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gutsby · 6 days

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Honor Among Thieves

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying Brooklyn’s most dangerous man was easy. Divorcing him proves to be a bit harder—particularly when you’re pregnant with his child.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Breeding kink. Hurt/Comfort/We-Almost-Just-Died-Sex. Morning sickness. Manslaughter. Brief coerced kissing. Beefy, mob boss Bucky is a possessive expectant father who just wants to make sure he knocked you up properly

Descriptions of violence throughout.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky’s words reverberated like a shotgun’s report, skimming across two dozen feet of marble, glass, and stainless steel before reaching your ears on the opposite end of the room. He was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, and your back was turned to him. Lucky thing, too, or else he would’ve seen the smile threatening to tug at both ends of your lips—effectively blowing your cover.

“Really, I don’t have the slightest idea, Barnes,” you told him, and it took everything in you not to laugh. Having just narrowly preserved your composure, you continued, “You keep me locked in this prison all day and expect me not to find ways to entertain myself? Well, this is all it is.”

Like hell it was, you could already hear in Bucky’s head. Feeling him eye you up and down from the archway, take his first steps into the room, loosen his tie, most likely.

“Prison?” You registered a low scoff, and his voice was already so much closer than it’d been five seconds ago.

Your husband was striding as quickly as his smooth, dark, tailored suit would allow, and he was undressing as he walked. You could hear the clothes coming off but pretended not to notice. Instead staring more intently at the crab bisque simmering on the stove before you, you licked the spoon you were holding and hummed a little.

“Yes,” you answered, simply, “Prison.”

Bucky was by your side in no time at all. Up close, he smelled like rosemary, oakmoss, and gunpowder.

“Well, this is news to me,” he said. He dragged out the middle syllables of his words longer than was necessary, likely to make his move sidling up closer to you. The last sound had scarcely died in his throat more than a second or two before you felt an arm loop around your back. A hand coming to rest on your hip, then his voice, again:

“See, I never knew they built ‘prisons’ up in first-class penthouse apartments in Brooklyn. Must be pretty nice.”

Bucky stepped behind you, and you were half-certain the black suit jacket he’d come home wearing was fully removed. Again, you pretended not to see, or care.

“It’s a metaphor, James.” But your voice wavered.

“A metaphor?” Bucky’s head sank into the soft groove between your neck and your shoulder, and he kissed it.

“Yes.”

Your mouth made a sound more akin to a breath than a real, enunciated word, and you knew Bucky felt it too. He sensed this headstrong, no-bullshit façade of yours was sure to come crumbling apart any second, and each new brush of his hands and lips would be making it happen. Knowing this, he wasn’t in a rush to get the rest of his clothes off. He did, however, start to toy with yours.

“Tell me more. Am I really holding you hostage, doll?”

You took a ladle and started to stir, trying to stay cool. Meanwhile, your husband tugged gently on your dress.

“Hostage, housewife, same thing,” you muttered, low.

For once, it was Bucky’s turn to break character, as he laughed. It was short-lived and sweet, and he pressed another kiss to the skin of your neck, as if in apology.

“Right, right. I forgot. You were forced to marry me.”

“Right,” you shook your head, just slightly emboldened by the way you’d made him crack, if only for a moment, “I’m forced to marry you, move into this horrific little shanty in Brooklyn”—gesturing to the multi-million dollar apartment surrounding you both—“and then you leave me here, all by myself, with nothing to do while you go play Godfather with your mobster friends. It’s not fair.”

By the tail end of that last sentence, you and Bucky both were already grinning a little, coming to terms with just how ridiculous it sounded when you phrased it like that. Still, your husband seemed game to keep the bit going.

“Now that’s just not true,” he said, tone all faux offense.

You felt the soft snap of a ribbon coming undone, and in a second realized it was the satin bow holding the back of your dress together. The fabric loosened, and Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, over your front—of course.

“I didn’t leave you ‘by yourself’ at all, doll,” he said, and suddenly, his palms were fanning out, over something, “Gave you this baby to keep you company, didn’t I?”

The ‘something’ he was touching now was your belly. All soft and smooth and protruding out in a perfect little globe beneath your dress, no bigger than when he’d left for work that morning. Bucky treated the bump like it was a novelty all the same—like he was seeing it for the first time and couldn’t believe he was actually the one responsible for making it get like that. It had gotten to be a hobby of his, nearly, just how much he loved watching it grow. He had his fingers splayed out across your tummy virtually every chance he could get, and that didn’t stop whether you were out in public or sharing a moment in the comfort of home; he couldn’t get enough.

Which was why Bucky was right when he’d said you knew exactly what you were doing when he came home that day. You knew just the kind of effect that wearing a tight, white dress while cooking dinner would have on him, and you hoped it would rile him up just like this: with his hands roaming over every inch of your body, making soft, sweet circles along the swell of your belly, and kissing your neck again and again. Biting some, too. Getting so worked up he was all but gnawing at the skin as he drank in your scent and got lost to pure instinct.

If it wasn’t clear that Bucky had had a breeding kink before, you saw it written plain as day across his face every morning and night since he’d first learned you were pregnant. Like all the life force within him was just a byproduct of the knowledge that you were his—and this baby, growing bigger each day, was a mix of you both.

You hated to say it, but fatherhood suited your assassin-trained, mob-heading, bloodlusting husband better than anyone could have predicted in a million years or more.

Presently, Bucky flipped you around and sank to his knees. He slid you over to the counterspace area, away from the stove, and made sure to flip each knob to ‘off’ to make sure there wasn’t a chance you’d get burned. You cast one last look at the crab bisque and knew at once your hard work would have to be put on the back burner for now, because Bucky wasn’t hungry for that.

Still, you kicked a foot in soft, muted protest when you felt him slide his hands up your legs, under your dress, and start to reach for your panties. You let out a breath.

“I spent two hours perfecting the seasoning on that, Barnes,” you chided him, gently and without much admonition in your voice as you pointed to the soup, “You say you want a good little housewife but won’t even leave me un-fucked long enough to try any food I make!”

“And I’m very sorry about that, Mrs. Barnes,” Bucky replied, head disappearing beneath your skirt so he could take your underwear off with his teeth instead.

But, much like your reproach, your husband’s strained apology held less than half of its professed sincerity. Your blue cotton panties were discarded in a second, your hips pushed back against the cool white marble behind it, and Bucky, almost too cheekily, brought his head back up from underneath your dress just to steal a quick look at your belly, then up at you. He was smiling.

“Anything you make tastes amazing, honey. Daddy just needs to eat a little something beforehand, that okay?”

He already knew what you’d say. The sweet, shit-eating grin hovering over your lower half knew all that and more. Bucky just loved to tease, taking the hem of your dress between his index and thumb, and rubbing all the more tenderly, murmuring again, ‘That alright with you, pretty girl?’ and ‘My wife likes getting tonguefucked in the kitchen, doesn’t she?’ while his breaths spread over you.

You nodded that you did. Momentarily forgetting the three-course meal you’d had planned for him since early that morning, you let your knees fall limply apart from one another, and Bucky’s broad form filled the space in between. The fabric of your dress was snug, especially so over your belly. Your husband pushed the material up your hips and let it rest just high enough to expose your warmth to him. Angling your hips back the slightest bit, trailing his fingers up your thighs and inside them, gently, Bucky let out a low groan against your body, and you could feel the vibrations of it travel up your spine.

“I really am mean for keeping you here all day, aren’t I?” he teased, sliding the tips of his fingers between your glistening folds and watching you jolt in response.

“So— so mean. Bucky, please.”

Your voice was far more hoarse than circumstances would seem to beget; your husband had just eaten you out that morning. Nevertheless, your hand was trembling as it reached for his head. Your pull was taut and dire. While your fingers threaded in through his hair and your body opened itself more and more for him, you could feel that kind smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Frankly, the swelling of eight-and-a-half months made it difficult to see much of anything below the waist, but Bucky made sure to let you know he was there. By holding your hand, skimming his lips against your skin, starting, just then, to sink his fingers in toward the heat of your body, and softly pulling his face away so he could look up at you.

“Baby?” he breathed.

Your eyes locked with his as he slid two fingers inside you. The stretch alone was enough to put your brain on the fritz, but, fighting the first shockwaves of pleasure:

“Y-Yeah?”

He withdrew. Pressed them back in and let out a grunt.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You couldn’t fathom what that might be, but you nodded anyway. ‘Anything’ was what you managed to choke out.

“And you might not like it, doll.”

Your eyes widened some.

“O— O-Okay, what?”

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, and a short, sharp streak of dizzying pleasure pulsed through your body. Your knees felt weak, and your mind even worse, but with what little resolve you had left, you were able to keep your eyes entirely open and fastened to his. A look that struck you as almost bittersweet crossed your husband’s features, and you saw his gaze soften again.

“I need you to wake up,” he said, calmly.

“What?”

Your toes curled tight underneath you, and the warmth between your legs leapt up to over a thousand degrees.

“Melaya, I need you to wake up.”

At the same time, your blood ran cold in your veins. Surely, you couldn’t be hearing him right if the voice he used was so gruff and low—and laden with a Russian lilt.

“Bucky? What— What do you mean?”

But you knew. Or suspected something of it anyway.

Now the sound from your own throat was hardly one that you recognized as yours, so shrill and high and strange—what could he mean by that? Why was he watching you in that way? Your husband wasn’t smiling so brightly anymore, and the once-gratifying conflagration between your legs had grown to an almost scorching degree, no longer nice, generous, or pleasurable in the slightest.

“We need you to wake up now, honey. Right now.”

His tone, too, was distorted. Grating.

“Bucky, I-I don’t underst—”

“WAKE UP!”

Natasha shook you hard, and it hurt.

She didn’t mean for it to. She just needed you up and out of bed, and you’d been asleep for almost fourteen hours.

You started at the fifth or sixth shake, nearly punching yourself in the face when you tried yanking a set of covers up and over your head and discovered, shortly, that there was none. You were splayed out on a bed in an as-yet unfamiliar home—Steve’s new place—and, while you slept, you’d kicked all of the blankets you’d been given the night before off your body and onto the floor.

Your eyes were wide as saucers as they darted to Nat’s.

There was no need to say what had happened—she knew these dreams were getting worse by the day.

It’d been a week since you fled your Brooklyn apartment in an all-out terror. A week since a senseless, short-sighted idea on your part had led to the discovery that your husband was once part of a HYDRA sleeper cell whose activation phrase turned him into an agent of total destruction at will. A week since you’d seen a half dozen bodies litter your living room floor, more still being bludgeoned by the so-called ‘Winter Soldier,’ as Bucky had formerly been known. A week since you’d sobbed in Natasha’s arms and begged her not to let you go back. A week since you’d been obliged to hide out in Steve Rogers’ new bachelor pad upstate, because, frankly, there was nowhere else you could safely live until this whole ordeal with Bucky was settled—if it ever would be.

A full week since you’d learned you were pregnant, too.

As far as you knew, your husband was wholly unaware of this fact, and of Steve’s most recent real estate purchase up in Buffalo, and you’d been existing in a semi-serene and largely dissociated state for the past seven days.

Your gaze adjusted to the light, and you blinked up at Nat, feeling damp in just about every place on your body. You looked down and found yourself drenched in sweat.

“Hydrate. Please.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a standing order: Nat holding out a glass of water and instructing you to drink. Though your first instinct was to make a face and shake your head—you’d found that any new fluids in your body this early in the morning would only get thrown back up when you made your first frantic trip to the toilet—you accepted it anyway. You drank three big gulps to appease the woman standing next to the bed, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled

“I’m gonna go puke now,” you said.

“Aim for inside the toilet bowl if you can,” Steve called out from the doorway. By the look on his face, you’d been doing a pretty shit job of aiming vomit lately.

“My bad, Rogers.”

You had a hand on your stomach, slowly easing back up into a seated position, when you heard something being flung across the room, followed by a ‘HEY!’ and a crash.

“Your aim sucks, too, Romanoff,” Steve griped, loudly, “And I was kidding. She can puke wherever she wants.”

By the door, a hefty hardcover book lay open on the floor. Apparently Nat’s options for projectiles had been limited.

“All good, Rogers,” you offered anyway. Fighting a smirk.

You were starting to stand, and your head felt as if you’d just taken your first steps off a rocking boat. Your other hand jumped to your mouth, and you muttered, ‘Fuck’ before brushing past Nat and her outstretched arms.

She held your hair while Steve retrieved the glass of water, as well as a towel. The unsightly first trimester ritual proceeded as it had for all of the last week, with Nat rubbing circles in your back and Steve making well-meaning but completely useless live commentary like, ‘Babies are a real pain in the ass, aren’t they?’ At the conclusion of each new stupid remark, Natasha would shoot a dirty look his way, but you never let her shoo him away. Through no conscious choice of your own, Steve had become something of a comfort blanket over the course of the past chaotic days. At the very least, you two were no longer at each other’s throats flinging accusations and exorbitantly-priced tumblers in the other’s direction, which was a marked improvement from where you were the day after you and Bucky’s wedding.

At length, you lifted your head from the toilet, and he daubed at your cheek with the towel—mostly just trying to wipe off spit and your own queasy-looking expression. He succeeded in clearing away just the former, but you forced a smile all the same, then shared it with Natasha.

Nat couldn’t smile back. In fact, the grimace on her face only etched even deeper, and her forehead creased.

“This is a horrible time to be asking you this, I know—”

“Nat, please.” Steve groaned.

Nat, what? There wasn’t a lot more that could catch you off guard after all the shit you’d come to see that week. Still, Nat’s breaths were both measured and slow, and you could see she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase her words. This, coming from one of the most astute legal minds this side of the Hudson River, gave you pause.

“Ask anything. I’m pretty numb, if you haven’t noticed.” You rapped on the side of your head for comedic effect, but neither Natasha nor Steve laughed or cracked a grin.

“How do you feel about filing for divorce tomorrow?”

At the sound of Nat’s words, you felt the bile jump back up your throat. You knew there wasn’t enough food or fluid to make much of anything now, but all the same, you craned your neck back over the toilet and retched. When nothing came out, as expected, you turned back.

“What?”

Natasha looked a little ill herself, but still, she continued.

“How do you feel about just…fast-tracking a divorce from him and taking off new? We’ll talk assets later.”

Assets? Fast-track? Divorce? What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Nat?” you repeated as much out loud.

It normally wasn’t your thing to be so blunt with her, but the inquiry certainly seemed to invite some extra candor. You swiped at your mouth for any excess spit that might’ve trickled out, crudely, and in a second, Steve was handing you the towel. Then helping you to your feet, holding your arm and lower back in a grip you could feel was secure. You were unsteady on your legs, so he and Natasha guided you over to the sink, where you could regain your bearings and freshen up a bit. Sneaking a look at your reflection in the mirror was a bad idea; your face was sallow, and the rest of your body had every appearance of being horribly weak, for lack of a better word. You caught a glimpse of a gash sitting just above your left temple and immediately looked away. Stupidly, you hoped Steve and Nat hadn’t seen it.

“He did that to you,” Nat said without missing a beat.

You winced, and you washed your hands, not looking up.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him. Soldat, you told me.” And for a second, your eyes flickered to Steve, whose expression was a touch more sympathetic, if not visibly discomfited now. Like he didn’t want to speak for once.

He did, anyway: “Doesn’t matter if it was Winter or him, really. Point is he hurt you while trying to protect y—”

“And yet, you asked me to forgive him just last week for killing my dad in the same type of rage,” you replied, and instantly regretted the accusatory tone you’d taken on.

Your anger was misdirected at Steve. It wasn’t his fault for sharing the truth about your husband’s—his best friend’s—past when you’d asked him. These were queries you’d made, helping to form justifications for your own decision to stay after what had happened in Madripoor. Obviously, Steve would be biased to help support his friend in a time of need. But now things were different; Bucky had never been activated as soldat and ended up hurting someone he’d loved before. Steve was free to change his mind after seeing that happen and urge you to leave, or at least reconsider, your marriage to Bucky.

The second look you gave him attempted to convey as much, a bit more apologetic as he and Natasha led the way out of the bathroom. Steve smiled and held your arm again, though you probably didn’t need it. You walked downstairs to the kitchen together. Over by the toaster, Sam was inspecting a charred bagel with a scowl

“Rogers, you really need to ditch this shit,” he said, gesturing to the rusted metal contraption that appeared to be from 1918, and had just burnt two bagels to a crisp.

“It was a gift from a friend, piss off,” Steve replied, grinning a little. Reaching for the blackened bread roll and even going so far as to take a bite, crunching loudly.

“Did your friend happen to fight in World War II?” Nat asked. She lent one look to the archaic machine but said nothing further, opting instead to take a seat at the kitchen table, where a sea of papers was strewn about.

Then, to you, “Come. Sit.”

Somewhere in your tentative stroll from where you stood to where she sat, and in the middle of the men’s toaster bickering, Sam called out that he’d have bacon and eggs ready in a second. Steve offered up his singed sesame bagel in the interim, and you told him no thanks. With a still slightly throbbing skull and a nauseous gait, you took the chair next to Nat’s and looked down at her papers.

Honestly, you thought your present condition might warrant some leeway when it came to holding off on the heavy-hitting topics first thing, but, to your surprise, Natasha slid a crisp white packet over almost instantly.

“Nat, what the fuck?” you groaned for the second time.

“Read it. Give it a second to digest, then we can—”

“No!” you cut in, pushing the packet back to her with a little more force than you’d meant, “I-I can’t. Not now.”

On the very first page, in bold and capitalized typeface, there was printed a brief string of words you’d never wanted—or thought you would ever need—to see:

‘VERIFIED COMPLAINT: ACTION FOR DIVORCE’

“It’s just the petition. No harm in taking a look,” Nat said.

You could hear a faintly gentler tone in her voice, even as you shook your head and looked away from the papers.

“I don’t want to. I can’t do this right now.” You kept shaking your head for a couple seconds after, turning your gaze instead to the bay window of Steve’s kitchen.

A nice, sprawling yard stretched as far as you could see. In the distance, a fuzzy white horizon was punctuated the slightest bit by the outline of a wood fence, but apart from that, the land was empty. The lot was secluded. Happy and effervescent in a nearly cloudless sky, the midmorning sun cast its rays without so much as the threat of a storm’s hinderance. You fixed your eyes on the clear expanse above and silently wished it would rain.

Before more than a minute or two had passed like that, Sam was approaching the table with two platters. Steve balanced four more by himself, watching the sway of one plate of scrambled eggs in his arms with a wary look before setting each one of the dishes on the table.

“Bon appétit,” Steve said, butchering his French just about as badly as Sam had the bagels. You and Nat thanked them both anyway and started clearing off the table, pushing papers away in favor of steaming plates. Sam and Steve sat down, and all of you began to eat.

While you dutifully piled on each scoop of eggs, bacon, sausage links, biscuits, gravy, and grits—far more than you knew you could feasibly consume—you wished again for a rainstorm, and maybe a quiet breakfast. One that wasn’t marred by talks of legal separation and lengthy battles in court, if you could help it at all. To this end, and perhaps against your body’s best interest, you shoveled two supersized spoonfuls of egg in your mouth, so that if Nat tried reviving those subjects again, you could put off the conversation by simply continuing to chew. You felt your stomach turn inside you but, stubbornly, ate more.

You had just swallowed it all, about to make way for a warm, flaky buttermilk biscuit, when a sound cut in, and your belly flipped again. Your teeth had barely sunk into the bread a second when Nat set her own food aside, then used two fingers to push something toward you.

“Just skim it. Let me explain what the process can be,” she said, tapping her index on the first line and meeting your eyes as if to plead. She had to have known she’d be met with resistance—from you, of course, but also Steve. She raised a defensive hand to him before he even cut in:

“Come the fuck on, Nat. Will you give her a break?”

“I’m saying this for her sake! I’m doing it for her.”

“And throwing divorce papers in her face over breakfast is really the best way of going about it? Is that for her?”

Sam swallowed whatever he’d been chewing on, glanced down at the top paper, and seemed to brace himself.

“Guys, is now really the right time—” he started.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Steve barked over him.

Natasha ignored the plainly disdainful look from the latter, lifted her hand off the paperwork and instead trained her gaze solely on you. Just like she had in Zurich. Focusing intently on your face, ignoring whatever Steve or Sam were saying in the moment, she turned to you and found your expression was stale. Unmoving. Frankly, half of what was running through your mind right then was how badly you wanted to puke again. As if the eggs had turned rotten in your gut the second they reached their destination in your GI tract, you felt a heavy, oppressive fog of nausea taking shape between your ears, and you just wanted everyone to stop talking.

Sam and Steve continued on without a hitch, agreeing vaguely but also appearing to bicker over other things, like when was the most appropriate time to have this conversation. Natasha was leaning in, reaching for your hand this time, and you knew she meant well. You would bet any large sum of money there wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and she was doing this for your benefit. All the same, you were grateful when the front door swung back on its hinges, and a new person walked in. Nat, Sam, and Steve all suspended their conversations.

“Hey, wh—” the blissfully unaware, semi-stranger began.

“Sharon!” Steve cried, “Would you tell Romanoff she’s being a goddamn pest with no sense of boundaries?”

Sharon halted at the threshold of the house, skating a look between Nat and Steve at first, then Steve and Sam, then just at you. The look didn’t linger for long, and before you knew it, she was setting down a fistful of grocery bags and twisting her mouth into a frown.

“Will you shut up, Steve?” was her only response.

Sam rose from his chair and pointed as if to say, ‘Yeah, that’ before joining her in the foyer to help carry in the Wegmans bags. Natasha leaned back in her chair with a vaguely pleased look, and Steve just rolled his eyes. He slapped his palm overtop the stack of divorce papers still laying before you and, seemingly undeterred, continued,

“Do you think it’s fair for her to force divorce papers on this poor soul—” pointing to you, the poor soul, apparently, “—when it’s been a week since she left?”

Sharon started handing off the frozen stuff first, sliding a box of Stouffer’s across the counter to Sam, who then deposited it in the freezer. These exchanges took place in relatively quick succession, with Sharon only chancing a look toward the kitchen table once or twice as they did.

“I think she should do whatever the hell she wants,” she said, “And I think their divorce is none of our business.”

Fair enough take. One that you could respect, at the very least, even if you weren’t certain she particularly cared for you at all. You reckoned she had no reason to, and on the whole, appeared to be a pretty reserved person.

You wanted to add a word in her defense, reiterate to Steve that he didn’t have to go to bat for you, the poor, defenseless soul, right now. Instead of being able to speak, though, you felt an upsurge of something heavy in your throat. You clamped a hand to your mouth again, cheeks flushing with the heady sensation and also out of embarrassment, then pushed your chair back and stood.

“I— gotta—” you stammered, just audible to the table, through the wall your fingers had made over your lips.

You sprinted up the stairs without another word.

The first trimester ritual repeated, and ten minutes later, you re-emerged from the bathroom feeling two big spoonfuls of scrambled eggs lighter and still none the happier, healthier, or wiser. You took a peek in the full-length mirror at the other end of the room and discerned from a distance of ten feet that you looked like dogshit.

You flopped down on the bed face-first, heedless of the pool of sweat that still encompassed roughly half of it, and let out a weak, muffled breath into the sheets. Someone had been gracious enough to replace all the blankets and pillows you’d kicked off last night. When you heard a knock on the door, it sounded a lot like Nat’s.

You rolled to the side, eyes screwed shut in frustration.

“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is a fucking dumpsterfire, I agree completely, Natasha. I’m dumb.”

A little huff of a half-laugh sounded from the doorway. You opened your eyes and saw Sharon standing there.

Up close, she looked a little paler than you’d remembered seeing her last in Switzerland. Soft beads of perspiration dotted her neckline from what had likely been a hot and arduous journey walking up the driveway with all the food, and presently, she seemed tired. She wore a simple gingham blouse that had her eyes shining with vibrance, though, and both hands, you noticed, were full—she had a mug in one and a spoon in the other. She smiled kindly.

“The mob tends to have that effect,” she said, strolling in. Setting the mug on the nightstand and easing the spoon into it, stirring, “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

You had no idea what all she knew about your marriage. You weren’t so sure you could extricate yourself from all the blame of having the thing go up in flames in four short weeks. Nevertheless, you smiled back and offered up something good-humored in return, like, well, I’m not exactly winning wife of the fucking year anytime soon.

Again, Sharon chuckled. It was small. She leaned back against the nearest armchair and, pointing to the cup she’d left to rest on the nightstand, said in a soft voice,

“Give that a minute. It’s hot.”

You glanced over and saw a little string that you guessed was attached to a teabag sitting at the bottom of the mug. The drink smelled like chamomile, maybe. You sat up, readjusted your pyjama top, then slid your socked feet underneath you so you could scoot closer to the edge of the bed. On a deeper inhale, you decided the tea was definitely chamomile. And too hot, as Sharon said.

“Thank you,” you told her.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” she replied. Letting out that funny little chuckle of hers—one too low to be considered a full laugh, but very close—and then, seeming to realize what she said might’ve sounded off, “Like— I heard what happened with Schröder. Him trying to drug you after the wedding and all…that. I— I’m sorry.”

Bad time to be making jokes, she appeared to chastise herself, but you just nodded along with the faintest grin.

“It’s OK. I’d pay money to be knocked the fuck out now.”

You grinned bigger, and she smiled too.

“It should make you sleepier, if you wanted to nap.”

You replied that you would, in fact, love to be unconscious right now if it meant not having to put up with all this bullshit morning sickness, and you slowly reached for the mug. Sharon stood up, and while you took your first sips, she fluffed the pillows behind you.

She was right. The tea felt like a hug. You settled under the covers and brought the cup to your lips once more, taking two big draughts before setting the drink aside. Yeah, that shit’ll put you right out, no drugs needed. You sank even further under the sheets and watched Sharon hover between the bed and the doorway, looking around as if trying to find something to do—some way to make herself feel more useful, if you had to guess from the pensive look in her eyes. Finally, she settled closer to the door and gave you one, fairly sanguine look. The warmth of your drink had already begun to nestle inside your weary bones, and your eyelids felt heavier. Still, you tried to return the sunny look before getting fully settled.

“Thanks again, Sharon. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She started to leave. In fact, she’d already made it three-fourths out of the room when something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to you, and you looked up.

