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gutsby · 9 months

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Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

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

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brewed-pangolin · 5 months

Text

This brain worm has been bugging me all week.

MDNI 18+

Mechanic Soap who you meet at your local body shop in need of a quick repair to your car's door. It's a hefty dint, needing structural repair and a few layers of paint. You know this and are prepared to face the irrefutable mumblings of a man who thinks you to be just some typical dumb blonde.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't beat around the bush, tells you as is that it'll take a few days to repair the inner framework and add the required layers of paint to make it seamless to the rest of the vehicle.

Mechanic Soap already meeting your standards in someone who doesn't see you as just some woman who doesn't know what she's talking about. Willing to go over, in an overly detailed manner, the mechancis and functionality of the repair and necessities to fulfill such a task.

Mechanic Soap who makes you spill out that you have a vintage '68 Shelby Fastback in your garage that you've been painstakingly putting back together. Peaking his interest while he goes over the cost of the door mend, mindlessly mumbling that he'd be willing to assist in said vintage restoration if you'd let him.

Mechanic Soap who starts hanging around your garage all hours of the day as he tends to the intricacies and overly detailed rehabilitation that had taken you years to achieve. Effortlessly bringing the rusted frame of the muscle car to life, the chassis glistening in the afternoon light as you do your best to attend to his needs while not gawking at his expert hand.

Mechanic Soap who asks for nothing in return for working on such a classic in vehicular engineering. Yet you shower him in nothing but your best of culinary skills. Feeding him after a days work with such delicacies that only a skilled baker could attain.

Mechanic Soap who starts staying hours after the sun had set beyond the horizon, making his way into the intimacy of your home as you regularly extended an invitation for him stay for dinner. Infiltrating your daily life in a way you had never dreamed. Pleading for him to keep you company as weeks steadily turned to months of courting.

Mechanic Soap who shows just how eager he is by splaying you out on your bed. Working you into a pleasured mess on his fingers and tongue before tearing his clothes away to finally bestow you a more thorough experience. His unending stamina on full display as he contorts you into every position known to man. And a few you had never even heard of. Using his well-earned physique to his advantage, pushing you to the limits of ecstasy and more than likely earning a fee noise complaints from your neighbors.

Mechanic Soap who finally displays his unending talents as he worked his calloused hands over your voluptuous curves. Kneading into your supple flesh as he spread you open to finally take in the feast he had been so desperate to taste. Lapping his tongue between your folds, focusing on your pulsing bud as you writhe in pleasure beneath his expert grasp.

Mechanic Soap who now makes you breakfast every morning before you go to work. Always has the coffee ready, mixed with your favorite creamer and lunch waiting on the table. Sending you off onto your day with a smile that could light up a whole city, and a peck on the cheek that stays with you for the entirety of your day.

Mechanic Soap who came into your life by accident but has now permanently etched himself into your daily routine. You can't recall what your days were like before him, and you dared not imagine them without him.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't buy you a wedding ring. He forges one from the metal bearings of a camshaft. The sparklng gem at the centerpiece is an expertly crafted piece of iron ore, polished and etched to a glistening surface that shines with an iridescence like no other.

Mechanic Soap who doesn't marry you at the altar. He proclaims his vows at a local pub in Glasgow. Whisking you away for a honeymoon in the Scottish highlands where he treats you like a Scottish queen and worships the very ground you walk on.

A happy accident that turned into a life of unending royalties, and you're in no mind to ever want to remove the crown he so helplessly placed on top of your pretty little head.

This is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But I had to get it out. Thanks for reading my mindless rambles.

#soap squad™️#mechanic soap #just a bunch of ramblings #had to get it out #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish headcanons #cod fanfic #call of duty

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marinas-drafts · 1 year

Text

Honeymoon

A Sky High Lovin’ segment, the swingin’ 60’s

Summary: If weddings are for the bride then it suggests that Honeymoon’s are for the groom -a stupid cliche you had dismissed until your dashing groom proves a little inexorable in his intent to “educate” his new bride on the long Learjet flight to Honolulu

Warnings 18+: (sex, dubious consent) I am about to possibly over exaggerate these cautions but I find it necessary, particularly for anyone who is used to reading my work because this is by far the most dubious consent piece I ever ever written and the theme is entirely narratively sympathetic to entitled husbands and female objectification. So, as it’s me, of course there’s love and tenderness but it’s also got -repeatedly denied requests to stop during sex, innocence kink, possible male enjoyment of a recent virgin’s discomfort, nasty baby talk, worry about a man being unfaithful if you deny him, talks of teaching you how to take him, (possible grooming?!) assumed husbandly entitlement to a wife’s body, archaic views on gender roles… y’all, I ripped off Pricilla and went full Lana Del Rey and glorified breaking a woman into her husbands tastes, like, that’s the theme and it’s reveling in it so, enjoy but heads up 🌷🎀🌷

Repost here from my main: @precious-little-scoundrel

There’s something very salacious in the simple act of walking across the tarmac amidst a swarm of reporters clicking away with their cameras, ready to print the image of your little figure pressed against his side, images for all the world to look at and know what occurred to you last night.

What you two did. How he made you his. On your wedding night.

He made you a woman, his woman and the whole world knows it now. There’s something so damn dirty about this, even -or perhaps because- of how traditional it is. The ring sits with a comforting weight on your finger as he holds your hand, and your belly aches from your husband drawing his pleasure from your virgin body, your thighs trembling as you try your best to keep up with his long strides in your kitten heels. It’s so proper, it’s everything he ever wanted, and it makes your cheeks burn beneath the generous layer of makeup.

He looks painfully handsome and happy this morning, impeccably polished in the bright sunshine and you wonder at his duality. The way he can clean up and regain his proud suavity when last night you had seen him mussed, tremblingly tender and near unhinged in his passion while consummating your union. A dab of pomade, a double breasted jacket and his wife’s little hand in his -he’s utterly in possession of himself now and is the fuckin’ American dream incarnate right in this moment.

He’s very proud as he introduces you to some of the familiar press faces, and very gallant as he guides you up the few steps into the Learjet, broad palm searing your lower back and you wish you two could have remained tangled up in sheets, honeymoon and travel arrangements abandoned indefinitely. Just you and him floating together in a sky of crisp sheets and tangled limbs.

The photographers crowd in after you, soaking up the shy way you cuddle in close as he tucks you into his side, sympathetic to your own desire to be alone but too happy to begrudge anyone a glimpse at his little prize. Uhem, bride. The amount of satisfaction he finds in you is palatable to all here, his arm around you holds you close and grounds you even as his face splitting grin proclaims that you were a tight but obedient fit last night.

Your eyes burn you’re blushing so hard and that makes him grin harder and it’s pavlovian that smile, you can’t help but grin back, harder and crinklier than his and that stokes his joy further and soon y’all are giggling over memories the photographers will never be privy to. Those are yours, frantic and tender and aching.

Even the ever hungry photographers are glutted by the loved up display you give them, and soon they are departing and the plane door is shut. Then it’s goodbye America, off to Honolulu.

The tiny jet crew and the couple of boys from his paired down entourage settle into their seats as the jet roars down the runway and lifts off, effortless, soaring and sleek. Beside him you are restless, shifting and jittery on the leather seat, though he is gratified to see the demure way you cross your ankles and the ladylike poise of your spine even surrounded by the comparative privacy. His perfect southern Belle, whose every thought and action and word is to reflect well upon him and keep his name from disrepute, he couldn’t have chosen better. Your mouthwatering submission last night proved it.

You squirm again. Maintaining the modest coverage of your pretty little shift dress, the one accented with navy bows that coordinate with his suit, requires you to keep your upper thighs pressed together tightly, squeezing the bruise of your freshly opened little flower as it pulses distractingly, as if in flustered shock at its sudden required usage. Throbbing, sticky and hot.

“What’s my lil lady doin all that fidgetin for, hmm?” he asks you, tone solicitous but his eyes glint, “Plush leather seats not soft enough for my baby’s bottom?”

You startle and blush, just as he knew you would, and it’s adorable really, the way you can still be bashful after months of foolin and despite the recent intimacy of the night before. And it’s downright precious that you are so sore and achy after he had been so painstakingly gentle when he took you. You had no clue how sweet he’d been, the amount of self sacrifice he had shown in his languid slide and shallow thrusts, tender kisses and gentle grip. Resolutely holding back the absolute wreckage he could unleash on your poor, widdle unsuspecting cunt.

“Just excited.” your body vibrates as you shake your arms to highlight your explanation, gesturing to the wide blue sky out your window and the decadent interior of the jet.

He grins down at you and kisses your cheek, reaching for the seatbelt fastened at your lower belly and he flicks it open with his thumb, the heat of his hand branding you like an iron for the brief contact. “Lemme show ya round then, baby.”

He folds your hand in his again and weaves you down the aisle between the padded seats and towards the back of the plane, the occasional stray crew member meekly ducking towards the cockpit. You two pass the music lounge with its built-in piano and electric fireplace, then the kitchenette with its circular bar and spherical burst of lights coming out of the wall like cascading planets, back towards the little bedroom. You marvel at the designs, the colors, the unabashed wealth of it all floating thousands of feet above solid earth.

Happy and giddy you tuck into his side and he holds you close, arm snug around your waist, satisfied to show his little wife all he has to offer her.

“Y'know,” he serves as your guide, supplying details and anecdotes, most of which you already know but would listen to, enraptured a thousand times to keep him free and easy with his conversation, “Frank n' i didn't really get along when i first started out. ‘Said my music was brutal n' ugly. But we get along now. met 'im in person right after i met you. Reckon' ya rubbed off on me 'cause now we're good friends n’he lent us this jet to defile as we saw fit." his tongue pokes between his teeth, amused at himself and you find there is something cutely self-deceptive about his rare fits of humble bragging. “He’s got a mirror down here, nice big ole Broadway style vanity with it, bright lights n’low counter.” you’re far back into the plane now, he holds back a dividing curtain and you step into the little hallway dressing room right in front of the inauspicious bedroom door, “Frank uses this setup to primp before goin down the ramp to meet fans or shovin off for the next concert, reckon it’ll serve for the lesson I wanna show ya.”

Curious as to his plan, you look to him, both his image reflected in the huge, bare bulbed mirror and his own dear face beside you, more than a little pleased to see what a striking couple you make in the reflection, with his tailored suit and your chic smock, an IT couple without a doubt. It makes you feel pretty, wanted, a little proud maybe. That you won out of all those other hopeful girls. He sees your pleased expression in the mirror, the way your hip cocks and your expression morphs to your best kittenish smile. You’re preening. You think you’ve made it, think you’re at the summit of what life can offer and he may be partial but he thinks you wear smugness rather cutely. Makes him wanna shake ya up, rumple you a little, remind you who gave you all this. That your new image and importance and identity are due to being Mrs Presley.

He scoots up behind you, wrapping his arms around your belly and pulling you close to him, his chin settles atop your head. “Likin what you see?” he asks slyly, staring at the reflected image that will be on every magazine and newspaper tomorrow, the King of Rock n Roll and his perfect little darling who thinks she’s a woman now that she took cock once.

He runs his hands along your body, broad palms gathering then smoothing out puckers and rolls in the fabric of your dress as he follows the curve of you, breast to thigh and back up, then back down, further this time. He squats a little behind you and his clever fingers hook in your hem line and begin to draw it up, little by little exposing more and more leg in the mirror.

“Oh, no I-“ your hand flys to the apex of your thighs, pressing the fabric against you and keeping a covering there as his gathering has pulled your dress nearly to your little secret place, “what are you doin Elvis?” you ask, a little unsure and bashful of him exposing you in this somewhat public place, even if the crew is nowhere to be seen and the curtain is drawn.

It’s obscene to rumple up the perfect couple, all the starch and pomade that make Elvis Presley and his new bride the envy of the world. And it’s worrying. He does not know you omitted underwear today, the feeling of the fabric chafing and holding in the heat of your tender pussy too much to bear while maintaining a proper face on the tarmac.

“Gonna show ya somethin,” he repeats, eyebrow quirked at your “no” and the nervous way you are almost cupping the last few inches of your dress over your private parts.

He keeps ahold of the fabric he’s gathered up so far and takes to running his knuckles up your side soothingly again, till he notices there’s no band or catch on your hips as he glides up.

“You hidin somethin from me, honey?” he asks, already knowing the answer and the reason for your flaming cheeks, “Keepin secrets from your husband already, denyin him his right?” he tuts and your pretty coal rimmed eyes fly open in denial as you shake your head and pull your hand away. “That's more like it.” He nods approvingly, and ever the showman he waits a minute, building the suspense as his hands continue to map out your clothed body as your breathing quickens. In the mirror both your eyes zero in on the barely hidden triangle between your legs. Then with a flourish and flick of his wrist he swoops the hem up and a rush of cold air hits your exposed pussy. You slump into him and await his verdict. “Darlin, what’s this?“ he asks you gravely, his eyes very dark in the mirror and there you are, pristine up top and entirely bare below, it’s -vulgar. Vulgar and salacious with a fully suited man behind you shaking his head in disappointment that you’d be so careless on your first day as Mrs Presley, risking flashing the photographers or the flight crew because you were too delicate to stand a little fabric. He expects more of you, and he knows you know that.

You mix your explanation with your apology, looking like an eager to please little foal on shaky legs, and he accepts it with another tut and a hum as he rolls your dress up methodically until its bulk is beneath your armpits. The shame you feel in being so exposed is your own fault, your own doing, you know that.

If you’d obeyed you would currently have some demure scrap of silk covering you in the full glare of the showbiz mirror. But now you are bare to his blazing eyes. Your handsome new husband inspects you closely in the mirror, his ringed fingers trailing over your hips and over your belly, swooping up your ribs and tickling the underside of your breasts. Back down he goes, hands gliding and palms warm and broad, spanning much of your abdomen in his reach, down and down till he is petting your mound. Your arms dangle listlessly at your sides, entirely unsure what your part in this is, except to submit to whatever he wishes.

“You say your lil pussy is tenda, hmm?” he understands your motive now, and coos solicitously over your discomfort, even as he smirks at the notion you’re sore from that pathetically gentle love making. It snaps something primal deep inside him, or at least, he thinks that’s what made the decision for him, the decision to enlighten you that last night may have been real nice, but it weren’t typical. He can’t have a wimpy wife, he knows you’re made of tougher stuff, just needs to be coaxed out of you. “A little discomfort ain’t no reason for ya to risk showin the world Mrs. Presley’s goods, is it?” he observes and you nod in abashed agreement.

“No it isn’t,” your tone is fervent and you are so eager to make amends, “I’m sorry Elvis, I wasn’t thinking, I’ll do better.”

“I expect you to.” he says, not unkindly but you gulp and nod anyway, unmoored by his effortless authority. “Now, let’s see about this lil owie, hmm? Spread your legs for me, c’mon wider, that’s a good girl.”

You moan as his hand engulfs you’re throbbing heat, cupping the wounded little place and pressing it firm but gently with his palm. He can feel the thud of your heartbeat down there and the sticky proof of your excitement at just being near him. There’s heat pouring out from you too, a lotta heat. Half of it arousal no doubt, but it’s angry down there like a woman gets during her menses. Puffy and sweltering against his palm.

It’s gonna feel indescribably good around his cock.

“Now we’ve opened ya up,” he explains softly in your ear, “she’s gonna get all fussy down there if she’s left empty for too long.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror with a worried look, unconvinced that emptiness is at all the cause of your discomfort. You feel like something got rearranged down there and needs to be left to mend itself in peace. Preferably in a hot bubble bath. The one luxury this floating palace doesn't have.

“You trust me, don’t ya?” he asks your fretful expression proddingly, “Don’t want ya to close back up all th’way. Go too long and then we’d be starting from scratch each time, you understand baby?”

That does make sense. You swallow your fear and shake your head agreeably. Why shouldn’t you?

He was so tender last night, so romantic and gentle and chivalrous. He had kissed away all your fear and worry into the fluffy bed, sending you careening into bliss and flinging you up to the stars before gently pressing in when you least expected it. It had hurt then, sure, a little pinch and an uncomfortably full feeling he helped soothe by tilting your hips with a courteous pillow beneath them.

