#I hated tracing Mr boss

[our-flag-means-yippee]

I had a vision

[gutsby]

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?”

[astayinwonderland]

"After all, you're my wife." | Choi San

pairings: san x f.reader

genre: smut | fluff (if you squint)| +18 minors DNI

this is a mix between a poll and a request by @elfemi

summary: you marry san to make an alliance, and the agreement includes to live separate lives, but both of you seem to want each other (mafia!au)

word count: 3.4k

warnings: dom!san, sub!reader, san calls you his little pet, cursing, degrading, praising, unprotected sex (pls no), cum play, oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, mentions of violence (not towards reader) and drugs -- lmk if I forgot anything

Enjoy! (;

There are two things you have very clear. Your dad is dead and you fucking hate Choi San. Inheriting the position of mafia leader was your birthright, your dad raised you to be that woman. However, not everyone wants to see a woman in such a powerful position, to their misfortune, you were the late mafia boss’s only child. 

When your father fell ill, you knew it was time to get your position as leader and boss secure. That meant allying with someone rich and powerful. You were surprised that all eligible bachelors were too old, too young, or not powerful enough. 

Theo was standing behind you as your eyes scanned the guests your dad’s most trusted assistant invited for a ‘get-together and mingle with the corrupt elite of the country. He had become like an uncle to you, a genuine part of the family. With his kind eyes, but cold demeanor, he is the perfect person to have your back. 

“What about him?” Theo said. 

“Ugh no…” 

“You can’t keep saying no to everyone. Choose or I will choose for you tonight,” your dad finally spoke. Eyes not looking at you. This is not his favourite idea ever, but it was necessary. 

You couldn’t picture yourself with any of these men, but it was your duty. So you tried your best to be somewhat amicable and get to like at least one of them. With your wine glass in hand, you decided to talk to your pursuers. They would throw themselves at your feet, showering with compliments, showing off their riches, and to be honest being completely obnoxious. This is not what you needed. You needed someone who you could make a deal with and live separate lives while keeping the façade of a marriage. 

Shit, this was going to be hard. 

The door opened and at that moment you knew something was off. The entire room fell silent when the man with broad shoulders and shiny black hair walked in. His face was expressionless, with high cheekbones, and not a trace of sympathy. You would think he would come to greet you, that’s the reason why he is there, but he just bows in your direction and walks over to the bar. 

The conversation around you resumed, whispers commented on the politician’s son. His father was a powerful drug lord who controlled one of the borders. No wonder he has so much influence. Your brain made a quick list of pros and cons, and so it seemed Choi San would be the right choice for you. 

___________________________________

San was aware his father was a criminal but when he was pushed to marry you, he did everything he could think of to change his father’s mind. He begged he asked to be sent away, hell, he even asked for physical punishment. But Mr. Choi was a greedy, greedy man, and he saw in you an opportunity to be even greedier, richer, and more powerful. This was truly the perfect alliance. 

Your dad’s body wasn’t ever cold yet when San got the call and the whole marriage circus began to play. At least the ceremony would be short and he would get to move into his room in your mansion and get it over with. San only met you that one time, but he remembered very well how you looked. In one word, terrifying. You would make the perfect fake wife. 

San watched you walk toward him dressed in black, a dress that covered your legs right above the knees but left little to his imagination from the way the cleavage showed off your round and soft breasts. He just politely nodded at you. At the end of the day, there was nothing to celebrate, your dad was dead and he had to pretend to be your loving husband for the rest of his life or until something or someone killed him. 

With no kiss to seal the deal, San just signed the papers and tried to give you a smile, which was awkward. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. 

You returned the smile, less awkwardly, and patted his shoulder. For a split second, San saw something in you, maybe kindness, but that was all forgotten when you two started living together. 

_____________________________________

“Yeah… fuck, don’t fucking stop, don't fucking—” your voice bounces on the walls, you are so close. 

“Ah.. ah!” the deep voice behind you moans as he cums way too soon. 

San closes his eyes across the hallway. Why do you have to be so fucking loud? To be honest, he wishes he could shut you up once and for all. Moving in with you was necessary, he understands that, part of the arranged marriage and your agreement. However, San never imagined how opinionated and bossy you could be. One thing was your role as the new mafia leader, another thing was you ordering him around the house like some unloved pet. 