“This…probably doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but—whatever you decide to do with Bucky…is okay. We’ll support you, whether you choose to raise this baby with him or do…whatever it is you want to do. Don’t let Nat or Steve or Sam or anybody tell you differently. It’s your choice, y’know, whether you wanna stay married…”

Sharon trailed off, and somewhere inside, you could tell she meant to finish with words like, ‘…even if you didn’t get to make the choice to get married in the first place.’ You appreciated it. You beamed with just your head poking out from over the covers and thanked her again.

And, before she left, for the second time, she stopped. She walked over to the nightstand and bent slightly at the waist, just enough to set something small down. You turned to the side and saw a vial—a minuscule tube—on the surface. Your eyes widened, realizing what it was.

“Sam picked it up in Madripoor. He said Steve had given this to you…to, uh, give to Schröder, and I thought you should have it back,” she said, pausing, “Just in case.”

You eyed the little vial of poison on the nightstand and nodded, still not completely understanding. Your head throbbed, your stomach was still turning, churning. Your brain was about ten blinks away from logging off entirely and drifting to sleep. All you could do, then, was repeat what Sharon had said as you exchanged one final look.

“Just in case.”

Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep very soon after.

You couldn’t have been out for more than an hour; you were sure of it. However, the next time you glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, you saw it read 11:04.

P.M.

Shit.

SHIT.

That chamomille tea was no fucking joke.

Just as your thoughts drifted back to Sharon, the conversation you’d shared, the drink she’d given you, the poison she’d left behind for you to keep, you heard her voice all over again—and now, not just in your own head.

Presently, she was standing over your bed again, though the room was much darker this time around. She pressed a finger to her lips, hey, please, please, be quiet, alright? At first you wanted to make a sharp and strangled sound. A cry for help? You weren’t sure. Didn’t know. Couldn’t see very much of the woman at all, except for the outline of her face from the moonlight streaming in through the window. She stared and ‘shh’ed’ some more.

And you were contemplating yelling out a loud obscenity in response to it when next she cut in, markedly gentler:

“Keep it quick. Nat and the guys will be back in thirty.”

You blinked hard into the darkness and waited for your vision, or else your still-missing voice, to return. It didn’t. You just stared back, eyelids going up and down and up and down like a goddamn idiot gone sluggish off one too many Quaaludes, and it was several seconds more before she gestured behind her, into the shadows.

You tensed under the covers, chock-full of terror. You squinted, and shrank, and might’ve nearly pissed yourself were it not for the intervening force of a face.

A familiar face.

Bucky’s face.

You leapt up from the bed, displacing each one of Sharon’s cool and careful warnings from your mind all at once. You didn’t mean to, and as soon as she’d shushed you again, you shut your mouth. Fell still. Sharon slipped out of the room, reminding you both, again, that you had to be quiet, and you had to be quick. Then it was just you and Bucky. Silence and slightly less than five feet of space between you two. Then, shortly, no space to spare at all, as you ran to meet each for a hug a second later.

Your head struck his chest, and it was hard. That, alongside the python’s squeeze he wrapped around your body, hugging you to him in the tightest embrace imaginable, had your mind reeling, skull pulsing just a bit. You pulled back and stood smiling up at Bucky, whose eyes were wide, drinking the sight of you in.

‘Are you hurt?’ were his first words.

You shook your head that you weren’t, still unable to talk.

“Why are you— Who— who brought you— I didn’t—”

It seemed Bucky was equally hard-pressed to form a sentence himself, while his eyes were roaming wildly, all over you. Looking for bumps or bruises or cuts, whatever the wound might have been. He stumbled to the lamp and flicked it on. You tilted your head left, reflexively.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said. Sudden and swift, “I’m good.”

But you didn’t move your head too far to the right, either, for fear he might see the cut above your temple—the one soldat had caused when he’d pushed you to the floor, trying to protect you from a threat he couldn’t see.

As it was, your husband seemed to be too much in shock to see anything else apart from what stood immediately in front of him. He hugged you again. He kissed the crown of your head. He constricted your body so tight in his arms you felt a pressure start to build behind your eyes, and suddenly you weren’t so much pulling away as you were wrenching your body from him. When you met Bucky’s gaze again, the sweet blue irises were glossy.

“Nat wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe and needed to be…be alone for a while, but I—” He stopped, and it was as if he couldn’t even finish with the words, because his breath was stuck in his throat and his eyes were stinging too much. He looked down, briefly.

You wanted to reach for his hand but hesitated. He took yours a second later, holding extra tight as he continued:

“I thought I’d— thought you might’ve…left. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and then she— Sharon, she called me tonight, said you were here, so— so—”

You felt a pang of guilt holding his gaze, seeing how all the hurt that had come to accumulate behind those eyes over the last week went spilling, at length, into emotions he was either too overcome or sleep-deprived to express. The weight of this suffocated him, made him extra quick to speak his mind but slow to make sense of just about anything that was coming out of his mouth. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then pinched your hand in his, and you didn’t know what to do. You had no idea what to say.

“I was scared, Bucky.”

It sounded pathetic coming out of your mouth. Your husband nodded as though you’d just said the most profound thing in the world. His knuckles went white from just how hard he was gripping your hand, his head bobbed along in agreement, and for a moment, you winced to think that he might hug you again. Instead, the fingers tangled between yours just made a tighter knot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You scared me,” you added, voice wavering.

Your left hand was going numb. You didn’t want to give him pause—possibly hurt his feelings—by freeing your touch from his, but that grip was brutal. Deathly rigid and unforgiving. Thoughts of Brooklyn and Madripoor came flooding back; Bucky was so much stronger than he realized. His tone, in contrast, was dulcet and soft.

“I didn’t know I’d get like that. I should’ve told you, doll.”

“I shouldn’t have tried the activation in the first place.”

You shouldn’t have tried digging into Bucky’s past all. When all there seemed to be at every turn was a brand new way for him to hurt you, or the people you loved, maybe there came a time when you had to stop asking questions altogether. Maybe that was what his mother and all the women who’d gone before her had known to do, what you had been too stupid to see all along. There was no knowing these men at all, only taking them as they were and learning to cope with what they became.

Bucky shook his head.

“No, doll, it’s not on you,” he murmured low. Still forceful

Thankfully, he released your hand to cup your cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. You felt your pulse in your palm, throbbing from where he’d held it. When he let go the second time, his expression was considerably softer.

“Listen, I’ll take you home, we can talk things over. As long as I know you’re safe, it doesn’t have to— to—”

Hey. He was already halfway toward the door before he realized you weren’t following him. He turned and gestured forward. He beckoned you, brows drawing in.

“Baby? C’mon.”

You didn’t budge.

Your feet were rooted in place, as though cemented to the floor. No matter how much you wanted to appease him, go along with whatever he asked, you couldn’t. You shook your head, and Bucky tilted his own, confused.

“Baby?”

“I’m leaving, Bucky.”

You couldn’t hear your own words slipping out between your teeth, only the blood rushing through your ears. Bucky stopped and turned to face you completely.

“What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What— what do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I want a divorce.”

That part you did hear yourself. You wished you hadn’t.

You wished you hadn’t seen the light break off from Bucky’s eyes, expression going limp the instant your words registered with him. You nearly wished you hadn’t said them at all, seeing just how far his face fell and how hurt he looked by them—but quietly, from somewhere more rational-headed inside yourself, there was a voice reminding the rest of you that it needed to be done. You couldn’t keep pretending like this wasn’t what had had to come next. What you’d been skirting with Nat all day and hadn’t been able to bring yourself to admit before now.

Your husband still didn’t seem to be computing it fully. He walked closer to you, and his gait was unsteady.

“Divorce?”

Your vision was bleary; you hadn’t even realized tears had begun to brim at your waterline as you watched him.

“It’s what we need, Bucky,” you could barely get it out.

“I don’t,” he shot back, not missing a beat, “I don’t.”

“It’s what I need.”

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice was hoarse, face shifting from lax incredulity to one of a wince—screwed up in a way that said he felt ill. You shook your head but couldn’t look away from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated.

“It’s what I want,” you pressed on, just as sick yourself.

“You said what you wanted was me.” Again, Bucky’s voice splintered, and you could feel the pain in it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.”

Gritting your teeth, unsure where else to fix your stare on his face but those eyes—while your own betrayed their feelings too easily, fraught with wet, rolling tears—you shouldn’t have been surprised when his went wider.

“What are you talking about?”

The question was short, sharp, and biting, spoken with such haste as might be mistaken for anger, but the eyes softened his look at once. The anguish painting them now as he stared back at you were a proof, beyond a doubt, that it was betrayal, not rage, which steered him. He turned, and it was as if he couldn’t see a thing but you; his elbow clipped the lamp and knocked it over, but still, he just stared. In turn, the ceramic appliance rolled onto its side, toppled the mug and the vial beside it, and all three went crashing to the floor. Bucky didn’t blink.

“Wh—” he started again, but you didn’t hear the rest.

You remembered Sharon. Heard a flash of her last admonition in your head—be quiet, be quick—and without thinking, you fell to your knees. You tried retrieving what pieces of chipped lamp and shattered mug you could, quickly. You spotted the small vial on the floor and shoved it in a pocket. Your hands swept over the broken pieces without any real idea of what you were doing—all except needing to clean Bucky’s mess—and then swiftly, stupidly, you tried picking it up by yourself.

Of course, a shard cut you. The little slit that was left in its wake could have been no wider than a fraction of an inch, but still, it bled. You looked down at the cut, just then starting to sprout red from left to right along the side of your palm, when a new sight crossed your vision. It was fast, too. All but thoughtless in the way it broke in, gripping your hand in his, and yanking you to your feet. Bucky hadn’t seen that you’d cut yourself, it seemed, and, out of instinct, had grabbed your hand to help you up. As before, his grasp was like a vice, and his thumb pressed right inside the lacerated flesh, sending a whole new maelstrom of pain shooting up your wrist and arm. Now, as then, he was heedless of his strength and his sheer, brute force, that he didn’t even see the effect of his grip. He just held on, held you, tighter, tighter, and—

“STOP!” you shrieked.

You shoved him off. Pried his touch off your palm and gripped your forearm in your other hand and pored over the sight, seeing the gash almost doubled in size from just where Bucky’s finger had sunk into the fresh wound. You let out a sharp, muffled cry through lips that tried to stay closed—remembering Sharon again. You shook your head, clenched your jaw, and tore off the other direction.

And when your husband reached out, eyes wide with their own shock and apologies, ‘Baby, fuck, I’m so sorr—’ you threw him off again. With your non-bleeding palm, you thrust your hand against his chest and pushed hard:

“Don’t touch me!”

When he reached for you again, as if by force of habit, you held up a defensive arm and sobbed out, ‘Stop!’

‘Don’t touch me, don’t—don’t—don’t fucking touch me.’

You screamed it. You didn’t mean to. Thinking only vaguely of the need to be quiet, and almost entirely on the stabbing pain in your hand, the imprint of Bucky’s touch on your body, and the blood trickling down your forearm, you darted into the bathroom and threw the door closed behind you. You locked it. You meant to.

Twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years in Bucky Barnes’ mind. In a moment like this, following yet another supreme fuck up on his part, he felt powerless. He had had to fight the instinct to barge into the next room over with every fiber of his being, and, making fists by his sides and pacing the floor and hating himself was all that seemed capable of occupying his mind just then.

He’d knocked on the bathroom door at least ten times. He’d been ignored each time, no matter the duration.

He still had your blood on his thumb, and it made him ill.

You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.

While he uncurled his hand from a fist just long enough to stare at the streaks of red stretched over his finger, he heard those words replay over and over again in his head. He’d said it—swore it—himself, and still your blood was turning a cool, dark, dry shade of crimson on his thumb.

This wasn’t how he’d meant for any of this to go. Still, notwithstanding his best intentions, none of it mattered. He’d seen a sincere look of fear in your eyes looking up at him, and nothing in the world would change what he’d done, or who he was. He’d caused you pain tonight, last week—though his memory of that was still so hazy and dark he hardly knew what else had happened, even now—and above all, he’d failed you as a husband, a protector.

You were likely curled up in a ball by the bathroom sink, cowering in fear because of him. The thought sent another tidal wave of nausea thrumming through his skull, a lump in his throat growing larger alongside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was striding back to the bathroom door. He banged his fist against it.

“Honey?”

No answer.

“Baby, please open the door.”

More silence.

The moment brought to mind a memory from the night you two had been married. How you’d fled to the en-suite bathroom and locked yourself in it; how Bucky had rattled the whole doorframe with the force of his knocks, demanding you come out. He’d hardly known you then. You hardly knew him now. The realization of this made the weight in his throat all the more excruciating as he stood, and, wincing with pain, Bucky kept knocking.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Pleading now. His voice was hoarse all over again.

Had he been the slightest bit more desperate and reckless, he might’ve been tempted to muscle through, kick the door in with his boot. But Bucky knew better. He could already guess how much that action would terrify you now, while tending to an injury that he himself had inadvertently made worse. Barreling inside would be neither romantic nor sweet, just sinking what may then be a lethal dose of salt in the deeper, metaphorical wound. He refrained. Instead of continuing to knock, he dropped his forehead to the door and closed his eyes.

“Please believe me, baby,” he tried again.

He’d said it so quietly he feared you might not hear it. Then, a little bit louder, ‘Please, please believe me.’

No sound to be heard inside but running water.

“You mean everything to me, doll.”

By now, his voice was clogged with pain, teetering on the brink of agony as he rested his hands on the door, and willed you to open it. Say something to him. Anything.

“I’d never mean to hurt you. Not in a million years.”

For a moment, he heard nothing more. Just how desperately he needed to hear a voice in reply could not be overstated. Craving a new sound worse than oxygen in his lungs. At first, when he heard something other than himself nearby, it nearly knocked him back with joy.

A voice right next to his ear, “But you did, didn’t you?”

The joy lasted less than a second.

The voice beside him was low. And close. Not coming from the other side of the bathroom door, as he might’ve reasonably expected from you, and not even in the tone of a female’s voice, as he might’ve seen, were Sharon to have appeared by his side. This new voice was deep, and masculine, and in his ear now, chuckling some as a gloved hand pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

Bucky didn’t blink.

You stepped outside not wanting to see him.

The bleeding had long since stopped, thanks to the aid of a cool, damp washcloth and a few minutes’ pressure, but even once it ceased, your legs were reluctant to carry you back. You dreaded the thought of having to resume your conversation with Bucky—of having to look him in the eye and tell him all over again that it wasn’t safe for you to be married to him. But you didn’t have much of a choice now, either. This wasn’t your honeymoon, where you could stay locked in the bathroom, try climbing out a window, and hope for the best like you’d done before. You had the man’s child inside you, for fuck’s sake.

That uncomfortable subject and at least a dozen more were already swarming your brain as you made your way out of the bathroom. You’d taken a few extra squares of toilet paper to press into the cut, were looking down at it with a tense, uncertain gaze as you ventured out, when you were obliged to stop just a few steps into the room.

“Hi, honey.”

It wasn’t Bucky.

Your eyes snapped up to the source of the voice in an instant, and, on seeing you were right—that it wasn’t Bucky but a gaunt, grinning blond with a gun to your husband’s head—you almost screamed at the sight.

You’d wanted to scream, anyway. It would’ve been the sane thing to do, and one that nobody could’ve blamed you for in the moment, you reckoned, but strangely the sound never came. You just stared at the two, eyes wide and jaw slightly more lax as your lips made an ‘o’. Bile jumped up in your throat. You wished it would choke you.

‘Please. Don’t.’ was all you could get out.

Johann Schröder’s smile stretched wider.

“Don’t what?”

The question was clearly meant to be derisive, rhetorical. Still, with your fingers trembling, you tried answering:

“Don’t hurt h—”

“Why?”

You watched the gun sink deeper against your husband’s face, and he flinched. Your stomach clenched inside you.

“Why shouldn’t I hurt him, hon? Seems like he’s gotten pretty damn good at doing it to you,” Schröder sneered.

His words stung. The grin didn’t flinch. And, as if to punctuate his sentence, or else remind your husband that he was tied to a chair and entirely at his mercy now, Schröder struck Bucky in the face with the butt of his gun. If an onlooker hadn’t known better, they might’ve mistaken you for the one who’d been hit, though—at last, you unleashed that scream, and you reached out for Bucky, hands open and pathetic and desperate to help.

“Think it hurt as bad as your hand?” Schröder hummed.

Your feet were stumbling forward, “He didn’t mean—”

Another resounding thud against Bucky’s skull, this time hard enough to split his lip in half. If he’d grimaced in the slightest, you would’ve seen the teeth smeared with blood. But, true to form, James Barnes didn’t wince. He hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the blow as it landed. Just stared at you and, with eyes as hollow and deadened and faintly pleading as you’d ever seen them before, manifested their silent apology to yours—again.

“Bet he didn’t mean to hurt anyone as the Winter Soldier, either. Still couldn’t have felt too good for all the folks he butchered, though.” At that, Schröder’s sick amusement morphed into a laugh, and he was taking Bucky’s collar in his other hand. Shaking him lightly while he spoke.

“Couldn’t have felt all that great for your dad, I bet.”

The diversion turned to you, all toothy smiles and mocking eyes. He didn’t care. He let you stagger another step toward the two of them, even try to get your hands close to Bucky. But when you’d drawn too close, he stopped you cold. Not thinking much else in the moment, you made a move to push Schröder’s arm away, hard, and were shortly rewarded with a shove of your own. He knocked you sideways onto the bed, and you landed on the hand you’d hurt. Before you could let out so much as a sound yourself, Bucky’s voice tore in:

“Schröder.”

Schröder turned. He raised his Ruger to your husband’s head again, as casually as if he’d asked him for the time.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch her.”

Schröder turned to you. Though he didn’t move the Ruger again, he did point his finger at your form, haplessly curled into itself amidst the covers and pillows.

“Why? Saving all the rough stuff for later, are we?”

You cowered as his free hand reached for you, and just as your husband’s eyes went wide and a vein nearly tore through his skin from how hard it protruded, you cried,

“What do you want?!”

Schröder stopped. He brought his hand to a halt just south of your thigh—and then he dropped his weight on the bed beside you. He gestured indistinctly, almost disbelievingly, toward Bucky. The latter appeared near-apoplectic, nails raking down either arm of the chair.

“What do I want?” Schröder quipped, incredulous, “What do you want, doll? To stay married to him?”

And you knew he’d intended the question to be hurtful; you knew it by the glint in his eye, the goading tone of voice and the look he’d flitted to Bucky—nondescript and yet saying a world more than words could ever convey. He knew what had gone on between you, had likely heard your last conversation in its entirety, and was now using it against you. Mostly to taunt, then to injure your husband with truths he hadn’t yet uncovered himself.

Schröder’s eyes were shining with sadistic delight as he took your hand in his. He didn’t waste another second.

“No, no, that isn’t what you want at all, is it?”

Ignoring the screech of Bucky’s restraints as he tried to lunge out of his chair. Hearing him curse when he failed.

“—you said you’re leaving him, right?”

Schröder slid the thin, glistening ring off the hand he’d been holding before you could even think to stop him.

“—said you want a divorce, is that it?”

Then his grin got so big and conceited and enlivened by the sight of pain working its way onto Bucky’s face that any good sense you’d had left inside you was abandoned in a blink. You didn’t hesitate, or else try and make a pass to retrieve your ring—you just hit the man in the face.

Your fist was small, and his chin was hard. You knew before you ever threw the punch that it’d probably hurt you more than him, but you did it anyway. It succeeded, at the very least, in catching Schröder by surprise and swiftly pissing him off. Seeing this and feeling a bit bolder, you were somehow able to dodge his hands when he lurched for you again. Inside, your own anger flared.

“Why the fuck do you care?” you spat.

You found momentary respite in the corner of the bed, sliding back against a wall that would only protect you for so long. As soon as Schröder regained his bearings, he had you back in his sights and his grasp just as quick.

He dragged you back. He pulled you up. He dug the tips of his fingers so hard into your side that you thought the flesh might tear in two across your ribs. But it didn’t. Crescent-like indentations did leave their mark in a grisly set of five, though. You felt the sting of it as Schröder loosened his grip, then sucked his next breath through his teeth as if calming himself. Your gaze only hardened.

“I care,” he said, once he’d completed this slow inhale. He replaced his touch by pinching your face in one hand and bringing it up to his, expression more like a snarl. Then, raising the gun to your face in his other hand, “because I made a deal with your father. Remember?”

You did. Your head jerked back by force of instinct, but he held it. From every direction, then, you had nothing to hear but the sound of your own pulse thrumming a fast, panicked tempo in your skull. You tasted blood in your mouth without a drop on your tongue. And, had that deafening fear and revulsion been anything less, you likely would’ve heard something else beneath it all.

Would’ve felt it, if you weren’t already so numb: Schröder’s hand sliding its way down your body, diamond ring still stuck to the tip of his index finger. You sensed it as though seeing yourself from another perspective—watching his hand trail lower, lower, lower until something in Bucky split in two and he bellowed:

“SCHRÖDER—”

He said something more after that; you were sure of it. You just couldn’t hear him, or see him, or discern much of anything else but your own racing heart as the man who’d just beat your husband twice and lifted a gun to your head proceeded to press his touch to your belly. Almost conscientious and gentle as he lowered it.

“Was this part of the deal, too, doll?”

Your eyes widened. Realizing—then feeling fear seize you completely. Forgetting the metal at your temple and shaking your head with a force, but slow enough that your husband wouldn’t see it. Meanwhile, across from you both, Bucky seemed more than sufficiently occupied by his own blinding rage—he spit a glob of blood to the floor and, with his teeth bared again, swore he’d kill him.

Over and over and over again, oaths of taking Schröder’s life and making it gruesome and painful and slow filled your ears, but none of it stuck, for either you or Schröder. Instead, your maniacal captor just smiled, leaning in.

“I said, was this part of the deal, Mrs. Barnes?”

The heel of his palm sank into your stomach, and as the shock of his first words began to fade, a pain replaced it. His hand made an impressive demonstration of flattening and forcing itself so hard against the skin that a flurry of stars cropped up in your eyes, and you cried:

“Stop! I-It wasn’t— just— just stop. Stop.”

“Stop? Was it part of the deal or not?”

Schröder bore down even harder.

“It just happened!” you keened. Unsure why you felt compelled to answer for what had gone on at all—addressing the baby in this awful, oblique way—though reckoning it had something to do with the pressure he was applying to your stomach. You tried to squirm back.

But your stuttering pulse and your pleading gaze and the ache in your stomach proved to be all too much for any real progress to be made. You’d scarcely moved off an inch before he drove his palm deeper, and with the agony of a body about to rupture beneath it, a shriek clawed out of your throat. Your mouth fell open, and for once, you couldn’t curtail the pain, or fear. Schröder’s hand had just forced the noise from your mouth, along with some mindless, broken pleas to stop pushing, it hurts, please, please, when the face above yours only brightened. Schröder’s cruel, snide mouth flashed a smile above you, and before you could whine again—

He kissed you.

It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second.

Still, the moment seemed to stretch indefinitely. And felt perverse. So deeply nauseating and unsettling to every last nerve, muscle, tendon, and bone in your body that the response it evoked could be nothing less than visceral. You didn’t need to think at all to shove him off. Whatever might’ve given you pause with a loaded gun to your head was forgotten in a second, and soon enough, you weren’t alone in letting your reproach be known.

It started off with a crack, then a harsh, crude splintering of wood. A violent rift, from what you could hear of it, and when you turned your head, your suspicions were confirmed: Bucky had snapped half the arm of his chair away from the seat, and his right hand was almost freed.

Whatever barrier he faced in being bound more than four times over with rope seemed immaterial to him now. He could strain as hard as he pleased—feel the coarse synthetic fibers dig into his flesh and leave streaks of red, if not break the skin itself—and any pain, as before, hardly appeared to register with your husband at all. He just muscled through it, thrusting his wrist even harder. The whole force of this movement rocked the chair on its legs, and just when you sensed it might collapse beneath his weight, you felt Schröder stand up. The man didn’t need to move too far or do much else other than drop his hold on you and flip his gun to point it at Bucky instead.

Even when he had, though, Bucky didn’t flinch. His hands were in fists and his drive was like a machine’s—he tried forcing his way out of the right hand’s restraints, and the second the wood gave way, he was shoving it off.

Blind to the firearm Schröder was holding, or his words:

“Stay where you are, Barnes.”

Bucky was just then shaking off the rope that had been loosened by the break in the wood, jaw still tight as ever.

“You’ve got three other limbs to free, my friend, just—”

Schröder was still speaking when you saw his finger slip to the trigger, and it seemed to you it was itching to pull.

“James, stop!”

That plea came from you. More of a strangled cry, really—no more pleasant for either man to hear than it was for your throat to shriek. It did, however, stop Bucky cold. Your husband paused just long enough to meet your gaze. And in it, you saw, at least, that he was all there, if not enraged. But not soldat, or anyone else but himself.

You sighed in relief, despite what seeing two red rivers seeping out of Bucky’s mouth might otherwise provoke.

It was him. You might’ve smiled if another hadn’t cut in.

Schröder seized Bucky’s wrist. With it, you saw his hand just as mangled and bloodied as his lips. Knuckles cracked, slit, and soon to be littered with bruises of every shade, he shocked you again by how calmly he took it. Even when Schröder sank a thumb inside a big, gaping crater of a flesh wound he’d found on the back of his hand, your husband didn’t blink; he just looked at you.

‘I’m sorry.’

When the barrel of the gun returned to his head—this time, at the rear, as Schröder had circled back around the half-broken chair and was leaning over him—you could see the apology lodged in his eyes on full display.

“For safekeeping.” The man wielding the gun seemed almost pleased as he dropped your ring inside the breast pocket of your husband’s shirt, before patting it gently:

“Now where were we?”

A beat. Bucky’s right hand twitched beside him, but evidently, he knew better than to move in that moment.

“Right, right—” Schröder pretended to be remembering, tapping steel to Bucky’s skull, “She’s leaving, isn’t she?”

More silence.

You wanted to speak, beg Schröder for mercy, anything.

“Do you know why that is, Bucky?”

But before you could utter even a word of protest, the voice pressed on. Schröder was leaning in his ear.

“—what you did to her?”

The baby. Brooklyn. All the bloodshed that had ensued last week, leaving your husband completely in the dark. Of course, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been himself, and was scarcely more able to control his actions as the Winter Soldier than he could in a dream.

To your horror, Schröder reached down for Bucky’s hand, and, still holding the gun to him with the other, lifted it.

Pointed it.

Pushed it closer to you.