Making love had been nice, unexpectedly nice.

And better yet had been the sight of your gorgeous groom, shaking in effort to hold back his vigor as he worked himself in and out above you, gentle and kind, slowly losing a grip on his decorum and letting out sounds of pleasure and praise. There had almost been a whine on his lips as he stalled suddenly and clung to your shoulders and spilled inside you, cementing your union. It had made you feel gloriously happy, and a little smug to see him come undone from the feeling of being inside you.

He earned your trust.

“I understand.” you assure him, the little kisses he is pressing to your neck making you brave. You’d like to see him come undone again. If that means he has to go inside you again then you’ll accept that. Maybe he was right last night, maybe it’ll be even better today.

“That’s my good baby.” he praises you, pleased and handsome over your shoulder, “Gonna turn you into the best little wife the world has ever seen.” he starts to drag his fingers through your bruised petals and you make a ugly little grimace at the soreness before seeing how unpretty it looks in the mirror, consciously changing your expression to demure acceptance. The shiny pink of your lipstick highlights the baby doll serenity of your gentle smile.

“Take me to bed, please, Elvis.” you try to play along with him, desperate to show him your excitement and desire to please.

“Aww now, we’re not goin’ to bed this time, darlin, we’re gonna have a lil lesson so you ain’t in the dark bout marital duties and all that.”

You stiffen in his arms, confused and wary. He keeps nuzzling at your cheek and neck. You had anticipated that there might be adventurous trysts once married, sure. He had proven himself fond of messing with you outside the bedroom during your courtship, fingers playing with you under tables and in hotel elevators. You had prepared for him gently making love to you on a picnic blanket under a Hawaiian moon. Maybe in the tub, or heavens -perhaps the kitchen if he was ravenous. But you’re concerned now that you haven’t grasped his entitlement fully, you’re still trying to understand what he means by “lesson” and why he led you to this vanity. You have a shaky feeling that your embarrassment at being flashed in front of the mirror is about to pale in comparison to what he has planned.

His hand goes from petting your sticky folds to rubbing and swirling, calloused fingertips worrying your bud till you’re nearly keening in enjoyment. He hasn’t looked you in the eyes in a minutes. You keep watching his face as his expression goes from intent to hungry, watching himself fiddling down there with your pink petals as he gets you primed. Primed for the two insistent fingers that plunge into you with no warning. It’s easier this time, having had a coke bottle up there, even just once, did the trick, his fingers meeting far less resistance than last night. He’s made his mark, claimed ya and stretched ya. Never the same again.

His movements burn for you, tugging and persistent as they are and you wince, can’t help it with the way his elegant digits are caressing your sore walls at a foreignly fast pace. You hope that maybe not looking at the rough act will ease your discomfort, like looking away from the needle poke when giving blood helps you keep from getting queasy. The sounds though, wet and squelching, are unmistakable despite the hum of the jet's engines. You watch his face, hoping he’ll look up and meet your eyes, but he’s transfixed by the sight in the mirror of his fingers disappearing into you.

“Gimme your hands, baby.” his sudden instruction startles you as you had flown far away in your mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting amounts of embarrassment and arousal you feel under his heated scrutiny. Who knew married life would cause such a upheaval inside?

“Yes sir.” you present them palms up, and he jerks his chin,

“Now baby, listen, you’re gonna replace my hands while I get myself ready, alright, gonna keep my progress for us. C’mon, hand on each side, pull your lips apart, gonna spread your snatch nice n wide so you can really see the mechanics of the thang. The act.”

The act? What act - you figured if this was going to happen to you at the vanity he would spin you around and set you on the counter, take you kindly as you sat. He had licked you in a movie set bathroom like that one time. Your brain scrambles in confusion and panic, supplying the only familiar acts and positions you’ve tried so far. A man can’t take a woman standing, he can’t, it wouldn’t fit, or at least, it wouldn’t be nice, surely and he wouldn’t be anything but nice-

“Now,” he’s speaking up again, “squeeze your arms a lil, gotta keep your dress nice and clear of the exhibit, ok?” he snickers at the way your dress is bunched beneath your underarms.

You make a respectful noise of acknowledgment, too nervous to say more. Your folds are puffy and slippery beneath your numb fingers as you pull your labia apart like he instructed. This feels new, keeping clothes on while being intimate. It feels…irreverent and dirty somehow. Just like standing here, your whole reflection lit brilliantly and his eyes still glued to that place between your legs.

You watch him pull away from behind you and start to methodically undo the buttons of his double breasted suit jacket, sliding it off his lean arms and folding it carefully over a towel rack, “Ya see, darlin,” he explains, as he undoes his cuff buttons and starts to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, “it's only proper you know what it looks like when we're joined together. I’ve got no desire to keep ya in the dark bout somethin God says is a good thing. This isn't the olden days, I don't mind having an enlightened sorta gal. So long as you don’t turn into the bra-burning sort of enlightened.”

He meets your eyes then as he gives you a look from under his lashes, admonishing you to stay away from such nonsensical, feministic, man-hating company as his deft fingers pop open the button of his slacks and he pulls himself out, weeping, thick and ready. You had no idea he was already so fully excited, your legs begin to tremble anew. He looks larger like this, somehow, all poshly dressed and admirably sauve in the mirror as his cock juts out of his tailored slacks, a single indecorous vulgarity marring his pristine Ken Doll image.

You flush red hot at the sight of him

lazily pumping himself as he saunters back to you, his hand yanking and pulling to chub himself up and then a thumb swirling around the uncut tip. He’s leaking and messy already, a profusion of precum wetting his hand and you give a silent prayer of thanks that at least he will add to the slick, hopefully ease the slide.

He doesn’t waste time with romance, he takes his place again behind you and this time you feel him sliding between your cheeks and then your legs, the feel of his open fly and belt against your bare butt. Due to your obediently spread lips, it’s perfectly visible when he slides through your folds and pokes out the other side, a pink, blunt, oozing cockhead playing peek-a-boo in your garden. He bumps your clit again and again with it until you are huffily shivering in his arms.

“Elvis are you really gonna-“ you can’t bear the suspense of it, you have to ask him his intentions, if he really means to make love to you standing up.

“-really gonna fuck my new wife in front of this state of the art mirror?” he laughs, thinking he knows what your quibble is, “Goddamn right I am, be a crime to not avail ourselves of the experience.”

He punctuates his enunciated vocabulary with rough thrusts against your bud that have you shaking and coming…just a little. Just enough for him to be sure you’re ready to take him.

“Fuck me?” you repeat in a panicked whisper, “B-b-but I’m your wife, Elvis!” you object, wounded.

He gets confused, stalling with his hand as he lines himself up with your freshly excavated entrance, “Whadda ya mean, honey?” he asks kindly, reaching around to tilt your chin towards him, but you sense that there’s an impatient edge to it.

You tearfully explain to him how your mother and other women have told you very explicitly you that men don’t fuck their wives. They make love to them. You are very adamant regarding it, and he ought to know better.

“Why baby, that’s the single greatest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” he declares in fond amusement, smooching your tear stained cheek and resuming his rutting through your folds, “You gonna trust some ole ninnies over your husband? Baby, I gave ya a real nice wedding night cause I love ya and you’re my special girl and I thought it your due, but I ain’t gonna be saddled with a wife who can’t meet my needs when I need a quick fuck, ya hear me? Case in point is now, my dick’s about to fall off from all this chit chat.”

You suppose there’s a great deal about marriage that is far more complicated than movies and books and Sunday potlucks led you to believe. It’s hard balancing how to please your husband as you ought with retaining some dignity that will make him respect you. You can’t imagine Elvis ever not respecting you, it’s too ingrained in him and what he wants isn’t to humiliate you, it’s what he needs to be satisfied. And you so badly want to keep him satisfied, you know deep down you’d do unspeakable things to keep his attention on you, perhaps that is where your shame comes from. It’s less about his expectations and more about the fact you’d throw away all your mother’s teachings before causing him to go elsewhere for comfort and acceptance.

You turn your head to him and pucker your lips for a kiss of acquiesce, which he obliges. His hand is still firm on your jaw as he deepens it, and it’s heady and passionate and loving and -he’s breaching you suddenly. A squat and flex and tilt of his hips and then he’s snagged your hole and he is pressing up and up and up and you whine into his mouth as his foreskin rolls back in your canal, an extra friction against your raw walls.

“Elvis!” you beg, breath caught in your throat at the burning sting of him as your hand flies up to clutch at his arm, secure around your hips, “its it’s-” you flounder with a word to adequately describe the delicious pain of it as he goes deeper.

He mouths messy and moaning at your neck and you can feel his belly shaking against your lower back, his cock twitching at the feeling of getting dipped in your silky channel. It makes you cringe in discomfort.

“You’re so goddamn perfect and warm as anythin,” he praises in a slur of kisses and moans as he flexes up and up.

The farther in he goes the more it loses any snuggly quality and instead feels rather like getting slowly impaled. You shift your stance in front of the mirror, legs spreading of their own accord and eyes squeezed shut in concentration at just trying to breathe. It goes on forever and you start to try to go up on your tip toes, to get away from it, from him, to lessen the fullness and the deepness of his assault somehow. He persists. You try to scramble up him, leveraging your weight on his forearm till your little feet are nearly off the jet floor.

His answering chuckle vibrates your back, “Looks like you’re tryin to learn how to levitate, honey.”

You scramble harder in a vain attempt to get taller, to elongate your poor vagina somehow, to keep him shallow

“T-that’s all I can take, Elvis” you try to tell him when he’s only over half in.

It's an honest declaration, to your hyperventilating self he feels impossibly big and certainly every bit as deep as it felt last night when he took you discreetly beneath the sheets in the good ole fashioned missionary position.

Your eyes widen as he doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on, as your breaths get more panicked, shallower with each inhale, on the verge of a panic attack until he stalls and starts to pet your belly and kiss your cheek in an effort to bring you back down. “Breathe babydoll, breathe for me. Calm down, satnin, you took this all last night. you can do it again, I knows ya can.”

You've long ago started to whimper when he didn’t listen, half in pain and half in fear that he isn’t stopping, that he isn’t being as nice as he was last night. Why isn’t he stopping? oh why, why, “I can’t, I think I’m not made for it.” you wail as you writhe helpless in his arms, a pounding ache between your legs and a strange flutter in your chest.

“No, no, don’t say that baby, please don’t say that, you’re perfect baby, just perfect.” he pleads a little frantic, rubbing his lips along your cheekbone to collect your tears, “Only need a lil breakin in is all, this won’t always be so rough. I’ll fix ya honey, I’ll make it better. Don’t you go objectin’ to the heavenly proportions God gave ya, or what he gave me neither. We were made for each other.”

Hearing the tender worry in his voice soothes you, even more than his comforting touches, knowing he isn’t indifferent to your struggle, he just wants what’s best for you as any good teacher would. You take a breath, a large breath and it feels like it made him sink deeper somehow. You bite back a sob.

“You can do it.” he says in your ear, his voice shaky from how badly he needs to be moving inside you, “Please baby, let me in, I’m hurtin’ real bad, if you could just see lil elvis you’d feel so bad for the poor guy. Let him in, you can take it, let him in, let him in his lil house. That’s it, that’s it just a little bit more.”

The man lied. There was nothing “little” about the more he gives you when he bucks up that last bit and buries himself fully inside, balls snug against your butt.

“Oh, i’hurts.” you moan, tears leaking through your clenched eyes, smearing your immaculate cat eye. “hurts -I-I can’t, Elvis.”

“You can.” he declares firmly, trying so hard to stay in control, to gather the last shreds of his gentlemanliness, “More like -you *are* doing it. Look, come on. Baby! I said look! Open those eyes and watch how well you’ve taken me.”

You pry your clumping lashes apart and slowly your eyes drag from the reflection of your faces pressed together, down to your breasts where his hand is crushing a velvet bow in his grip, down your belly to to his forearm barred around your hips. Down to that place where you join.

“Where’d lil Elvis go, hmm?” He teases like you’re playing hide and seek, and you let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes at his babying tone, “Where'd he go, darlin? Oh, there he is,” he pulls out a tiny bit so the pink veiny length of him peaks out from between your lips, “there he is -wait where’d he go?”

“Elvis. Stop. Stop, that’s so dumb.” you beg through your sniffling giggles, the fiery stretch of him temporarily forgotten.

He laughs at your embarrassment and pulls out further this time, then snaps his hips back up to the hilt of him, drawing a pained cry from you “Who’s my bestest girl, hmm? who’s that? Shhh, shhh, Das you ain’t it? Look at’chue, doin so well. I need ya to stand straight baby, let those heels touch down. I mean it, plant your feet, don’t cry about it, no reason to cry, you gotta relax.”

You’ve heard him use the same tone of voice when helping Red’s puppy get a burr out of its paw. Pitifully you obey him, planting your feet and it feels like you’re riding a telephone pole, the way he’s stiff and unyielding, deep inside you, plumbing the depths of your belly.

“That’s more like it.” he hums in throaty appreciation of the snug fit of you, “Alright now, ‘member the job I gave ya?” he reminds gently as he starts to thrust slow and deep, watching as your face crumples in grief, “Hold yourself open baby, it’s very important you watch this, I need ya to understand you’re perfect for this, gotta let go of ma arm, c’mon now.” he pries your grip from his forearm and brings your hand back down to your puffy heat, “Spread yo’self.” his accent deepens as your body struggles to take him, clenching around him in an effort to expel him, and only serving to make him moan in bliss. “Look a’that.” he marvels, sounding utterly worshipful of the way the glistening pink length of him slowly comes into view, then slowly disappears -absorbed inside you, your painfully stretched little hole fluttering hopelessly at each dragging inch of him.

“It still really hurts.” you observe childishly through gritted teeth, your pained body fighting the fuzzy headed arousal you feel while watching the obscene display of him sliding in and out of you for a few languid grinds.

“That’s cause you’re so tense, loosen up baby, -actually, here.” he shuffles you forward and you make a reckless sound of disgruntlement at the feel of him shifting inside you with each baby step, “Here, knee up here.” he hooks his hand beneath your knee and props it up on the counter, somehow making this worse and better all at once with the new angle.

“Ow, oh god, you said it would get better.” you accuse, biting your lip in savage self reprimand after it. Foolish girl, to risk making him unhappy and frustrated, stoking his wandering eye.

“It will, dammit, it will. I'm gonna need you to hang in there and play with your lil button till it does, alright? Bout to burst back here with all this startin and stoppin.”

“Ok.” you whisper, feeling a little more steady with the firm counter beneath your knee, opened up a little for the intrusion of him.

He pats your hips and presses an appreciative kiss behind your ear, nearly drunk off your sweet little struggle to be good for him. It makes his heart soar and fills him with wild wants, makes him reckless, and a little mean somehow, like crushing rose petals to gain the scent.

“Now, I know I made love to ya last night, darlin,” he pets the bulge of his cock in your belly and you shudder in anticipation, “cause that’s what weddin nights are for, but now you’re a wife proper you gotta learn how to take cock without so much whinin and clingin, alright? Made ya a woman, didn’t I? so do me proud, act it.”

With this emboldening commission he presses one more kiss to your neck before pulling out before driving in, hard. And then he does it again, and again and again at a pace you’ve seen him maintain on stage but never, never imagined him using with you, against you, it feels like.

You shriek and your knee slides further apart with the violent rocking, trying with terrible desperation to find solace and feminine satisfaction in the guttural groans and huffed out praises your husband vents as he takes what he needs, flaming eyes glued to the mirror and the place where he plunders you.

You are really trying, it just hurts so damn much.

You know you’re lucky, you cling to that even as he spears your cervix again and again with gusto that suggests your panicked clenching is the best damn thing he’s ever felt in his life. You’ve heard from other women, older women trying to counsel you, prepare you for what lay ahead, that some husbands didn’t even bother trying to make sure their wives were slick enough. That the dry drag and burn of a man can make the stretch truly unbearable. It keeps you grateful that the lewd sounds now causing you to blush are testament to the flood of slick down there. It keeps you grateful meek even as you wail and smear your makeup with your gasped out shock.