Tonight, nonetheless, San wouldn’t take that anymore, so he did something unexpected. He left his bedroom and went looking for you. Was he out of his mind? Probably, you specifically instructed to ‘stay the fuck away’ and since your marriage was fake, you could find carnal pleasure with anyone you wanted. 

San walked out of his bedroom. His pajama pants hanging low, his shirt forgotten somewhere in his room. He still wore his reading glasses and his black hair was wet, and slicked back. Your bedroom door abruptly opens and an unfortunate man flies out of your room. He is in his underwear trying to flee the scene grabbing his clothes as your upset persona watches not too far from the door. San’s curious eyes find your figure, and my oh my, what on earth are you wearing? 

If San didn’t know any better he would be jealous of the thin piece of clothing that gets to touch your soft skin. You have no shame as you stand there in front of your husband. The peach, sheer dress dances loosely on your body, however, it shows off your beautiful body. San can see your nipples hardening under such a provocative piece of clothing as his eyes scan even further south to find the core of your intimacy unclothed. 

“Cat got your tongue?” you ask. 

“N-no, I was just… taking a break from reading. I couldn't focus,” he crosses his arms across his chest and something in you wonders how you never paid any close attention to those broad shoulders and itty bitty tiny waist. 

“Was I being too loud? Apologies.” 

“Not at all, I believe you can be louder… with the right encouragement.” 

The audacity. He can’t speak to you like this… he has never done something so daring. Your heart races and a familiar heat travels from your chest down to your legs. 

“Go to your room, San,” you scold him and close the door. 

San rolls his eyes. He has had enough of you bossing him around as if he was your puppy or servant. So on this night, Choi San decided something. He will make you see him for what he is, an important part of your alliance, a capable, fierce man, and your husband. 

______________________________

The days pass and you haven’t seen much of San. You haven’t seen him at all. Is not a surprise not to see him or know of him for a day or two, however, it’s been 9 days since you had your little after-hours encounter. You sit in front of various members of the cartel and trusted members of the mafia your father once led. Theo, your father’s favourite and now your confidant, continues to sit to the right of the boss, you. 

“We are losing territory, it’s like we don’t have enough people from our side…” one protests. 

“The matter is getting resolved. I suspect there is someone infiltrated in one of our negotiations or maybe lines have been tapped–” 

You are cut mid-sentence when the doors are almost torn from their hinges and your husband enters the room. He is agitated, pulling a beaten man by the collar of his crimson-stained shirt, the same crimson colour that decorates San’s knuckles and hands. The stranger is pushed and kicked to your feet, and you almost feel pity for his bruised face. 

“Sorry to drop in unannounced, love,” San starts, leaving that last word resonating in your head. “This little rat here has something to tell us, don’t you?” San walks over to him and pulls him by the root of his hair making his eyes meet yours. “Look at my wife when you speak, scum, or do I need to break the rest of your fingers one by one?” 

And now you see it, his left hand, disfigured, broken bones making his muscles swell under his skin. 

“Speak,” you command. 

“I– I know who’s been feeding information to Viggiano.” 

As soon as you hear the name you stand from your chair and grab his face. 

“You better start talking before you lose your tongue as well,” you look at the disheveled man, then back at San. His eyes have such an intense glare, you’ve never seen him like this. It makes the hairs on your back rise.

“Pl-please no, I–” as the man stutters he keeps looking past you, which makes you turn to see Theo standing right there. The kindness in his eyes was now replaced by threat and fear. 

“No…” a small gasp leaves your lips. 

“You are never going to be the right person to lead, everyone knows–” Theo starts. 

Slap! You can’t believe the speed at which your body moved to hit your so-called uncle across the face. Two of your guards grab him by the arms, waiting for your command, but San is quicker. He bumps the disheveled man’s head with the table, knocking him unconscious. Like a predator to its prey, he walks towards Theo. You don’t see it coming but one punch from San and Theo is coughing blood. 

“That’s enough, San. You can go now.” 