“C’mon, Buck. You don’t want me touching her, right? Why don’t you feel for yourself what she’s been hiding?”

Your blood turned to ice. You’d never felt so immobile—paralyzed—in your life, but seeing the hands drift closer and closer and feeling defenseless to their course, your body went numb. Your limbs grew heavier than lead.

And when you felt the smug, smiling blond guide your husband’s touch toward your head, you understood it all.

You were perched at the edge of the bed a foot away. Schröder was nudging Bucky forward in his chair, urging him to reach out and tilt her chin a little, go on, that’s it. And neither one of you had a choice, so he touched you. His fingers, directed by someone else, were obliged to brush the skin of your chin, your jaw, your cheek, and your brow, before finally settling above your left temple.

Your husband felt the cut—touched the stitches.

You winced, but not from any physical pain. It was Bucky’s face as the tips of his fingers skimmed the wound. The look of chagrin that crossed his eyes. Then bewilderment. Fear, as plain as anyone could see it— was he the cause of that? Had the hurt been from him?

You couldn’t bear to answer him, so you looked away. It was Schröder, again, who had all the power to speak.

“Can’t remember pushing her down?” he said, tone dark, “Making her split her head open on the bedside table because soldat didn’t know his own strength—only that he had to keep her safe—and sensed a threat outside?”

Bucky shook his head. His face was grave.

Schröder kept making him prod the skin.

“It’s bruised here, too. You feel it?”

Your husband did, and you thought it might break him. So tender and forlorn were the eyes, raking over every spot where a touch, his touch, had left you hurt before.

If nothing else could bring you back to your senses, the wounded look in Bucky’s gaze was sure to get it done.

You hardly thought again, just croaked: ‘It’s not his fault.’

Schröder’s hand then descended your neck, your torso.

As if he hadn’t heard you at all—

“You already saw what happened to her hand.”

—and forcing Bucky’s touch lower still.

“But what about here?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt your husband’s hand come to rest on your stomach.

It was like a fire had ignited in your lower half, and nothing close to the soft, pleasurable kind. Not the flutter felt in anticipation of a touch from your husband, not the desirous sort. In fact, you dreaded it now; seeing Schröder over his shoulder, urging him closer, making him flatten his big, broad, scorching palm over your belly.

What should’ve been the ecstatic scene you’d conjured in your mind at least a hundred times since marrying him—the picture of domestic bliss as you said it, smiling, I’m pregnant—was now nothing short of torture. Choice all but stripped from you here, forced to emerge inside this terrible place, you found yourself needing to shrink back, shake your head, look to Schröder’s stubborn, unyielding gaze and beg him not to make you do this now. Not now.

Not here, with Bucky’s skin a shade of glacial white and his eyes going wide, taking on a look you’d never seen.

“What do you—”

He stared hard at the hand on your belly, but it didn’t last for long. As if realization were trying to seep in, he couldn’t meet it. His eyes flitted back to your face.

“Baby, what’s—” he tried again, stammering.

“—right, that’s it, Mr. Barnes.” That was Schröder.

Satisfied in the suspense of the moment keeping your husband still, he lifted his hand from Bucky’s and snapped, that’s it, and clapped him over the shoulder.

Congratulating him before the truth had even sunk in.

“A baby, that’s right! You’re going to be a father, Buck.”

And how far was the look on Bucky’s face from the one you’d dreamed before. The lips you’d envisioned in a smile now twisting bleakly, parting slightly, and the eyes you’d once hoped to be bright and elated only staring back with rings of red enveloping the irises. Whatever tears formed at his waterline were decidedly not of joy.

Only guilt.

“You did it.”

Desperation.

More moisture in his eyes as his hand started to tremble across your stomach, voice hoarse and soft, “Is it true?”

You didn’t need to nod. You just watched him, let your own eyes fill with the worst, stinging tears you had felt in your life, and from the silence that followed, Bucky knew.

As if the life beneath his palm were something dear, but still too much for him to comprehend, he shook his head. He stroked his thumb over the cotton of your pyjamas and tried inching closer, as much as his restraints would allow him. Then, with words that were audibly strained, but always gentle, he lowered his voice—as if to keep the communication between you two, despite your position:

“I love you.”

His hand was still on your belly as he said it. He reached up to cup your face. Even lower than before, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

That much was evident from every look he’d given you tonight. Every move he made a de facto apology, all actions in the vein of atonement, it couldn’t possibly escape your mind or his that he knew he’d done wrong. It was only a matter of accepting this—maybe coming to terms with the fact that your life wasn’t safe in his hands—for the guilt plaguing Bucky to multiply. Paralyze him.

There was no better time for Schröder to strike. Just as the anguish had flooded Bucky’s face completely, and his hand had had to lower itself from want of strength, a sound split the air. Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that it didn’t even register at first, but the impact was real, and it was harsh: Schröder punched him squarely in the jaw. The next, swift snap was his nasal bone taking a blow, and breaking beneath it. Blood breezed down and into his mouth. Feeling warm, his lips and chin doused in a second, he sensed nothing else. He might’ve groaned.

He caught another swift right hook, and his mind went blank. Nothing of substance threatened to materialize between his ears, save for the rush of blood through and from his skull and the dim recognition of something ugly.

Something horrific.

He couldn’t protect you.

His body was as much an idle waste as it was a danger. Useless now, as he was tied to this chair, and a risk to your well-being even if he weren’t. The hazard was him.

Schröder hit him again, and Bucky realized that the ringing he’d heard in his ears was your screaming.

“I’m doing her a favor,” Schröder spat before shoving him back in the chair, almost knocking it sideways.

The blond advanced with ease. His knuckles were drenched in blood; none of it was his. When he reached for Bucky again, the resistance was slight, and a simple, firm grip on the collar was all that was needed to drag his frame to sit straight. Bucky was barely upright for a second before the next—and worst—blow struck his face. His whole head rang with it, reeling, but still, he could make out the words as they were spoken to him.

“She’ll never be safe with you, Barnes. Never—” and at the last, Schröder lowered his gun. Started to loosen the rope from Bucky’s left arm, “—I could free you now, and you still wouldn’t get within an inch of what you want.”

He nudged the rope away and let it fall to the floor. Bucky lifted his hand, but the effort was in vain. No sooner had a finger of his stirred than Schröder was delivering a kick to the chair and letting it splinter. Topple. Skitter a half-foot across the hardwood floor with Bucky’s ankles still bound to it, before finally, gracelessly, breaking apart.

Bucky was on the floor, blinking through a stream of blood and a sea of muddied thoughts when Schröder kicked the chair again. The rope slackened some more.

“Her own father knew as much, so he made me a deal to take her off of your hands. Settle his debts the way he should’ve done the first time around,” Schröder said, and now his tone was lower. Lethal as it ever was, and stern.

“I know how much you hate to lose your playthings, Buck, but this one’s better off with me, I promise.”

And, as if to emphasize his point, Schröder turned and reached for you. Bucky’s own hands were slow, fumbling in fits and bursts to get the rope unwound from his ankles, but they were determined. He just couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, the ringing to subside, or his brain, in its concussed state, to let him move with a little more agility. He’d been hit too many times. He could barely lift his head off his shoulders and hold it straight, so he was forced to stay where he was, keep at his task, and listen.

“You’re weak when you’re not soldat.”

Using his knuckles, Schröder brushed the blood that was evidently all Bucky’s across your cheek, and you flinched.

“When you make the switch, still…you’re inhuman.”

Then he tilted your head, making you show them both the mutilated, stitched-up flesh above your temple. Again, you tried to slink away, but his touch was firm.

“Don’t you think your bride deserves better than that? Your child? Forced to live in fear of that thing you are?”

Blood coursed down Bucky’s face, and his lips were curled apart in a grimace, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His eyes fixed their look on you. The rope was undone.

He’d just started to try and stand when the edge of his vision blurred. He felt the lacerations in his face pulse as one, and with it, half his sight went skewed to the left. Schröder couldn’t help but crack a smile seeing him stumble, pitch back, and barely catch himself on the bedside table. When he stood, he was mostly hunched.

“Look at you, Buck. You can’t try and save her like this,” Schröder taunted, drawing you closer, “So stop trying.”

The man’s hand was like ice holding your face. The grip grew tighter when he saw your husband limping your way, and before either one of you could move, the index of Schröder’s other hand had slid down to the trigger. He didn’t wait to give another warning before he did it—just pointed the gun and fired one shot over Bucky’s head.

His aim was good. The bullet missed your husband by less than an inch. The gun had gone off by your ear, and immediately, you seized the side of your head as a sharp, searing pain cropped up. Your skull was still ringing when you heard the thing discharge again, and you realized it had been aimed at Bucky’s neck. He’d ventured another step, and Schröder had fired a second round to graze the top of his shoulder. Crimson bloomed through his shirt.

Bucky should’ve stumbled again. He might’ve staggered back with a grunt of pain, lifted a quick, reflexive hand to feel the wound, but the sense of it all was slow to reach him. The moments that passed him were delayed just the same, as if the world around him were distorted—the fibers of time tugged and stretched before his eyes—and he could hardly keep himself straight. When he got another look down the barrel of the gun, he didn’t blink. Couldn’t see, really. It was all misshapen sights and sounds and a dim recognition that his mind was in a fog.

Somewhere from within that mist, he heard, faintly:

“I’ll go— I’ll go— I’ll go with you, I’ll go— just stop.”

Schröder turned to you, and the smile that he wore was cruel, but Bucky wasn’t able to make out the expression.

All he could see then, to the faintest extent, was you—your face, gripped hard in another man’s hand, eyes pleading and wet with tears, and a slightly slack jaw.

“Leave him for me?” Schröder repeated, sneering.

You nodded. Blinked. Rolled your tongue along the inside of your cheek before pulling it back and biting down once. There was a hint of a wince in your eyes, but, from what Bucky could tell, it vanished just as fast as it came.

Your lips parted again. Your eyes widened a little.

“So the girl has some fucking sense.” That was Schröder.

He’d had his weapon re-holstered and your face firmly seized in both of his hands in no more than a second.

What came next surprised no one, though the sensations of disgust and rage were as quick to turn a stomach as the shock would have done. Schröder bent down and, having pulled your face closer to his, kissed you again.

Schröder’s mouth was glistening with a grin and Bucky’s own blood—smeared all over your face from how hard he’d been holding you—when he looked up and turned.

“Sensible and sweet, isn’t she? Tastes like it, too.”

Bucky saw nothing but red. It wasn’t just blood crowding his vision now but violence and rancor and outright hatred, stirring his limbs to start moving again when the rest of his body was plainly too battered to venture an inch in that condition. He staggered again, watched you again, and had made it almost halfway across the room when another sight slowed him, if only for a moment.

Schröder’s lips were back on yours, as if to mock him, but what startled him, really, was the way you’d opened your mouth. You couldn’t mean it. Clearly. Schröder was gripping your jaw, forcing it open—it had to be—and he was coaxing your tongue out from inside and weaving it with his. Once more, time moved like molasses, and that was all your husband had had to see: you kissing him back, gripping his arm through the thick, black tactical gear, and still parting your lips more and more for him. Like you needed a touch, or something, worse than ever.

That stalled Bucky, though he was nowhere close to stopping now. Briefly preoccupied, and seemingly shocked as well that you’d accepted the kiss so eagerly this time, Schröder didn’t see the approach. If he had, he likely would’ve turned and made a move for his Ruger, but as it was, he had only to blink—and there was Bucky.

He hit him with a force that was blinding, directly to the side of his head so hard that he’d had no choice but to separate from you. Schröder was stunned one second and on the floor in the next. Bucky threw him there, kicked him down, and, wavering for only a moment to cock back the shoulder that’d been shot, he ignored the pain and punched the man again. And again. And again.

There was a callousness, an indolence, and an ease with which he was able to inflict the pain, that much was evident. What didn’t seem so natural, at least in Bucky’s mind, was the weight that was in his hands: Schröder’s body felt limp before he’d even landed the second blow.

The pressure grew heavier and heavier in his hands the harder, and more frequently, he delivered each hit, but for now, he didn’t care. Bucky kept on punching until the face beneath him was gnarled and bloody, and his own fist, too, slashed every which way with more cuts than he was able to count. He would’ve kept going—could’ve ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder for as long as it would take to ensure the man was dead—but as it was, he refused to ignore the voice he heard. It was yours.

Muffled now, as your body was bent to the side and your head drooped lower still. Your voice was soft but clear:

“Bucky, please, stop.”

He did.

He dropped the man’s collar from his hands as soon as he’d heard you say it, and he turned away as if nothing had transpired behind him at all. His focus was on you.

“Baby—”

To his surprise, he watched you spit on the floor.

Your face was grim and almost sick, and you spit again.

The look grew even worse, and afterward, you didn’t waste a second more; you stood and left the room.

Bucky was stunned at first, and his instinct had been to follow. Then he heard a rattling sound beside him. He glanced down and paled, seeing Schröder there.

His face had turned blue much sooner than Bucky had expected—and not from any bruising but a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He was choking, foaming slightly at the mouth while he gasped for air. Surely, it hadn’t been the hits that caused it. The whites of Schröder’s eyes were as conspicuous as he’d ever seen them. Desperate.

Bucky swiftly got the sense that the life of his former captor was lost, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to watch him die. He left what remained of Schröder’s form to continue writhing on the floor, choking and sputtering for a breath that would never come, and went after you.

Downstairs, he found you hunched over the kitchen sink—spitting, retching, and trembling, too, but breathing.

You let the water from the faucet fill your mouth, and you rinsed again. You winced as something stuck your cheek.

Bucky drew closer, quickly, and when he was right by your side, he saw you spit a shard of glass into the sink. He looked over to the counter, and he spotted three more

They were minuscule, really. Nothing quite the size to leave a wound too deep, but sharp enough to cut your lips, your tongue, or the insides of your cheeks. When Bucky leaned in, he saw droplets of red joining the flow of the water beneath it. You coughed over and over again

“Don’t,” you croaked, seeing Bucky reach for the glass.

Before he could reply: “It’s the poison. From Madripoor.”

Your husband’s blood went cold in his veins. He didn’t touch the glass, but he did press closer to you, feeling his insides churn as the cogs started to turn in his head.

The vial of poison you’d been given to slip in Schröder’s drink at the Foxy Den—how the hell had you gotten it back? Why would you think you needed it, if he— but no, that couldn’t be the case. There wasn’t a shot you just—

“—put it in your mouth?” Bucky couldn’t curb the fear in his voice. He reached for you and spun you to face him.

“Did it kill him?”

Your eyes were wide for entirely different reasons. Bucky couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his mouth was dry.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” you went on, voice shaking a little, “I didn’t— I just— I couldn’t get him the poison any other way. I knew he’d kiss me again, and when he did—”

“I know,” Bucky said. He smoothed the hair from your face, shaking his head. Feeling his stomach clench with fear and dread as he hurried to get a look in your mouth.

You’d snuck the vial inside your cheek, then crushed it between your teeth before Schröder had kissed you. You’d all but forced him to swallow the poison, shoving your tongue down his throat, but what of the stuff that remained? The rough, trembling fingers of Bucky’s hand were trying to pry your lips apart as gently as they could, ensure all the serum was out, but at present, you wouldn’t let him. You pushed back gently, though not too far to prevent your own touch from roaming his shoulder.

“The bullet—” you started.

“Barely nicked me,” Bucky cut in, “Baby, I need to see—”

That you’re safe. That you won’t be hurt in any way. He couldn’t finish the thought himself, having seen what the poison did to Schröder. Instead, he just held you closer and fought the lump that was starting to form in his throat. Adrenaline had worked well enough to clear his mind of the haze, but the rest of him was all high-strung.

Your clothes clung to you both, wet with blood and sweat. Your breaths were fast. Your expressions were feral, eyes no calmer as they scanned over the other’s form and soaked in every trace of what had happened. Bucky in his formalwear and you in something close to a chemise—like your honeymoon night all over again—you each got a glimpse of the gore ornamenting yourselves and let the room fall quiet, if only for a minute or two.

Your husband was the one to break the silence, at length, with cracked and grisly hands sliding down to your hips.

“You’re okay?”

His touch shifted you back in place to sit on the counter.

“I’m alright.”

You wanted to say more; assure him, in a voice as sedate as you could manage, that this wasn’t his fault. Whether he would believe a word of what you said was a separate question, but, at any rate, it didn’t matter. The next thing you knew, Bucky was slotting himself in the space between your legs and pulling you into his arms.

In spite of himself and all the wounds, he held you tight.

“You’re alright,” he repeated.

His face sank into the crook of your neck, and you felt his muscles contract again—pulling you closer—as he drew a shaky breath against your skin. You hugged him back.

“Are you?” Your voice was small.

In a blink, Bucky resurfaced. He lifted his head from your neck and, still holding you, hadn’t seemed to have heard.

“The baby,” he said quickly.

He stepped back. Lowered his gaze and his hands to trail over your hips and near your stomach, and he stared, as if trying to make sense of something dire. His blue eyes were wide, and they assumed such a look of panic that you feared a blood vessel might actually burst in one.

After all the great lengths he’d gone to, ensuring you were safe and taking extra precautions, on the off-chance you might be pregnant, here you were.

And there he went, sliding his touch lower and lower again until his hand was pressed into your belly, and the gaze you’d once thought soft before had all but melted into tenderness—delicacy. Complete, loving unreserve.

When his eyes met yours a second time, they were shiny.

Wet with the only kind of tears you’d want to see in them.

“You’re really…” he started, just to taper off, blinking.

And then his cheeks were dotted with the tiny, round droplets, and he’d finally ventured a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you couldn’t keep from reaching for him. The second you’d lifted your arms you were back in his, lips and nose smushed against the front of his stained white button-up and breathing deep.

Or trying to, anyway. Bucky had you squeezed so tight to his chest you had nothing but his shirt to inhale at first. You didn’t mind, and when he pulled away a moment later, you realized that your eyes, too, were filling up quick. You had to steel yourself against a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to emerge—the aftermath of a half-dozen traumas laid bare over the last hour—but the longer you were here, and the more your husband stared at you like that, the quicker your courage was depleted. In the span of five seconds, your senses were shot to hell. All you could think was what you could feel, and all you felt was Bucky: his arms and his hands and the raw, blistering heat between your bodies. The rest was noise.

It surprised you both when you kissed him. Physically, your mouth and his were hardly up to do it, injured as they were, but the impulse was strong, and it flowed between you. As soon as your lips latched onto his, Bucky was holding your face, molding his body to yours without so much as a second thought, and the mouth you met was sturdy. Hungry in the way it kissed back.

A string of words from Schröder flashed in your mind—‘Never be safe’—and you grit your teeth together, snagging the cusp of Bucky’s lower lip as you did it. He groaned. Before you could even try to apologize, though, he was gripping your face harder in his hands and coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. His front was still flush with yours, and your legs were starting to wind around his hips. Your husband nudged you back against the cabinets, and from the force of that push, you felt it.

Felt him.

Surely, it had had to take two very fucked up individuals to get all hot and bothered from a bloodbath that had just taken place; but, again, here you were—together.

And there you went, grinding your lower half with his.

“Doll?” Bucky broke out, word slurred just a little.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop you. Your eyes scanned his, and you were already planning to apologize for being so horny, it must just be the—

“You know I love you, right?” he breathed.

You blinked. You were about to nod, when you felt the bulge in his slacks start to rub against your barely-clothed heat, and something akin to a shockwave coursed through your frame. It couldn’t be helped. A monsoon of hyper-sensitized pleasure trembled over the skin in a way you’d never felt it before, and suddenly you were letting out a moan: a muffled cry of, ‘Yes, I-I know.’

Your husband swallowed and stared, slightly taken aback by the reaction his erection had produced. He’d never felt that either. At least from what he could remember.

The truth was that he’d never had a pregnant wife before—someone whose body was now extraordinarily responsive to his touch, nearly aching for him.

When you scooted your butt to the edge of the counter and dug your heels in the backs of his legs, humping him, almost, he got the idea. Bucky swallowed again.

“I love you too, I— I—” you started, already out of breath, “I just really need you to fuck me. Can you— please—”

Bucky didn’t need to be asked once, much less twice. He already had his belt, button, and zip undone before you could even look down, and then your own pyjama shorts were sliding off too. The counter was cool against your skin, but your husband’s warmth was more than enough to compensate for the loss. You smiled again, sheepish.

“It’s just…hormones,” you said, quieter toward the end.

You weren’t sure why you felt so ashamed to simply say, ‘James, I’ve been damn near insane with desire ever since you put a baby in me. Can you give me five more?’ But you did. You felt your cheeks start to heat as your lower half was left exposed to the air, and Bucky slipped his hand down between your legs, practically groaning:

“Honey, you’re soaked.”

There wasn’t one iota of shame in his tone.

He was more than happy to find you drenched beneath his touch. He had a smile on his face and a warmth bleeding from every fingertip as he caressed that soft, tender spot. You didn’t need to tell him what was on your mind, either. He sensed something was making you shy, and rather than have you say it aloud, he just touched you gentler, stroked the skin more affectionately, and tilted his head so only you could hear him, quiet as ever:

“That’s my girl. Feeling good for me?”

You felt your heartbeat between your thighs.

“My baby,” Bucky went on, voice dulcet and slow.

Your body was trembling at the edge, waiting. Impatient.

“My wife,” he said that with a smile, into your neck.

He lowered you onto his length, and you whined.

“Mother of my child.” The smile got bigger.

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Feeling him slide inside the most precious, wet, pliable part of you, stretching you out, you couldn’t help the sounds you made. You felt full in a whole new way; the groan Bucky let out when you were impaled down to the base of his cock said he shared the feeling. He throbbed inside you.

“You’re—fuck.” Bucky’s words broke off at the sensation.

Your walls were as slick as ever, your body delicate, rolling your hips to the first gentle thrusts that his shaft carved inside. Neither one of you could last long like this.

Still, at the threat of sublime pleasure, you felt fear, briefly: Schröder’s implacable stare—and the thousands more like him in HYDRA. You couldn’t help but grip Bucky tighter, willing these thoughts away with the rhythm of your body over his. Feeling him fill you up, fuck you with quick, deliberate thrusts and hold you, ‘That’s it, take what you need, sweet girl, you’re okay.’

You wished you were. You wanted to be. With every stab of Bucky’s hips, you hoped this would be the last night you ever feared for you or your child’s life, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. This was everything your husband’s varied ‘enterprises’ entailed, and a life with him meant never knowing a day without it—fear.

The head of Bucky’s cock grazed an especially sensitive ridge in your walls, and you whimpered into his shoulder.

You smelled blood.

He pushed you back against the counter and pounded harder, breaths heavy and labored and gruff as he spoke:

“You’re okay, baby, it’s alright.”

Your mind tried clinging to that thought, nodding along as if to convince yourself. The pleasure grew stronger, and your body was hot. Everything was heightened. Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes or his lips or his rough, bloodied touch from roaming you wherever he could reach, and he kept rutting his hips, assuring you gently, again and again, that it was all okay. He was right here.

The pleasure from the depths of your body was beyond your control—you couldn’t help it when the band inside of you snapped. You held Bucky closer and you moaned, more desperate and needy and soaking for him, taking something from him, and knowing the bliss you felt would only steal the dark thoughts for a moment or two.

Bucky’s eyes said it just the same. He couldn’t keep stuffing you full, feeling his pleasure hit its peak, and finally painting your insides without sharing that look.

You were less than halfway down from your highs when you felt him go still, panting fast, then hold your face.

“I love you.”

It was desperate. Hoping for something.

“I love you, too,” you told him, and you meant it.

But there was more. Both of you knew there was more.

“I can’t be married to you, Bucky.”

You didn’t know why it had to come out now, but the emotions were there—his gaze had all but drawn it out.

Still sheathed inside you, your husband tensed. He looked as if he might try and shake his head, but the movement was stalled by his own momentary shock. He’d known the words were coming, but the sound of you saying them now wasn’t any less jarring to hear. Before he could reply, you found yourself cutting back in:

“Not now, at least. We need some…time. To think.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, just that your lips were moving and every new word was hurting him more.

“Even with Schröder gone, there are so many…dangers for both—or, all—of us, and I don’t know…I just can’t—”

—imagine bringing a child into a world like this. Like his.

You didn’t need to say it.

The pain in Bucky’s eyes already communicated as much, and the conviction in your own only convinced him that you’d meant it—and what you said was the truth. You couldn’t stay in a marriage that wasn’t safe.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something more, the man surprised you when he squeezed your hand.

Nodding, almost imperceptibly, in front of you.

“I can wait,” he said, “Whenever you’re ready, doll.”

His voice was hoarse, words strained from the lump in his throat as he spoke, but the message was sincere.

“Whenever you feel safe,” he added, softly.

You wanted to hold him again. Like before, your eyes began to well with something stinging and harsh, but the look you’d fixed on him was filled with nothing but love. You would’ve reached for him then, if he hadn’t moved his hand to his pocket. He felt around inside it, briefly.

Then Bucky retrieved your wedding ring.

Holding you up against him, pressed snugly into the counter with your legs still wrapped around his lower half, he pinched the silver band between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to you. It glistened in the light.

“The next time you wear it, I want it to be because you chose to marry me. Not for anything, or anyone, else.”

Nothing arranged, no game, no being forced to stay.

You nodded and had to blink through a layer of tears.

Bucky’s thumb traced the moisture, cupping your cheek in one of his hands. He’d had to keep blinking himself, and before you could reach for him, he kissed you.

“I really hope you marry me again one day, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled, having parted but still holding on.

“I think I would like that, too. One day.”

The next thing you heard was a sound at the front door: what sounded like a crash. Half a dozen sets of feet stumbling inside, crowding the foyer, making a loud, frantic clamor that you and Bucky knew only too well. The two of you scrambled to get your clothes back on as Steve, Nat, Sam, and Sharon all seemed to yell at once.

You had one hell of a story to tell them.

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#bucky barnes smut #mob!bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #mob!bucky barnes #mafia bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #marvel #mcu #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mafia!bucky

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spencerreidenjoyer · 2 months

Text

guess | spencer reid x reader

wc: 2.3k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: slight exhibitionism/voyeurism, alcohol consumption (reader is not drunk during sex), lingerie, munch!spencer, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

a/n: heavily inspired by guess by charli xcx ft. billie eilish, specifically billie's verse. yes the song dropped yesterday. yes i listened to the song once and decided to write a fic about it. i'm insane about s7/8 reid rn so :) (also posted on ao3!)

