rumbles through the darkness as he uses his middle finger to tilt your chin up towards his face.

"Oh you know, normal people things." You voice was barely over a whisper and you could see his brow quirk up and a small smirk grace his lips.

"Yeah?" He asks and you grin and nod.

"Yeah, you know, like me being on my knees for you and letting you fuck my mouth." You smirk as you hear his sharp intake of breath before his grip drops down to your throat and he leans down closer to your lips.

"You think about this often?" His lips ever so slightly grazed yours and you have to fight yourself not to just crash your lips against his. So you just bite your lip and nod.

"I dream about it often. Of all the things you would do to me." You use your powers to show him the visions of your dreams.

You on your knees in every possible scenario; the shower, Rita's back alley, the forest floor while on a mission, and even you hanging your head off the side of the bed while he fucked your throat with no remorse.

He groans and his grip on your throat tightens.

"You want me to use you, sweet girl?" There was something predatorial in his voice and you nod swiftly, licking your lips. "On your knees." He growls and you drop down instantly.

Your heart raced in your chest with excitement and you kept your gaze locked onto his, even as he slowly unlaced his pants.

"Open."

It was a simple command you were happy to oblige and immediately you felt him on your tongue. He was as big as you suspected when you were grinding on each other in the hallway downstairs and it sent a zap of arousal to your groin.

He slowly pushed into your mouth, letting you lubricate his length with your saliva. His jaw was clenched as he kept his eyes on yours. The slow thrusts were consistent and his breaths becoming more ragged. You gripped his thighs on either side and squeezed them, letting your nails press into his flesh ever so slightly.

Use me, you were telling him wordlessly.

His hands tangled into your curled hair and he thrust all the way into your throat and his head drops back and a moan escapes his lips. Your eyes watered at the sudden intrusion.

He continued fucking himself into your mouth and soft pants sound from above you. You relaxed your jaw and throat as much as you could to accommodate him.

"Fuck, look at you." His voice was heavy and you moan around him and he curses under his breath at the sensation. Tears were running down your cheeks and your mascara was definitely ruined but you didn't care. You would let him use you any time, anywhere.

His pace picked up and his jaw drops open, his thighs taut under your grip. You flatten your tongue and let it run along the bottom of his shaft and he moans your name.

"If I had known you were so desperate to let me use you, I would've taken this hot mouth of yours long ago." His praises were music to your ears, and your eyes roll into the back of your head.

His pace picks up and his grip on your hair gets tighter and he grunts. Drool was sliding down your chin and onto your chest but you couldn't be bothered by it, you were too enthralled by the man in front of you.

Strings of curses flew from his mouth and his hips stuttered as he says your name. His cum hit the back of your throat and you swallowed every drop. He pulls out of your mouth and you gasp for air, your lungs screaming with relief.

Your rest doesn't last long before he is hauling you up and onto his bed. His shadows were swirling around him and he looks at you while you're still trying to catch your breath, his thumb lightly stroking your cheek.

"I want to taste you." He murmurs and you let out a light curse and he chuckles. His lips make contact with yours before moving down your chin and to your neck. He takes your breasts in his hands and kneads them roughly before running his hands down your waist. His warm mouth makes contact with one of your breasts that had managed to come out of the dress and you sigh.

The swirl of his tongue around your nipple makes you arch up into his mouth further and he lightly bites the flesh. His hands had managed to bunch up the fabric of your dress up to your hips and he pulls away from your chest.

Gods you were so beautiful beneath him, he thinks.

His attention goes down to your panties and he can see the wet patch staining the lacy fabric. With no regard to whether you liked those panties or not, he rips them off of you causing you to gasp.

A groan escapes his lips and he lowers himself to his knees before you and gives you a devilish look. You let out a shaky breath in anticipation.

He kisses your inner thighs and slowly makes his way up to your core.

"You smell devine."

You go to reply but then his tongue is brushing your folds and your hips jolt up. You were hyperaware of everything he was doing to you. He was still teasing, even though he was touching you.

"Azriel." You beg, voice soft and quiet.

He growls before slinging his arms over your legs and locking you down, yanking you further into his mouth. You let out a moan and your hands shoot to his hair, tugging on the strands.

His tongue felt like it was everywhere all at once and it was maddening. Every flick against your clit was torture, but it was good torture.

He could listen to you moaning for him for the rest of his life.

He feasted like a starved man and there was no way for you to escape him, not that you wanted to anyways. You needed more.

"Az, please- oh fuck!" You scream as his mouth closes around your clit, giving it a harsh suck. You were so close, so so close. Somehow he managed to flick your clit with his tongue while maintaining that suction and you cried out- falling over the edge.

Your grip on his hair was tight and he rode you through that high. Your legs were shaking as he pulled away and smashed his lips to yours once more until you were both pulling away gasping.

"You drive me mad. And now I'm going to ruin you." His words were dark and your head was spinning. "Is that what you want, pretty girl? Ruin you for everyone else but me?"

"Fuck, you have no idea." You whisper up to him and he smirks.

"Dirty."

He spreads your thighs wide so he can slot himself between them, groaning when he sees how wet you are for him. You use your powers once more to show him your dreams and his eyes snap to yours.

"Fucking ruin me, Azriel."

He growls and yanks your dress over your head and off of you so he can look at your body. Years of training, tattoos and scars.

You feel the head of his cock push into you and your lips part with a soft gasp. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours, as if trying to memorize you.

He slowly pushed into you until he was bottomed out and you were moaning his name. His hands grab your hips and your legs wrap around his waist as he stays upright.

"Look at you, taking my cock so well." He feels your walls pulse around him, "I want to hear how I make you feel, don't you dare hide one fucking whimper from me."

With that he starts slamming his hips into yours and you cry out. He uses the grip he has on your hips to fuck you up into him, filling you to the brim. His pace was brutal and you loved it.

"Gods, you fill me up so good." You moan out to him and he grunts, hands tightening on your hips and in an instant he has you folded over with your knees next to your head. He relishes in your strangled gasps.

"You're gripping me so gods damned tight, like you never want me to leave this pretty pussy." He grunts through his strokes, jackhammering down into you. You shake your head and he grins.

"Already cockdrunk, angel?" He teases and you moan.

"You could fuck me every day for the rest of my life, and it wouldn't be enough." You say through hooded eyes and something dark snaps in him.

"You have no idea what you just got yourself into," He growls, "I'm going to use you whenever I want. However I want. And you're gonna fucking take it." He punctuated everything with hard, strong thrusts and you scream out.

You clench around him even tighter and he grits his teeth.

"Do it, use me. I'm yours, Az." You gasp out between breaths.

He fucks you harder and faster, growling. You were so close and so was he.

"I'm gonna cum in this pretty pussy, angel. It's mine."

Those words had you coming undone and you came instantly, crying out his name. He followed after you, cursing and burying himself even deeper into you.

You were both panting and shuddering, neither of you moving away from each other. You had dreamt of this happening between the two of you for so long, and it was better than you could have imagined.

"I can't believe we didn't do this sooner." He mutters, still trying to catch his breath and you let out a light laugh. His eyes look into yours and you clench around him purposefully and he hisses.

"Guess we'll have to make up for lost time, Shadowsinger."

It was well into the daylight hours before you two slept.