San is in disbelief, but he lets out a deep chuckle that makes you and your company know he is indeed annoyed by your decision. 

“I want his nose and ears cut off, for being a liar and an eavesdrop, send them to Viggiano,” you walk towards the door. “Sleeping beauty over there loses his tongue. I want them both dead by midnight… oh and let this be an example of what happens if you betray your boss,” you finally exit the room, listening to the ‘yes ma’ams’ behind you. 

The night seems to be the longest one you’ve ever lived. This is not the first tough decision you make, but this is the first time someone close betrays you, and it hurts. It hurts bad, so you cry in the loneliness of your room. You curse. You throw things around and you scream. Everyone has been instructed not to bother you, except for one person. 

“May I come in?” San’s voice is soft outside the door. 

“Leave me alone!” 

San enters your room regardless and nothing stops him from getting to you. He holds your wrists. 

“You need to stop bossing me around, I know you are upset but I am not your puppy or your slave.” 

“You disappeared for 9 days and came home with a big surprise. Great! But you mean nothing to me, Choi San, and I mean nothing to you! Just get out before I call the guards.” 

“Nothing to you? Nothing to me!?” he is even more shocked than before and you see in his eyes that look he gave you when you got married but now it is enhanced. It is sympathy. It is agony. It is lust, pain, and love. Deep down you know he means something to you or you would have him dragged out of your room in this very minute. 

You don’t get to answer when San’s lips are already on yours and you find yourself kissing this handsome man back. This handsome man is legally your husband, but you have never kissed before. His lips are hungry and wanting, making you thirst for him as your tongues collide and his needy hands cup your ass. 

“See how lovely it can be when you don’t boss me around and you shut up.” 

Fuck.

The wetness between your legs just grows and you have no words to answer back. His mouth is on your delicate neck, oh he needs to make a work of art here, your skin looks like it could bruise easily. San sucks on various points, his tongue lapping over the marks he leaves behind. Your moaning goes from soft to breathy and impatient. One of your hands reaches under your nightgown and San slaps it away. 

“No, love, you don’t get to relieve yourself until I fucking say so. Now be a good pet and strip for me, would ya?” 

You take off your clothes as fast as you can, pathetic. A week ago, San was just the most annoying housemate, a convenient inconvenience, but now you’re here naked in front of him. His eyes are dark scanning your body, planning how he is going to ruin you, and you are going to let him do as he pleases. 

“On your knees.” 

And you drop to your knees looking up at his adoring face with a wicked smile. He lowers his pants just enough for you to see his cock already leaking for you.

“Such a good pet, would you help me out?” 

You continuously nod and pull his pants further down. His cock is beautiful, perfect, just like him. Slightly curved, just the right thickness, and a bit longer than average. You spit on it and start with your hand, jerking him off, up and down, up and down. Without interrupting the pace you lick his balls and earn the most sensual moan from San’s lips. So you put your mouth to work. You put him between your wet needy lips and push him in, sucking, tasting all of him. San’s breath is heavier when you start bopping your head up and down. He suddenly grabs your hair and takes control, fucking your face and watching you take it. To his eyes, you were already so beautiful, but this is something else.

“See how beautiful you look with your mouth shut, so obedient, now be a good wife and take this cock.” 

You moan at his words, how can they make you so horny when you had no plan of sleeping with him. The vibrations in your throat send San spinning and he is too close to cuming, but not yet. He pulls out of your mouth and helps you up, and with a slap to your ass, he takes you to bed. He signals you to straddle him. You normally don’t like eye contact with your sexual partners but there is something about San that makes it different. 

“Fuck yourself on my cock and I only want to hear how good it feels, okay?” 

You sit on his cock slowly, letting yourself adjust to his length and girth. When you start to bounce on top of him, San has to use all of his willpower not to drill into you like some kind of wild animal, he can do that any other time if you let him. The way you are making him feel is ecstatic. Your tits moving up and down so close to his face he has to suck on them. The feeling of his tongue on your nipples makes you want to cry for pleasure. You let out a high-pitched moan.

“Words, little pet, I wanna hear them– fuck,” San throws his head back as your pace becomes quicker. He slaps your ass, once, twice. 