You swear you don’t mean to show off, but the miniskirt you’re in doesn’t help your case in the slightest.

Spencer had told you to join him at the bar for drinks with his coworkers, the bar just a couple blocks down from the club you were at with your friends. Your boyfriend had been away for most of this week and you really wanted to see him, so you don’t think twice about popping by to see Spencer. Besides, you hadn’t seen Penelope, JJ and Emily in a while either, and those girls treat you too kindly.

You realise how skimpily dressed you are when you walk into the bar, though, when you approach the very properly-dressed group of FBI agents at a booth in the corner. Your top is cropped and low-cut, revealing your cleavage, and you were wearing a little black miniskirt, the hem of which barely skirted the tops of your thighs.

Spencer has never commented on your fashion choices, often being the very satisfied recipient of your sometimes revealing outfits. But as you greet the BAU, his eyes are dark and hungry as they roam your figure. You smile at him with a whispered “Hi, baby,” before you kiss him chastely. The look on Spencer’s face is unreadable, other than the fact that you know he appreciates the view.

His gaze darts up at Derek from across the booth when he whistles at you.

“Looking good, mama.” Derek waggles his eyebrows at you, earning him a smack to the chest from Penelope and a hearty chuckle from Emily.

You lean over to hug JJ, Penelope and Emily in that order on the other side of the table, and you feel Spencer’s hand quickly snake across your waist, pulling you back to sit down. You glance over at him briefly, but he only keeps his gaze straight ahead.

“You are one lucky guy, Reid,” Emily laughs, and you feel Spencer’s arm curl around you tighter, pulling you in closer.

The rest of the night is pretty fun, cracking jokes and talking with Spencer’s team, but with the alcohol in your system from earlier, it only takes a few more drinks for you to get drunk. You’re extra giggly, half-sitting in Spencer’s lap, his hand not leaving your side. You feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, saying, “I think we’re going to head home first. This one here seems a little drunk already.”

“I’m not drunk,” you lilt, rolling your eyes. You lay your head on Spencer’s shoulder, blinking hard before you meet Penelope’s gaze. You hear Emily defending you about how you aren’t drunk, but Penelope smiles at you and says, “I think boy genius is right.”

You frown deeply, almost comically so. “Penny! You’re supposed to back me up here!”

Penelope laughs, always so kind to you. “Come on, honey. Let Reid take you home.”

You huff, crossing your arms like a petulant child. You don’t notice the way Spencer’s gaze darts down to your chest shamelessly. Derek whistles, and you assume Spencer must glare at him because Derek is raising his hands in surrender, telling Spencer he doesn’t mean anything. What were they even talking about? You don’t know, but Spencer is murmuring in your ear about getting a taxi home, and after you say goodbye to all of his friends, you’re letting him guide you out of the bar and into the cool night.

You shiver, the very little fabric you have on not doing you any favours when the temperature drops. Spencer is quick to shrug off his jacket and help you put it on. His jacket is long enough on you, considering Spencer’s height, to cover your skirt.

“I swear alcohol’s supposed to warm you up,” you grumble, holding your arms close to your chest as you try to stay warm. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“You feel warmer for a bit because the alcohol is a vasodilator – it causes the blood vessels under your skin to dilate, increasing blood flow, which makes you feel warmer. If you drink more, the higher levels of alcohol actually work to shrink your blood vessels instead and make you feel cold. Do you have a headache?”

You shake your head, but take the chance to snuggle up to Spencer now. “You feel nice and warm.”

“Good,” Spencer says, holding you close. In no time, he flags down a taxi, and you two pile in and drive towards his apartment.

Spencer’s hand is drawing circles into the side of your thigh, mindless, but the touch is incredibly distracting. You ask him softly, “You’ve been touching me all night, Spence. Something on your mind?”

“You,” he whispers back. “Can’t stop thinking about your underwear.”

You squeak at his brazenness, smacking his chest. “You– Spencer!”

“I got a good look when you were practically bent over the table just now,” Spencer continues, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “Didn’t even give me a chance to guess.”

You gape at him like a fish, but Spencer smiles and murmurs in your ear, “You know how much I love when you wear that lacy black pair.”

You bite down on your lip, trying not to moan like a whore in the back of this taxi. You just look at him, silently wishing he’d do something. Spencer presses a kiss to your jaw, and you feel your cheeks heat.

Thankfully, the driver is quick to announce that you’re at your destination, and you and Spencer stumble out of the cab quicker than you’d like to admit. Spencer doesn’t even wait for his change before he slams the car door shut.

Spencer crowds you against the back of the elevator, an old, rickety thing with no camera, so you feel less bad when Spencer slips his hand under your skirt and past your panties, his finger sliding between your wet folds. “Spencer!”

“You’re so wet for me already,” Spencer groans, kissing down your neck desperately. His fingers are so tantalising, rubbing up against your clit, your hole. “You’re so sexy.”

“Spencer,” you whine. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

The elevator doors creak open on Spencer’s floor. “Let’s go, then.”

Spencer barely locks the door behind you before he’s kissing you, eager and sloppy and desperate. It’s so hot, his large hands on your waist pulling you closer to him, and you feel the growing problem in the front of his pants.

“Spencer,” you moan. You feel his hands push up your skirt, feel him wedge his leg between your thighs. You must be soaked through your underwear by now, and you shamelessly rut your hips forward to grind against his leg.

“You know I love your fashion sense, my love, but this is slutty even for you.” Spencer’s voice is dark when he says it, and you whimper. “You’re dressed like you want somebody else’s attention.”

Your eyes widen and you look up at him. “No!”

“Derek was eyeing you like a piece of meat earlier. Emily, too.” Spencer frowns.

“I only want you, baby,” you insist, holding onto Spencer’s arms. “Only want you to notice me.”

“I am the only one who knows the colour of your underwear,” Spencer hums, his fingers skirting the waistband of your panties. “And fuck, you look good in them.”

“Please, Spence,” you whine, your plea lilting off into a gasp as Spencer lifts you, getting you to wrap his legs around him. You’d seen how he looked when he was younger, so scrawny he looked like he’d get swept away if the wind blew too hard, but now, he’s got more meat on his bones. His body is a pleasure to look at, let alone feel under your hands, which you’re happy to do now.

You touch the firm lines of his body through his shirt, as Spencer carries you to his bedroom. You mumble, hands frisky, “You’re so hot.”

“Says you,” Spencer smiles. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby.”

You grin as he lays you on his bed, gasping when he slides his palm over your wet cunt through your underwear. His thumb flicks over your clit through the lace, the material dulling the electrifying sensation. you whine, “Spencer, please.”

Spencer tsks, looking down at you. “Let me take my time with you, darling. You’ve been teasing me all evening.”

He presses his thumb against your clit a little harder, making you moan loudly. While he tends to tower over you in bed, you also deeply appreciate the view of him getting on his knees so he can make a home between your thighs. His hair is wild, unruly, and you run your hand through it, admiring it. Keeping your gaze, Spencer leans down to kiss your pussy.

You feel his warm breath on you, the scratch of his stubble on your skin, pinned down simply by his gaze as his tongue darts out to lick you over your underwear. You whimper, as Spencer wraps his arms around each of your thighs, using you as an anchor as he presses his face between your legs.

You sob, because what Spencer’s giving you just isn’t enough, not when you need to feel his tongue on your cunt. He thumbs at your hole through the fabric, dipping into your wetness in a cruel approximation of the pleasure he usually gives you.

“Fuck me,” you groan. “Take my panties off already.”

“Not yet,” Spencer hums. Instead, he pushes your panties to the side, lets his fingers slide over your cunt. You gasp at the sensation, his rough, calloused fingers sliding over your wetness, and then you feel the warmth of his tongue.

The sounds his mouth makes as he eats you out are filthy, obscene. His tongue flicks over your cunt with a practised precision, familiar with what makes you tick, the wet, slick sounds too overwhelming. Your toes are curling with how good Spencer makes you feel – legs trembling, breathing heavy. You can’t stop the whimpers that leave your lips, almost helpless in the way you moan for him.

“Please,” your voice is shaky as you cry out for Spencer. “I need you so bad, baby."

Spencer hums against your cunt, the vibrations sending shocks up your spine in your pleasure. “Okay, my darling.”

Finally, finally, he’s sitting up and pulling your panties down, your little skirt still pushed up to expose your cunt. You look up at him, silently wondering why he hasn’t taken it off. He plays with the soft fabric in his hands almost absentmindedly and says, “I think we should keep it on.”

You blink up at him, not coherent enough to say anything about it. Instead, you watch him take his shirt off – you whistle at the sight, while he just rolls his eyes. He unbuckles his belt and push his pants down, his cock bobbing up, hard and red and leaky. You bite your lip, thinking about how he’ll feel inside of you.

“Kiss me,” you whine, and Spencer smiles at you. He tastes of you when his lips press against yours, and he’s quick to deepen it, his tongue in your mouth, like he's close to devouring you whole.

While he kisses you hungrily, you feel his hand between your legs, moving to line himself up with your entrance. You moan as the blunt head of his cock presses up against your hole, the sensation you’ve been craving all evening. Cruelly, he rubs up against you just like that, sliding between your folds but not giving you the satisfaction you need. You’re close to biting his head off.

“Spencer–” you start, but Spencer decides to press his cock into you right at that moment, and you sob with the way his thick length splits you open. Every time he fucks you, you feel like he was made for you, filling you up in all the right ways, feeling so perfect on top of you, inside of you.

You meet his lips and kiss him lazily as he starts to thrust into you, at the perfect pace, just deep enough to hit all the right spots. It’s too good, Spencer knowing you and your pleasure like the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” Spencer groans against your mouth, finally showing some sign of his unravelling. “You’re so tight, darling.”

You gasp, groaning his name, legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, feeling like you could fuse into one person with how much you’re clinging onto him. You press your forehead to his shoulder, moans punched out of you with every one of Spencer’s thrusts.

“Feels– Feels so good, Spence, love you,” you cry.

“I love you too,” Spencer groans, voice low and rumbly in his chest. “You’re so perfect, my love.”

You sob as your orgasm hits you, crashing into you like a tidal wave. You shake as you come, feeling so positively overwhelmed with the way Spencer fucks you, the way he holds you, the way he kisses you. You can’t feel your legs as you come down from your high, head spinning with all the pleasure. “Spence…”

“I’m– Fuck–” Spencer’s tripping over his own words as he comes right alongside you, your clenched pussy sending him over the edge too. He blows his load deep inside you, sticky and hot and so satisfying. You can feel how hard he’s breathing as your mind clears, his arms trembling as he holds himself up so he doesn’t end up collapsing onto you.

“You’re perfect,” you hum in Spencer’s ear, soft and gentle as you kiss the side of his head. You pull him in close, letting him rest his weight onto you, and your hand goes to stroke his hair softly. “So good. I love you.”

“Thank you. I love you more,” Spencer groans, his voice a little raspy already. “I’m sorry if I was too possessive over you in front of my friends tonight."

“All is forgiven, especially since you were sexy as fuck,” you grin up at him. “You’re always sexy.”

“Says the girl in a miniskirt and black lace panties.” Spencer smiles.

“All the more I know what I’m talking about, then,” you giggle, before kissing him slow.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x fem reader

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sparklingchim · 2 months

Text

summer playlist; m | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 4k

genre: hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, college!au, fwb, brother's best friend

rating: 18+

warnings: semi public sex, blowjob, spanking, jk is truly obsessed w her <3, protected sex, nipple play, jk leaves a hickey n oc gets upset 🙄, spit, dirty talk, his necklace dangling in her face 😋, jk's rejection count: TWO !!!!, pls someone hug him 🫂, fingering, clit play, groping

summary: pov: jungkook dedicates a cute playlist to you and fucks you to it on the balcony.

a/n: ur honour i was forced to write this don't come for me !!! 👉🏼👈🏼 enjoy the filth 😋

⭒☆━━━━��━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

One of your favourite forms of self-care and relaxation is Pilates.

You love dressing up in your cute gym wear sets – you own countless of them, even though you never actually work out in the gym; they’re purely for the aesthetics – and grabbing a big water bottle along with your laptop for at least half an hour dedicated me-time.

It’s a bright morning and you’re on the balcony. The sun is gently warming the air as you’re following a Pilates video on your laptop, which is propped up on the couch. Jungkook’s playlist, the one he created just for you, is playing softly in the background, providing the perfect soundtrack without drowning out the instructor’s voice.

Truly, nothing can beat these types of mornings.

But of course, something had to interrupt your peace.

While you’re on your hands and knees, your phone vibrates next to the mat. You ignore it the first few times, but it keeps buzzing. With an annoyed huff, you grab it and unlock the screen.

Jungkook’s spamming you with numerous messages.

Jungcock 😋

morning

watchu up to

im taking a run in the park

and im boored

are u up?

entertain me

You

omg did you change your contact's name again

stop doing that

how can you text and run?

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he calls you on FaceTime.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Jungkook says in a raspy voice, the screen shaking a bit as he runs his miles around campus. “I’m good at everything I do.” His tight black tee clings to his chest, displaying his big pecs. You feel your breath hitch and you’re not sure if it’s from your workout or the sight of him.

“Your ego, Jungkook,” you reply, shaking your head in disbelief. “Too big.” You set your phone down with an exasperated sigh, leaning it against the feet of the couch. His eyes drift down to your cleavage.

“I think my ego is perfectly fine. Flashing his dimples as you roll your eyes at him. “What are you doing?” he asks, sounding a bit breathless – so hot, but you brush it off. You’re a strong girl, after all.

“Was doing Pilates until you rudely interrupted me,” you say skipping back on the YouTube video and picking up where you left off. “Don’t you have other girls to entertain you?”

“None of them are as cute as you,” he replies smoothly, and you can’t help but wish he wouldn’t be so good at flirting. “You look hot in that fit.”

“Thanks.” You follow the instructions on the screen. It turns out to be a bit harder to focus with a sweaty, ruggedly handsome Jungkook right beneath it.

“Are you listening to my playlist?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling.

Your thoughts wander back to the time Jungkook made that playlist for you. You had told him you never really listened to playlists, just played one song and let the auto-play feature do the rest. He was so stunned by that revelation that he spent an afternoon creating a cute little summer playlist just for you.

“Good choice,” he grins, clearly pleased with himself.

“I actually really like the playlist.”

“Of course. I make the best playlists,” he boasts, and you can’t help but chuckle at his confidence.

An exhausted sigh escapes your lips. After finishing the set, you change into the child pose and take deep breaths, relaxing the muscles.

“Taehyung’s at his morning class?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I come over?”

You lift your head to look at the screen. He’s running at a more leisurely pace, looking even more irresistible.

“Like, right now?”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m busy,” you argue, teasing him with a thoughtful pout. On the screen, the instructor announces that the little break is over, and you should get ready for your next set, but you’re not listening anymore. What’s happening on the little screen in front of you is far more enticing.

“Busy, huh?” he mocks with a smirk. “Maybe I can help you with what you’re doing.” His eyes light up with excitement as he pushes his hair from his forehead. “Or you wanna get busy together?”

Unfortunately, it seems you’re not as strong a girl as you thought. You’re very weak. His teasing question, coupled with his wicked tongue grazing his lip piercing, has you weak in the knees. You want nothing more than him on the couch and you straddling him.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” he promises, the sweet smile back on his face. “Unless you want me to.” He raises an eyebrow teasingly.

“Just come over,” you tell him with a hint of irritation.

Jungkook has the audacity to chuckle, and you frown at him.

“Be quick, or I’ll change my mind.”

“Hi.” Jungkook pokes his head out from the balcony.

You squeal, placing a hand over your chest.

“Jungkook!” you exclaim. “What happened to ringing the bell like normal visitors?”

“Why did you give me the passcode then?” he retorts cheekily, ogling the snug fit of your gym wear.

“Because I had severe cramps and didn’t wanna get up from the couch.”

Thinking back on that specific day, you feel a spark of giddiness bloom in your chest. You had gotten your period, were battling atrocious cramps, and top of it, you had run out of pads. With Taehyung not home and needing them urgently, you knew Jungkook was always quick to reply to your texts. So, you decided to ask him if he could pick up some pads for you.

Twenty minutes later, he showed up at your door not only with the pads but also with snacks. You could see the faint pink flush on his cheeks when he asked, “Girls like eating chocolate when they’re on their period, right?” and hesitantly handed you the snacks.

And then, you did something that still makes you ponder at night – you cuddled without having had sex before. Oddly enough, it felt more intimate than any sexual encounter. Granted, you did get up to some naughty things afterwards, but still. Jungkook had cuddled you through your cramps and even endured watching reality tv shows he claims to despise once again.

“Well, I didn’t wanna disrupt you.” Jungkook walks over to the couch. He grabs your laptop, settles down, and places it on his lap. “Not now, anyway.”

You shift to sit on your knees. Briefly glancing at the screen where the instructor does the next set of exercises before drifting to Jungkook’s smitten face. His skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, and his chest still rises and falls a bit faster than usually.

You nod towards him, eyes clinging to his muscular thighs that peek out from his shorts. “How am I supposed to focus when-” When you look like that. But the words catch in your throat.

Jungkook is so shamelessly cocky, he places his hands behind his head. “When what?”

You sigh in irritation, close the video, and slide the laptop off his lap and onto the couch. He opens his legs for you. “Forget this,” you huff, placing your hands on his knees. Jungkook leans in, crashing his lips onto yours, his hand cupping your face.

The kiss is needy and messy. He teases you with his tongue, and you playfully respond until he tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, causing you to moan and lose yourself in the feeling of his mouth. In less than a minute, Jungkook has you completely pliant in his embrace.

The balcony is surrounded by tall privacy screens and partially shaded by a large canopy, providing privacy from prying eyes.

Your hands slide up his legs, underneath his shorts. You feel his thighs flex on your palm and you squeeze them back in response.

“Wanna feel your mouth,” Jungkook whispers against your lips, sighing in pleasure when you just barely graze your fingers against his cock that strains against the material of his briefs.

Jungkook impatiently pulls down his shorts and briefs and you help him. His cock springs out and stands prettily against his abdomen. Your mouth waters and you have to tell yourself to calm down – he's just a boy and you’re too whipped.

You spit on his cock and coat his length with it. You twist your hand as you slowly pump him and he grows even harder within your grasp, becoming veiny and heavy. You stick out your tongue and give him a few licks over his tip. Jungkook sharply inhales, a gentle moan following right after when he sees you tapping his dick against your tongue.

“Fuck, babe.” He takes his cock in his own hand and continues tapping his head against your tongue. He runs his tip across your mouth too, watching with keen, clouded eyes as he creates a little mess on your face. When he’s finished, he lets you grab his cock again. You wrap your lips around his dick and start bobbing your head up and down.

“That’s right,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. His eyes close as you take him deeper into your mouth and his head falls back. With his palm on the back of your head, he presses your head down. A curse flees his lips as almost his entire length vanishes into your mouth.

Jungkook forces his eyes open and moans at the sight of your mouth full of his cock. He loves watching you suck his cock and you love hearing him moan for you.

You’re a little breathless when you release his cock with a lewd pop sound, and your eyes a bit teary too. You stroke his dick and dip down to suck on his balls.

“So good. Fuck – you know what to do,” he mumbles like he’s drunk and you giggle at his comment.

“You like that?”

“So fucking much.” His hand caresses your head, so soft at handling you, but the way desire pinches his brows together shows how much he is struggling to restrain himself from just shoving his entire length down your throat. “Come here.” His tatted hand glides down your shoulder, pulling you up onto his lap.

He squeezes your ass and delivers it a little smack. “You’re so hot.” He peeks over your shoulder, watching the supple flesh fill his hands completely.

“How can you claim to be an everything guy when you’re clearly an ass guy.”

Jungkook takes offense at that. “I am an everything guy!” His hands quickly move to your breasts and he kneads them through your sports bra. “I love your tits just as much.” The tight material presses them snugly together. “I love every part of you.”

You feel a gentle warmth in your cheeks, but you laugh it off. “That is so playboy behaviour of you, Jungkook.”

A frown spreads on his face, lips puckering the slightest bit. “I’m no playboy,” he grumbles as he plays with your tits. Planting little kisses along your neck as if to add sincerity to his words.

You push his arms away and try to stand up, but Jungkook quickly pulls you back onto his lap, firmly gripping your waist.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his tone almost scolding. You grasp his wrist, but he doesn’t let go, his hands remaining firmly in place.

“Condoms,” you remind him. He lets out a quiet, muffled “oh”, and his grip loosens with a reluctant sigh. “’Cause, you know. We hook up with other people.”

Jungkook scoffs at your remark.

“What?” Tilting your head slightly. “I saw you with Nayeon at the party.” You try to sound as least huffy as you can.

“And you fucked Eunwoo,” he counters.

You actually didn’t – you just made out with him. You deliberately chose a spot so Jungkook could see you from the couch, with Nayeon clinging to his side, just because you wanted him to see you.

“So?”

Jungkook levels you with a piercing gaze but remains quiet. He gives your butt a pat and nods towards the balcony door. “Go get the condom.”

When you fetch a condom from your room and return to Jungkook, you see saliva dripping from his lips and he lubes himself up as his pretty fingers wrap around him and stroke his cock. He looks unfairly hot doing the filthiest things.

“Bend over my lap,” he instructs when you hand him the condom, but he ignores it and drops it next to him.

He helps you settle onto his lap, your tummy pressed against one of his thighs and your ass in the air. Jungkook rolls the tight fabric of your shorts over your ass. He flicks your panties aside and groans at the pretty sight in front of him. Wet pussy peeks out from between your soft thighs.

His finger swipes across your pussy. “So wet for me. Can’t wait to have my dick in your pussy, huh?” He rubs your arousal over your pussy, spreading your folds to spit and make an even bigger mess. He’s having so much fun teasing and rubbing you, playing a little with your clit and dipping the tip of his finger inside you.

“Jungkook,” you whine, looking over your shoulder. “We don’t have that much time.”

“Sorry.” He circles your hole with two fingers and plunges them deep inside you. “Better, princess?” he asks after you choke on a moan, mocking you with fake sympathy.

“Yeah, better.” The words roll off your tongue in a soft whisper. Jungkook curls his fingers and your eyes roll involuntarily. “So good.” His other hand rolls the plump flesh of your ass around his palm, sometimes squeezing and leaving his fingerprints on your skin.

He’s fast in figuring out a rhythmic way to move his fingers that instantly unfurls pleasure all over your body. Jungkook knows your body all too well; he has perfected the art of knowing what you like the most.

It makes you think back to high school when you had the biggest, silliest crush on him and wanted nothing more than his attention. Who could blame you? Your older brother’s hot best friend was the captain of the school’s hockey team and practically lived at your house.

Of course, developing a crush on him was inevitable. But you never showed him that you found him cute – you treated him like your older brother’s annoying best friend who was always around. Bickering was just the nature of your friendship. Sometimes, you’d get annoyed when your dad paid more attention to Jungkook. It wasn’t because he preferred Jungkook over you, but because your dad, a high-profile NHL General Manager, supported the boys on their journey.

Every girl in school was swooning over him – they still are. And you’re not the only girl he’s paying attention to. You have to force yourself to admit that he’s hooking up with other girls too, because denying it would make this seem so serious, and the thought of things becoming serious scares you.

You’re content with how things are between you two – you’re not foolish enough to turn this simple, silly arrangement into something serious when you know it wouldn’t last. Taehyung being the main reason for that. But you don’t want Jungkook in a romantic way anyway, and he doesn’t too.

Jungkook smacks your butt, soothing the sharp hit by running his hand over your burning skin right after. “Want your little pussy to be a mess for me.”

It is, you want to say. You are. But you’re lost in the tingling pleasure that clouds your mind, leaving you with nothing but desperate need for him. Any rational thoughts vanish, replaced by an angelic, repetitive chant of his name. Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook.

And with only Jungkook your mind, you cum around his fingers, walls clenching as the rush of your high envelops you completely.

“Good girl.” His fingers lather your slick all over your pussy, marvelling at how much it glistens under the sun, watching how it sticks to the pad of his fingers in little strings. “So pretty.” He discards your shorts and panties before pulling you up and making you straddle him.

Your arms drape over his shoulders as he takes in your weary expression, a small smirk rising on his face.

“So annoying,” you mutter and his smile grows wider. You smooch his dimple and rest your forehead against his neck when Jungkook rolls the condom over his cock and you feel him lift your hips up a little to align his tip with your entrance.

He stretches you out in a familiar, delicious way. Burying himself so deep inside you as you sink down on him. Your nose brushes his jaw and a shaky moan bubbles up when you move your hips and feel the full size of his cock.

Jungkook hands stay on your hips, guiding your movements before they sneak behind you and anchor themselves in your butt and you sniff a laugh, leaning back to peer at his face.

“Why?” he questions, curiosity piqued. Even though he doesn’t know why you’re amused, a soft smile spreads on his face.

“Nothing.” Your fingers gently weave through his smooth hair, playing with the strands at the back of his head. “Just you.”

The corners of his mouth curl upward and a satisfied, cocky glint settles in his eyes.

“Take this off,” you say, tugging at the tight-fitting shirt covering his upper half. Jungkook pulls it over his head, revealing a shiny silver necklace decorating his neck. “Is this new?” You trace the delicate chain with your nail.

“Yeah,” he grins proudly. Setting your laptop aside on the coffee table, he manhandles you onto your back, pushing his cock even further into you as he sits on his knees and leans over you. “You like it?”

The necklace dangles just above your face, its silver chain shimmering and momentarily catching your attention. You pull him closer by tugging on it.

“It’s pretty. Suits you.”

The compliment conjures a boyish smile on his lips, making his face soften with a warm, endearing glow – such a sweet contrast to the way he pounds into you with practised movements, his skin covered in sweat yet again, but not for the innocent reason of keeping fit for hockey, but for the wicked reason that Jungkook can’t control his desire to fuck his best friend’s younger sister and keeps coming back to you despite having so many other options.

Jungkook drags your bra down and squeezes your breast, loving the heavy feel of your supple flesh filling his closed fist.

You throw your legs around his waist to pull him even closer to you, if that’s even possible, and Jungkook deepens his thrusts, leaving you gasping for air and holding onto his shoulders, needing something to sink your nails into.

He dips his head down and catches your pebbled and sensitive nub in his mouth, sucking and licking and making your moans whinier. Jungkook leaves tiny flecks of spit on your skin as he peppers your chest and neck with smooches.