He should slow down, he should moderate his thrusts, cherish his wife. He can see you’re struggling and panting and crying and somehow it’s all just a drug to him, the gorgeous little dolly he crafted so perfectly this morning looking utterly overwhelmed and defiled by his cock. It’s enough to make a man lose his bearings and forget his mama’s teachings on how to treat a lady.

The beast won’t be tamed. And so Elvis Presley begins to babble a stream of apologies as he exerts all the energy of his able body in fucking his young wife, like the deeper and harder he goes the more likely his lil swimmers will have the chance of making themselves a nice comfy home in your sweet womb:

“oh goddamn baby I’d stop if I could, but yer squeezing me like a vice and I just…I just can’t stop baby, be good, be good, don’t cry on me, be good for your husband, baby. You’ll get used to it, we’ll train your pussy baby, just gotta get through these early stages. Early stages and it’s, it’s normal, just a lil skittish is all, ain’t no way god made me want you this bad just for you to be cold. Ain’t no way, I can feel it when you’re dancin to my music, you want it deep, you crave it deep, you were born hungry. Oh goddamn, yes, yes, fuck yes, baby, I’m sorry I’m sorry, yes, keep squeezing me like that …….”

It is not talent on your part, this clenching that has him snarling in rapture with his eyes rolling back in his skull, it’s pure creature instinct, whether trying to expel him, bring him deeper or milk him fast so this agony will end, you don’t know. All you know is that his force is terrifying and you’ve never seen something quite as erotic as the pristinely polished beauty of his face morphing into ravenous determination.

Your panic flares one last time, unwilling to allow yourself to coast into enjoyment of this filthy usage without a fight. “Please, Elvis please -enough!” you gasp, even as something seems to have shifted inside you, a tilt or a nudge, whatever it is, it’s a spark of something dangerous.

“Listen here now,” he pants in frustration, one of his hands leaving your hip to fly down to your clit and rub it viciously, “i don’t have a particular hankerin to pin you down over the tabletop, face down ass up, and make this marriage work but I will if I have to. So be a good girl n’ quit all your whinin, show me some of that grit you show when I’m teachin ya on the mats. Don’t wanna make me do nothin rash, but I ain’t gon’ have my honeymoon ruined cause my wife is insistent on bein’ an obstinate lil’ brat!” his voice his shaking with effort, “now, open ya self up!”

It spooks you, this inexorable side of him, white hot lightening ripping through your nerves. Suddenly you’re alite. Scientists might be quick to give credit to the clever little rhythm his thumb strummed over your clit but till the day you die you will swear it was instinctive obedience that had you spasming and then gushing, suddenly relaxing and drawing him in, pliant and eager. Subdued at last.

“Aww baby, oh baby that’s it, oh thank fuck,” he gasps in relief as he feels the change, “I’ve gotchu, you know I gotchu always, gonna help ya get over that damn hill, gonna drop ya off that cliff gentle like.”

His movements are not gentle, if anything they speed up, but his hands cradle you, his mouth caresses you and he places his own knee beside your own, glued together everywhere except for the snap of his pelvis. There is a razor's edge here, in the sensations his body is drawing from yours, and it is an edge upon which you wobble, tipping now towards pleasure, then pain, then back again to pleasure. It confuses and overwhelms you, makes you moan and keen and beg like an animal in heat, the jet crew and all your ladylike deportment forgotten.

“Oh dear god Elvis, I- oh, oh, please don’t stop!” you’re suddenly shouting in a shocked beg, something irreversible building and this isn’t your standard *nice job buddy that was swell* orgasm approaching, it’s one of the *well done sir, I think I just died there for a minute* variety. It’s shaking, and thrumming and burning up your entire body, suddenly making lyrics to his well worn songs take on an entirely new meaning.

“Lordy mama, tryin to let the whole plane know I’ve broken ya in at last?” he teases, finding it heavenly the way you move with him now in an easy give and take, the smacking of your bum against him and the happy slack of your mouth driving him to madness.

Gone is the suave man of myth and envy, here is an animal instead, mounting and mauling and claiming you with ferocious devotion and you take it like a jerking rag doll, whining in need where you were once whimpering. He’s proud of you. If he had breath to laugh he would at the way you suddenly look dazedly disbelieving in the mirror right before your body seizes up and pleasure annihilates all your senses.

Your legs give out and you slump, having only the vaguest awareness of the fact he’s beginning to grunt and cry out himself, using you like a writhing receptacle, coming unglued behind you as you begin to melt on him like butter. There ain’t much thought or chivalry to the way he grabs at you, a hand beneath each knee and folds you in half, split open in front of the mirror as he ruts every last drop of satisfaction into you. He hears himself hollering as if through a tunnel, something that the fight crew, if asked, would paraphrase as being “oh goddamn, you are more perfect than anything.”

You are numb and pounding down there, the last frantic usage of your pussy an ordeal you endure with cock dumb acceptance. The way his face draws up and crumples shortly after, and then slacks in bliss -it is the single most violently arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed. Feeble as your energy is, you feel a surge of feminine pride at the way he mumbles and moans and finally shakes to a stop.

“That’s it, oh you’re so beautiful.” you moan, watching as his hair falls into his bleary, slow blinking eyes as he comes back to the surface, “And you’re mine.” you sigh, content.

“Mhmm, yours.” he coos, jostling you a little on his cock and he snuggles closer somehow, you think you feel his seed start to dribble out despite the sizable stopper inside you, “Well, bless your heart darling, I’ve got ya folded like a camp chair. Ha!” he gently folds your legs back down, pulling out of you with painstaking gentleness on the way down, “That weren’t very gentlemanly of me, was it?” he teases.

You sway dangerously once placed on your own two feet and you don’t even have the chance to fall, he never lets go before he realizes what’s needed. He picks you up and sets you on the counter, you pool back against the mirror, boneless and debauched, legs stuck bow legged from such a long ride and a vividly puffy pussy leaking his seed onto the counter. He tucks himself back in with still shaking hands. He won’t be fully back down to earth till Honolulu’s runway, he thinks. Just in time to carry you off the plane. And begin it all over again.

Married life, he could get used to this.

“It was perfect, you’re perfect.” you slur earnestly as he returns to you and unzips your dress, hauling it over your teased you hair, baring you fully as you sit on the counter, kicking feet thumping against the cabinets in your patten leather heels

“Nah…perfect -that would be you, Mrs Presley.” he kisses you deeply, before taking you in his arms bridal style and carries you into the bedroom, conscious but uncaring that you’re leaking all over his pristine shirt sleeve.

This next part oughta involve washcloths or wet wipes. But that would require leaving your sweet arms and facing a jet crew that just heard him railing his tender young bride.

Yeah, he’ll just use his mouth.

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog@aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

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acheronist · 9 months

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terror ship reviews now that i've had enough time to tell the scruffy white men apart

peglar/bridgens: canonical 'fucking that old man' unproblematic literature-as-a-flirting-tactic husbands. thank you so much.

jopson/little: admittedly perhaps the most 'they stood next to each other a few times' ship of all time. and yet!!!! genuinely an untapped goldmine of [ neither of us can fuck the captain but we COULD fuck each other as we die slow tragic unforgiving deaths, which is almost as good ] which i am unfortunately obsessed with

crozier/fitzjames: cishet bitter divorce to t4t loving marriage speedrun (scurvy acoustic remix) you do like to see it. They should have gone honeymooning in the Caribbean instead of doing all that

hickey/gibson: they're both so atrocious that theyre perfect for each other. real housewives of hms terror level psychosexual warfare going on there. great stuff.

tozer/little: they should fuck raw and nasty in the orlop narrative foils style while trying to kill each other

jopson/crozier: one of them needs to do bdsm or he will die and the other has chronic whisky dick + barely realizes his steward has a personality outside of polishing forks and sewing buttons

hickey/tozer: puppyplay where he gets taken out behind the canvas tent and put down like a sick animal (no aftercare)

armitage/tozer: puppyplay where he gets taken out behind the canvas tent to be kissed sweetly without prying eyes from fellow mutineers (with aftercare)

crozier/blanky: dudes rock + hell yeah brother

#the terror #one thing about me i'm gonna make a list no one asked for

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darkdemeter · 6 months

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IN THE HEAT OF HER MOMENT

◤✘WANDA MAXIMOFF SERIES/AU'S | CATALOGUE Wanda Maximoff x GN/Female/Male Werewolf!Reader ☾ PHASES COLLECTION FIRST EDITION 2024, ISSUE NO.#4/8

NOTES ↳ Bit of a mafia au because I just can't escape it, and I wanted to write some more mafia wandawolf. WARNINGS❕ ↳ SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI — MxF version pairing — FxF version pairing — unprotected sex — mutual oral receiving — P in V sex — knotting — marking —profanity — pet names: Lamb, Mate, Baby, etc — established relationship — minor depiction of mafia activity — married couple fluff and love — reader is just a softie for Wanda — I think that's it? SUMMARY ↳ Happily married to the woman and mate of your dreams, where else to spend your honeymoon as newlyweds than the stunning resort beaches in the tropical islands. But first, you and Wanda have to take care of some heat.

✎ 3.1k

@alexawynters @alyciaddict @simpforlizzie @literaturedog @maladaptive-daydreamz

↳ WANDA MAXIMOFF TAGLISTS

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IV. What is a mated life but the promise of commitment? A wolf’s life can oftentimes be lonesome and hollow, with no special one to turn to. And it’s far more unlikely that the pairing between two opposites could be so right. With a mate for the wolf to call their own, special needs are required to be met, till death and beyond you cannot part.

If there is one way to describe Wanda, it’s that she’s needy. Perfectly needy. After landing in the tropical retreat of your private island, a treat for your wife, you’d taken swiftly to the villa in order to settle her eagerness to consummate your marriage. Not that this will be the first time you’ve both had sex, far from it. Back in your estate towards the city it wouldn’t be put past you both to have thoroughly broken in every room.

As evidently showing, you both were quite the couple. How Wanda hasn’t mothered several litters by now? Well, your parents and their old schooled tenants decreed that you both be married first before you both go siring a dozen or so pups to grow the family.

Almost a year later after that little sit down, here you are, closing the door to the villa with Mrs. L/N sauntering inside, hands smoothing down the curves of her body and her fitted, white gown.

You’ve barely begun loosening the collar of your shirt when she’s on you, pulling you in by the lapel of your jacket into a heated, passionate kiss, one of many you have already shared and will continue to. Seeking the comforting weight of her in the palms of your hands, you seek out her hips, massaging slowly with a low groan she melds with a moan of her own.

Her heels clatter to the polished floorboard hurriedly, meanwhile, her slender hands comb through your hair, dishevelling its tidiness and down your front, she practically is pawing you to remove your clothing.

“Dammit, Lamb,” you chuckle against her mouth. She slips her tongue past your teeth, tongues wrestling at the behest of her challenge.

“I need you,” she sighs into the kiss breathlessly.

Ring adorned fingers press into her hips firmly at her pleaful cry. “I know, darling. I know.” Your lips move to caress the cute curve of her jawline, taking care with every inch of her precious skin down her neck, she leans into you as she tries to capture your lips once more.

“Sure you don’t want to pay a visit to the beach?”

Shaking her head, she’s pulling you towards the loft’s staircase. “Tomorrow. Right now, I want you.”

“No complaining whatsoever,” you retort with a cheeky wink, following her insistent lead.

She giggles as she begins to race up the stairs with you close at her heel, the ghost of your presence haunting her lovingly, no sooner do you both reach the upper floor do you sweep your wife into your arms and she playfully shrieks in surprise. You hoist her up and spin, her arms encircle around you tightly, your embrace one of comfort and assured strength.

A promise, just as the gold around your fingers, that you’ll be for each other. Protect each other. You meet with another kiss, slower but no less passionate.

The glimmer of gold suits her finger. For you, it’s a precious addition that pales the rest across the bottom of your knuckles.

You carry Wanda over to the empty bed and lay her down, her hair fans around her with a cherishing, silvery-blonde halo she’d dyed before the wedding, and a smile that could warm the coldest days of winter and cure you of any level of anger. Wanda Maximoff has been a very influential figure in your life from day one.

From first meeting her, circumstances unlikely, you’d always felt your chest become alight with a flutter you always dreaded the absence of when she was gone.

And the more she visited, the more you experienced that flutter in your chest that came to bloom throughout your entire body and soul. But also the more her mere visits left a deep and dark burrow of void in your heart. At some point or another - and you were sure it occurred after a bit too much in the indulgence of whiskey and meeting with the Stark and Barnes Families to discuss business - you realise that Wanda is meant to be with you. No matter who else you met, they never gave you that same feeling.

Wanda was your destined mate. As frightful as it was, her rejection had been nothing but a case of anxiety and doubtful, nightmarish thoughts. Because the moment you asked her under the stars and full moon if she’d be your girl, her happy shrieks that filled the entirety of Central Park confirming your deepest wish, you became whole.

She blinks at you. Curiosity fills her beautifully serene and creamy jade hues that glow in the setting sun’s light. “What is it, Wolfie?”

You shake your head at the memories that consume you. You shower her with a toothy grin she cannot help but reciprocate.

“You’re just so beautiful.”

“Kiss me…”

Mouths connecting with a symphony of low groans and purring moans, your bodies meld together, sliding against each other as your hands explore each other, slowly peeling away the layers of formality, discarding them to the floor until the two of you were bare before the other.

FEMALE

She whispers your name across the skin of your neck, hands running over inked landscape, each single mile holding a memory to her, just as you do for her. One hand comes between the two of you to stroke her, tender and affectionately attentive, she curls into you with a pleased whine.

“Yes, Wolf,” she coos softly, “just like that.”

You work her gently at first, soon growing a bit firmer with rubbing, circling her clit that makes her spine arch and her toes curl.

You slide your middle finger into her tight pussy that clenches around it, her heat pulsing that it makes you sigh with a chuckle.

“Baby, you’re soaking.”

She hides her face in the crook of your neck with a pout, mumbling something amidst her pampering of kisses along your shoulder. You bend and curve your finger, in and out, in and out until she pants quietly to the shell of your ear, her nails embedding crescents into the muscle of your shoulders.

She begs you for more, encouraging you that she can take more. Obliging your mate, you slip two more fingers inside and begin to ever so faintly stretch her walls.

She pushes herself into you, soft gasps on the tip of her tongue and entangled in finery of pleasures. You curl your fingers inside her, pushing them further and to the knuckle. Her hands run down your sides, her touch is feathery, taking in every detail that maps your body, every mark, scar and tattooed line until she reaches the small of your back.

“R-right there,” she winces blissfully, hips abrupt in their suddenness to meet your thrusting fingers. Her release a coiling rubber band that’s bound to snap at an instant. As you perform on her, she reaches one of her own hands down, fingertips stroking along your equally sickened folds. “A-ah… hah,” you grin, and so cutely she admits to herself, shyly.

“I want to please my wife as well,” she says with a light tune. Her thumb rolls over your clit smearing the aroused juices of your pussy and your hips jerk again. Her hand cups you and she begins to massage her middle and ring finger against your entrance and then slips them inside, working to match your pace.

Rocking into the motion of the other, the rising of your releases are woven together, her sounds alone to get you off; her fingers only aided with hastefulness.

A series of intermingling moans shatter to the air, breaking the oath of stillness to the flood of your orgasms. You hot breath fans over her face and she smiles wistfully, her chest rising and breasts pushing to yours, the connection bringing a sense of electricity between you.

Her legs wrap around you the moment your fingers slide back inside her cunt, your claws bringing a more daring edge that leaves her utterly breathless in her lungs. “Y-yes! More, more! Just like that.”

Her eyes roll back and her dark lashes flutter erratically, her voice strangled by her moans and her body becomes tense, hips rolling into the thrusts of your fingers before her mouth flies open with a pleasured cry. Barely over the first and already she is taken hold by her second wave.