Jungkook’s touches send waves of euphoria through you, leaving your thoughts scattered and your senses heightened by how good he makes you feel, chasing your high as you concentrate on the way he reaches your sweet spot every time his body meets yours, so you only realise Jungkook is nibbling and sucking on your neck when you feel his teeth poke you.

“Jungkook,” you scold him, yanking him by the hair.

“What?” He peers at you through his big, round doe eyes.

“Why would you do that?” Your finger grazes the spot where he was just working hard to create a little hickey. “You know I don’t like that.”

“But you look pretty with it.” His brows raise to make his point clear. “Trust me.” He smiles at you in an annoyingly charming way, giving the freshly created hickey a gentle kiss. “A little love bite.” Love bite. You don’t want to dwell on how those words make you feel.

The only thing you want to think about is how close you are to cumming.

“Don’t do that again.” You avoid his gaze and cast it downwards, where he disappears into you. “Just– just make me cum.”

He pushes your leg up, his palm firmly against the back of your thigh. His sparkly necklace catches your attention, swinging in front your face, and it's the way he looks – his face flushed with desire, eyes smouldering, and every muscle taut with intensity – that makes it impossible to look away, leaving you completely captivated as you listen to his pretty moans that sound even better than the song playing in the background.

Your fingers trail down his chest, brushing over his hard abs as a faint attempt to moan his name rolls of your tongue and you bask in the bliss that floods through you.

“Fuck, ___,” he rasps when he feels you squeezing his cock. “Gonna cum too.”

His thrusts become sloppy as Jungkook loses himself in the feeling of release. His moans are breathy and low and you hear him stutter when he finally comes undone too. The muscles on his tummy clench and you feel his grip on your thigh tighten as Jungkook moves his hips slowly now. With rosy cheeks and a look of deep satisfaction brightening his face, he leans in, and presses a fervent kiss to your lips.

You’d love to stay like this with him a bit longer, teasing and annoying each other until you’re ready for another round. But the reminder that Taehyung’s class will end soon brings you back to reality. You only ever have these secret moments for a limited time before reality comes crashing back down.

“Think we should head inside?” you ask.

“Uh-huh.” He’s busy dotting your neck with gentle kisses.

“You’d have to get off me, y’know?”

He chuckles, and you feel a ticklish flutter in your tummy.

“Just wait a minute.”

You step back inside once you’re both clothed again and you managed to pry Jungkook off you after he stubbornly clung to you for what felt like ages. Definitely longer than just a minute.

“We could make this exclusive, if you’d want that,” Jungkook proposes, stepping closer and you feel his heavy gaze lingering on you.

“Huh?” You’re busy with closing the balcony door, cursing the insects that always manage to invade your apartment. Taehyung’s been promising to put up the insect screen for months.

Jungkook helps you close the door with a strong push. “If the condoms annoy you, we could stop hooking up with other people.”

“Oh,” you utter, surprised.

If you’re honest with yourself, you have to admit that Jungkook has ruined you for other guys. No other boy quiet hits the same after experiencing how Jungkook treats you in bed. There is a reason why girls blush and giggle and crave his attention whenever he walks by. He’s just that good.

But being exclusive means spending even more time together, which increases the chance of Taehyung finding out.

You cringe at the thought of that.

“We’d practically be begging Taehyung to catch us like fools,” you tell him.

Just then, you hear someone type in the code and the front door opens.

Quickly, like a practised move, you put distance between you and Jungkook.

“You hungry, ___?” Taehyung calls out, emerging from the hallway. His gaze is focused on his phone as he types, until he notices you and Jungkook and stops in his tracks. “I was just about to call you for breakfast.” He lifts the bag from your favourite bakery. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d invite me for breakfast.” Jungkook beams, reaching for the bag.

Taehyung’s gaze shifts to you, but you quickly brush past him. “I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t wait for me!”

“Did you come from a workout?” You hear Taehyung ask Jungkook.

Jungkook says yes, but he doesn’t tell your brother what kind of workout.

And moments like these are exactly why you want to keep things as they are with Jungkook.

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

read more of this couple here <3

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts x reader #bts imagine #jungkook imagine

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wri0thesley · 5 months

Text

eyes - neuvillette x reader (8.5k)

you have always known, one day, you would be married off to someone not of your choosing. but you certainly never expected it to be the iudex himself.

cw: not sfw text. explicitly chubby virgin reader, some insecurity, arranged marriage. double dick neuvillette, cunnilingus, bathing together. reader is afab but referred to with neutral pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

There are certain standards one must follow as a child of Fontainian society; certain things that are expected of you. A certain way to speak and move and act - a set of rules that have been laid out clearly for you since the day you were born. You will know which fork to use at which mealtime. You will know the difference between what is appropriate to wear to a matinee and to an evening show. You will trust your elders to guide you, and you will be grateful for the life that they have oh-so-painstakingly laid out.

So you are not surprised when your mother tells you that you are to be wed.

You have even been expecting it. Since you became of a marriageable age, you have looked at all of the other children of society and wondered what kind of match your family might make. One of your own generation? Older, perhaps - more secure in their wealth and their status and position? You have even laughed about it with your friends, when you were out of earshot of all of your elders - discussing who would be the worst options, gossiping about who has had who over for tea recently.

She’s surprisingly tight-lipped about who you’re going to wed, too. That’s not unexpected either, though it does make anxiety roil hot and sour in your gut. Plenty of children have run away from home so as not to be wed to somebody decades and decades their senior, or somebody with a reputation for cruelty - or sometimes even because the match that has been made has not taken into account a love affair unbeknownst to the elders of the family.

You have no such love affair to romantically dash off into the sunset with; you have been a good and dutiful child your whole life. And though you do, perhaps, wish that you could know what it was like to have a love so fiery and passionate you would disobey the only life you’ve ever known . . . you have come to accept that will not be your lot in life.

You have even worried once or twice that somebody, upon finding that they were engaged to you, might wish to run away. You have looked in the mirror and scrutinised your face, your posture, your body - a body that has fallen out of fashion recently, the beauty ideal in Fontaine being very much ‘look as much like Lady Furina as possible’. It is your body, though - and it has stood you in good stead, and the night in which you are finally to meet your betrothed your mother and your maid stand in your bedroom looking approvingly at how your gown falls over the soft peaks and curves of your hips and chest.

All you know about this person who you are to be wedded to is that every time your family talks of them, they can barely hide the smiles on their faces and the superior lilt to their tone. Whatever match has been made for you . . . they are utterly ecstatic about it.

“I think he’ll be more than pleased,” your mother says, tugging at a fold of fabric - she had chosen to have this dress made in pale blue, though it is not a colour that has been in your wardrobe before. A man, then; a well-placed man who makes your family giddy with excitement - a man partial to the colour blue and a spouse whose figure runs more to curves than lines.

It is not a lot to go on.

So you do not know what to expect, as you are brought down the stairs and into the dining room. All kinds of thoughts dance through your head; some pleasant, some . . . not so. You know that you will meekly accept what you have been given, the way you have been brought up to do - and it is not lost on you that the trajectory of tonight will perhaps influence your life for years and years to come. There is always the chance that, seeing you in person, your parent’s intended will reject you--

Your mind is churning at a hundred thoughts a minute as you step inside the dining room - but when you see who is seated at the head of the table, all of those thoughts seem to clatter to the ground at once.

It is a wonder that your mouth does not drop open.

In all of the time you have spent gossiping about possible matches in society, nobody has ever mentioned - even off-handedly - the possibility that the Chief Justice of Fontaine may be looking to marry.

But there sits Monsieur Neuvillette - a little awkward, yes (he is being chattered to most insistently by your father), but straight and tall and handsome in his chair, his robes of office perfectly pressed, his face schooled carefully into a polite look of vague interest. Your mother coughs, and he looks up--

And his eyes, the colour of the evening sky or a perfect sapphire, widen just a touch. His mouth opens, the barest amount - and you swear that as his gaze sweeps over your form in your carefully chosen blue dress (a choice you are beginning to understand), he visibly swallows.

“Ah,” he says, and he stands - walking towards you, bending and inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to . . . finally meet you in person.” You’re still rather stunned speechless by everything that is happening - you cannot help but feel as though things are happening around you, and not to you - but as Neuvillette uses one of his gloved hands to take yours and to press a lingering kiss on your palm that makes your entire body feel as though it is on fire, you are suddenly all too aware of just what is going on. “You look radiant tonight.”

“M-Monsieur,” you say in return, and you sweep what must be the clumsiest curtsey of your life. “I . . . I have to admit that this is a surprise.”

“Not an unwelcome one,” your mother puts in before he can respond. “Of course, we’re delighted with this match, and we’re absolutely sure you’ll be delighted with them--”

“I understand,” Neuvillette says, his eyes not leaving you. “If I may be frank with you, until recently I had never thought to marry.”

Questions rise in your throat. If he had not thought to marry, why was he doing it now? And why you, when surely he must see the upper echelons of society every single day? What had brought him to your family’s door, asking after your hand over everyone else he must have had first pick of? But these are not polite questions for the dinner table, when your mother and your father are already ushering the two of you to your seats beside one another and beaming so brightly that it hurts to look at them.

The dinner table is a place for light, polite conversation; the last opera you saw, the weather. Neuvillette smiles into his wine glass - a glass you notice is filled with water - when you mention that it has not seemed to rain much recently. You notice him looking at you every so often, over rims of glasses and delicate bites of foods . . . but you know that you, too, cannot help but sneak a glance at the Iudex of Fontaine seated by your side.

Your future husband! Your betrothed! The man you will spend the rest of your life with!

As much as you may wish for a moment alone with him, you know it is not proper; so when he stands and kisses your hand again and your father takes Neuvillette into his study to hash out some further details of your impending nuptials, you swallow your disappointment and remind yourself that you will have years with Neuvillette, to learn his secrets - to discover why he has decided to take you as a spouse.

There is little time for getting to know one another beyond the most surface of levels when a marriage has been arranged for you - there is even littler time when the man you are going to marry is one of the most powerful and busiest men in Fontaine. Even the few times you see each other as the wedding looms closer - the period your parents optimistically refer to as ‘courting’ - there is little time to get to know his heart.

You realise, at the final fitting for your wedding clothes, that the first time you will be truly alone with the man who is to be your husband will be the night of your wedding.

And that particular thought . . .

You know the ways of the world. You know what will be expected of you, in order to properly consummate a marriage - you know that you will be intimate with Neuvillette for years to come. But the idea that the first time that the two of you will be able to snatch time with one another with no parents or gossip-mongers or anybody else around will also be the time in which you and he will legally become one (and you know, from experience at the Opera Epiclese, that Neuvillette is nothing if not a stickler for the law) . . . oh, it is enough to make you reconsider one last time running away from your responsibilities.

“Mother?” You ask, your voice quiet, the night before your wedding. You have spent the entire day overseeing flowers and being asked questions, watching the cooks and the waiters bring in fine delicacies from all over Teyvat (Neuvillette had not wanted hosting duties; you get the impression that as long as the ceremony was done legally, he would be pleased enough to call you his spouse. But your parents have been preparing for this your whole life, so they had indeed wanted the spectacle of their child marrying the most powerful man in Fontaine. With no family to speak of, he had acquiesced to their desires. Your parents are in shivers of delight that Lady Furina will, too, grace the halls of your family home). “What if . . . what if I do not please him?”

You are sitting before your dressing table, in your sleeping robe, haunted by thoughts of all of the things that could go wrong whilst your mother double checks your wedding gown and the jewellery you are to wear tomorrow. She looks over at you - her face is normally hard, but as she sees the knit of your brow and the bite of your teeth into your lip, she sighs softly.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, stroking your cheek. “The Iudex asked for you specifically.” You blink at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs a soft little laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, now; they have been badgering him to marry for some time . . . but he did ask for you, out of all of the people he could have had. So take heart in that. Do you think him a foolish man?”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper. You suppose that Neuvillette is many things, but ‘foolish’ would not be one that would cross your mind.

“There. You and he are going to have a happy life together.” A sly look steals over her face. “Ah . . . are you worried about the wedding night itself?”

“Mama!”

“It’s something we all go through, my dear.” She catches your chin in her hand and smiles at you, and for a moment, despite all of the times you have disliked her for the life you have been forced into . . . you are reminded that she is your mother, and she wants this to work just as much as you do. “Do not be frightened of him. Do not be overwhelmed by him. He has chosen you to be his equal, but he will not expect too much of you. I promise . . . everything is going to be fine.” She gives you a wink. “And if I were you, and were to marry a man who looked like the Chief Justice - why, I’d be positively thrilling with excitement at the thought of my wedding night!”

“Mama!” This time, your scandalised tone brings her out in peals of laughter, and she kisses the top of your head as she leaves the bedroom. The door clicks behind her.

Your final night in your childhood room; your final night unmarried. One last slumber amongst your own silken pillows and sheets (what kind of bed, you wonder, does the Chief Justice sleep in?).

That night, you dream of a sea that churns with a similar anxiety to the one that you feel in your own belly.

The morning of your wedding day, it is raining. Your family fuss over it, but as you stand at your window with people running all about you, messing with your hair and rearranging your dress and having arguments about your bouquet, you cannot help but find it comforting to watch the rain fall in droplets, stopping and starting again, mirroring your own still-nervous heart.

You think you will falter at the last hurdle, as you stand outside of the Opera Epiclese - normally a place of theatricals, but also a place of the law, and the place that the most important part of your wedding day will occur - and take a deep breath ready to start your new life. The bouquet in your hands is full of rainbow roses and romaritime flowers, bursting with colour; you are grateful to have it to hold on to, as the doors are thrown open and you walk slowly down the aisle of the theatre.

Your eyes desperately seek out someone who will provide you an ounce of comfort in the crowd, all peering at you curiously to see the person who has finally tamed the Chief Justice. This is a spectacle as much as a wedding, you suppose; and as you see some people whisper behind their hands, you wonder if you have been found wanting. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself crying - and then, onstage, his hands clasped over his cane, your gaze finds Neuvillette himself.

The patter of the rain on the roof of the Opera stops all at once. For a moment, you swear everything falls silent, as you and he look at each other.

Slowly, his mouth breaks into a small, secret smile, and the buzz of whispering intensifies - but that smile is enough to steady you. To remind you he has been nothing but kind and polite. To whisper to you that perhaps this union is a thing to look forward to, and not to be feared.

He looks as handsome as ever; his suit perfectly-pressed, his hair streaming in a neat silver white tail behind him. There are flowers that have been braided into it; and you see, as you ascend the stairs to the stage, that there are a group of Melusines sitting in the front rows with matching little bouquets of Lumidouce bells grasped in their little hands, beaming up at the Iudex.

Lady Furina presides over the proceedings, tossing her hair and preening and holding the audience in the palm of her hand - another reminder that theatrics are more respected than the law in a land like Fontaine. But you cannot bring yourself to mind too much - not when Neuvillette’s smile is steady, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Not when, as he repeats the words in a clear voice like a ringing bell, he whispers them again as if they are only for you. Not when he takes his bare hands - ungloved, for the exchange of the rings - and holds your own, soft and round and dimpled, as he slides the ring onto your finger as if you are the most delicate thing in the world.

When Furina - with more glee in her voice than you would have expected - announces that he may now kiss you, you feel your shoulders draw up in anxiety. The entire audience goes quiet, waiting with baited breath for this - as if it is one of the things they have been waiting for all day. Neuvillette, though, keeps his gaze on you. He acts as though there are not a thousand Fontainian citizens watching your every move - slowly, he places his arm around your waist and draws you closer to him, so close that the crowds seem to melt away and there is nobody but the two of you.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear, angling his head so that the crowd cannot see that he has said something that is only for the two of you (no doubt they would be baying to be privy to the marriage bed, if they thought they could get away with it) - and then, his lips brush against yours. They are cool and soft; the lightest tang of sea-salt remains on your own after he is done. The crowd roars with their approval as he steps back and bows to you, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand - and you stand there, trembling, excited and nervous and frightened and on display all at once, as your new husband takes you by the hand and gently, gently leads you back down one of the aisles of the opera, out to the waiting carriages to spirit you away from the spectacle of the opera house and into the spectacle that your parents have designed as a celebration.

As it turns out, it is not so bad. Your parents have understood, at the very least, that the two of you will be retiring early to Neuvillette’s residence (your trunks already packed, already loaded onto a carriage to be delivered in the next few days). They have managed to rein themselves in; only invite the most important echelons of society to this celebration, despite the luxury and the excess that has been coming into the house for weeks now.

So you bow to Lady Furina and accept her compliments with a stutter and hot cheeks, Neuvillette by your side, his steadying hand on your waist. Neuvillette expertly manages to weave around your family’s ballroom as if he has been doing it all his life - but then, remembering how much older he is than you, you suppose that he has been doing it at least as long as you have been alive. He has a remarkable way of remaining polite, yet not brokering too much room for small talk and gossip, as if he can tell that this kind of thing is not your favourite.

You overhear, when you have been spirited away from your husband’s side for ten minutes by some of your friends, an older couple accosting Neuvillette.

“You had all of the choice in the world,” the man says, poking Neuvillette in the centre of his chest - from the slur in his words, you think he may have partaken in a touch too much of your parent’s imported dandelion wine. “Whyever did you make this one?”

Your heart stutters in your chest; a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of your wedding gown. This is what you have been fearful of, this whole time - you being found wanting, you being seen as not good enough for Neuvillette--

But your new husband merely smiles.

“I have eyes,” he says, mildly, and he turns away from the couple and brings an end to the conversation that you know must leave them utterly blistering. He comes to find you, instead - apologising most profusely to your friends for having to steal you away.

You stay for as short a time as you can manage, with the congratulations and the toasts and the speeches (a Melusine or two makes a speech for Neuvillette; you much prefer their simple honesty to some of the awful gushing things that come from the mouths of connections of your parents who have never given much care to you before), with the cake being cut--

“Here,” Neuvillette murmurs, and your cheeks go hot as he feeds you a bite of his own slice from the same fork he has been using. “I must confess that this is rather too sweet for me.”

By the time that Neuvillette begins to make his excuses, bowing and smiling and thanking his hosts and the guests, the moon is already hanging white and plump in the black velvet of the night - and as you say goodbye to your parents, your Mama gives you a wink that makes you go hot all over.

Neuvillette’s residence is surprisingly unassuming; it is smaller than your parents house, and he does not employ half as many maids or staff. For a moment, his gaze flitters over to you, and you sense a nervousness in the air.

“I am sorry if it is not what you were expecting,” he says, voice clipped - but you shake your head, and try and let some of the anxiety drain from your tight shoulders.

“It’s lovely,” you say, firmly, as he helps you out of the carriage. This time, when his gloved hand - he has chosen to put his gloves back on, his wedding ring glinting over the black satin - touches your waist, you gasp. The frisson of promise that runs through the touch makes you feel dizzy with possibility. Neuvillette looks at you with those dark sapphire eyes of his, and murmurs;

“I apologise if you’re nervous. I have no wish to . . . make you do anything you don’t want to. I am more than willing to wait-- the law does not require we consummate directly on our wedding night, and if you are frightened--”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek.

“No,” you breathe out, all in a rush, surprised to find it falling from your lips as you say it. But then you think of his lingering kiss, of the way he shut down that couple at the wedding reception, of that private smile he had given you to soothe your fears as you walked down the aisle, and you’re even more surprised to find that you mean it. “Not at all. I-- I am nervous, but . . .”

He gives you another soft, gentle smile that makes your heart feel ready to burst out of your chest. The raindrop you had felt has no companions; simply a freak occurrence in the weather.

“I must admit,” he murmurs, as he helps you towards his front door. “I am very pleased to hear that. I hope you won’t find it remiss of me to admit that I have been . . . rather looking forward to it.”

Your cheeks go hot again. The idea of Neuvillette, imagining you like that, even waiting for it . . . it is hard not to find it at once flattering and embarrassing. Neuvillette opens the door for you, but as you go to step inside--

“Ah, just a moment--” He leans his cane against the front door, and reaches for you. “I’m aware there’s a custom about bringing one’s new spouse over the threshold, and I would hate to break tradition--”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stuttering on the words. “I’m not light--”

But Neuvillette has already reached for you, already wrapped a surprisingly strong arm about your waist - and before you know it, as if he hasn’t needed to exert any energy at all, you have been pulled into his hold, held like a princess being rescued by a knight.

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his smile soft once more.

“You feel perfectly light in my arms,” he tells you, as he steps over the threshold with you and gently places you down as softly and carefully as he had picked you up. You were not expecting the strength from him - he wears his robes of office, of course, and he certainly has the height, but there’s a kind of willowiness about him that does not exactly betray him being able to do such a thing.

(If he can do that, a wicked little voice in your head whispers, imagine what else he could do to you - how easily he could manipulate you in a more intimate moment--)

It’s almost as if he can read your mind. He laughs a clear, silvery laugh like the rushing of a river.

“Shall I show you to our bedchambers?” He asks you. “I’m sure you’ll want to get all of your finery off soon; it looks rather heavy. If you are not opposed . . . perhaps we may bathe together?”

Your heart, beating double time in your chest. Neuvillette’s eyes, cool and calm. The way your blood seems to sing in your veins. You smile back at him.

“I would like that very much.”

Neuvillette’s house may not be as extravagant as expected, but the bathroom more than makes up for it - and most of all, the bathtub set into the floor, as wide as a swimming pool. He sees your look of surprise and laughs, sounding for once a little embarrassed.

“I enjoy being able to relax in water - natural water most of all,” he tells you, “but it would be rather . . . scandalous, if an ordinary citizen were to find me unexpectedly. This is my compromise. One of my vices, you may say.”

As vices go, it is a tame one, and you look at the bathtub - already full of clear water, so you can see the mosaic tiles on the bottom (the tub itself is stepped, so one can simply sit and relax at one end or perhaps even use the other end to swim a few strokes).

“I loved to swim when I was little,” you say, wistfully. “As I got older, my parents thought the idea of me wearing my swim clothes too often was improper, but . . .”

“Well,” Neuvillette says, placing his hands upon your hips with only the lightest of pressure as if he is still too afraid to touch you too much. “You are welcome to use this bathroom for swimming whenever you wish. It is not quite the same, of course, but I want nothing more than you to be happy here. What’s mine is yours now, sweet one.”

It’s the first pet name he has used for you, and it makes your mouth go dry. Slowly, you turn towards him. You are about to be naked together, you suppose - even if you are going to bathe before anything more intimate happens - so you ought to be braver. You reach for his face, palms warm on his cheeks - and though his eyes flash in surprise, he gladly leans in to let you kiss him.

This time, you let the kiss linger for longer; this private moment in the sanctity of a home that is to be shared between you. He sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer himself, so as you cradle his face his palms rest upon the ample curve of your hip. His teeth tug, almost shyly, at your bottom lip - and you feel your lashes flutter, your heart give an answering skip in your chest. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you part your lips, allowing him to take you as he wants - but even this ‘taking’ is done slowly, carefully, like a man who wishes to savour you.

You pull back, your breath coming in soft little gasps - Neuvillette’s eyes are half-lidded, but it does not stop him smiling at you, putting you at ease.

“We ought to disrobe,” he tells you, kindly - and he gently motions for you to turn, so that he may work at the difficult laces and hooks of your bridal outfit. You feel a little shy, as the fabric pools around your ankles, and you are left bare - but then he is turning you around, and in his eyes you see something that must be close to worship.

“I am a man who says what I mean,” he tells you, tilting your chin upward toward him. “I have not spared your ego, little one - everything I see before me is . . .” He shakes his head, letting loose a ragged breath, more undone than you’ve seen him before. “More than I could ever have asked for.” One gloved finger trails across your lips, tracing a patch from the corner of your mouth down to your throat, your collarbone - reaching behind you to unclip your undergarments, so they fall to the ground with your gown. “You’re truly the loveliest creature.”

“I--”

He shakes his head, smiling still.

“Perhaps in my choice of a spouse,” he murmurs, “I let my own desires overtake me a touch . . . but ah, if you could see yourself the way I see you--”

You hesitantly hook your thumbs into your underwear and stand before him, naked completely - and you win, for your bravery, another ragged breath.

“I must warn you,” Neuvillette murmurs, as he reaches for his own collar and begins to unbutton, to untie, to work the trappings of his own outfit off of himself. “You may be . . . surprised.”

“By what?” You feel brave enough to give him a little smile, though your heart is still beating faster than you’ve ever felt it. “Am I to discover you have been hiding extra limbs?”

Neuvillette’s gaze does not falter.

“Something like that,” he agrees, mildly, as he slips his shirt and coat from his shoulders. His skin is milky pale in the moonlight streaming in from a window set high in the wall, his hair glimmering silver. He takes your breath away.

Who would have thought you would ever find yourself in this position with the Chief Justice of Fontaine?

He unbuttons his placket slowly - and as he carefully works down the fabric of his trousers, you realise exactly what it was he was warning you about.

“I hope I do not disappoint you,” he says, as your mouth falls open at the sight of his cocks; resting one atop another, both half-swollen already. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of your wedding night, still to come. “I assure you, I know exactly what to do with them.”

“I--I didn’t mean to--!” Your voice comes out a little panicked - but then, Neuvillette lets out a soft huff of laughter.

“It’s quite alright,” he tells you. “But I will reiterate; I will not hurt you. You are . . . more than welcome to touch. But if we do not get in soon, I fear the water will have gone cold.”

Neuvillette helps you into the bath, surprisingly unashamed of his own nakedness. At the press of his body against yours as he helps you down the steps inlaid into the tub, you feel his cocks jump against you, the wet smear of something against the dip of your back - but then, Neuvillette is lowering himself into the water beside you and letting loose a sigh of pure bliss that sends a coil of heat spiralling to between your thighs.

You have never partaken in the gossip that surrounds Neuvillette, about his pointed ears or his inhumanly lovely face or his age - you would never have expected what he is hiding in his trousers. But as you sit beside your new husband, you cannot help but feel as though it makes perfect sense - a man like him could not be ordinary. And you trust him when he tells you he will not hurt you; when he says he knows what he’s doing, you think of all of the time he has on you and you have to suppress a shiver of desire for what he may have to teach you.

He touches you, as the two of you bathe together. Lets his fingers massage the shampoo into your hair, lets his hands slide the washcloth over the contours of your body until you can barely breathe for the hot trails of fire that he leaves in his wake. You do not think he means to inflame you so - but then, he allows you to do the same thing to him, and he shudders and leans back into your touch, a soft noise almost like a purr falling from the back of his throat, and he realises exactly what bathing together is doing to you both.

Still. The two of you linger there; touching one another. Getting to know one another’s bodies without any fear, for beneath the water all is muffled and calm. His fingers learn the shape of your nipples when he pinches them, how they pucker and harden beneath him. His palms learn the weight of your breasts, heavy and ample in his hands. His mouth learns the taste of your shoulders, as he drops hot, wet kisses across the span of them, the nape of your neck. And in return you feel the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin, the feel of his corded muscle beneath his deceptively slender frame.

By the time the two of you are wrapped in fluffy towels the colour of an early morning sky, you are both hot with want. Neuvillette’s twin cocks seem to pulse with his desire; you can no longer tell if you are slick and wet from the bath or from the space between your thighs. You shyly look at one another through lowered lashes, though, as the wedding night and all it entails comes closer and closer and closer.

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say to him, when the two of you have finally entered the bedroom. Neuvillette’s window is open a crack, enough so that the lacy curtains flutter in the light night-time breeze. “You would hardly think it’s been raining on and off all day.”

“Mmm,” Neuvillette agrees, as you feel him come up behind you. He slowly takes your hands, encouraging you to drop the towel; and then you stand before him, naked again, but with something far more than a bath in your future. He leans in and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely grazing it with surprisingly sharp teeth. “I should not wonder if it doesn’t rain again for some time.”

Neuvillette leads you to the bed, his hand firmly around yours. He is unerringly gentle and patient with you, as he urges you to sit upon the bedcovers - and your breath catches when you do as he asks, and instead of joining you he sinks onto his knees. You have never thought to imagine the Chief Justice kneeling before you, and the sight of it makes you buzz all over in anticipation. He smiles at your unsurety - and leans in, pressing a kiss to your knee, gently urging you to spread your thighs for him. His gloves are stripped away, but his wedding ring gleams on his finger as his fingers sink into the soft, full skin of your thigh.

He leans in, pressing another kiss to the side of your knee. Higher, higher, higher he trails them - and his breath fans cool against your heated core, and your fingers clench into the bedsheets in surprise at what he might be about to do.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs to you, his cheek pressing silky against your skin, as he suckles a love-bite into the part where your leg meets your pelvis. “I merely want to ensure you’re adequately prepared.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you say, breathless, hot, embarrassed and needy all at once. This is an act of such intimacy, you do not know how to parse the thought of the Iudex doing it to you - but he gives you a smile that is not without a hint of fang, the wickedest look you have seen upon his face so far, and he reaches between the two of you to use his thumb to pull apart the lips of your sex so you are revealed to him.

“Oh,” he breathes. “But I want to, sweet one. And . . . looking at how wet you are for me, I daresay you want me to do so too.”

“M-Monsieur--”

“Neuvillette,” he murmurs, and he presses a kiss directly onto your sex, slick and wet with your own excitement, his nose brushing across the swollen nub of your clit. “Use my name.”

“Neuvillette--” It comes out rather thin and reedy, but Neuvillette does not seem to notice - instead, he seems rather preoccupied by what lies between your thighs. Your fingers tighten when you feel his tongue slide across you, gathering your slick upon the tip. There’s a strange quality to it, almost as if it is longer and firmer than a human tongue ought to be - and as he flickers his tip over your clit, again and again and again, and you shudder from the sensations he draws forth . . . you wonder if, too, his tongue is forked--

Thoughts quickly dissipate from your head when there is a man knelt between your thighs, though, and it is no different for you. The wondering is quickly chased away by the hungry way that Neuvillette laps at you, like a man who has been parched for water for months.

Through it, he urges you to part your thighs as wide as you can, so that he can more thoroughly attack you with his tongue - and with every stroke, with every suck and lick and groan of him against you, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach in a way you have never experienced. It is like his mouth is a match, setting fire to your core - despite how you can feel wetness dripping down you, onto his bedcovers, surely soaking his chin and his lips.

He does something with his tongue - a twirl, a flourish - and his name comes spilling out of your lips like a prayer, and the idea that he may at some point stop using his mouth on you flashes across your synapses like a tragedy. Without realising you’re doing it, you move one hand to grip his silvery hair, to keep him anchored against you - you realise, too, that it is not merely his name spilling out of you like an overturned wineglass. Pleas and whimpers and begging have joined the fray, and you would ordinarily cringe at being thought so wanting. But with Neuvillette’s mouth, with the promise of what he is trying to wring from you--

Shame seems unimportant compared to the way he shudders at your hand in his hair, the way his tongue intensifies flicking against your clit.

He pulls back, breathing heavy, mouth glittering with your slick.

“I’m going to put a finger inside you,” he tells you, and you are grateful that he too sounds a little breathless. You cannot imagine just how embarrassing it would be to be the only one falling apart.

“I want . . . you,” you say, not without a touch of petulance, and Neuvillette lets out a hoarse little laugh. Still kneeling before you, he reaches up to touch your warmed face - his thumb, too, glitters with your arousal from the way he had held you open. You cannot bring yourself to care when he softly smears it across your bottom lip like an offering, and he lets out a shuddering groan at the sight of your tongue swiping it off.

“I want you,” he says. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want you. But I will not hurt you, sweet one. Let me prepare you.”

It feels very much like him; this way of taking charge, his firm words. This time, his hand curves up your inner thigh, and your breath catches as his finger slides between the valley of your sex, wetting itself in your slick and his saliva. Your toes curl into his plush carpet as he nudges your clit with his fingertip, as a soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth and he chuckles.

He slides one finger inside of you with no resistance at all. His earlier ministrations have seen to that. It’s a strange sensation, to have something inside that is not one of your own fingers (rather smaller, rather shorter than his) - but it is hardly unwelcome. You whisper out his name, your eyes closing, and Neuvillette makes a gentle noise of encouragement.

“That’s right,” he murmurs to you, as he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of you. “You’re doing so well - you’re taking it beautifully. I’m going to put a second one in--”

He does exactly as he says, and the hand still knit in his hair tugs at the silvery strands a little harder. It is not that it is painful, but simply that it is a stretch you are unused to - and one, too, that you know will continue to intensify.

You feel a strange, cool shock at the entrance to your sex - and you chance a glance down and realise it is his wedding ring, pressing against you. The sight and the knowledge makes you shudder, and Neuvillette huffs out a noise of want in return.

You think of the cocks, straining beneath the vee of Neuvillette’s pelvis. You cannot see them now, but from the way they had looked when the two of you were just bathing, you feel certain they must be swollen stiff and hard, waiting for their own chance (and too, from the spots of colour on Neuvillette’s cheeks, the way his words have a strange, dry edge to them when he speaks). How will he put those inside of you? One at a time? Both at once?

“What are you thinking about?” Neuvillette asks, raising his gaze to meet your own, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips. “You suddenly tightened around me.”

“I--!” Your cheeks go hot, embarrassment making warmth seep down your back. Neuvillette laughs.

“No need to keep secrets,” he murmurs, slowly establishing another rhythm, a slow pump of his two fingers inside of you, scissoring slightly to open you up. “We are married now, sweet one. We can share everything. Mmm . . . let me see. Were you imagining my fingers to be my cock?”

“Neuvillette--” Your voice is a weak little protest, and you avert your gaze shyly even as you force the words out. “I was . . . will you put them both inside of me?” Your gaze slips over his face again, nervous to see his reaction - his eyes widen in surprise, but it is not at all a look of anger.

“Not tonight,” he tells you, and he smiles again. “I fear it may be too much for you. Ah, but if that’s what you want . . . my dear, I know you’d feel exquisite.”

His fingers, pumping in and out, curling inside of you. His words, velvet-draped and deep - the look of concentration on his face, insistent on nothing more than drawing pleasure forward from you. You feel the hot tension inside of you reach a breaking point - a pot, ready to bubble over.

“I must confess,” he breathes, leaning in, breath hitting your sex hot and close. “I was worried you might be afraid. I’m terribly glad to know what an effect the idea has on you.”

As he finishes the sentence, he lets his tongue drag out one slow, final lap of your clit - and it is just enough to push you over the final edge. The bubbling pot within you reaches boiling point - and the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt, like molten heat, suffuses you entirely. Your head falls back. A noise of sheer enjoyment falls wanton from your lips - your thighs and your hips and your entire body trembles and shakes in the pleasure, and you feel your sex pulsating and throbbing around the two of Neuvillette’s fingers that are inside of you.

“Lovely,” Neuvillette murmurs, watching you in awe, his fingers slowing down as he lets you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Oh, you’re . . . exquisite.”

“Neuvillette,” you say, collapsing back onto the bed, your breath coming in harsh pants. “I was afraid, at first. But I don’t think I could be. Not knowing what you’re like now. Not anymore.”

“Sweet thing.” Neuvillette stands. He steps forward and you see him again - his cocks are indeed straining, silvery precome dripping from the dual tips and smeared over the flat planes of his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me. May I . . . ?”

He does not need to ask. You think you would grant him whatever he asked for - you cannot imagine Neuvillette overstepping your boundaries, when he has been so sweet and so careful and so guiding for as long as you’ve known him, even knowing he could do whatever he wanted to you and nobody would blame him. But it warms your heart that he asks even so.

“Please do,” you breathe, and you spread your thighs wider to accommodate him on the bed.

His hands scoop under your hips, his palms firm on your ass as he moves you higher up the bed, ensuring that your head and shoulders are propped up with a mound of pillows. Even with his cocks practically twitching, he prioritises you before himself, and you cannot resist another show of appreciation, wrapping your hand around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

He groans into your mouth, the movement clearly welcome - but when he mouths at you now, he is far messier than he has been before, his teeth just a little more present. You think he must be losing some of his control, and as his cocks nudge against your inner thighs, you are proved correct.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips, pulling back just far enough to be able to speak. “I cannot hold myself back a moment longer--”

“Please, Neuvillette,” you whisper, fingers still in his hair.

His lower cock nudges against your sex, the ring of muscle that will grant him entrance - and as he opens you up, his second cock rubs over the swollen over-sensitive nub of your clit and you whine.

He covers your whine with another kiss. He eases into you, moment by moment, inch by inch - you have nothing to compare it to, but you think from the slow tempo he goes at and the way his gaze keeps flicking over you, checking you’re alright, he must be larger than average.

But he has prepared you well. The stretch is an ache, but a pleasant one - it does not send painful shockwaves all through you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him as close as you can manage, and Neuvillette sighs.

“Will you kiss me again?” He murmurs, so softly you almost do not hear him. The request makes your heart feel like bursting in your chest - the soft way he looks at you, his unwillingness to pull away from you, his desire to be as close to you as he can even when he is buried inside of you.

You do. Arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your hips. His mouth and yours dance against one another - his tongue learning yours as if he is learning a new language.

He fucks you like that.

He is not rough with you, that first night; he does not, as you have heard so many new husbands do, take you and have you and ignore what you might want. Neuvillette cherishes you.

The slow rock of his hips, indulgent in their rhythm. The way he kisses you. He is chasing his own release, but he does not feel any need to fuck into you with abandon. At least not yet.

But time ticks on. The two of you seem to meld into one entity, and the kissing and the fucking grows sharper at the edges. You feel that Neuvillette is hovering on something, his expression almost desperate, as he rearranges the angle of his hips and the speed of his thrusts.

“Please,” he whispers, broken-voiced. “I’m close--”

You let go of him and he lets out a noise of distress at the lack of contact, a noise that makes you shiver with the idea of how much power you may one day have over him. But instead of anything else, one of your hands darts between you, to take a firm grip on his second cock. Neuvillette hisses through his teeth at your hand, hot and firm.

You do not know what you’re doing, not really, but that does not seem to bother Neuvillette as he increases the speed of his hips. In fact, he does most of the work - fucking his lower cock inside of you, hot and deep and wet, and fucking the cock atop it into your fist. You manage to work out a kind of twisting motion that makes him growl in the back of his throat--

It’s a fascinating noise, really. It makes you think of him as an animal, something feral and possessive - and you wonder what, later on, you may learn about him--

But then your name is falling from his lips like a prayer, and his cock is twitching inside of you and in your grip, and your back arches at the same time as he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your shoulder--

(Almost like a claiming bite. Almost like a mark to say that you are his).

And both of you come, together, in great waves and pants and gasps of breath. His come paints your fist and the round softness of your stomach at the same time as it paints inside of you, your body once more pulsating around his cock as if it never wants to let you go.

Like a tide on the shore; like a moon rising high over the lakes of Fontaine. Neuvillette lets himself lay atop of you, his head against your heart, his breath coming in great heaves.

You do not need to think this time; you simply lift your unsoiled hand and begin to stroke the silver of his hair in slow, careful motions. From the back of his throat again comes that noise, something like a purr and something like a chirrup. His eyes close contentedly.

“Neuvillette?” You whisper into the darkness, and your husband makes a soft ‘mm?’ of response. “You really . . . could have had anyone. Why did you choose me?”

“Hmm, sweet one?” He lifts his head from your chest and looks down at you like you have asked him why the sky is blue. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I certainly did have my pick . . . I perhaps wouldn’t have chosen to marry if Lady Furina hadn’t been so insistent, but I was lucky enough to be able to choose anybody I wanted. And I had seen you.” He shakes his head, a huff of laughter falling from his mouth. “Like I said - I do have eyes.”

Your cheeks feel hot. The thought of being coveted by Monsieur Neuvillette, when you had worried about your body and your match and your future so often it felt like second nature--

“Oh dear,” he says, looking down at the two of you - at the sweat-slicked hair, at the come drying on your inner thigh. “I fear we’ll need to have another bath before bed.”

“And you won’t mind if I join you?”

He chuckles.

“Why,” he says. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette smut #writing #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #chubby reader #not sfw text #commissioned work #chubby reader posting

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nanaslutt · 10 months

Note

i have another toji idea but this time he’s your bodyguard!

readers dad is a really rich businessman or something and reader is basically serena van der woodsen! she’s always out partying doing drugs and sleeping around so her dad hires toji to keep close eye on her. she’s not happy about it obviously!

reader is in college and toji is like i dont know in his late 30s!!

Bodygaurd!Toji x RichBrat!Reader

contains: fem reader, legal age gap, drug use, non con/dub con (not from Toji), voyeurism, exhibitionism, choking, dacraphillia, restraints, rough sex, so much dirty talk, daddy kink (sorry), teasing, sexual tension, brat taming, multiple orgasms, size kink, Toji has a big dick and knows what aftercare is :3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

The club music around the two men was blaring, Toji could feel a headache coming on. "That her?" Toji asked, pointing to a girl who was laughing at some college boy's joke by the bar, swatting his arm playfully. "She's uh.. that one there." Your father spoke, almost too quietly to be heard under the music. He pointed to you, you who were currently adorned in a skimpy black nightgown-esc dress, the fabric being pulled over the curve of your ass and exposing your lacy black thong without a care in the word to the room around you as you sat on a boy's lap, ruffling his hair as you sucked on his tongue, his hands leading your hips as he ground you down on top of him.

Toji turned his head back to your father, an unreadable expression on his face. Your dad held up his hands in the air, waving them in front of him. "S-shes a good girl really, just a little.. misguided." He said defensively. You loved your father, he was the only man in your life who acctually cared about you and didnt use you for your status or body. The two of you had a wonderful relationship, the only problem was you were an only child, and your mom had died early on in your life, resulting in him spoiling you a little too much.

So when you started acting out, wearing skimpier clothes, doing drugs, staying out late, frequenting parties, and bringing a new stranger home to fuck on his couch every night, you didn't exactly take to his words telling you to 'maybe calm down' in the best way. It's not like he had been strict about it when he talked to you, he had been very sweet and understanding when you said you were 'going through something'. Your father's lack of disciplinary skills combined with how much love he had for you and the constant mindset to always keep his sweet little girl happy had resulted in your behavior getting worse and worse.

Which is where Toji came in. You had just finished up a new photoshoot for a major modeling brand and it had brought you even more attention than you had been getting before, meaning you were going out more, and frequently engaged in unsafe sex and use of drugs. Your father couldn't stand to see you like this, so he hired you a body guard without consulting you first, someone he had worked with in the past, someone he knew wouldn't take your shit, because he sure as hell wasn't going to stop you.

Toji stayed quiet, watching your body sway and move in a way that was clear to him you were under the influence of something. The man beneath you looked too sober, and the way he had started to manhandle your drugged out body made his eye twitch. Toji had known you since you were a kid, he started doing business with your dad when he turned seventeen, and he saw you around sometimes too, although you looked quite different back then. "Do whatever you have to do, I just cant stand to see my little girl like this." Your father said, placing his hand on Toji's shoulder before he checked the time on his expensive wristwatch, clicking his teeth.

"I have to go, please don't leave her side, don't let her bring anyone home, and don't let anything enter her mouth that isn't food or water, alright? I'll be back in a week." When your dad had mentioned not letting you ingest anything that wasn't food and water—referring to substances—he couldn't help but think that might include other people's genitals too. He just had a hunch from the way you had started to palm at the man's crotch underneath you. "Right, is it alright if I use force if I gotta?" Toji asked, squinting his eyes as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.

"Yeah that's.. that's fine.." Your dad answered hesitantly. Toji averted his gaze from you, turning his head to look at your father, he smiled. "Have a good trip, sir, Don't worry about your daughter, I'll stick around and whip her into shape for as long as you need me to." He reassured, before starting off in your direction.

Upon closer inspection, he could see your eyes were all out of focus, you looked like you didn't even know what was going on around you as the blond-haired boy roughly kissed your neck, starting to slide his hands down your ass, slipping his fingers underneath your panties. God, you really did look so much different from when he used to watch you lay on your stomach on the floor of your living room, watching your cartoons.

This new look didn't suit you quite as much, white powder on the table in front of you, girls and guys alike touching your skin wherever they could get in, drinks scattered around you, your bra peeking out of your dress as the strap slipped down your shoulder, your eyes rolled back in your head. He doubted you even knew the name of the man who was marking your neck. Hell, he doubted you knew any of the people around you. The people around you were too high off their asses to even notice Toji's presence as he stood right behind you, he was so close he could practically feel the heat radiating off your skin.

The boy under you looked up at him, pulling his lips away from your neck. "You wanna taste, get in line old man, 's how this shit works." He giggled, talking about you like you were some disposable inanimate tool. Toji grit his teeth, grabbing the boy's hand and stopping it before he could dip it any lower in your panties. "She's not even fucking here right now, you don't see anything wrong with that?" He asked, referring to how high you were. The boy was taken aback at Toji's sheer strength, "What the- let go of me man-" He tried yanking his hand away from Toji, but to no avail.

"Look- she fucking loves it its fine, ain't that right baby~" He asked, grinning as he took his other hand to grab your jaw, nodding it forcefully. You smiled drunkenly, your eyes all out of focus as he manhandled your head. "Alright, I've seen enough." Toji sighed, leaning down he picked you up with ease from underneath your arms and threw you over his shoulder, your ass being exposed even more—if that was even possible.

"What the fuck~" You slurred, eyes trying to focus on the constantly moving ground underneath you as Toji kept one hand on the small of your back, walking you out of the building. You felt dizzy and sick, the music was too loud, but you still felt the need to kick and scream at the man who was taking you away from the chaos. "Who the fuck are you? 'was fuckin' doing something back there.." You slurred, weakly struggling in his grip.

Toji stayed silent until he reached the exit, pushing the heavy wood open he took in the cool air of the night, the ice-cold oxygen feeling refreshing in both of your lungs. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, shooting a quick text to one of your drivers who was nearby to pick the two of you up, ignoring your 'hey- answer me''s in the backround. He slipped the device back into his pocket, plopping you down on the ground in front of him, making sure to keep a hand on your waist to insure you didn't fall over.

"Was it you I was kissing?" You asked, squinting your eyes at him as you leaned in, standing on your tippy toes you placed your hands on his solid chest to try to get a good look at his face. "I don't think he had black hair.." you slurred, losing your balance on your tippy toes, and falling back onto flat feet. Thanks to Toji's grip you didn't fall flat on your ass. "You don't even care do you?" He asked incredulously, keeping his tone steady as he let you grope his chest.

Toji took the opportunity to fix your appearance up a bit, pulling the strap of your dress back atop your shoulder so your bra was fully covered again; not like it made a huge difference thanks to how low the dress was, but he still wanted to give you some dignity; he used his large hands to slide down your waist, smoothing out your dress so it rested on your thighs once more as it should. His touch felt so good, it was a lot softer than the touches from the college boy's inside, you could work with this.

"Mmm, not really." You smiled up at him, biting your lip between your teeth as you looked him up and down. "You takin' me home to fuck me?" You mumbled, giving him a doped-out grin. "Not exactly." He replied. Seconds after, the car approached, and out came another middle-aged man who walked to the curbside and opened the door for the both of you. Toji held your waist as he walked you towards the open door. You stopped in your tracks, holding the top of the car door when you got close enough to see the driver's face.

You looked at him closely, narrowing your eyes. "Wait.. you're my driver.. why are you here? I'm not going home yet," you said confused, tuning your body to look between the two men. "Yes, you are," Toji replied, using a strong hand to manipulate your weak body as he pressed your shoulder down, pushing you into the car. "No- no wait- what the fuck? You said you were gonna fuck me." You slurred, watching the blurry picture of Toji slide into the car after you, the driver slamming it slut promptly.

Toji gripped your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, "Don't think your dad would like it very much if I fucked his daughter while she was high on coke." You blinked at him, trying to make the fuzziness in your vision go away, "'m not on coke, it's jus' molly, and why the fuck are you bringing up my dad?" You asked, trying to jerk your head away from his hand. "Your father hired me to be your personal cockblock, hope you're ready for rehab," Toji smirked, releasing your face as he bucked you into the seat, your body jolting when the driver pulled out into the street and started driving the two of you home.

—

You woke up with a headache, stomachache— honestly it would take longer to list what wasn't aching in your body. You groaned, stretching your limbs under your own sheets as you tried to wake yourself up. Wait, these are my sheets? How did I get home last night? you wondered. "Fuck.. water." You sat up, sitting on your ass as you curled your legs up to your chest, laying your forehead on your knees. Your throat was dry- like you had been stranded in the dryest desert for months, you tried to swallow, but it just felt like swallowing sandpaper. You didn't care as much about how you got home, too focused on trying not to throw up as you tried to gather the strength to stand.

You always regretted the morning after you went so hard like a night like the last. You always felt like a shell of yourself the morning after, no amount of drugs or sex could make that feeling go away until the next night, but it wasn't awful enough for you to break this little cycle you had going. "Need some water?" A voice rang in your ears, making your body jolt as you held your hand over your chest, scooting back on the bed as you looked in the direction of the voice to the large figure standing in your doorway.

A tall, balck haired and well build man who looked to be around your dad's age walked into your room holding a glass of water, you swore he looked familiar but you couldn't pinpoint where you had seen him before. You sighed, chalking it up to another unwanted one-night stand who had overstayed their welcome, although you didn't quite feel sore down there.. maybe his dick was just small? It's not like you could remember if you tried anyways. "Don't you know you're not supposed to hang around after we fuck? It's called a one-night stand for a reason." You said sharply, rubbing your temples with your fingers.

"Good thing we didn't fuck." Toji smirked, flipping on your light switch, making your face scrunch up in displeasure. You had no time to be confused when the light hit your eyes, making your headache worsen tenfold as you hid your face in your knees once again, pulling the sheets over your head. "Dude, what the fuck! Turn that shit off." You yelled, your voice coming to him muffled as you spoke into the sheets. "Its almost 2pm, you're not going to rot in bed all day, promised your dad I would take care of you, so get up." He said, uncrossing his arms as he started towards you, setting the water down on the bedside table as he stood at the side of your mattress, looking down at you.

His words made a flashback shoot through your brain, one of last night, the two of you in a car together, and this man had just told you he was your bodyguard. You turned your head to the side, squinting your eye at him as you tried to gauge if he looked like the same man in your flashback--unfortunately for you, he did. "Fuuuuuuuuuck." You groaned, half of the word being muffled when you turned your head back to your knees. "Remember me now, princess?" He asked, his deep, usually soothing voice meeting your ears in a grating, annoying way.

You pick your head up, giving him the best snarky smile you could manage while your body fought with the aftereffects of what you did to it last night. "You really think you're gonna stop me from doing what I want?" You raised your eyebrow challengingly at him, keeping your eyes on his darker ones. "I'm not as nice as your daddy, so yes, I do." He said, ripping the comforter off of your frame he grabbed your ankle and yanked you towards him on the bed, your night shorts and t-shirt he had dressed you in last night riding up, showing more of your thighs and midriff.

You stared at him in disbelief, your chest heaving at the sudden manhandling. "Don't touch me." You yanked your foot out of his grip and sat up, sliding off the bed hastily you made quick work of walking past the man, towards the bathroom. Toji winced when you slammed the door shut to the bathroom behind you, the sound echoing through the entire house, he was sure even the neighbors heard it. He sighed, sitting down on your bed, his big hand coming to rub his forehead in annoyance. "He better be paying me fucking good to put up with his little brat," Toji mumbled under his breath.

When his hand dropped into his lap, his vision was unobstructed once more, and under the illumination of the bright lights above your bed, and the absence of your presence distracting him, he could clearly see the bag of white pills on your dresser. "Jesus christ.." Toji whispered, his lip curling in disgust. He stood, pocketing the bag of substances to promptly flush down the toilet later. Something in the back of his head was telling him to check in your bedside table.

The man didn't exactly have the strongest morals, so he didn't think much of going through a college junkie girl's drawer. Just as he expected, when he pulled the drawer open he found three bright orange pill bottles, all labeled with different names. With a curt laugh, he pocketed those as well, he would make sure they were delt with appropriately. Once the drugs were in his pocket, he noticed the bright pink vibrator next to them, along with a baby blue dildo, some condoms he doubted you used, and panties with the crotch cut out.

He laughed, "Your good girl is actually pretty naughty.." He said under his breath, directed to your father. He didn't want to look too long, not because he was afraid of you finding out, he was sure you were going to the moment you came back in here, looking for something to take your pain away from the day before. He didn't want to look too long because he didn't want to imagine his boss's daughter sprawled out on her bed, legs wide as one hand pinched her nipples and the other used the vibrator on her sensitive little clit through the gape in the crotchless panties.