A moment of pure stillness and then immediate relaxation, her body finds itself floating high in the clouds as the hot, white flash consumes her. Your nose finds the juncture of her neck and your canines graze the delicate spot and she leans her chin to the side, providing more access for your leisure.

“I love you,” she gasps again and again. You answer, voice a husky octave, “I love you too.”

Your teeth break the surface of her skin and she winces, the riding of her high tunes out the sliver of pain, only to find her body unnaturally calmed by you. Your scent becomes stronger to her senses, the aroma of your expensive cologne is drowned out by the natural tranquillity of your natural smell; that of the pine forests, heavily wooded and hidden, the wild valleys of flowers and the crispness of freshly fallen snow.

Everything under her skin is warmed like nothing before. It’s not the same as a coat keeping out the cold, or feeling another’s warm skin against her. It is a feeling that envelops her on the inside like a warm, assuring blanket. A haven that guarantees she’ll be safe.

And then the coolness of stars line her vision. Something bright and full floods her and she thinks she’s floating in the dawning nighttime sky. Her stomach is taken over by a billion flutters.

“How do you feel, Lamb?” you ask and press your forehead to hers. “Breathe for me. That’s it, in and out. Deep and slow… you okay?”

“I feel… amazing.” Her dazed eyes find yours in the darkness that almost hides you completely. Her fingers brush aside the straying locks of hair hanging over your face.

“The best I’ve ever felt.”

“You’re gonna feel like that for quite a while,” you say. Chuckling, you steal a quick kiss from her, rolling over until she lays on top of you, hands holding her hips to you.

“I know this must be a strange question,” she begins hesitantly, but your hum of curiosity nudges her to continue. “Do you have a knot?”

“I do… as a wolf.”

“Then… maybe we could try?”

MALE

“Yes, Wolf,” she coos softly, “just like that.”

You work her gently at first, soon growing a bit firmer with rubbing, circling her clit that makes her spine arch and her toes curl.

You slide your middle finger into her tight pussy that clenches around it, her heat pulsing that it makes you sigh with a chuckle.

“Baby, you’re soaking.”

She begs you for more, encouraging you that she can take more. Obliging your mate, you slip two more fingers inside and begin to ever so faintly stretch her walls, to get her ready to accommodate your cock that now stands hardened between her legs.

As you perform on her, she reaches one of her own hands down, fingertips stroking over your length and your hips jerk. “A-ah… hah,” you grin, and so cutely she admits to herself, shyly.

“I want to please my husband as well,” she says with a light tune. Her thumb rolls over your tip, smearing the beads of precum down the base, your hips jerk again. Her hand wraps around you and begins to massage and carefully tug, working to match your pace.

Rocking into the motion of the other, the rising of your releases are woven together, however before she has a chance to pull your orgasm from you, you stop her with a tut of your tongue. Her eyes shine with that concern, brows furrowing.

“I wanna be inside you for that,” you breathe in reply, “I would like to finally experience that first, if you don’t mind.”

She smiles at you. “Of course.”

Nodding and still grinning, you usher her to her first climax of the honeymoon period. Her eyes roll back and her dark lashes flutter erratically, her voice strangled by her moans and her body becomes tense, hips rolling into the thrusts of your fingers before her mouth flies open with a pleasured cry.

A moment of pure stillness and then immediate relaxation, her body finds itself floating high in the clouds as the hot, white flash consumes her.

“So fucking wet, my little Mate.” Her slickness pools around the knuckles of your fingers, the whisper of her juices gushing from her tight hole as you withdraw paint a beautiful picture. You raise your fingers to your lips and allow your tongue to taste her, a hum of approval as your eyes shimmer in the setting darkness.

“You taste good, Lamb.”

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip with a bashful giggle followed by a moan of your name. Your lips part and she can taste herself on your tongue, you steady your weight above her with one hand beside her, the other guides your throbbing cock to her entrance.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” With her assurance you press your waist forward and with a gasp, she spreads her legs wider as you push inside her. Walls wrapping around you, inch by inch, you succumb to the radiant heat of her cunt around you. For a moment you find yourself still.

Her tongue surrenders to you with the first initiated thrust, lost to the small noise creeping up the back of her throat and you nip her bottom lip playfully. Your cock strikes her, kissing her cervix until she’s chanting your name like a prayer, and you begin to drive more force behind it. Skin meeting against skin in a coursing pattern fills the room, growing louder with each thrust becoming harder and faster, you grunt and groan lowly.

“I love you,” she gasps again and again. You answer, voice a husky octave, “I love you too.”

“Cum inside me. P-please… cum in–side me.”

To hear her talk so desperately sends your wolf brain into overdrive, your canines graze the juncture of her neck and she, accepting of your long-awaited mark, cranes her neck to the side.

“Cum with me, little Lamb. Come on, you can do it,” you pant hotly, “cum for me.”

Her back arches off the bed and your legs wrap over your waist, hugging you closer as her walls clench around you like a vice. A howl passes a suppressed groan in your chest, eyes burning brightly of amber, her orgasm being the last straw for you. Your cock twitches and explodes, releasing your seed to paint her walls as you practically rut into her with mad intent.

And then the coolness of stars line her vision. Something bright and full floods her and she thinks she’s floating in the dawning nighttime sky. Her stomach is taken over by a billion flutters.

You slow the grind of your hips to a pause and pull your teeth away from the mark, thumb wiping over it and her body jolts at the action, a reasonable reaction.

“How do you feel, Lamb?” you ask and press your forehead to hers. “Breathe for me. That’s it, in and out. Deep and slow… you okay?”

“I feel… amazing.” Her dazed eyes find yours in the darkness that almost hides you completely. Her fingers brush aside the straying locks of hair hanging over your face.

“The best I’ve ever felt.”

“You’re gonna feel like that for quite a while,” you say. Chuckling, you steal a quick kiss from her, rolling over until she lays on top of you, hands holding her hips to you; your knot strict in its place inside her pussy.

“So once the knot goes down, I’m thinking we could try…”

—

The next morning would have been peaceful. Should have been peaceful. It was your fucking honeymoon after all. However, your phone interrupts the moment at the brink of dawn, the sun painting the sky with vivid pinks, purples and a colourful bow of deep orange.

You groan, hand fumbling aimlessly on the nightstand for the irritating noise. Finding the device, you clench it on your iron grip and raise the voice on the other end to your ear with a less than pleased huff.

“The fuck you want?”

By your side, Wanda stirs. Her eyes peek open, the bare minimum of the sunlight gracing her angelic face, still showering her with comforting darkness, your arm that’s around her assuringly pulls her to your side, herskin melting under the contact with yours.

“Boss,” Sam says with relief, “I know it’s—”

You growl deeply into the speaker, “My honeymoon. So this better be good.”

#headlinesxcomics publishing #phases collection 2024 #werewolf reader #female reader #wanda x reader #gn reader #male reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x werewolf! reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda smut #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #mafia au #mob au

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gabrielsbubblegumbitch · 8 months

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Hey! Hope you’re having a good day! Just wanted to say I’ve become obsessed with your psychology analysis on the Vees and VoxVal. I’m curious, since the relationship is definitely toxic, how do you think the cycle of relationship abuse would work with them? (Honeymoon phase, tension, incident, ex)

Awww I'm so glad you like my silly headcanons, I fucking love writing them <3

(headcanons in question because they are relevant to this post: Vox and NPD | Valentino and BPD | random Vees headcanons)

You know, I believe their relationship is toxic because neither of them is particularly well-adjusted. However, I wouldn't apply the cycle of abuse theory to them. As far as I know, that theory is used to describe relationships that are highly unequal with clearly defined roles of abuser and victim. For instance, during the tension phase, tension grows in the abuser while the victim "walks on eggshells," trying their best to calm the abuser and constantly living in fear of an incident. I can't really imagine Vox or Valentino being that frightened of each other. Actually, that's why I think they are meant to be together - they can handle each other.

That being said, I do believe they have some relationship issues. In episode 2, we witnessed Vox calming Valentino (by yelling at him so very toxic) when he was angry. Vox hates Valentino's unpredictability because he is a total control freak. While he finds Valentino's fiery temper extremely alluring, he also wishes Val would tone it down. He'd like to have a more reliable partner, especially because for him, falling in love was a significant and risky investment.

On the flip side, immediately after Vox managed to calm Valentino down, Valentino essentially provoked him into a temper tantrum. Look at this shit-eating smile; he knew damn well what he was doing.

Vox usually keeps his emotions hidden behind a polished facade, staying detached. Valentino, on the other hand, is all about intense emotions—loves passion, violence, and desperation. He digs Vox's cool business daddy vibe, but it drives him nuts when Vox gets all emotionally distant from him. Vox tries to guard himself because he knows Valentino can easily weaponize people's emotions against them, and he's lowkey scared of being vulnerable. So when he's going through some tough shit, Vox puts up this wall, becomes all distant, and then Valentino feels rejected and starts being a total jerk, pushing Vox away because he's hurting (if you've read my BPD Valentino headcanons, you get what I mean).

So those are the main sources of tension in their relationship. Sometimes one of them snaps. In Vox's case, it means complete withdrawal from the relationship and sinking into work (since he wants a perfect relationship, he rarely even admits he's angry, he's just like "It's fine I just don't have time to see you") which obviously drives Val crazy. Because he's obsessively in love. So to fix the situation he doesn't apologize (since Vox "wasn't even angry") - he just invites himself to Vox's apartment/office and seduces him by acting nice and submissive so Vox can feel in control again.

In Valentino's case, snapping means a violent outburst (though, I don't think he's physically abusive because he knows Vox is not afraid of him and could easily bite back or, even worse, leave him for good). These outbursts make Vox furious because he can't stop them. Then, they end up yelling a lot, throwing stuff around, and sometimes even breaking up. After that, Valentino goes on a week-long bender, just partying and hooking up with dozens of people. Vox, being obsessed, watches everything, and his jealousy always gets the best of him. He finally breaks and sends someone to bring Val back home. Or he personally intervenes, kills whoever Val is fucking, gives him a giant bouquet of roses, and goes all out to prove that he's the best guy Val could ever have. Vox is a showman, so he acts almost like a charming and obnoxiously rich mafia boss from a smutty novel, who wants nothing more than to please his princess with grand gestures.

Oh also I think Val is very sensitive about Vox treating him "like a woman." He's actually very secure in his masculinity; he feels comfortable enough to present himself in feminine ways while still acting masculine. Like I mentioned, he's queer and he totally owns it. On the other hand, Vox still grapples with some deeply internalized heteronormative ideas, occasionally treating Valentino like his bitch. Valentino hates it because he's aware of Vox's sexist tendencies, and he refuses to allow Vox to treat him as though he's beneath him. He genuinely believes in the concept of an equal partnership in their relationship and can't stand Vox's attempts to alter the power dynamics in his favor.

If you like this post you may also like my VoxVal fanfiction

#vox #hazbin hotel #valentino #voxval #staticmoth #vox hazbin #valentino hazbin hotel #headcanon #character analysis

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sagesskies · 9 months

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ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ II

✒ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ

✒ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴᴇʀ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ᴡʜᴏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ.

ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ I

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇꜱ: ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴍ, ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴄᴜᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ), ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴀᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴄɪᴘʟɪɴɪɴɢ ɢʟᴇɴɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ ᴅᴏɢ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛᴇʀʏ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴄʀᴇᴇᴘ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɢʟᴇɴɴ, ʙʟᴀᴄᴋᴍᴀɪʟɪɴɢ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ

You were in the gardens, napping on the bench in a manner unbefitting of a nobleman, when you were alerted by his new attendant, Curtis’ nephew Samuel, that a man by the name of Glenn Alston was waiting for you in the parlor.

You sighed, and rubbed at your weary eyes, “So, you just let some random man inside the estate without my permission?”

Samuel flinched, “I… I apologize, my Lord…” He gulped, “He knew the guards, a-and they just let him in…”

You glared at him. If Curtis were here, he would have made sure Glenn would be waiting not in your parlor, but rather outside by the gates, as was custom for those whose entrance wasn’t authorized. Unfortunately Curtis was on his honeymoon in the south with his new husband.

You didn’t mind the fact that he was marrying a man, you just wished he sent somebody more capable as his replacement.

You sit up, “Alright.” You stand and stretch, “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.” You may as well do it, now that he’s here. Sure, there’s the whole wanting to marry you shtick, but you can fix that somehow. You don’t really have an idea how but you never needed to plan ahead, ideas just came to you naturally and things always worked out.

You walked at a leisurely pace to the parlor, deciding to take the scenic route this time. The scenic route being the route where you pass by all the old dusty paintings of your ancestors looking snobby. You still remember doodling on one of them with Glenn, who was absolutely mortified.

You pass by the doodled-on portrait, a smirk forming on your face when you see the little stick man on the edge of the painting. You give it a small pat, and whisper a sorry to your great great uncle Bartholomew.

You arrive at the parlor, only ten minutes later. Unsurprisingly, your brother James is also here, alongside your sister Ophelia. It’s silent in the room, as they all stare at you. You’re only looking at Glenn who has grown from an awkward 16 year old to a handsome man in his prime. His messy dark hair is coiffed and styled to perfection, and he wears clothes that aren’t as expensive as yours, but he wouldn’t have been able to afford the last time you had seen him. What hasn’t changed are his hazel eyes, which were as piercing as ever.

You notice that at his feet, lies a polished leather suitcase. You wonder what could be inside.

“Good day, all.” You drawled, and go to settle in between James and Ophelia, who shuffle aside to make room for you.

“It’s 3 in the afternoon,” James grumbled, then his voice dropped to a whisper, “I thought you said you wouldn’t let him in.”

You roll your eyes, and don’t bother to whisper back, “It wasn’t me who let him in, it was the guards.”

Ophelia groaned, “Ugh, we should really upgrade our security…” She buried her face in her gloved hands, “Why on earth would they let him in anyways.”

You glance at Glenn, who gives you what you recognize as a lovesick smile. You resist the urge to gag. “Well? How did you manage to get in here Glenn?”

“I grew up with some of the guards,” Glenn reminded you, “I was just lucky that the ones I knew were on duty.”

His voice takes on a teasing tone, “You really should get better guards, I only had to ask and they let me in.”

Samuel entered the room, and set down a tray that held a teapot, four cups, and a jar full of sugar cubes. He avoided the gazes of you and your siblings, as he poured you all tea. He bows deeply, you swear if he bows even deeper his head would touch the floor, and then quickly leaves the room.

Glenn takes a cup, and sips, “Who is that young man anyway?” He glances at you, when he asks this, “Usually it’s Curtis serving tea.”

You don’t deign to answer him, taking a sip of your own tea.

“Curtis is on a honeymoon,” Ophelia opens the jar of sugar and puts a teaspoon of it in her own cup, and steadily mixes it, “We’re left with his nephew, Samuel.” You notice the way her eyes shine the same way it does when she talks about her horse Galadrielle. A small smirk forms on your face. It appears your little sister has a crush on the lousy servant.

James grunts, “Curtis could’ve at least taught the boy how to make proper tea,” His frown intensifies, “Tastes like dishwater.”

“How would you know what dishwater tastes like?” You raise a brow, sipping your tea that, while not the best, doesn’t taste like dishwater.

Glenn clears his throat, “Anyways, I would like to apologize for my intrusion, and whatever shock I may have inflicted with my arrival,” He glances at you from the corner of his eye, no doubt wondering about your reaction.

You simply raise your brow as he continues to speak.

“I am aware that you do not want me here, but I have come to propose an offer to you,” Glenn pulled out the suitcase, and set it on the table beside the platter. With a click, it opens and he pulls out a thin stack of papers, “I assure you, it is worth your time.”

James takes the paper, and reads through it. Since he was young, James was always the most expressive of your siblings. So when you saw the whirlwind of emotions that went through his face, you braced yourself for what was to come.

He passed the papers to you, his uncharacteristic silence worried you. Guess you’ll find out what all the trouble is about.

The first page was innocuous, it had his name, age, gender, date of birth, all the usual stuff. It was the second page that started to get interesting, it included his involvement in multiple famous cases, most of which you heard of in passing but you knew how famous they were even with your shallow pool of knowledge. What caught your eye however, was one near the end of the list of long accomplishments:

12. Involved in the campaign for the legalization of same-sex marriage in the country of Ethain as well as the first to propose the notion to the high court, and is known to have written the Eros Papers, which aided in persuading the high court to approve of the legalization of same-sex marriage.

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t allow yourself to react more than that. You continued to flip through, till your eyes landed on a text that stated that if you were to refuse to sign the papers, information would be released of the family's involvement in… less than moral acts.

Your hands moved quickly as you read faster, how did he know all of this? Your cousin Maddox’s drug addiction, your mother’s affair, your own affair with the Grand duke, your grandparent’s stealing of the rights to Johnathan Shaffer’s patent. The family’s darkest secrets, all in a few papers.

You glared at Glenn, “How did you know all of this?” You wanted to wipe off that expression on his face, preferably with your fist.

“Know what?” Ophelia had a confused expression on her face. James’ reaction was concerning enough, but you actually showing at least a modicum of genuine anger was even more so.

You handed her the papers, and got up from your spot on the sofa. You racked through your mind as you tried to figure out how Glenn discovered these secrets. Even when Glenn lived here, he was still only the gardener’s son, privy to the same amount of secrets as all the other servants. Which was none. Zero, zip, zilch, nada.

Ophelia gasped, and dropped the papers. Her eyes, the same hue of [e/c] as yours, were widened in shock, “H-how?” She looked at Glenn, who lounged casually on the sofa he sat on, “What do you want from us?”

Glenn smiled, it was beautiful, just like the rest of him. God, you hated how you were still so weak for him. Even after all this time, even after he left you without anything more than a shoddy note.

“What I want from you, is the position as the family’s lawyer,” He paused, and then his smile grew as his hazel eyes locked with your [e/c] ones, “And [Name]’s hand in marriage.”

You stifled the urge to groan. Glenn was always such a weirdo, and that still hasn’t changed, even if it’s been over a decade. You made your way back over to the sofa, and plopped back down, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at Glenn who simply kept on smiling.

This felt wrong, you weren’t used to not being the one in control. Despite how lazy you are, you’re always the one in charge in any situation, that’s just how things are when you’re from the [L/N] family.

But Glenn, for all of his weirdness, was by all accounts a genius. He was always meant for something more than tending to the gardens, you knew that from the moment you met him. And it always made you feel so inferior. The current situation didn’t help negate that feeling.

Your hand in marriage was one thing, but the position of the family lawyer belonged to Glenn’s own uncle. Erik Alston. You didn’t remember him much, but he was always kind to you and to Glenn.

“Do you really want to take Erik’s job?” You raised a brow at him, “He’s your uncle, if you recall.”

Glenn shrugs, and then takes another sip from his tea, “That’ll be between me and my uncle,” He then asks you a question, “Do you want all your secrets to be exposed to the court?”

You purse your lips. The [L/N] family was of a high esteem, despite simply being a ducal family. If the public knew about the crimes of your family, anybody bearing the [L/N] name would be shunned from the court, and you could be subjected to a public execution for your family’s crimes.

“Why are you bringing this to us?” James asks, he stares at Glenn, “Why not our parents?”

Glenn chuckles, “Your parents are… how do I put this?” He hums, “Well, they wouldn’t really care. Your mother is too busy banging Baron Hensley, and your father is too focused on tending to his hunting dogs to care about his own children.”

He takes another sip of his tea, “Besides, they’re getting old,” Glenn sets his cup down, now that it’s empty, “And I don’t want anything from them. All I want, I can get from you, [Name].”

You bury your face in your hands. A younger, more naive, you would’ve been thrilled to hear this. The boy you were in love with telling you all he wanted, you could give him. You would’ve thought it was so romantic.

But now all you can think is that you’re so screwed. And not in the way you’d like to be.

“James, Ophelia,” You lift your face from your hands, “Leave us.”

Ophelia furrows her brow, “Are you sure, [Name]?”

James gets up from his spot on the couch, and walks over to Ophelia, and pulls her up, “Let’s just listen to him,” He glares at you, perhaps he blames you for what’s happening right now. You can’t help but agree with that notion. “Maybe he’ll get us out of this.”

James leads Ophelia out of the room, she sends you back a worried glance, and then the door shuts behind them.

Now it’s just you and Glenn in this room. It feels like you’ve been caged in with a rabid dog, ready to lunge at you and rip into your jugular. In another world, if you were just a bit more classist, you’d be treating him like one. Perhaps this wouldn’t happen if you just beat him into his place, scolded and disciplined him like the bad boy he was being.

Glenn gets up from the sofa, and makes his way over to you. He sits down where James was only earlier, and runs a hand down your cheek. Before, his hands were always warm and rough from a day of work. They were still rough, but they were colder now. Suddenly, Glenn’s hand grabs your chin, and you wince at the harsh feeling of his nails digging into your skin.

“I missed you…” He breathed in your scent, “God, I fucking missed you.” Glenn released your face, and then pulled you in, arms wrapping tightly around you. He gripped you like a child would grip its favorite toy, it felt suffocating, and you hated how he smelled like leather.

“You know, when I found out about your affair with the grand duke,” Glenn rests his head on the crook of your shoulder, “I was devastated. I was in the capital when I found out, and I wanted to march over to the duke’s palace and beat his smarmy little face in.” His grip tightened on you as he said these words.

If he wanted you to be guilty about sleeping with the grand duke, he had another thing coming. Sure, Christopher Avery was a dickhead, but he was an attractive dickhead, and he was surprisingly good in bed despite his family being highly religious and always preaching about ‘marriage before sex’ and being vehemently against the legalization of same sex marriage.

And unlike Glenn, you weren’t willing to wait a decade for him to come back.

“But… I get it,” Glenn’s voice grew soft, “You were lonely, and you needed somebody to keep you company. I.. I can’t say I haven’t slept with others.” Now that’s surprising, you fully expected him to still be untouched. You always expected him to have saved himself for you, not because that’s what you wanted but because it just seemed like something he’d do.

“Who did you do it with?” You asked. Was it with a prostitute? A fellow student? Perhaps some man he met at a bar?

“I don’t know. All I know is that he looked like you,” Glenn’s arms wrapped tighter, his hair tickling your neck, “But don’t worry about it, he’s gone now.” He said that like he expected you to be relieved or something, but instead you were starting to feel unnerved.

“Let’s get married,” Glenn unwrapped an arm, and brought it to your hair, which he played with, “Like we said we would, when we were younger.”

You sighed, “Glenn, we were kids, you don’t actually think…” But he pressed a finger to your lips.

“Shhh…” From his expression, you could tell he wanted you to keep your mouth shut, “The marriage will be good, for both you and your family. You won’t have to worry about managing the estate, and your family gets to keep all its secrets.”

“And you?”

He smiled, looking so much like the boy you fell in love with, “I’ll get to be with you, and that’s all I want.”

You could care less about not having to manage the estate, that was already assured for you through James, who grew up wanting nothing more than to be the next duke. But keeping the family’s secrets secret, that… you’d kill for that.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad for you to be with Glenn. He was smart, good-looking, and no matter how long it’s been, he’s still the boy who stole your heart the day he left all those years ago.

You shift your body, so that you’re now resting on his lap, legs wrapping around his waist, and you drape your arms around his shoulders. You’re so close to his face now, his eyes are wide, and his cheeks are starting to become red. You run a hand through his dark hair, and give him a peck on the forehead. Delighting in the way the red on his cheeks starts to spread to his ears.

“Alright then,” You smirk. Although Glenn is the one holding all the cards, you’re still his greatest weakness, and that means you’re the one in control, “I’ll marry you, Glenn Alston.”

You press your lips against his, and smile, “Till death do us part.”

#yandere oc #yandere male #yandere male x reader #Glenn Alston #x reader #male reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you

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d33pwithinmys0ul · 9 months

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One Shot For Pondhue Rick Sanchez x Reader Fluff

I hope this doesn't format weird, but I've been doing one shot fanfic for art trades, this is my first finished one! If you're interested go ahead and dm me but I've got lots to tackle.

I love @pondhue's art, be sure to check them out, this is what they requested, enjoy :)

“Summer!” Morty yelled up the stairs in an exasperated voice. Both his hands are clenched on the straps of his backpack. “I-I’m gonna be late for math, Mom said we have to walk together this time.”

You were cross legged on the recliner as you watched her bound down the stairs with a pink zippered pouch in hand.

“Don’t act like you give a shit about your education Morty, it’s not a good look for you.” She rolls her eyes in his direction and hands you the pouch. “You can use anything but Funny Bunny and the glitters. See you tonight!” She was out the door before you could even say thank you.

“She’s fuckin’ killing me, y/n.” Morty gave a frustrated huff. The door slams shut and you stifle a laugh.

You almost slide off of the recliner in favor of the floor, then go through Summer’s nail stuff. The polish bottles all clink against one another gently.

It was empty and quiet. The Beths and Jerry had said something about a galactic honeymoon before being cut off by disgusted groans from Rick and the kids. It was an easy job to take.

You turn on the TV for some background noise, and decide to pick your favorite color.

House sitting seemed unnecessary for the Smiths, but it would be nice to be around Rick more in light of your recent “exclusivity.” Rick’s chosen word, not yours. It was kinda sweet, you supposed.

You start with your left hand, laying it flat on the coffee table. It was fun, and soothing.

Exclusive was a nice term, you think. Not too distant, or too territorial. He respected you.

You were starting another finger when you heard the familiar warp of a portal materializing in the kitchen.

God, Rick was noisy. Every box and bottle in the fridge resounded as if he were taking inventory, he hacked and coughed every few seconds. Was he aware that you were here? Was he trying to make a point, like you had to acknowledge his presence first?

You continue without a word. Maybe you could do your toes too? Should you match, or pick another color?

Your mouth twitched as you saw him from the corner of your eye. He plopped himself down on the couch, adjacent to your spot on the floor, with a drink in his hand. He burps and changes the channel.

There was a comfortable silence, only the noise of different shows and commercials, human looking humans, nothing you’d usually see on interdimensional cable with him.

Rick drapes his arm on the back of the couch. “Y-you gonna join me?”

“In a little bit, I’m almost done,” you said.

He grunts in reply.

Why was he being so quiet, almost shy?

You finished your last finger, waving them around a little to dry. You look back up at the TV, and literal shit is being spread on a bagel.

“Jesus,” you automatically cringe and turn to Rick, “Why?”

“Poop deli,” he shrugs and takes a big swig of beer.

“That.. Is not–romantic,” you said.

He snorts but changes the channel anyway. “I didn’t realize you needed wooing right now, sweetheart.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Who said I needed it?” You say incredulously, flapping your hands to dry your nails faster. You know you looked silly and laughed a little as soon as you started.

“‘S a good color on you,” Rick almost mumbles, vaguely gesturing to the little set up of polish and remover, and all the other contents of Summer’s pouch on the coffee table.

“Thank you.” You slide the nail stuff across the table and sit on the carpet next to Rick’s foot. “Maybe you could join me?”

“On the floor?” Rick’s voice almost reflected your own earlier regarding ‘poop deli.’

“It won’t kill you,” you said. “I was hoping I could do your nails too?” You almost didn’t ask, but you were curious. Sure, Rick usually gave most things shit, but you’d like to think you were his soft spot.

“And what are you thinking, exactly?” He squints at you almost mockingly. He lowers himself smoothly onto the floor next to you.

“How about…” Your hand hovers over a few different bottles in Summers collection. “Lincoln Park After Park,” you said and handed him the bottle.

“I’m—eughhh–’m not wearing purple.” He said flatly. He places it on the table and takes another swig of beer.

“It’s basically black,” you scoffed. “I think it’s pretty. You’re lucky I don’t want to do the whole damn nail routine on you. I’m sure your cuticles are atrocious.”

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose, and rolled his eyes dramatically and splayed his large, bony hands out on the coffee table. “Before I change my mind.”

You smile with satisfaction and scoot closer to him, going from sitting to kneeling. Tall bastard. You almost get poked by his knee as he crouches in an almost frog-like position, you laugh at the look on his face as you untwist the bottle. You give him a quick kiss on the cheek right before he starts complaining.

“That is a purple tinge,” he insists, emphasizing the color.

“It’s black,” you set the bottle on the table and grab his hand. You start on his pinky finger, feeling the rough skin of his palm. “It’s not permanent, don’t be a child.”

“I’m aware of the properties of Earth nail polish,” he uses his free hand to take a swig of his beer, which almost spilled all over the carpet. “Forgive me for being a little more s–eughh-selective.”

“Earth nail polish?” You laugh. “So there’s alien versions, you mean?”

“Obviously. More durable and vibrant iterations of this shit. Think of that blackest black bullshit, but better. And it doesn’t stink. Just an obvious superiority of the wonders of the galaxy over puny mundane humanity.” His lab coat collar was wonky and he didn’t sound too serious about the last part.

“Mhm,” you said as you spaced his pinky away and moved onto his ring finger, careful not to smudge your own. “And how’d you get so familiar with galactic cosmetics?” He shrugged. “Old band days. I’ve told you about this before,” his eyebrow furrowed.

You could see a little bit of the purple tint as you finished another nail.

“Drunken rants barely count as telling me,” you said. “The Flesh Curtains,” you said with a flourishing stroke.

“Th-this, it’s the first time since then I’ve gotten my nails painted,” he said, a little surprised at himself. “Bit of bird DMT and common sense is m-euguhghh-more than enough to overcome, fuckin gender societal bullshit.” He was watching your hands, one painting, the other keeping his still. “If you paint it all over the fingertip it’ll come off in the shower. Don’t exactly shower much at Birding Man, though.”

“That’s where you guys met, right?” You asked.

“Mhm,” Rick said. “Thirty somethin’ and didn’t give much of a fuck to do shit else. Just shows and drugs and all the usual rockstar bullshit. I was young. BP gave me a guitar and we were too shitfaced to stop ourselves.”

“Bird Person doesn’t seem the musical type,” you say as you take his other hand and dip the brush into the bottle of polish. “That’s pretty cool.”

“He’s a fuckin’ genius.” He waves his free hand. “Bird planet stuff gave him a natural advantage, I think. Heavy into classical. Would’ve been a w–eughhh–waste, -i-if he never did anything with it.”

“So what kind of music did you make?” You asked, smiling. You were trying not to seem too enthusiastic. You didn’t think he’d be so willing to open up.

“Eughh–it was the eighties, I think, don’t fuckin’ remember too much. Rock, nu metal. For a bit we used an invention of mine with an algorithm that c-cal-calibrated the data from other successful rock acts across the known universe to write songs for us, bullshit like that. Didn’t work out. BP almost got us to do new-wave, n-eughh-not my cup of tea.” He takes his flask from his lab coat pocket.

“Squanchy didn’t want that either. Too hyperactive. We found him squanchin’ backstage by the drumkit when we wanted to crash the festival, so that role for him happened naturally. I don’t think you’ve met him. When we were on the road I’d have to sing him to sleep while I drove cuz BP would just pass out. If Squanchy didn’t get a goddamn lullaby he’d have to squanch to go to bed, and that was when I actually gave a shit if my ship was clean..”

“I advise you to restrain your speed. Breaking Blimmyjink highway laws will further delay our performance,” Bird Person said in his monotone voice.

“I swear to fucking god, I’ll eject you into the vast emptiness of space if you spill that goddamn beer!” Rick yelled over his shoulder while keeping his eyes on the road. He coughed and hacked before narrowly swerving around another vehicle.

They worked real hard to get a gig at the Celestes, and he wasn’t going to let shit ruin it. Rick growled a little as he forced himself to ease up on the gas pedal.

“I didn’t spill squanch!” Squanchy whined.

“Should’ve brought my damn portal gun, you stupid fucks,” he barked at the other members in the car. “U—eughh-unbelievable.” Rick had thought that a road trip-esque approach to a few of their gigs would create some type of positive relationship without too many drugs involved.