He heard the shower turn on, snapping him out of his thoughts as he shut the drawer, averting his gaze as he did so. He flicked the lights off in your room as he left, making his way down to the living room where your chef was preparing your breakfast, rich people. The old woman behind the counter who was cooking something that smelled devine, looked happy to be there though. He knew how genuinely nice your father was, and he figured you must've treated them with the same kindness for them to stick around.

He must've been sitting on the couch watching the old woman cook for quite some time because your figure emerged from the hallway leading into the open room, adorned in nothing but skimpy panties and a tank top. You were ruffling your hair in a pink towel, trying to dry it the best you could before you discarded the towel on the floor and jumped up on the expensive-looking bar stool in front of the kitchen. You sat on your knees, your ass poking out towards Toji, he watched as you twisted back and forth on the chair, showing off your body like you wanted him to see.

He was grateful you had come down here in a better mood than before, you must've not checked your empty dresser drawer yet. "Good morning" You spoke kindly to the old woman, to which she replied her own 'good morning' with a smile. He liked seeing you like this, this was the you he recognized. He could barely tell you were the same person who was letting yourself get manhandled on the lap of a stranger in the middle of a disgusting club high on drugs.

Toji just couldn't help but break the peacefulness of the morning with his deep voice, "Where are your clothes?" He asked, "You have company." You sighed, sitting your butt down on the stool you brought your foot up on the cushion, resting your chin on your knee as you tipped your head as you looked at him. "You're just my handler, right? So why are you talking right now?" Your face was scrunched in disdain, the girl from last night making an appearance, he had a hard time telling which of the two of you was real.

"Just sayin' it's unbecoming for a young lady like you to have your ass out so shamelessly." Toji retorted. "This is my house, I'll do whatever I want old man." You bit back, spinning around as the chef pushed your plate towards you, the colors of the different foods on your plate stimulating your brain that was dulled from last night's drugs. "Oh ma'am, I would be lost without you." You whispered to the chef, placing your hand ontop of her wrinkled one gratefully. You thought the conversation between you and your babysitter was over, so you were shocked when you felt his chest bump against your back, his large hand reaching over yours to grab the other plate the woman had made for him.

"Your daddy spoiled you too much, now you're just a stuck-up brat. You should listen to your elders y'know?" Toji scolded. His voice sent goosebumps down your spine, maybe this could be something, you always did love a good hatefuck. The warmth of his chest was gone as soon as it came as he took the plate back to the sofa, kicking his legs up on the coffee table as he started shoveling the food into his mouth sloppily. "When you stop treating me like a kid, I might." You answered, keeping your back to him to he couldn't see the blush that had spread across your face.

The two of you ate in silence, you were the first to get up, walking your plate over to the sink to clean the food off, when your phone started buzzing on the counter. You abandoned the plate in the sink, walking back over to see who was calling. Toji watched your eyes light up as you answered the phone, probably some college boy you were fucking with at the moment had called you to hook up. It was the middle of the day, students these days were relentless. "Tonight? Send me the address and I'll be there~" You cooed into the receiver.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize you had just been invited out to another party. Toji acted quickly, when you faced your body away from him, leaning against the fridge as you listened to the boy speak, Toji appeared behind you once again, snatching your phone out of your hand, "No she won't." Toji spoke for you, letting him know you would absolutely not be going to any parties under his watch before hanging up the phone. "Stop fucking doing that!" You yelled, your body jolting in surprise as you turned around, glaring at the man just inches from you.

You grabbed his wrist that was holding your phone, with your other you ripped the device out of his hand before digging your sharp nail into his chest and giving him a death stare from under your lashes. "Touch what belongs to me again Ill-" "You'll what? Fire me? Your pretty drugged-up brain keeps forgetting your daddy hired me?" He smirked, crossing his bulging biceps over his chest. You took a step back, shaking your head. "You won't tell me what to do, fucking watch." You spat, walking off to your room. Toji brushed it off as an empty threat, what could you possibly accomplish when he was watching your every move like a hawk?

When you reached the comfort of your bedroom you slammed the door shut, hoping Toji would hear from his place downstairs. Who the fuck was he to come into your life and order you around? And your dad had hired him too? Seriously? These old men needed to stop fucking intervening with you, you didn't need any help. After that thought ran through your head you made a path straight for your drawer, looking for a pill or two to at least make you feel like you weren't cooped up at home if you couldn't actually leave.

Curling your fingers around the handle you pulled it open and- what the fuck? The familiar orange bottles you kept next to your sex toys were nowhere to be seen. Even on your most fucked up nights you had never neglected to put the bottles back where they belonged in your drawer. There was only one person who could've done this. "OLD MAN!!" Toji heard your voice echo, your footsteps getting louder as you marched angrily into the living room. A grin spread across his face when your figure came into view, his feet still kicked up on the coffee table as he barely spared you a glance before he went back to watching his show.

"Do you really not know my name, or are you just being a brat?" Toji asked, keeping his eyes on the screen. You were fuming, you had spent your hard-earned money on those (not like you had a shortage of cash or anything, but you hated your drug guy, he was so pushy and not at all cute.) "Toji, you had no right to go through my drawers like that, seriously, you're more fucked up than you think I am!" You yelled, your face growing hot, veins pumping with adrenaline. Toji decided you were worth the time of day, tilting his head back against the couch cushion he looked at you.

"Your daddy said I could do whatever I wanted, he also said to keep all that nasty shit out of your pretty little body, so that's exactly what I'm going to do." He replied, raising his eyebrows as he looked you up and down, pausing on your crotch, still only clad in those skimpy panties he couldn't stand. You blushed at him calling your body pretty, his words making your brain forget its track of thought for a moment. "W-what I put inside me isn't any of your business." You retorted, placing your hand on your hip.

"It is when your father specifically tells me it is." Toji laughed. "If you want something inside you so bad why don't you put those toys to use? That'll give you some kinda high for sure." Your face heat up even more. You figured he had seen your toy stash in the process of him throwing your pills away, but you didn't think he was going to use them against you like this. "Did my dad tell you to harass me like this too? Fucking pervert." You spat. "You're calling me a pervert when you're walking around in front of me with just those little panties on? There practically fucking see-through."

You were feeling hot in a different place now. You still wanted to punch him so hard he threw up, but another part of you wanted to climb over the cough and straddle his hips, pull his cock out and sit on it, letting him fuck you dumb. You'd never fucked someone his age before, it sounded fun, you bet he had loads more experience than the college guys you were sleeping with. "Why are you looking?" You retorted, your voice losing its edge. "Don't you want me to?" Toji replied. The two of you kept your eyes on one another, the air around you thick, making it hard to breath as neither one of you dared to break the eye contact.

The doorbell ringing snapped you out of it, both of your heads turning to look at the massive entrance doors. Toji stood to get it, but you beat him to it, running over to the door. "I got it." You told him. He stood behind the sofa, watching you open the door in your slutty attire. Pulling open the door, a handsome man around your age came into view, his arms sticking out for a hug as he stepped inside. "Absolutely not," Toji spoke, making haste for the door to shove him out. "Relax, do you think I'm fucking stupid?" Toji raised his eyebrows like you knew what he was going to say, before he crossed his arms and let you finish.

"He's gay, nothing is going to happen. You won't let me go to this fucking party, and I am not staying here alone with you all day." You hissed. The boy behind you nodded, his hand wrapped loosely around your waist. Toji stayed quiet for a while, the boy hadn't said or done anything yet to contrast your words, so even though he was hesitant, he stepped aside, letting the two of you pass as you held his hand and dragged him in the direction of your room. He heard you giggle as you pulled him along with you, his eyes squinting before he shook off the feeling, finding his place once more on the comfortable sofa.

—

About an hour had passed since the boy had arrived and he hadn't heard anything suspicious yet. For having such a massive and expensive home, you sure had some thin fucking walls. Toji was starting to doze off, his show having long ended and now some drama had taken its place, droning on in the background. His eyes were fluttering shut, arms crossed over one another, and that’s when he heard it.

“Ahh!” His eyes shot open, scanning around the room as he tried to figure out if what he heard had been a figment of his imagination or not. “Fuck! Baby~ ngh!” There it was. All he needed to hear. You had fucking lied. He heard your moans echo through the walls, you were so loud it was like you wanted him to hear you. “This fucking bitch.” Toji mumbled under his breath, uncrossing his arms he stood and made haste for your room. The moans and crying began to be accompanied by slaps and squelches the closer he got to your closed door.

"Yeah~ give it to m-meee" you moaned between his thrusts. Truth be told, he wasn't fucking you well at all, you only invited him over because his looks rivaled Toji's, but even then he fell short. His thrusts were sloppy and felt more like he was jabbing around your cunt with a thin stick, but you wanted Toji to know you were in charge here, he wasn't going to come into your home and tell you what you could and couldn't do, so if it took a bad fuck to get that through his head, so be it, it's not like you were going to see this boy after today anyways.

You had a smile on your face, which the boy took as him fucking you good, his annoying moans filling up your ears, "Yeah? You like me fucking dick?" He whined, emphasizing his words with a thrust that made you yell out, not from pleasure; not like he would be able to distinguish the difference anyway, "Love ittt~" You faux moaned, fighting to keep a yawn from spilling through your lips. The boy kept jabbing his dick into your walls, and you got so immersed in listening to your own moans to get you through this, that your soul almost jumped out of your body when your door swung open.

Toji stood in the doorway, the vein on his forehead protruding out from under the skin as he took in your position. You were ass up, face down in the sheets, and he could tell right away you didn't like it as much as you were leading on, he saw right through your little game. It only took a couple steps for Toji to get from your doorway to standing behind the man at the edge of your bed. Faster than you could comprehend, Toji had yanked the boy back from the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the bed and out of you as he stumbled on the floor, awkwardly tucking his cock into his pants.

"What the fuck are you doing!?" You yelled, turning your body around you crawled towards them on the bed, reaching out for the boy like you wanted him to stay. This wasn't exactly what you had in mind, you wanted to rile Toji up and show him you could do whatever you wanted, but you didn't know he would storm in here and throw the boy out forcefully. You should've known he was the type of guy to pull something like this. "You know you're way out right?" He said to the confused boy you had dragged into your mess.

He held him up by the collar, bringing his face close to his own he tipped his head, waiting for the boy to answer. He nodded in fear, still trying to wrap his poor aroused head at what was happening. "Good, be a good boy and let yourself out, would you?" He whispered, throwing him forward and out of your room. The boy stumbled on his feet, trying to grab the wall so he didn't fall over before the door was being slammed shut in his face.

"Fuck! You asshole, Fuck!" You were behind Toji, grabbing at his shirt as you tried to get him to face you so you could yell at him properly. While he was throwing out your fuck, you had slid on your panties and pulled your tanktop back over your tits poorly, the hard buds of your nipples poking through the shirt. Toji wasted no time in turning quick on his heels as he grabbed you by the throat, your hands coming to grip at his wrist as he choked you out, pressing just hard enough that you could barely manage to get a stream of air through your esophagus.

He leaned his face close to yours, looking at how messy you looked with your tangled hair and smeared lipstick. "You really think you can get away with shit like that? Huh?" Toji asked, squinting his eyes at you. You whined, trying to give him a pout, "Aww, don't act like you wanted him to stay, he wasn't even fucking you right, was he? If I wanted to hear someone fake an orgasm I would've gone to pornhub." He said, looking between your glassy eyes and your swollen lips from the boys sloppy kissing.

"You're such a slut you know that? You can't go one fucking day without having a cock inside you, even if it's bad, huh?" He chastised, slowly walking you backward towards the bed, so slow you barely noticed it. "He get you high too? Hmm?" He asked, his other hand coming up to pull your eye down to get a better look at your pupils. "N-no." You whispered through his hand squeezing your throat. "No?" His eyes everted to the side table, where a few white pills sat atop the wood, waiting to be taken.

"But you were gonna let him get you high, weren't you?" He asked, following your face when you yanked it away from his hand that pulled down your eye. "None of your fucking business." You spat through your teeth. It was only then you realized you were back at your bed, your calves bumping into the mattress taking you out of your trance. "How is it none of my business when you were moaning like a pathetic slut just to get my attention?" He asked, tilting his head at you as he slid his massive thigh between your own, his knee pressing against your crotch.

You kept silent, pouting at him as you kept your pretty eyes locked on his, waiting for him to do anything. "You sure you ain't high right now?" He asked, to which you quickly nodded. Toji smirked, huffing out a smile at your unapologetic display of lust, "Ur' pupils that big cos you're horny then?" Your arousal spiked tenfold when he announced your need. You licked your lips, nodding at his words as you shamelessly let your eyes fall on his plump lips, dragging between them and his dark eyes.

Toji was feeling conflicted. On one hand, he could think of no better time to put you in your place and fuck the brat out of you, showing you who was really in charge here, you were sober and so clearly wanted it after all. The more rational side of him was telling him this was his boss's daughter, who was twice his age, so he absolutely should not fuck her. Unluckily for the rational side of his brain, your hard nipples poking through your shirt and the smell of your arousal that was still evident in the room was more than enough to sway him, the primal side of him winning as he listened to his urges.

"You wanna find out how it's supposed to feel to get fucked?" Toji whispered, like if he said the words too loud, your father who was currently in another country might hear. You nodded, pulling your lip between your teeth. He laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation before he pressed his lips to yours, the pair of you instantly groaning into the other's mouth. You don't know if you've ever felt this aroused in your life. Even his kisses made you feel something you've never experienced before, was every kiss supposed to feel like this?

Toji slowly pushed you back on the bed, keeping his knee between your legs as he hovered over you, releasing your neck and instead using one hand to pull your panties off, his other resting by your head so he didn't crush you. You wrapped your hands around his strong neck, whimpering into the kiss. He heard you giggle when you threw your panties somewhere in the room, sliding his hand up your waist as he situated you on the bed, pulling your thighs around his hips. "Whats so funny?" He asked, pulling back from the kiss as he watched you smile underneath him, tilting your head as you loosened your arms around his neck.

"Jus' wondering what my dad would think if he saw what the bodyguard he got to protect his little girl was doing to her right now~" You giggled, biting your lip. Toji shook his head, keeping his eyes on yours as he wordlessly dipped his fingers down to your pussy, teasing up and down your soaked entrance. "Yeah, what would he think about you fucking someone twice your age? Fuckin' brat." He spat, watching your smile fade and your expression be replaced with your slacked jaw and raised eyebrows as your eyes fluttered when he dipped his large fingers into your hole, pressing into it teasingly before pulling away.

"I know he's used to seein' you slut yourself out to those dumb college boys, but this might shock him.. huh?" He cooed, pressing his fingers into your cunt slowly, your walls greedily swallowing up his thick digits. "F-fuck-" You cursed, your eyes falling shut, tipping your head agaisnt the pillow. "That feel good baby? You like feelin' this old man's fingers in your pussy? Fuckin' into your sweet spot?" He whispered, bringing his lips against yours once more, hovering them against you as he inhaled your reactions when he curled his fingers, massaging your g-spot with precision.

"Right there-" You gasped quietly against his lips, wiggling your hips down onto his fingers. "Right here? Yeah? When's the last time someone actually touched you right here, hmm?" He asked, softly kissing your lips before he went back to hovering his lips over yours. "I-I don't know." You whispered, trying to kiss him back but he kept his lips just far enough away from yours that you couldn't manage. "No? That why you're so fucking insatiable huh? Jus' waiting to find the guy who will actually fuck you right?" You were dripping around his fingers. His soft teasing words were a stark contrast to his fingers that now pistoned in and out of you, wet squelching noises bouncing off the walls and echoing into your ears, driving you mad.

"Mhm- mhm-" You replied, nodding your head rapidly, feeling your orgasm come on quickly. "You're not gonna find that with these fuckin' college boys sweet thing, 'ya need a man for that, someone a little.. older." He whispered, making you whine against him as he curled his fingers into a particularly sensitive spot. You abandoned one of your arms around his neck, reaching between you to grab his wrist. Your eyes cracked open, staring up at him as you breathed heavily. "All it takes is a couple fingers and you're a good girl, isn't that right?" He asked, feeling you squeeze around his fingers.

He continued to drill his fingers into you, your back arching against him as moans fell freely from your lips, your nails digging into his wrist as you felt your orgasm creep up on you. "You gonna cum for me, princess?" Toji asked knowingly, smirking when you nodded against him. You felt it, it was right there, well within your grasp when- suddenly the stimulation stopped, your orgasm fizzling out. Your eyes peeled open, eyebrows scrunched together as you looked up at him with a crimson face. "You sure?" He asked, his smirk growing.

Toji abandoned his fingers from your pussy, pulling them out with a pop as he sat back on his heels, replacing his lips with his fingers soaked in your cum as he pressed them against your lips, watching while you eagerly took them into your mouth, moaning around them as you tasted yourself on your tongue. Of course, you were mad Toji had pulled away right before you came but with the way he had rubbed inside your walls so nicely, your brain couldn't think of anything bratty to say as you sucked on his fingers, watching his eyes watch your lips as he unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock in one swift movement.

You moaned around his fingers when your eyes made contact with his girth, it was massive, way bigger than anything you had taken before, even bigger than your dildo. His was prettier than other dicks you'd seen too, a pretty flushed and tripping tip to contrast against a slightly darker color of his length. He jerked his cock steadily, pressing his fingers deeper into your mouth. "You like what you see, brat?" Toji asked, grinning when he felt your tongue slide over his fingers, mimicking the way you sucked a cock.

Toji groaned through a smile when you grabbed his wrist tighter and pushed his fingers into your throat, bobbing your head around them. "Someone trained you before me, huh? Who taught you to suck fingers like a dick?" Toji asked, raising his eyebrows at you. You swallowed your arousal and saliva in your mouth before pulling his fingers from you, a line of spit connecting your lips to his fingers. "I don't remember." You smiled drunkenly, making his cock twitch as he didn't let up his strokes on it. "Such a slut." He said, shaking his head.

You whined at his words, spreading your legs around his thighs to make more room, you dropped your hands down to his cock and wrapped both your hands around the tip, jerking what you could while he kept up his own ministrations on his cock as well. "You gonna slut yourself out for me too? Show me how good you are at taking cock?" He asked, releasing his hand from his dick he leaned over you, placing his forearms around your head as you stroked the entirety of his cock in your hands, wrapping your legs around him.

"Yeah~" You answered, looking between the two of you as you pressed his fat tip against your entrance, his cock leaking against your pussy. "You gonna fuck me raw, daddy?" You whispered against his ear. Toji swore his brain stopped working, his cock throbbed in your hold at the name. He audibly groaned, pressing one of his hands over your mouth, "Don't do that." He warned, swallowing hard as his smile faded from his face, his arousal plastering itself all over his features.

Toji felt a new need, a rawer, more primal one. He knew he shouldn't have felt as aroused as he did when you called him that, but he couldn't fucking help it. He kept replaying your words over in his head, one of your hands came up to pull his down off of your mouth, while the other stayed between your legs, his tip pushing past the ring of your cunt, making the both of you gasp. "You like it when I call you that, huh?" You whispered, watching his jaw go slack and his eyes roll back as he slipped deeper and deeper into your cunt. "Fuck- you're so- haah- so big-" you whined, his cock pressing agaisnt your sweet spot ruining your attempts at being in control for even a second.

"Yeah.." Toji moaned, his eyes peeled open again to watch your expression as you took his cock, "Let's see if you're still runnin' that fuckin' mouth when I'm done with you." He finished, thrusting his cock to the hilt unexpectedly, knocking the wind out of you. The older man started up a brutal pace inside your cunt, his eyes rolling back at how tight and warm you were around him. Both of your hands came down to push against his pelvis, trying to get him to slow down, "Fuck! T-toji w-wait wait-" You whined at the painful stretch.

"Nah, what happened to 'daddy' huh? Though you liked callin' me that shit." He asked, not letting up his hips, ignoring your hands trying to push him away. "Stop fucking whining, you can take it, ur' such a big fuckin' girl who can take anything, right?" Toji smirked, biting down on his teeth when he felt you squeeze around him. Incohearant moans were being fucked out of you, one of your hands starting to circle around your little clit in small circles as you felt yourself rapidly approach your orgasm.

He gripped both of your wrists together, stopping your motions as he pinned your hands above your head, watching your head thrash back and forth against the sheets. "Answer me brat." He spat, picking up the pace of his hips. "Fuck f-fuck D-daddy please-" You wined, letting him hear exactly what he wanted to hear. You've never called anyone other than your father that name; really only calling Toji the nickname in the first place to tease him; so it felt foreign calling Toji that in this setting, but seeing how worked up it got him made you aroused as well.

He groaned once again at the nickname, his hand that wasn't pinning your arms above your head came down to rub at your clit, finding it with pinpoint precision and rubbing it in circles just how you liked it. "Oh fuck me-" you groaned, your eyes rolling back, head tipping back in the sheets, revealing your still marked-up neck to him. He hated the sight, he wanted to lean down and replace the ugly purple marks with his own, darker ones, so that's exactly what he did.

He found the bruises with his eyes first, then made sure his lips were covering them before he started sucking the skin into his mouth, making you gasp. "When's the last time someone touched your clit for you?" Toji asked, noticing how tight you got around him when you rubbed the little bud, your legs squeezing his waist simultaneously. "I- I don't know I- Fuck!" Your head pushed further back into the sheets as Toji kept sucking on your neck. "Feels soo much better when someone else does it huh?" Toji asked knowingly.

Your moans were raising in pitch, the noises coming less frequently as your high crept over you, your breath stuttering in your chest as you came hard, all over his dick, moaning out his name and broken cries of 'daddy' as you did. "Oh- fuck yeahhh~ Cum all over daddy's fucking cock princess, that's fucking right~" He leaned back from your neck, pressing your wrists into the bed harder as he fucked you through your first orgasm, your walls squeezing him like you were trying to milk him for all he was worth. You came down, gasping and crying in overstimulation as Toji kept fucking you, the squelching louder now thanks to your orgasm.

"That feel good baby? Wanna feel that again?" He asked, laughing at how tears had started to fall down your cheeks. "P-please fuck- Your cock feels so- fucking- good-" You praised through his rough thrusts, his hips making your body slide up on the bed from how hard he was fucking you. "Yeah? I bet it feels good, you're fucking shaking." Toji laughed, slowing his thumb against your clit so as to not overstimulate you to the point of passing out, as validating as it would be to see you literally pass out from his cock, he didn't want to deal with that right now.

"You like my p-pussy?" You asked, smirking at him, noticing how his grip on your wrists tightened when you asked him that. His cock twitched as he watched your tits bounce from under your shirt, your nipple occasionally popping out from under the fabric. "Who taught you to speak like that? Such a filthy fucking mouth." Toji chastized, picking up his thumb on your clit once more, wanting to see you fall apart one more time on his dick before he came.

"Y- fuck T-you didn't answer-" You wined, feeling the coil tighten in your stomach once more. Everything about this man was making your entire body feel like it was on fire. How confident he was, how he knew your anatomy like the back of his hand, how he seemed to know every little button on your body that made you twitch and whine, all of it was driving you crazy. "You want me to tell you how much I love fucking you little pussy? Huh?" He stared, groaning against your lips as he leaned down, kissing you between words.

"Want me to tell you how I almost came when I got inside you? How good it feels when you twitch around me?" He whispered, kissing you hungrily, swallowing up your high-pitched moans as his hips lost rhythm. "That what you wanna hear? How you have daddy losing his mind in your tight little cunt?" You pulled off of his lips, practically screaming his name as your high crashed over you once more, his words being the final straw that got you there.

Toji dropped his head to your neck, biting the skin there to keep his groans at bay. "Fuck- fuck- where do you want it?" Toji rushed, hoping you were able to respond through your orgasm, or he was going to cum inside you anyways. "I-inside daddy f-fill me up!" You slurred through your high, riding your orgasm out on his dick as he continued to pull his cock almost completely out before bullying it back inside you. "Yeah? Want me to cum inside you? God- you drive me fucking crazy-" Toji continued to thrust inside your tired cunt, fucking you once more into overstimulation as he groaned loudly into your neck; he never was one to be shy about being loud in bed.

"Fuck- It's coming- gonna fill you up baby, 'n you're gonna take every last fucking drop, right?" He asked. He desperately needed to hear you say it. "Yes baby yes- g-gonna take it all- c-cum inside me pleasee~" You slurred, the pulsing of your walls working him over just right as his breath hitched at the first rope of his hot cum shooting inside your cunt. His teeth dug into your neck when he came, his hips stuttering as he humped them against you every time his cock shot out his cum. "Yessss~ Fucking give it to me daddy~" you slurred against his ear, giggling.

He stilled against you, the aftershocks of his orgasm wracking through his body, his grip had tightened around your wrist almost completely cutting off your circulation, you were sure to have bruises there in the morning. The two of you panted when he finally came down from his high. He sat up, slowly pulling his cock out of your sore and red pussy, his eyes watching as his thick cum spilled out of your hole and down the curve of your ass. "Take a picture if you wanna~" You said, squeezing your calves around his waist.

Toji shook his head, "You should be careful with that, you know who you are, don't you?" Toji said, scooping up his cum he stuffed his fingers back inside you, keeping it all in. You didn't know what to say back, guys usually jumped at the opportunity to take a picture of you all ruined like this, was it weird to say you were almost charmed by Toji looking out for you? "Your legs alright?" He asked, his voice breaking the silence when he noticed how shaky they were.

You weren't used to someone asking how you were after sex either.. this Toji.. he was weird. "Uh, yeah, just a little sore." You said, uncharacteristically shy. His eyes glanced up at your bashful face, before they found your wrists, seeing bright red marks imprint on the skin there, he admit the sight was erotic, but that shit look like it hurt. "Shit, sorry," Toji mumbled, his hand reaching up to your hands on your tummy to rub your wrist softly in his hands. "Didn't mean to fuck your shit up so bad." He laughed. You giggled at his choice of words, "It's fine, it felt good." you replied.

Toji had started to climb off the bed, tucking his cock into his pants a he laughed, walking towards the entrance of your room. Right, he was going to leave now, just because he was a good fuck doesn't mean he was going to stay now. "Don't move," he instructed, making you snap out of your thoughts. You watched Toji exit the room, you heard the skin in the bathroom turn on briefly before the water stopped, soon after the large man entered the room again.