The galactic highway had too much traffic for a Thursday night, they had a shit time slot. He weaved in and out of lines of other ships and cars, speeding to get to the venue. His glass beer bottle nearly tipped over in the cup holder, before his bandmate caught it with a feathered hand.

“You’re in distress,” BP observed.

“You deserve a medal,” Rick muttered.

“What seems to be the issue?” Bird Person persisted.

“We need time t-to set up. No fuckin’ brainer. Even with the damn Band in a Box mechanism every .5 seconds counts in this GODDAMN TRAFFIC!” Rick yelled and honked his horn.

The driver in front of him extended a tentacle out of their window.

“Is he flipping me off?” Rick asked, glancing at his cat-like drummer in the back seat.

“Nah, he’s just giving you the squanch. Could be way worse, Rick.” Squanchy replied before chugging the rest of his drink, his feet kicked up on the drivers seat.

“Paws down asshole, you’ll sing yourself to sleep tonight,” Rick said through gritted teeth.

“Your voice is slightly hoarser than usual.” Bird Person said. “Perhaps your agitated state is creating strain on your physical health.”

“Only by 20.8%, which literally d-eughh-doesn’t matter,” Rick quipped. “This is a really important show, you know that.”

BP rifled through his satchel made of leaves and other stupid shit Rick didn’t see the point in before. He pulled out an unusually large acorn.

“It is infused with healing syrups and herbs from my home planet. I insist.” He handed it to him when they slowed to a stop at a light. “It may soothe you.”

“What-am-am I supposed to eat this like an apple?” Rick's eyebrow arched before glancing back at the road.

“If by apple you imply a hand sized, edible food source–”

“Whatever,” Rick grumbled and took the acorn begrudgingly.

“Thank you for giving me your trust,” his bandmate replied.

The show at the Celestes had been a hit. It helped them book other gigs–turns out there were some good connections to make on a random Thursday night. Rick wasn’t on vocals that show, but he felt a lot better. He got so drunk that he crowd surfed and shit his pants in a broom closet.

“We ended up having a p-pretty decent sized fan base on Blimmyjink even after we disbanded. Pers didn’t neutralize any of the tannins in that acorn, though,” Rick said with a laugh. “Tasted like shit.”

You were almost done with his second hand, almost wishing you could stall so he wouldn’t stop talking.

It was really nice of him to speak more about his past, considering Rick wasn’t very comfortable with his backstory, or a lot of what happened before he and Morty moved to this dimension. You could tell he was really trying.

“That seems really fun. It would be nice to meet Squanchy sometime.” You put away the polish and rubbed his shoulder. “I didn’t realize you and BP had been so close. He doesn’t seem like the type to paint his nails.”

Rick scoffs. “Yeah, no thanks to me. They wanted to be lame and go onstage as they were, like f-fuckin’ Weezer or something. It was fun styling everyone. I had pierced ears back then too, we were so fuckin’ drunk–shit was lopsided.”

He rolled his eyes and pressed a button on his watch, careful not to smudge his nail.

A little holo projection appeared of an old picture you’d seen before. Rick, Bird Person, and Squanchy on stage. Fire effects erupting by the drumset, Bird Person with his wings displayed powerfully behind him, Rick lost in thought as his face contorted while striking the strings of his instrument.

“Wow, yeah. You guys look amazing,” you try not to giggle a little at Rick’s get up. You hadn’t seen it in detail like this before— spiked leather bracelets, a skull on his belt buckle, the loosest, skinniest tank top that was as far away from his chest as possible, and a choker around his neck. Jesus Christ. What a choice, what a man.

“Clearly I was the o-eughh-only one that actually looked good,” Rick said with a wink. “But it was some good shit. We never made any money doing it. But we had some good memories.”

Rick's hands were both free as the nails dried, so he used them more as he talked. “That time in my life w-was a goddamn free for all. I trusted BP for no good reason when I’d been bitter and angry for years. We all almost wrote a whole album that night, after Birding Man, but Squanchy drunk pissed all over my equipment and we lost the files.”

“And drunk Rick didn’t waterproof his stuff back then?” You ask dubiously.

“I–eughh–I think I can say I was a lesser man back then.” He said with a shrug.

“Do you miss it?” You ask.

“Loose shirts, shittier tech, different mindset back then. I don’t regret it, but I was...just running from a lot of shit. It was escapism. Every musician is disturbed, art is mental illness, whatever bullshit you wanna . I-I think I needed it.” He said fondly. “I’m a little less likely to do donuts in a Blimmyjink parking lot these days.”

The TV hums quietly in the background and you take in the natural pause.

You take his hand cautiously, admiring the fit of yours with his, the new polish on your nails. “Thank you for giving me your trust.”

He brings his palm to your cheek and kisses your forehead.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #rick sanchez x reader #oneshot #fluff #flesh curtains rick #trade #birdperson

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literary-motif · 5 months

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We need a fan fiction of Isaac and the listener getting married and having a wedding day 🙏🙏

Bittersweet

Isaac Rhoades x Reader

The ceremony was a bureaucratic affair, passing by in an instant.

Isaac set down the leather-clad folder with all your documents, sliding it over the polished desk to the court official who leafed through them tiredly before handing you a paper to sign. She said a few words, only partly reading off the paper in front of her and giving you both a genuine but pitying smile.

Asirel was the only witness, signing the paper alongside you and Isaac. The court hall was nearly empty.

“Congratulations,” Asirel stated when you stepped outside, straightening his white tie. “I must say, I’m honored. In our line of work, we attend more funerals than weddings, so this is a very welcome change.”

“Thank you for coming,” Isaac replied, intertwining his fingers with yours, “It’s a shame you declined the invitation for dinner, but we’ll take an undisturbed honeymoon as compensation.”

You laughed, nudging Isaac’s shoulder playfully as you observed the small smile spreading across Asirel’s face. “I promise. You will not hear anything from me during your little Italy vacation. How long are you staying?”

“We have yet to decide,” you answered, raising an eyebrow at Isaac, who just smirked back at you. “But the flight goes next Friday.”

“Don’t expect us back too soon,” Isaac added, eyeing the person approaching, a bouquet in their hands.

“Right on time,” Asirel said, taking the flowers from them. Two bouquets were in his hands, beautiful white roses mixed with smaller red ones, nicely arranged in a collection that probably cost more than most people’s weekly salary.

“Lastly, not the most traditional wedding gift, I know,” he said, handing one to you and one to Isaac. He took a few steps back, pulling out his phone. “Smile,” he said, snapping pictures until he looked pleased. “Not the most traditional, but I think they suit the two of you. Enjoy your time together.”

He did not need to say it, but you heard the silent warning in Asirel’s words all the same. The second part of the sentence hung heavy in the air as you thanked him, taking your leave to return home, now married — enjoy your time together while you still can.

Mortality was a grim truth you had yearned to forget about on your wedding day. It was a day for celebration, after all. Celebrating love, celebrating each other, the time you had together, and the time still to come while vowing to be one another’s crutch, no matter the challenge.

It was hard to forget about the threat hanging over your heads due to the nature of your work. It was hard to disregard the eerie silence in the court hall or the private, almost lonely car ride home as both you and Isaac sunk into a pensive mood.

You had both lost so much and had faced heartache and heartbreak and grief that could fill more than one lifetime. In the end, your loss had left you both alone, which only made it so much more special that you now officially had each other.

It made silent tears of happiness appear in your eyes, knowing that Isaac would be by your side, knowing you did not have to face life alone anymore. He had reassured you of that plenty of times long before you entertained the idea of marriage, but there was something so secure about being able to call him your husband.

It felt as if you had finally become one.

“What a day, huh?” Isaac chuckled, opening the door for you and loosening his tie, “I never thought I’d—” he cleared his throat, a sudden surge of emotions overtaking him as he looked away.

You placed your fingers on his chin, guiding him to face you. “I never thought I’d marry either,” you confessed, looking into his eyes to convey your earnestness, “least of all you, the love of my life. My knight. My husband.”

Isaac hummed at your words, closing the gap between you with a deep kiss. You reached up a hand to cradle his face, feeling your heart flutter as he melted under your touch. “I love you,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tighter against his chest. “So much. I love you so much, I cannot express it.”

“I love you too,” you said, resting your head against his shoulder with a content sigh. You saw the gentle orange glow through the window, the sky outside illuminated by the setting sun. “Are you ready for the celebration?”

Isaac furrowed his brows in confusion. “What celebration?” he asked, trailing his hands down your sides until they rested on your hips, making you shudder. “Unless you mean—?” he purred, but you stepped out of his embrace before he could complete the thought.

“Wait there,” you said, rushing to the kitchen to collect the little surprise you had prepared earlier, taking a moment to tend to the bouquets. When you returned with a picnic basket, Isaac raised an eyebrow before realization dawned on him. His playful smile suddenly became serious.

“You mean—?” he began, voice shaky.

“We should celebrate with them, don’t you think?” you asked, wrapping an arm around him and walking to the door together. Isaac hesitated, reassured by your smile and the comforting hold you had on him as you led him through the garden to the spot where his family lay buried. “I’m sure they’d like that,” you said, spreading a blanket beside the tombstones and radiant flowers.

“Yes,” was all Isaac could muster as he knelt on the blanket next to you, tears blurring his vision as he sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the snap of the dull ache he had felt in his heart for weeks leading up to this day, knowing there was nobody left to celebrate with — knowing he would never feel the gentle squeeze on his shoulder from his grandfather, giving him a tight smile and supportive nod at having found his happiness, knowing he would never get to see his father’s proud smile as he waited for the love of his life to walk down the aisle, knowing he would never feel his mother’s loving hug as she told him how proud of him she was for following his heart and finding the person he wanted to face life together with.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, burying his face in his hands while his shoulders shook with sobs. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him through his gasping breaths. “I’m so— sorry,” Isaac cried, raising his head to look at you, his expression utterly heart-wrenching. You could see the shame, the longing, and the excruciating pain in his eyes, everything he usually kept so well hidden.

You shushed him gently, guiding his head to rest against your shoulder and tracing soothing circles across his back. He held onto you tightly as if you were the only thing keeping him together, the only thing keeping him from losing himself in his grief.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely after his sobs had calmed and the trembling of his body turned into an occasional shudder, “I know we should celebrate, but I— I can’t help this feeling of— of—”

“Sadness?” you proposed, planting a kiss against the top of his head. “Regret?”

“Never regret,” Isaac said wetly, looking into your eyes. “Yearning. I—I wish they were here,” he croaked, holding onto you tighter as if fearing you would slip away from him as well. “I wish you could have met them. I wish my father would have made a toast. I wish my mother would have— I wish they could have been there. I wish they were here with us. God, I miss them.”

“I know. I’ve got you,” you said, laying down on the blanket and pulling Isaac with you slowly. You were on your back, looking up at the sky and the quickly fading light while Isaac nuzzled into your side, his arm draped around your waist to hold you close. “They’d be so proud of you, Isaac,” you whispered, running a hand through his hair as you felt him shakily inhale.

He nodded silently, tears choking him up as the impact of your words fully registered. He had tried all his life to live up to the standard they set — be as thorough as his grandfather, as dutiful as his father, as compassionate as his mother — and spent night tossing and turning, wondering if he had become a person worthy of their legacy.

It hurt, being left to wonder. He missed his family so painfully, and their absence today was simply too much for him to bear. It had felt like a stab in the heart when he had taken a look around the nearly empty courthouse, seeing who wasn’t there with him anymore.

Asirel’s warning still echoed in his head — while you still can — and as Isaac looked up at you through tears in his eyes, he vowed to himself to cherish every moment he had left with you.

“I love you,” he rasped, pulling himself up briefly to lean over you and plant a kiss against your forehead. “Thank you, I love you.”

You reached up a hand to cradle his cheek, wiping away the remaining tears. Isaac hummed, bending down to kiss you properly. He could feel your smile against his lips, your free hand tangling in his hair as he deepened the kiss.

“I love you too,” you said as you broke apart, intertwining your hand with Isaac’s. You brought them to your lips, the matching ring on them a testament to your love. “My husband.”

Isaac broke into a beaming smile, his eyes shining with affection and adoration as if he had only now fully realized it. “Yes,” he chuckled, radiant with happiness despite the bittersweet feeling in his chest. He could not shake what he had lost, not even on his wedding day. “All yours, Pickle. For as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

The sun had set long before you opened the basket to retrieve the Japanese dishes you had prepared, and you ate in the gentle glow of candlelight, remembering the time you had already spent together and making plans for the future. The night was warm and crystal clear, allowing you to stargaze until the morning sun came up.

“Did you see that?” you asked, pointing to the spot where the light of a falling star had quickly flashed. “Make a wish, husband dear.”

Isaac blinked away the tears of joy — he feared he would never get used to you calling him your husband — held you close and made a wish for this happiness to last forever.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #isaac rhoades x reader #isaac rhoades #you don't want to know how much I struggled with this one

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girlsdads · 3 months

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went completely insane in the tags on this post and accidentally wrote a fic but i don’t feel like polishing it into anything so have whatever the fuck this is in all it’s raw glory

#versainz on their honeymoon and daniel’s the tour guide

#bro idek #carmaxiel #is that what we’re calling this?#a demon possessed me and this is the result #my fic #they really letting people (me) call anything a fic these days huh

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boundinparchment · 4 months

Text

Blasphemous Rumors - VIII

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.”

Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Slow-ish burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Minors DNI.

On AO3 here, reblogs and kudos appreciated.

You stared at your desk, the office still dim and quiet this early in the morning. Once pristine, polished, and neat, the space had apparently been turned into a floral shop in your absence, vases lining almost all of the surface area. A stack of envelopes, some thicker than others, were neatly piled in your inbox tray.

It was a sight only slightly more improved than Lord Dottore’s quarters, which were filled with arrangements and boxes and a tea set from the Tsaritsa Herself. Unpacking proved difficult when both of you were buried in a sea of congratulations that were just as fake as your vows.

You tried not to consider them to be your rooms, even if that was where you currently slept. After all, you wouldn’t be in them much longer than necessary. Would your husband let you keep the house you chose after all of this, you wondered.

In hindsight, perhaps you should have taken another few days. Your thoughts swam with a list of names to send appropriate thank you notes to, laundry was still a burden, and you had yet to determine how to stash your notes securely. But the Segments had expenses to track and your husband was diving right back into his most expensive project…someone had to keep Pantalone happy and off your backs.

“I hardly expected you in at this hour, my lady. Most in your position would have gladly slept in.”

You hadn’t even heard the elevator doors chime nor the familiar footsteps of Lord Pantalone as he approached, congenial smile in place and eyes narrowed. He bowed ever so slightly at the waist, as was customary for a lower-ranking Harbinger, but only enough to be polite; you still worked for him, marriage to a Harbinger or not. You returned the gesture, shoulders aching from the tension settling in them.

Something in his words sat wrong, like a picture frame a hair out of alignment. You expected certain insinuations from those who understood the gravity of your position, especially after Lord Dottore’s words on the ride back to the Palace. Ironic, when you recalled that Lord Pantalone especially had a soft spot for the ethic of the working class he so lovingly exploited. You smiled.

“Most in my position are unable to multitask due to never having worked a true day in their lives. I believe I’ll manage, Lord Harbinger.”

“Of that, there is little doubt. Anyone else would be a poor match for our dear Doctor.”

Lord Pantalone tilted his head, leather gloves squeaking as he gripped the top of his walking stick. The Electro delusion pinned over his heart winked in the dim light as he turned and walked away.

Your coworkers, polite though their gifts were, set your teeth on edge. Within a few hours of the work day, it was impossible to miss the notable silence whenever you walked into a room, eyes averted, heads bowed in passing. Many said your name when they knocked on your office door and then dropped their sentence, immediately correcting themselves.

Worse yet were the exchanges you caught when no one thought you were around or could hear (or, more than likely, they didn’t care if you did).

“She climbed the ladder, crazy thought he is; why is she even here?”

“Do you think they—”

“He’s unconventional but come on, even you can admit the Second is demure. They went on honeymoon for practically a month and the maids said she looked a right mess when they left. Give it three months, tops, before she resigns wearing looser clothing.”

You made a mental note to consider a private coffee pot in your office instead when you walked into the communal break room and topped off your cup without a word. Hopefully no one noticed how flushed your face was (or if they did, they attributed it to modesty).

On one hand, you were thrilled enough people seemed to buy it so quickly; on the other, did they really need to throw around…

Your stomach dropped as you walked back to your office. Nonsense. It wasn’t on the list and this wasn’t going to last. Besides, there were specific actions required you doubted your new husband intended to follow through on.

He’d been candid thus far, after all.

Such thoughts eased your tensions just enough to stave off a migraine.

A knock at your door brought them right back when your shoulders snapped back at the sound. Pantalone’s assistant, one of them, stood poised with eyes skimming you. Young, chosen for their shrewdness, charm, and efficiency; hardly without a brain but certainly void of personality, you learned, from your years in the department.

“Lord Pantalone would like to see you,” they said. “Bring all of your documents and records pertaining to Lord Dottore.”

They walked off before you could confirm or question anything further. Naturally. Lord Pantalone preferred to keep one guessing, allow for the fear and anxiety to stir. The weak-willed fell for it every time. You were used to treading on eggshells and cleaning up loose ends. The physical reactions would subside soon enough.

You ran your tongue over your back teeth as you turned your attention to the bookshelves, where you kept your ledgers. All of your documentation was a tall order; you had several years of bound ledgers, multiple books per year thanks to the Segments’ contributions to the account activity. It would have been easier to simply tie a bookshelf to a handtruck and wheel it into Pantalone’s office. Instead, you settled for the most recent finished records and a rough estimate of the number of books involved before you made your way towards your boss’ office.

Calling you in was more intentional than it seemed, you realized, when Lord Pantalone told his assistant to go on lunch after she brought in freshly brewed tea to the sitting area in the far reaches of his office. He didn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation. But why?

The double doors were shut with a soft click and you wished the too-soft sofa would swallow you whole. It would certainly be easier to disappear into the cushions of a couch than layer lie on top of falsehood and then beside another untruth. Yes, a day off would have been appropriate.

Lord Pantalone stared at the single leather bound book on the table beside the tray before his gold eyes flickered to you.

“That surely can’t be all of your record-keeping, my lady. I’m beginning to suspect my colleague married you for a different kind of cooking ability,” he said as he poured tea for both of you.

The smile that plastered itself across your face was the same one that pulled at your lips on your wedding day. Just a tad too tight and you had to remind yourself to make your eyes crinkle. Your eyes skimmed the tea cup placed in front of you

“There are several years’ worth of ledgers, given Lord Dottore’s projects and Segments. This is the most recent one and the rest are filed in my office. Anyone can find whatever they need quite easily, sir.”

And I wasn’t about to carry two armfuls of ledgers for no good reason. I’m already humiliated enough as it is, you thought.

It would be rude not to take the tea in front of you, of course, and so you took it with a practiced carefulness. There was a smokiness to it that made you pause when a pang of memories of snow creatures and sticky treats ran through you. For a moment, you felt your face relax at the familiar scent as you glanced up at your boss.

Always impossible to get a read on him, of course. Eyes closed, he was lost in savoring a sip of his own before he returned his cup and saucer to the table.

He wouldn’t drug you, not here, at any rate. Too many people saw you go into his office and he wouldn’t risk his companionship with Dottore so early on.

A taste of home ran over your tongue, soured only because it was brewed for too long. The cinnamon tingle lasted far longer than it should have and stung as it met your throat.

“I will speak to the rest of the staff regarding the loose tongues everyone seems to have,” Pantalone began. “I made it quite clear before your return that such behavior would not be tolerated but most seem to have forgotten how much finds its way to my ears.”

“That’s not why I’m here though, is it, Lord Harbinger?” you replied, resting your cup on your lap.

“It’s not the only reason, no. Given your new...arrangement, it would be unethical for you to continue monitoring your spouse’s accounts. Although you’ve done a far better job than most have in centuries, to the point that your social status has changed because of it, it is still a conflict of interest I have no desire to foster.”

Not even a chance to prove that you wouldn’t commit such acts. Not even a single day back. You steeled yourself and picked up the cup again, taking another sip as you waited for the other shoe to drop.

“You’ll instead be the auditor in charge of my personal accounts and balancing my books. Few have ever been able to keep any of the Doctor’s records straight between his projects and those of his Segments. That you’ve been as thorough and steadfast as you have been is a testament to your work ethic.”

“And so someone else can learn how to do my Lord Husband’s books in the event I’m not here,” you surmised.

It was fairly logical, to say nothing of the fact that you were already prepared for such moves from Lord Pantalone in particular. If you ever were indisposed, no one else would know how to balance the Doctor’s accounts and track everything properly. The Second’s spending was rivaled only by the man before you. Your work for various other accounts could be transferred to anyone (although it put you at a disadvantage, naturally).

This put you in a far better position, though. The ledgers of nobles were helpful, sure, but what exactly was Lord Pantalone doing with his money? That would be telling in comparison, wouldn’t it?

“It will also keep you out of earshot of the rumor mill, which I’m sure you’re sick of hearing. Lord Dottore is a dear friend and although he was far from pleased to be on display for your marriage, I would be remiss to not look out for you in his stead.”

“Thank you, Lord Pantalone,” you replied. “I will, of course, do my best.”

“I would expect no less.”

You knew that tone well, the same one used when terms could not be negotiated: polite but not without the sharpest edge pressed to the tender part of one’s neck, what you imagined an assassin’s kiss might feel like.

It took everything in you to smile and take another sip of home instead of throwing the scalding liquid and spitting venom. All of this would pay off in the end. You wouldn’t be under the Regrator’s thumb forever and you wouldn’t be married to Lord Dottore for the rest of your life. This was temporary.

Your blood pressure disagreed but that was a problem for later.

As you rose to leave, dismissed to spend the rest of the day organizing your new office or leave to tend to other matters (how generous, you mused, resisting the urge to roll your eyes), Lord Pantalone returned to his desk briefly to leisurely browse through a stack of papers. You watched his expression shift slightly as he located what he was looking for and held it out to you, a silent order to come fetch.

“I will be hosting dinner next month out at my estate,” he said. “A cordial dinner between colleagues and friends to celebrate your nuptials. The Tsaritsa and the Jester will not be present. The Segments have told me the schedule is free.”

How easily that might change, you thought, taking the sealed envelope carefully.

“I’ll be sure to let Lord Dottore know,” you replied mildly.

“Do be sure he arrives in an agreeable mood, won’t you? He’s insufferable when he’s been cooped up for too long.”

As you left Lord Pantalone’s office to see to your own new accommodations, your cheek scar, faint though it was, burned at the insinuation.

To your surprise, dinner continued to held in private, the two of you shut away from the world in a suite far too large for either of your liking. You left the invitation tucked beneath his dinner plate, already laid out when you returned from work, and were handed a letter from the serving staff that you opened as your husband broke Pantalone’s seal.

“I’d rather eat glass,” Lord Dottore said, looking at you and holding up the envelope for context.

“Maybe we can make a special request and have it added to the menu. After all, we’re supposedly the guests of honor.”

Across the table, Dottore’s shoulders shook as he grinned, tongue pressed between his back teeth in thought. You couldn’t help but give a small laugh as your shared secret floated in the air, that neither of you were pleased with Pantalone’s interference.

Your smile fell as you read cramped handwriting, loopy and quick. Your father’s physician's. Not a bill but hardly a new diagnosis, either. Reiterations of the last message, with more urgency than your father used. Management was beginning to no longer be feasible. This coming year might be the last.

Immediately, you relayed your promotion, ignoring the crease that formed at the corner of Dottore’s mouth at your change of subject. The rest of the meal passed as they usually did, filled with conversations you might otherwise have had in the walls of your office.

Afterwards, you played chess with a strange mix of unease in your chest, wondering with every move how to navigate not just the board but the man before you.

The promotion was key but now both of you were in the loop and aware you would be under Lord Pantalone’s nose now. The Segments needed to know, at the very least, but that was his business.

How was that going to work now, anyway? Should you be around them? Hard enough to keep one Doctor in your sights…another thing to manage…

You could do it, keep going. You had to.

“Are you going to move your rook, Accountant? Or are you holding onto it like a magpie hording its treasures?” Lord Dottore drawled, resting his elbow on the chair’s arm and resting his head on his scarred fist.

When had he removed his gloves?

You blinked and tried to clear your vision, focusing on the board long enough to place the rook in a proper position, capturing a bishop in the process.

“We might as well stop for the night; you just set yourself up for failure.”

To prove his point, you watched a gloved hand position one piece, capture your queen, and put you into check. At this point, it would be a standoff in three moves or less. Damn him.

“Was your day back truly so awful that your focus is shot, dorogáya moya? Usually you’re so sharp during these conversations. That banker can be obnoxious and chatty but you’ve worked in the Palace’s accounting department for years. You aren’t the type to be easily intimidated.”

Your skin prickled at the observation and you felt a twitch in your brow.

“If you were, you’d have departed the Fatui in Liyue and never returned and many of my projects would not have been financed,” Dottore said, arranging the board back to the starting point. “The nation of contracts and commerce is always in need of book-keepers and accountants. But you aren’t the type for easy work.”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped.

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Act like you know me.”

“I know a version of you. It is inevitable we will come to know others over the course of this year. Would you rather I not engage you at all? Treat you as others in my position would, leave you to your own devices?”

Dottore leaned back in his chair, his work on the board done as he rested an ankle over his knee.

“Who was it that made the case for being meaningful with one another? I do not benefit from your mind being cluttered, Accountant.”

He was giving you a chance, that much was clear. But a Fatuus was still a Fatuus; if you gave an inch, he would take a mile and a half and your kidney for good measure. Lying wouldn’t do you any good, you well knew, even if your extracurricular hobbies were for the benefit of others.

And something in the way he tilted his head and seemed at ease before you seemed to only encourage you to trust him. Something that was slowly beginning to be less and less of an option and more of a necessity. Especially here, back at the Palace, with eyes everywhere.

“My father’s physician wrote.”

“Your post from dinner?”

“He is encouraging my father to spend time with loved ones and advised me that this winter has been particularly brutal on him. It always has been, as I mentioned before, but his lungs are heavily scarred and aren’t working properly. In his professional opinion, his physician does not think he’ll see next spring.”

Your words hung in the air like a held breath after an executioner’s blade fell. When Dottore didn’t respond, you pulled out the letter between two fingers and extended your hand so he could inspect the letter himself.

A jolt ran through your finger and up your arm as his bare finger brushed yours, slightly cold but not unpleasantly so. He was rarely without gloves of any kind, even back at the beach, and you were immediately reminded of sticky honey and flakey dough

Silly, wasn’t it, to want that moment back. Both because of your tiny slip-up and because you wished you’d admired his hands more.

He was quiet for a long while, contemplative for so long that you wondered if he fell asleep beneath his mask.

“The Regrator’s country estate is out to the north. It seems quite inefficient to make two trips when we could suffer through the dinner and then continue further north to visit your family. Certainly takes care of several items all at once.”

At least three, four if the dinner counted as a private event, you recalled. That he was so quick to plan caused a pit to grow in your stomach. What should have eased the anxieties for most seemed to only amplify them.

He continued on. “In the meantime, I will rearrange my schedule to accommodate property visits to find a suitable living space. Does this sound agreeable, Accountant?”

Your heartrate increased ever so slightly, just enough to make your stomach churn, when you noticed the corners of his mouth turning upwards. Different than the vicious grins he loved to terrorize people with when he was feeling particularly playful and miles apart from the variations you saw at your wedding.

He needed to stop doing that. But he was right. You were the one who had asked for some attempt at making this…at least have a believable foundation. Who agreed to ingratiating him into your life, your family.

And when things inevitably came to an end…

“Yes, it does,” you said at last, a weak smile crossing your lips. “At least one matter will be settled long enough to…refocus on ensuring our shared success.”

#dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #marriage of convenience #arranged marriage

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jadeee · 4 months

Text

Scaling Walls

Kento proposed before leaving for war. He said he'd be away for six months, but it's been a year.

— Author's Note — There's an alternate ending.

4.3k ⁎ depression, anxiety attacks, mentions of war @luneariaa @raevennsge @everything-minni

The Mad Maiden. It was an insult. Salt in the wound. A disgrace. Betrayal, disrepect, dishonor... but.. were they wrong?

You gazed out over the ledge and into the fog of the September sky. The air turned cold, yet it couldn't compare to the chill that seeped into your spine months ago. He wasn't one to make promises, so he desparately fought your attempts to extract an exact date from him. However, he stated that six months was the minimum for his departure.

You're only a woman. You can't stop war.

You remember how your throat tensed at the sound of him saying how long he'd be gone. 180 days, which was half a year without being next to him. Hearing his voice or holding his hand. Seeing him smile at your quips. Making you laugh with some ludicrous comment. How the corner of his lip would turn upward when he'd lean in during functions to whisper something the tabloids would have a field day with. It was nearly summer when he'd left. The world completed it's annual rotation around the sun without your lover's return. It was now fall... Your eyes watered. Your heart ached. Stomach churning at the, unfortunately, familiar abscence of his prescence.

"Princess..." the voice of your lady in waiting, Belinda, called from behind you. "Princess, please step back from the ledge."

You glanced at her over your shoulder, "Don't insult me."

Her chest rose until it seemed her dress would burst. "I was only... I... forgive me."

Your nostrils flared slightly as you faced forward.

"Please... come inside. There's a chill and you've left your coat."

"Have you forgotten you're my help, not my mother?" you bit your tongue as you gazed out at the forest beyond. Your hands gripped the rail. The metal from your ring pressing into your flesh. The diamond still shined despite the beginning of the dull fall weather.

"... Leave."

The woman knelt, then turned to leave as requested. The breeze blew through the sheer fabric of your dress, which started to slip from your shoulders much like the others. Goosebumps pricked your skin but you felt nothing.

April 21st, 1905

"Hello, nice to meet you." your hand shook that of other royals. The room filled with onlookers who waited for this very moment. Your staff had taken special care of mending the wrinkles of your dress that morning. Tucking and pinning your hair this way and that. Adjusting diamonds until they shined ever so brightly, then polishing the ring. You twisted it round your finger as you walked toward the podium. It'd been nine months and he hadn't sent so much as a piece of string.

The first few months were filled with letters, exchanging of small mementos and keepsakes.

Should we have a spring wedding? It could symbolize our new chapter as a married couple. What about colors? Should we have a traditional royal wedding? Oh God, the thought... Please help me decide... there's still the dress. Oh! Where should we honeymoon?

All my love,

An indecisive bride

You rested your hand at your side, then lifted your dress as the official helped you up to the platform. Maybe it was the tiny twists of flowers in the nearby vase that reminded you of his handwriting. The black ink from his last letter seemed to imprint itself in the walls of your mind.

I'm afraid things are not progressing as we would've hoped...yet, I'm eager to return to you, my beautiful wife. Yes, I know we're still engaged but it's true in my heart. You take up a lot of space there. As for the details, I'd much prefer to elope. Wouldn't you? I don't care for the details, as long as we're together. Although, if something isn't to your liking, do tell me so I can take care of it.

To my everything,

Kento

P.S.: I'd like to honeymoon somewhere warm and tropical.

A warm smile resided on your face as you stared at your hands. That was four months ago, during Christmas. Which you'd spent alone for the first time. Tears stung at your eyes, then someone in the crowd cleared their throat. You lifted your eyes to the crowd. As if you suddenly realized you were being watched and waited on. You held your head high, ensuring the crown wouldn't slip.

"Thank you to the King and Queen for my being here. I would be remiss if I didn't —"

Your eyes landed on a man who wore badges you easily recognized, since Nanami had the same ones. You recall making him explain each one to you during one of the late nights you often spent together. It'd been a year. 365 days and then some. The papers were no longer covering the war, yet cameras were pointed at you while you were here to discuss... what? Nationality? Pride? Being faithful to King, God, and country? Your throat tensed, chest rising and falling every few seconds. "I can't began without —"

You shifted your stance as you looked out at the crowd. Their faces slowly morphing into various shades of skin tones and colors instead of distinguished features. "I— I'm sorry." your breath quickened as you stepped away from the microphone emitting murmurs from the crowd.