You hadn't moved, just like he told you to. You watched him crawl back on the bed, a damp rag in his hand as he wiped your legs down, starting from your ankles, "I would carry you to the shower, but you wouldn't be able to stand anyway." He laughed. You pulled your leg back, out of his grasp, "What are you doing?" You asked. Toji looked at you like you were dumb, "I'm cleaning you up?" He said like it was obvious, roughly pulling your leg back towards himself so he could wipe you clean again, kissing your ankle before he threw it over his shoulder, scooting forward to wipe down the underside of his thigh.

"You're weird, Toji fushiguro." You said, blushing at his sudden soft treatment of your body. The man laughed, reaching your sore cunt he dragged the towel through your folds, cleaning the mess the two of you made there as you groaned in distain. "Okay, baby." He replied.

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really-fanny-longbottom · 4 months

Text

Never Yours

Pairings: Azriel x Reader, Azriel x Elain, Lucien x Reader

Summary: Azriel never regretted his decisions so much like he does right now.

Warnings: Angst (like a lot), fluff (also a lot because we need a balance)

Words: 6.1k

You were born in Day Court during the longest and the warmest day of the year: Summer Solstice. Even though it's not a custom to exchange gifts on that holiday, your parents always told you that you were their greatest gift and that the sun shined brighter that day like he knew that you would be entering this world very soon.

Your father was Helion's best and longest friend, and he had a place in his Court as his second in command and advisor. Your mother was the lead healer of the Court. She was one of the most powerful and talented healers of Prythian, being a very close second to Madja.

Due to your parents' jobs, you grew up in the Day Court Palace and close to Helion, who didn't just happen to be your High Lord but also your godfather.

Your parents reconsider that maybe making Helion your godfather had been a mistake because of how much he spoiled you. On your 4th birthday, he gave you a black baby pegasus as a present, which you decided to name him Blackjack. When he discovered that you liked reading, he had a private library built in your room with all kinds of books. When you were seven and heard an old male saying that females should only wear dresses, you only wore pants for the next three months and of course, Helion made sure you had every type of pants at your disposal.

When your parents tried to scold him, he just scoffed with his only response being, "She's my goddaughter. What else am I supposed to do?" with a big grin plastered in his face.

You weren't Helion's child, but he always treated you like one, and that never changed, especially after your parents' death.

Your favorite thing about your parents was their mating bond. After you learned that mates are rare and a blessing, it made every single thing about your parents' love even more unique and pure.

You saw first hand what true love is really like. You saw how much they loved, cared, supported, and protected each other. You saw loyalty and honesty in their deepest forms. Seeing your parents' mating bond made you wish to the stars for a mate, and that one day, you would be blessed enough to find him.

But you also saw how deep a mating bond could go. You saw it first hand, too.

You saw it when your mother died after getting infected by a rare disease while trying to help her patients. Her death destroyed your father. The pain and the grief of losing your mother, his mate, and the love of his life were so big that your father followed her into the next life a few days later, so they could start their next journey together.

Before he died, your father made Helion promise him that he would take care of you, which he agreed without hesitation. He became more protective of you. He couldn't stop thinking how unfair it was for you to lose your parents at such a young age, only eleven years old, when Helion had them for centuries.

Your godfather made sure to provide you with anything you needed from the best education to the best clothes and when your healing powers start manifesting and you decide to follow your mother's steps, Helion called in a favor to Thesan to see if he could teach you himself. The High Lord of Dawn was happy to accept, and so were you at the thought of having him as your teacher.

You moved to Dawn Court for a year where you learned everything about being a healer, not only with the High Lord himself but also with his best healers.

You became one of the best: talented, powerful, gifted, and wise. Just like your mother.

Madja was looking for an apprentice at the time you returned to Day, and when she heard about your skills, she asked for you. Rhysand reached out to Helion with Madja's offer: you would be her apprentice, work in the clinic with her but you would also assist her if she ever needed to go to a patient's residence, and would learn everything she could teach you.

It wasn't needed to convince you to agree. You had heard about Madja and her healing, after Thesan, she was the healer you wanted to work with the most, so of course you were more than happy to have a chance to have her as your mentor. Rhysand added that you would be welcome to stay in one of his personal residences, the House of Wind, during your time in Velaris.

You were only supposed to stay in the Night Court for a year, but that was before you met the Shadowsinger.

However, despite wanting the apprenticeship more than anything, if you had known what would happen when you agreed to go to the Night Court, you would never have accepted the offer.

Azriel couldn't sleep.

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't. Not with tomorrow so close, not when he knew what was waiting for him in the morning.

The past was haunting him tonight, his thoughts hadn't stopped since he had been informed earlier of tomorrow's meeting. So now, here he was, trying to keep his eyes open even though his body was protesting for him to do the opposite.

But he was fighting that need because every time he closed his eyes, you were all he saw. Your beautiful face with your sparkling eyes, your smooth hair, your pointy ears, your sweet voice, and your soft laughter. You were haunting his thoughts like a punishment for all those years ago.

So all he could do now was to sit on the edge of his balcony with his legs hanging off while waiting for the sun to be born, and remember how things used to be before he destroyed everything.

Everything was perfect in the beginning. Velaris was beautiful, the people were kind, and the pastries were absolutely delicious.

The only thing you actually missed, besides Helion, was the warmth of the sun like no other Court had but the Day Court. But that was just the Day citizen in you talking.

Your apprenticeship was going amazing. You and Madja had instantly connected, and you were learning so much. Two weeks later, you were already attending your own patients without supervision. You really had a gift, and every time Madja complimented your powers, you gave all the credits to your genes, to your mom. It warmed your heart knowing that the Mother had blessed you with this part of her. In this way, it felt like she was always with you.

The House of Wind felt just like home, and you adjusted perfectly. The Inner Circle had welcomed you with open arms, and you got along with everyone. They thought you and Morrigan would be the closest of all, but they got a big surprise when it turned out to be you and Azriel.

The Shadowsinger was different from everyone you ever met. Everyone in Day was so loud, open, and extroverted. But not him. He was calm, reserved, and difficult to read, but with time, you ended up finding out that the two of you were more alike than you thought. You were able to go through the shell that Azriel had so perfectly built around him over the centuries.

A friendship was born. Every day, Azriel would fly you to the clinic and then back to the House. You explored Velaris together and made your personal mission to try every single restaurant and bakery from the City of Starlight.

You walked along the Sidra and even stopped once in a while to dance along the melodies that the musicians were playing. You would read together whether that was in the library, in your room, or in his. You even started training with him and sometimes, Cassian.

You became each other's person. When a day at the clinic was hard or you would lose a patient, he was there to hug and comfort you, and you found yourself doing the same for him about his missions. So you decided to take the next step and spoke about your parents' death, how much still affected you losing them.

And in that moment, Azriel realized how much trust you put in him, so he decided to return it and opened about his past, his family, and his hands. You listened to every word, cleaned every tear, and held him for as long as he needed.

You found yourself falling in love with him a little more day by day, and it only took you a few months to realize that you were completely in love.

The day the bond snapped was one of the happiest days of your life. It happened during the most beautiful celebration in the Night Court: Starfall.

Your hair was tied in a long braid that reached down to your waist, decorating the braid were small yellow daylilies. You were wearing a golden dress that fit perfectly against your sun-kissed skin. The dress had a slit on the left side that went up to the top of your thigh, a single strap held the dress on your right shoulder and when you turned around, whoever was behind you could have a perfect view of your naked back. Golden jewels rested on your ears and neck.

You looked like a goddess, one blessed by the sun itself. You were shining just like a Day Court citizen should.

Azriel standed next to you in the balcony while gazing at the spirits passing. Both of your hands rested on the stone of the balcony, and when you went to adjust your hand, it brushed against Azriel's. At the new feeling, you looked up to find his eyes, only to see the Shadowsinger already looking at you. In that moment, with the touching of your hands and the meeting of your eyes, the world stopped.

Your hands start interviewing, and everything else just disappeared.

It was just the two of you and the sound of your heartbeats. And then, a golden thread appeared and started tying your hearts and souls.

Azriel held your free hand and pressed it against his own chest, right where his heart laid. You followed his action, freeing your intertwined hands and putting his hand on your chest, above your heart.

With the final loop of the golden thread around your hearts, Azriel bent down and kissed you.

That moment couldn't be more beautiful and magical even if you tried. You had finally found the mate that you had wished to the stars all those years ago.

Everything was perfect. You had everything you wanted and more. You lived in a beautiful city that you learned to love and were starting to call it home. You had the job of your life, working alongside one of your idols. Amazing friends that made you feel welcomed and part of a little family. And finally, your mate, the male you were in love with, long before that beautiful and sacred golden thread. Everything was perfect.

But of course, nothing lasts forever. And all of that disappeared when Elain Archeron came into the picture.

Ten years. He couldn't believe that much time had passed. All those years without you.

It had been ten years since the last time he saw you. Ten years since he had heard something regarding you. Ten years since he had broken your heart. And ten years since he had made the biggest mistake of his entire existence.

You had moved back to Day Court after that day, after what happened and after what he did.

The High Lord of Day had forbidden Azriel from seeing you and from trying to contact you in any way. And months later, when the rumors of a certain Shadowsinger flying above the Palace in hopes to get a glimpse of you reached his ears, Helion banned him from his Court.

Helion had always been a very charismatic and loving person. He's kind, generous, and a very good friend. He gets along with almost everyone, always joking around and laughing. Some people may say that he's the nicest and kindest High Lord that Prythian has ever seen.

When problems arise, he always tries to find a solution to solve them or if a solution is not possible, a way to improve them. But not this time. Not when it comes to you and his son, Lucien.

Because your heart wasn't the only one to be shattered that day, no, Lucien's heart was a victim, too. So, from that moment, everything that Helion did was to protect you and Lucien, to make sure that you felt safe, that you had space and time to heal. You thought that was ironic, considering you were a healer yourself.

Azriel's banishment wasn't the only consequence from the events of that day.

That day also cost the alliance between the Day Court and the Night Court, and when the alliance fell apart, so did Helion and Rhysand's friendship.

But Azriel wasn't the only one to blame for all of this. Elain Archeron was guilty, too. She, too, was banished from the Day Court and forbidden to contact Lucien in any way.

But unlike Azriel, Elain's actions cause far more consequences than his.

The Autumn Court followed the same decisions as the Day Court. The banishment of Azriel and Elain and the prohibition of any kind of contact with Lucien. Eris, now the new High Lord of the Autumn Court after Beron's death, didn't take lightly to what happened to his little brother.

The two of them had reconnected after Eris became High Lord. They talked through everything that had happened in the last centuries, made peace with their past, and decided to move forward together. Now, the brothers were inseparable and had the kind of relationship they had always wanted since they were younger. So when Eris heard what had happened, he considered those actions as a personal attack.

He went as far as to offer Lucien the opportunity to choose the Blood Duel, which his little brother refused, saying that all of this had already caused enough pain. Eris wasn't angry just because of Lucien. He was angry because of you, too. You were the first person to give him the benefit of the doubt, the first one to not judge him, unlike the others you tried to get to know him, to be his friend and he let you.

You were the first one to know the real Eris, to know what he hid behind the mask. Therefore, you had a special place in his heart. Even if you didn't share the same blood, you were part of his family.

But that didn't stop with Day and Autumn. Spring joined them, too.

Despite everything that happened and the fact that they were still working on their friendship, Tamlin's loyalty remained with Lucien. Spring had been Lucien's home for decades, and with that came a brotherhood between the two of them.

Needless to mention that Jurian and Vassa's loyalties also remained with Lucien.

To everyone outside the situation, all of this may seem overreacted and exaggerated. But to everyone involved, it's not.

After all, you and Lucien almost died. That's what happens when a mating bond is rejected.

Azriel couldn't believe things had turned out this way. He was so sure that the Cauldron was wrong, that he belonged with Elain. Three sisters for three brothers. How more poetic could it be?

There were signals everywhere: Feyre with Rhysand, Nesta with Cassian, and Elain with him. Elain wouldn't go close to Lucien or talk to him, but she would sit next to him whether during dinners or on the couch, she would talk to him, and requested his company when she went to the garden or to the city. Even his shadows disappeared every time he was with her.

Weren't those signals clear enough? They were meant to be. The Cauldron was wrong.

So Azriel did what he thought was right. He rejected the mating bond with you, and Elain did the same with Lucien.

He never thought that the rejection of the bond would've almost cost your life.

That memory still gave him nightmares to this day. How pale you turned, how you sank to your knees with your hand pressed against your chest, tears running free down your cheeks and muffled screams leaving your lips. How much pain you had suffered and how he had been the cause of it. How once, not that long ago, he had been the reason for your smiles, laughs, and giggles.

But that memory wasn't his. It was Rhysand's. Rhys, who had to go through your mind shields, and knock you unconscious so the pain would stop and that memory led him to another memory.

The memory of that day and the things that had followed after he shattered your heart.

Azriel wasn't there the moment it happened. No, he was too busy kissing Elain after admitting how much they craved each other.

And while he kissed Elain, he felt that golden thread tying the two of you breaking and start slowly to disappear.

Nothing could have prepared him for that last memory of you when he and Elain were summoned to the River House a few hours later.

Rhys had shown him not as a courtesy but as a lesson of how much his actions can affect others. But you weren't just some other. You were his mate. Former mate. Ex-mate.

Azriel made a move to go find you. He needed to explain it to you, and he needed you to understand, but you were already gone.

Rhys told him that after you regained consciousness, Lucien took you with him back to Day Court.

Lucien. Who you had become instantly friends with since the male's arrival in Velaris. You had treated him just like you were when you moved to the Night Court. You showed him the city, the good restaurants and the best pastries, and also told him about Helion, now that he knew the High Lord was his father and he was his Heir. You wanted him to feel like home, just like you did.

When Azriel made his intentions clear to go to Day and find you, Rhys showed him the letter Helion had sent. The one that forbidden him from seeing you and from trying to contact you in any way. The one that also had the same indications to Elain regarding Lucien. And that if any of them tried to disobey his orders, there would be consequences.

Azriel knew of protective the male was of you and that he would do anything to protect his family, so for a split second, Azriel found himself fearing the High Lord.

Rhysand also ordered them to stay away from the two of you, stating that they had already created enough problems and the Night Court could not afford a war with Day.

After they left his office, Rhys sat down on his chair, trying to think how he was gonna solve this. His mind kept going back to you and Lucien.

He was there when Lucien came for you, the red headed male was also pale and every few minutes, his hand would press to his chest in pain, his eyes were still red, probably from the tears he had shed.

Rhys knew that Helion's letter wouldn't be the only one he would receive that day. And like he was right, three more letters arrived during it. First from Autumn, then Spring and the last one from the Band of Exiles.

Rhys passed a hand through his black hair and released a long sigh, Azriel and Elain actions had just cost four allies to the Night Court.

When you and Lucien arrived in Day, Helion almost fell to his knees at your sight.

You were in Lucien's arms, your eyes half open with tears still following down your cheeks. One of your hands was against your chest, rubbing small circles in a way of trying to get rid of the pain. Lucien wasn't much better.

Helion headed towards you and started examining you for injuries, but he found nothing, and when confusion made his way to his features, Lucien told him everything.

The confusion was replaced by anger, but the anger wasn't just directed towards the Shadowsinger and the middle Archeron sister. Some of it was towards himself.

Towards himself, because seeing you like that, Helion felt that he had broken the promise he made to your dad and that this was his fault.

Without giving time for any more thoughts to fill his mind, Helion led Lucien to your room, where the Heir laid you on the bed. You had fallen asleep in his arms with your cheeks still stained.

Lucien sat on the chair by your desk that was placed in front of your bed and said to Helion that he would stay with you. Helion gave him a firm nod, remembering that Lucien didn't have a room yet in his Palace, but he was about to fix that.

Helion didn't waste any time after making sure that the two of you were okay for now.

He called two of his servants to prepare a room for the young Heir and went straight to his office where he wrote the letter and sent it to Rhysand.

The next week's were a complicated ones but showed that time was the best healer.

You no longer spend the days locked in your room alone. You started to eat properly again and went back to work. Day by day, you were smiling more and sometimes making jokes.

Lucien improved as well. He decided to live in the Day Court for the time being and took his place as Helion's second in command. His relationship with Helion was also getting stronger over time. They were making up for the lost time.

But that wasn't the only thing that changed. Your relationship with Lucien also changed.

You got closer than ever, due to the fact you were the only ones who knew what the other was going through.

You found comfort in each other's presence and started spending more time together to the point where you became each other's favorite person.

Little by little, you start helping each other heal. You started putting back together the pieces that had been broken, and the pain started slowly fading until the day that it didn't hurt anymore.

You two mended your hearts and souls, and for the first time, in a long time, you were full again.

Your friendship grew, and so did your feelings for each other.

Azriel couldn't believe how wrong he had been. Because the Cauldron wasn't wrong, it had never been wrong.

He was the one who was wrong. Right from the beginning.

He and Elain had tried a relationship after yours and Lucien's departure. It worked for six months until it didn't.

Azriel questioned himself why the relationship was starting to fail and why being with Elain was starting to feel wrong.

It didn't take him too long to understand the reason. It was because she wasn't you. He found out that the reason his shadows disappear every time he was with Elain wasn't because they were destined but because they were with you.

His shadows would leave him and Elain to go find you, like they were stating that they wouldn't betray you, that they chose you. On the day he broke up with Elain, he found his shadows in your old room, which once was filled with colors, books, paintings, and light, and now was empty, dusty, and dark. The shadows were swimming around your Starfall dress, the one you wore on the day your bond had snapped. The sight of the dress was painful, and he understood why it had been left behind.

Azriel had tried to apologize, he flew to Day Court and around the Palace trying to find you but he never did and the next day Helion sent a letter with his and Elain's banishment, making Autumn and Spring to have the same decision.

He understood why, they were trying to protect you and Lucien, and even though he didn't have the right, he just wanted to know if you were okay. Ironic, considering he was the reason you were suffering.

He asked Rhys several times if he knew something about you, and Rhys revealed to him that you weren't talking to him or the other members of the Inner Circle either. You had stated that it was too early and still very painful.

So they respected your decision and kept their distance.

That had caused Azriel's guilt to grow even more. How he wished for Nesta to still have her powers so he could go back in time and repair all of this.

The light of the sun broke his thoughts. The sun was finally making its appearance in the orange and yellow sky.

Azriel released a long breath and looked at the clock perched on his bedroom wall.

The morning was here, and he was only two hours away from seeing you.

The Inner Circle stood at the entrance of the Day Court Palace.

Helion had lifted the banishment for this meeting with yours and Lucien consent.

Both of you said that it had been a long time and that the past should stay in the past, but that didn't mean you would be accepting any apologies today.

Koschei was on the rise again, and Prythian needed to come together once more. Right now, your past didn't matter.

The doors swung open, and the Inner Circle made their way inside. A servant led them to the conference room located in the same hallway as Helion's office on the first floor of the Palace.

They sat at the marble table while the servant informed them, "The High Lord will be here in a few minutes." Receiving a nod and a 'Thank you' from Rhysand, the servant left.

Rhys started, "Y/N and Lucien will also be in this meeting. Now, Helion was nice enough to allow the two of you back here, so do not ruin this." He finished while looking at Azriel and Elain, making them both nod their heads.

Helion entered the room, and the Inner Circle raised from their seats. The High Lord of the Day Court made his way to the head of the table. He turned to the side where Rhys, Feyre, and his Inner Circle stood at his left before offering his hand to Rhys to shake it.

Taken by surprise, Rhys needed a few seconds to process what was happening before accepting his hand. Once they had shaken hands, everyone returned to their seats, but not before Helion sent a disapproving look in Azriel's and Elain's direction.

A few minutes into the meeting, the door to the conference room opened again. And there you were.

You were dressed in Day attire, a beautiful white dress that hugged your body, with your hair loosen and golden jewelry adorned your neck and ears. Lucien was by your side also wearing Day attire, one that matched Helion's, with your hand in his.

The Inner Circle held their breaths at your sight. It had been ten years, but all the memories came flashing back to them.

You looked the same, but when you two approached the table, that's when they saw it and shock spread all over their faces.

Azriel couldn't believe what he was seeing. He didn't know what he was expecting to see at this meeting, but it wasn't this.

It wasn't the golden ring that you and Lucien had matching on your left hands informing him that you were married that shocked him.

It was the small and round belly that your free hand was resting on and the sweet vanilla scent that was filling the air. The scent of yours and Lucien's baby.

"Apologies for our delay," Lucien started, then looking in your direction with a smile continued "Someone had a big appetite this morning." He ended with a laugh.

You looked at his gaze, a genuine smile on your lips. "Shut up." You whispered.

Lucien grabs the back of your chair, pulling it to give you enough space to sit. "Thank you, my love." You said while watching him taking the seat at your right, making you stay seated between him and Helion.

For the first time since you entered the room, you looked at the people in front of you. "Night Court," you greeted with a small smile.

Feyre was the first to say "Congratulations Y/N. And Lucien."

Lucien spoke this time. "Thank you, Feyre." He rested his hand on your belly.

"How far long are you?" Rhysand's voice reached your ears.

Looking in his direction, you answered, "23 weeks. Lucien thinks it's a girl, but I think it's a boy," you added. That made Rhys smile.

"I always took you for a boy mom." Amren's voice surprised you and couldn't help but smile at her words. "Congratulations to you two, the Mother knows you deserve it." She finished with a genuine smile.

Lucien looked at Azriel and Elain before directing his eyes to the ancient one "Yes we do. Thank you, Amren." Lucien paused for a second before turning in Helion's direction and continuing. “Let's not keep holding on to the meeting. Please go on, dad."

Helion proceeded with the meeting, but Azriel didn't listen to a word that was said. He couldn't tear his eyes from you and Lucien.

There was no doubt of the love you two shared, not when it was written in both of your eyes. He didn't miss Lucien caresing your belly, and pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, passing his thumb over your jaw and kissing your cheek after.

Or how you rested your right hand on top of his on your belly while your left passed through his long red hair before resting around his shoulders and your smile while doing it.

What bigger proof did he need of your love if not for the baby you were carrying? Lucien's baby, he kept telling himself. Not his. Lucien's.

Jealousy invaded his body, but there was nothing he could do. He made his decision ten years ago, and now he had to live with it.

Lost in his thoughts, he only realized the meeting was over when everyone started standing. Rhys and Helion were finishing talking, and when the doors opened one more time, Eris Vanserra walked in with a little ginger boy in his arms. He couldn't be more than five years old.

He looked exactly like Lucien, except for his eyes. Those were yours.

Azriel's heart sank, and it sank even more a few seconds later, when the little boy spotted you and Lucien. You already had a baby and you were about to have your second.

With a big smile appearing on his sweet face, the little boy almost shouted, "Mommy! Daddy!" The boy jumped from his uncle's arms and ran to you.

You bend down and gather the happy boy in your arms before standing again and passing a hand through his ginger curls and saying, "Hi baby." You peppered his face with kisses making him laugh even more "I thought you were having fun with your uncle." You said looking at your brother in law.

Your son pouted “Uncle Eris doesn't know how to play. He onlys wants to do the boring stuff mommy.”

Everyone in the room chuckled, Eris gasped with fake hurt “Excuse me?”

“Elijah.” Lucien chuckled and said to your son after joining your side “Don't be rude to your uncle.”

“But it’s the truth, daddy.” Elijah hid his face on your neck.

Eris approached the little family with a smile directed to his nephew. "Sorry. I tried to keep him entertained, but he just kept asking about you two."

Lucien noticed his older brother had paint and glitter on his white shirt and laughed at the thought of his son giving him a hard time before exclaiming, "It's alright, brother. We were about to leave anyway."

The little boy settled in your arms and rested his head against yours, Lucien started rubbing his back when the little boy caught the sight of his grandfather and asked before anyone could stop him "Grandpa, how was the meeting with the idiots from the Night Court?"

The room went quiet, and a few gasps escaped. At your son's words, you turned to look at Helion, now on mom's mood. "Helion! How many times do we have to tell you not to speak like that in front of him?"

The room erupted in laughter at your statement. The air became lighter, and Helion put his hands in surrender, promising you that it wouldn't happen again.

You gave him an incredulous look, saying that you didn't believe him. Your son wrapped his tiny arms around your neck and rested his head on your shoulder with a yawn leaving his lips.

You rubbed your son's back while speaking to him. "Cmon Elijah, let's leave before your grandpa comes up with a new bad word for you to learn."

“Bad grandpa” your son agreed with you while earning new chuckles from the Night Court.

Even though he was trying to hold his smile, Azriel failed, your son was too adorable.

You turned your gaze to the Inner Circle and gave them a smile. "It was good to see you all."

"You too, Y/N. I missed you." Cassian replied.

Your smile stretched before telling him, "I missed you too, Cass."

The nickname made his heart ache. Maybe there's still a chance for you to reconnect.

You turned to look behind you, meeting your husband's eyes "You're coming Lu?"

A pink blush made its way to Lucien's cheeks "Of course, my love" The Heir looked at his father "We'll see you at dinner, dad. Night Court." He said giving the Inner Circle a small nod before joining you and wrapping his arm around your waist and giving a kiss to your now sleeping son.

Amren spoke again “See I told you were a boy mom.” A smile never leaving her face.

“You're right. If this baby happens to be a boy as well, I'm gonna be in trouble.” You replied with a arm holding your son and while the other made it's way to your belly.

“No your not, you're gonna be great.” Nesta spoke, a genuine smile on her lips “We already can see you are.” She gestured to the little boy sleeping in your arms.

“Thank you, Nes.” You were grateful for her words.

On your way out, you met Azriel's eyes but you couldn't find the words so you simply gave him a nod with a small smile and Azriel returned the gesture.

When the door closed, Amren was the first to break the silence "Well, the Mother has a sense of humor."

Everyone turned to look at her but she focused her gaze on Azriel and Elain "You rejected them because you believed you belonged with one another only for your relationship to fail six months later. And now," she released a laugh "your former mates found their way towards each other. Fell in love, got married, had a son and have another baby on the way. Ironic isn't it?" She said with the feline smile returning to her lips.

It was Helion who spoke next, amusement all over his face "Indeed. I guess karma is a bitch." He sent a disapproving look one more time in the direction of the two people who almost cost him his family before exiting the room.

Amren's and Helion's words stung but Azriel knew it was nothing but the truth. He realized in that moment, that despite your life now and how things turned out, you would never forgive him.

He had lost you forever and now he had to live with regret for the rest of his life.

After all, you were no longer his.

A/n: Thank you for reading! I'm thinking in making a general taglist so if you wish to be added let me know.

the beautiful dividers belong to @cafekitsune

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