"I can't." you faced your guard who stood by your side still as stone. His eyes, however, studied you with soft concern. As he offered you his hand, you pushed it away and ran past him to a corridor. He followed you without hesitation. The murmurs morphed into a low buzz, a steady hum of Did you see that? I think she was going to cry. It's her fiancé. Does anyone know what happened? Shame to be a widow before the wedding. Who'll design the dress?

The often hardened eyes, melted at the sight of you on the floor of the empty hall. The chiffon of your dress pooled at your bare feet, shoes cast aside, crown lying sideways by your legs which were tight against your chest. His salt and pepper brows twitched while he fought to maintain his neutral facial expression, as he was taught when he first began.

You sobbed into your hands, "He's dead isn't he? And no one wants to tell me because they pity me. He's been blown to bits or tossed aside in a ditch!"

Vincent knelt down to your level and spoke your name softly, breaking every single rule. You drew your hands down slightly then looked into his eyes. The silence seeped in, until it nestled itself into your belly. A rock hardening in the pit of your stomach, ready to savor and swallow every single fear you had.

"... no" you uttered and shook your head "no, he..." you tilted your head to the side "please..."

"I don't know if he is, but... I need to get you back to the palace. We need to get you away from you here."

Your carefully painted lips formed a frown. The skin of your chin wrinkling at the very act. Another round of your sobs echoed throughout the hallway and the buzzing seemed to grow closer. "Princess, we have to leave."

People shouted your name from the other side of the door. "Have you heard from the Prince? Is he still off at war?! Did he leave you? Will there still be a wedding?!"

Your heart sank into the pit where it would be devoured. The doors rattled, beating like the drum of an ancient song.

"Get back! Immediately!" a group of guards shouted amid the commotion. You glanced over at the oak doors. Maybe being trampled on would be better. You wouldn't know since Vincent scooped you up in his arms, then carried you to the exit behind the building away from prying eyes.

The next few months were filled with silence in every single form and shape. Silence from your mouth, save the typical "I'm not hungry" or "I'm not going." Silence in the halls, since you hardly left your room the staff didn't have to work as much. So they stood, waiting for you to come back to life. Yet, you slowly hardened each day into stubborn stone, residing in sadness.

Your staff didn't bother to ask for permission to enter anymore since you stopped speaking except when necessary. They only knocked to make you aware then opened the door timidly to do whatever they had set out. This time, it was a carefully prepared bowl of your favorite fruits. Belinda held it in her hands as she studied how your garment began to slip from your shoulders.

"Princess, the doctor says you need to eat."

"Unless he's feeding me by force, I won't do it."

Belinda sighed then nodded "Yes, Princess." she set the plate of fruit down at the foot of your bed before leaving.

Once the door shut, your eyes landed on the bowl. The faint sweet scent caused you to make your way over to the bowl of little delicacies. Your fingers touched at the cold produce then wrapped around them, lifting it to your mouth. Was he eating? Tears filled your eyes and you pushed the bowl away.

June 2nd, 1905

Nanami ran his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut but that was the least of his worries. Maybe you'd like him with longer hair... His fingers rubbed at the nape of his neck. Eyes landing on the stack of letters he kept by his bedside, if you'd even call it that. He'd started to leave the letters out of the envelope for quicker access. Carefully tying the bundle after reading them each night. The favorites were at the top — although, they were all his favorite. He made sure to keep certain things hidden however. Like the locket you gave him with your picture before he departed.

Another little thing he'd done was tie twine around his ring finger, at your behest. In one of your letters, which he keeps at the top of the stack, you mention it being his temporary ring until you two get the real one. Silver. I want silver for us. Gold is overrated. Nanami recalled how you chuckled at his statement, when he confessed his personal preference one morning.

"Should I have the frames re-done then?"

"Absolutely, the palace walls are hideous."

He grinned, breaking character, then pulled you closer to him to kiss your forehead.

He could feel it against his lips now. His fingers absentmindedly reached for the locket he wore under his shirt, only to feel the impression over his heart. A sigh left his lungs as he replayed images of you in his mind. Had you picked a dress already? It'd been a year...

The entrance of his tent flung open, "General." the soldier stood at ease awaiting for his approval and recognition.

Nanami nodded, too tired for formalities "Yes?"

"I thought you should see this, sir. We received our batch of newspapers. It's late but... it's important." he handed him a faded newspaper with a headline that read "Mad Maiden" dated April 22nd, 1905. He rose to his feet when he read about you foresaking the podium and sobbing in a hallway.

"That is all."

"Sir..."

He glanced up at the man "That. Is all."

He saluted to his higher up then retreated. A whirlwind of emotions ran through him: concern, fear, disgust at whoever concocted this filth... but namely, longing. How much longer? Recent devlopments made it impossible to write to you. The locket fell from its typical spot as he exhaled.

"Have you come to feed me?" you chuckled at Dr. Percival who stood in your room. He'd been your doctor since you were a child so you weren't accustomed to the usual formalities.

"Yes." he answered plainly.

You glanced at him then scoffed.

"... If you don't eat, I'll need to take other measures and I don't want to do that."

"... you wouldn't."

He looked into your eyes then pressed his lips together. His hand reached for the plate of food Belinda left in your room minutes ago, "Just try."

You took the plate in your hands along with the fork and bite into it. After a few chews, you spoke again "Have dinner with me."

"Okay."

It was the first time in months, you'd come downstairs for dinner. The staff didn't set the table as usual, per your request; so, you sat side by side with Dr. Percival. Your shared chews filled every nook and cranny of the room.

The doctor noticed how you wiggled in your seat. "Have you seen the leaves change?"

"From the balcony. Yes."

He studied you, "How often do you go to the balcony?"

You cut your eyes at him. He didn't move an inch.

"Why do you still wear it?"

Your fingers danced at the mention of the jewel that'd been residing there for a year.

"If you believe he's dead, why wear it still? He won't come back if he is."

Twelve hours was a new record. The longest you'd went without crying. Sleep didn't count because you didn't do that much. Tears welled in your eyes as you gazed at the diamond.

The doctor set down his fork as he looked at you. Your shoulders started to shake as you sobbed. He rose to his feet then embraced you. Everything you'd felt over the past year bubbled up and spilled over as you sobbed against him. Within seconds, your breath became bated and ragged. Your sobs were short, choked sounds "I c—" you clutched at your chest.

He glanced down at you "Princess?" his ears burned at the sound of you gasping for air. He called you by your name and clutched your shoulders "Look at me! Look at me!" his hands rested on your cheeks as he made you look into his face. Your eyes were filled with tears as you continued to gasp.

"Belinda! Vincent!" they rushed to your side and followed his orders to calm you down. He held onto your hand as he made you lie on the ground. "I need you to breathe, look at me!"

That night was the first time you didn't sleep alone. The doctor along with Vincent and Belinda stood nearby as you lie in bed. Their frames looked like shadows or watchdogs. Something ancient guarding a secret. Except were they protecting you from the evils of the world? Or was it the other way around?

October 15th, 1905

Your court and staff had worked hard to get you where you were now. Your chambers were still a mess but you were eating three meals a day, sometimes reluctantly, and moving around a bit more. You didn't deem walks around the halls as exercise but Dr. Percival differed.

"Maybe we can go out to the courtyar—"

"No."

He walked down the carpeted hallway with you "Very well."

Your eyes landed on the silver frames lining the wall. "Can I rest after this?"

"Yes, of course. Will you be going to the—"

You cut your eyes at him.

"Very well, then."

The sun peered through your curtains, despite them being drawn.Your hand slammed against the comforter at Mother Nature's reluctance to let you have your way. Your eyes followed the ray of sunshine, hand drifting up to catch the light and harness it somehow. The diamond twinkled under it and the corner of your lip twitched as you felt the tug on your heartstrings.

Mornings now typically started with the doctor talking you out of bed and doing a few stretches. Yet, this morning you simply said "Leave me... please." he obliged sensing your sadness. The mahogany doors shut with a soft thud, leaving you and the sun illuminating your room. Dust motes floated through and landed onto the pile of dresses stacked in the chair. Papers and notes about the war Nanami had been away fighting... or so you hoped. You stood to your feet then looked out the window.

A knock at the door interrupted your thoughts.

"I said leave me."

"There's someone here to see you." Belinda stated.

"I'm not taking visitors. You know—" you turned at the sound of the door opening. Suddenly, time had stopped. You stopped. Breathing, blinking, thinking... being. After a moment of silence, you shook your head.

"No... hm-hmph" tears quickly found their way to your eyes. "No." you shook your finger and stepped back until you hit your dresser. "How..." your breath hitched but your eyes never left him. His hair was longer... why didn't he cut it? The medals on his uniform were polished. Anyone on the street would see him as pristine but when you looked into his eyes. You felt the ache, the yearning, the tears he cried while he was away.

"I.. you.." you breath quickened as you tried not to cry.

"I know," he reached out to you and you found yourself recoiling. Nanami shrunk back, his hands idly resting by his side unsure of what to do. Hurt filled his hazel eyes as he gazed at you, tilting his head and furrowing his brows.

"Don't touch me."

He'd fought in combat, shot and been shot at but nothing could have prepared him for this.

"Guards!"

"Darling, I—"

"You're not real. You're a figment of my imagination because," you wiped the snot that was dripping from your nose "because I- I want you to be real and here, but—"

"I am. I'm right here!" he started to resist the guards that boxed him in.

"I saw you die! I dreamt about it every night!" you shouted in a broken voice then started to cry. Belinda caught onto the sound and rushed for the doctor.

Within moments, you fell to the floor, clutching at your chest. "Wh-what's happening?" Nanami attempted to run to your side but your guards pulled him back. He shoved then stepped forward only to be pulled back again. Luckily, Vincent, Dr. Percival and Belinda came running in. Vincent instructed the guards to ease up then Nanami stepped forward as you started to gasp for air.

"No, no, no," you shook your head as you proceeded to sob and heave. The guards moved forward to collect Nanami once again. Vincent watched while Belinda uttered a prayer. Dr. Percival shouted "Stop!" Nanami glanced back at him then watched as he approached you. Dr. Percival knelt down "He's real. I promise you," he leaned in until you could see his face "He. is. real."

Nanami watched you with a steady eye. Never moving or saying anything, just standing in wait for your permission. The locket thumped against his heart.

"Please... let him in. Hm?"

Your sobs died down to quick breaths as your eyes focused on the carpet beneath your hands. Then there was the ring, staring back at you through your tears. You started up again and Nanami moved closer then knelt down and wrapped his arms around you. Your face pressed against his shoulders, chest against his, muscles tensing at the sudden movement. His scent invading your nostrils until he was all you could breathe in. Your breath hitched in your throat and tears filled your vision again. The room was silent in that moment. All of the staff filling the space of the room as they watched the long awaited reunion. Nanami oblivious to whomever was watching, softly uttering "I'm here now. I'm sorry I took so long." as he caressed your back.

You held your breath, only sufficing small inhales until you felt like you would burst. Your arms hovered over his back, wavering, shaking. The familiar scent of wood and citrus wrapping itself around you like the very hug he was giving you now made the silence impossible. You embraced him tightly with all the force you could muster. He chuckled through the tears he was shedding against your nightgown.

Vincent looked at the guards then nodded, signaling for them to leave. He trailed behind the doctor and Belinda, leaving you two alone. The room was a medley of shared sobs. When he pulled back, he smiled through his tears at the sight of his beautiful bride. Even with tears running down your cheeks and a runny nose, you were still beautiful. His hands rested on your cheeks and you instinctively put your hands over his. The corner of your lips twisted as you did so.

"What is it?" his thumb brushed the tears from your cheek.

"You... you're wearing it." you touched the twine around his finger.

"Of course I'm wearing it. You're my wife."

Tears filled your eyes once more and you sobbed, wrapping your hands around him. Kento held you close. He'd never been more grateful for such a moment as this. His lips placed a kiss at the top of your head.

"You're my wife," he repeated softly.

— Alternate Ending —

Later that afternoon, Nanami walked with you along the garden. He wanted to say so much but he didn't know where to start. His hands remained at his side as he put one foot in front of the other.

"I asked the kitchen to make your favorite tonight."

"Really?"

He nodded "I also asked that they make dessert. I hope that's okay."

"Of course it is." you chuckled at his humbleness.

"I apologize for making you worry. There was an incident and ... we couldn't communicate with anyone. It became too dangerous." he took your hand in his. You held it for a moment "You're here now." you pulled your hand back and offered him a small smile.

He leaned back slightly then followed your sight of line to the sunset. His lips opened then shut and he joined you in the silence instead.

The staff relished at the joy you seemed to radiate during dinner. Your laughter and voice was music to their ears. Joy was one of their favorite songs to hear in the halls and they truly owed it to his return. He was happy to see you in such high spirits, however they were dashed when it was time for bed. You shifted for a few moments as he lie next to you.

"It's... it's been a while."

His heart went dull at the reminder "... I know. Should I remain on my side?"

Your silence put him at further unease "I'll stay here. Don't worry."

You rested your head against the pillows.

"Darling?"

"Yes?" you glanced at him.

"Can we hold hands? Only for a moment."

Silence, then a nod. Nanami felt his heart race at the pure prospect of hand holding. He'd felt giddy. He was delighted. His hand slid into yours and he looked up at the ceiling. He brought it to his chest then you pulled back.

"I'm sorry...."

Hurt filled his eyes once again. "It's quite alright. I can sleep in the guest room."

"What?! No. You've just returned from battle. Stay. I'll go to the guest room." you kicked the covers off and he scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous, the Princess should stay in her chambers. I'll leave." Nanami got out of bed then headed for the door.

"No."

He glanced back at you then shifted his stance to face you fully. "What do you suppose we do then? Since you won't even touch me. It seems you can't stand me now."

"I never said that!"

"You don't have to."

You leaned back at the verbal slap. "Nanami..."

"Just tell me what you want and I'll do it." he approached you "I swear, I'll do everything in my power to make it happen."

Your eyes started to fill with tears again as you gazed into his "I wish you never left."

He pressed his lips together slightly, still gazing into your eyes "I can't change what happened."

"... I know."

You broke your gaze for a second to wipe your face "They called me mad," you let out a half-hearted chuckle "The Mad Maiden."

"Don't say that. Whoever wrote that is a dimwit with nothing better to do."

".... so you've read about it?"

"... yes."

Silence until "I canceled my appointment with the wedding dress designer. We had a meeting scheduled a few months after you were supposed to return in the fall of 1904. When you stopped writing, I..." tears welled in your eyes and you shook your head then shrugged.

He reached out to you then drew back, remembering how you could barely hold his hand.

"... do you still love me?"

You turned to face him.

"Do you?"

"How dare you ask me that?" you shook your head and he stared right into your soul "I shed myself for months, withering away until I barely recognized myself. I waited nearly two years for you to return. I convinced myself that there would be no wedding, There'd be no honeymoon or kids skipping down the halls because you were gone. I dreamt about burying an empty box and I still kept this ring on my hand because I couldn't bear the thought of aching so terribly for anyone else." tears fell from your eyes "I ached... every single day."

His eye never left yours and they filled to the brim with tears at your words.

"Don't you ever ask me that again."

He continued to stare into your eyes then leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. A surprised squeal left your lips, before those moans he missed took over. His hands found their way to your back and your head which he cradled. With each second you melted into him and against him, he moved closer.

"Can I—"

"Yes." you pulled him down toward you and he briefly smiled against your skin. His hands intertwined with yours but the feeling of twine gave you pause.

"What? What is it?"

"You... you're wearing it." you touched the twine around his finger.

"Of course I'm wearing it. You're my wife."

— Author's Note — I really enjoyed writing this one. Originally, I had a scene where the doctor actually resorts to opium to calm down the princess but that felt too hardcore.

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