“I love it, I fucking love it, San… fuck. I like it right there, so fucking perfect. I want you to fucking split me in half,” you just let words out, words derived from the ecstasy of having his cock buried deep inside you. 

And that was the queue for San to let go and fuck you like he wanted. Like you wanted. He now fucks you faster than the pace you set earlier. His hands bruising your hips, the skin-to-skin contact adding even more passion, and his eyes… His eyes on yours making you feel his, making you feel safe, making you feel you can let go and– 

“Fucking shit, I’m gonna cum… fuckfuckfuck!” 

And San holds you while your body trembles and your high makes your brain explode into a thousand little particles of pure lust and sin. Fuck the way your heart races, you can hear it in your ears. He puts you on the bed and your reaction time doesn’t catch up with your brain when your legs are wrapped around his waist and he is entering you. 

“San…” you whisper. 

He stops. He is unsure if this is too much and he is willing to stop. 

“San, San, San…” you keep saying his name like a plead, a prayer to the heavens as your hips move forward. You want more. 

“Bet. No one. Ever. Fucked you. Like. This.” San says between thrusts so deep you can feel him in your cervix. “Look at you all fucked out, my obedient pet, taking my cock so well, wanting to cum again. Is that what you want?” 

You nod desperately, anything for another intense orgasm with him. You only want this with him. His hands touching you, his moans on your ears, his voice commanding you to cum again and again. 

This time San fucks you slower, you can feel every inch of him inside you as you clench around his erection encouraging him to keep going. He grabs your thighs to pull you even closer to him, angling your hips higher making you not say his name, but scream it. 

“Yes, fuck, keep saying my name just like that.” 

So you did as he entered you, ruining you for any other man who dared match him. You were his, the man who saved your life and fucks you into oblivion. Now you were close, so close to your climax and you needed to cum like oxygen itself. 

“You don’t get to cum without me, hold it like the good pet that you are,” he says struggling to make a coherent sentence, he was very close too. 

You try hard not to cum before he does, but looking at him sweaty, chasing his high, fucking you as no one has done before does something to you. Your hands squeeze your tits together while your eyes close, trying to last longer. San could have combusted with that sight alone. 

“Cum– cum now… fuck!” 

The tightness in your belly is now free as you both cum. It is so fucking loud that your head hurts. His seed spills deep inside you and if you felt full before, now it’s even better, your legs feel like gelatin. San gently places them down. You are thinking he will probably leave you to go back to his room but he does the unexpected. 

His thumb is over your extremely sensitive clit and two of his slender fingers push his cum back inside you. You scream closing your legs. He smiles. 

“You need to take it all, love,” that’s it… the dom session is over and he uses that word that makes your heart flutter. 

“I can’t.” 

San licks your clit, tasting the mix of both of your releases. His fingers thrust in slowly, slightly angling up until you squirm under his touch. 

“Ah, right there? You like it there, love?”

“Mmmm-ugh yesfuck…ah–” you babble. 

San continues his tortuous pace until he latches once again his mouth to your clit. You see stars, you don’t know how your body is taking this, it is so fucking good, he is so fucking good. The way he keeps you on edge and makes you want more and more. Fuck, you can’t even think and you feel your body about to orgasm but something is different. 

“San, San… stop. I’m gonna–” and you squirt, drenching him in your juices. 

“That’s a good girl.” He licks your entrance once last time before collapsing beside you, his arms open inviting you to rest on his broad and hard chest. 

“You are not allowed to sleep in the other room anymore. From now on you sleep here, okay?” 

“You’re ordering me around, but I will follow your command. After all, you are my wife,” he hugs you tightly. 

__________________________________

a/n: this is pure ✨fiction✨ —this took me forever but I am in love with this san! reblogs and feedback is greatly appreciated and let me know if you would like to be part of the taglist.

[elfwoodfae]

“No sin, no sinners”.

Bane x reader

NSFW MDNI

When Alfred leaves there’s not enough prayers for how much you ask him to take you with him. Of course he couldn’t do it, and Bruce would never allow it. Even if he had no right over it, over you. A brother who was gone the majority of your life and only when he came back to play villains and hero’s to recluse himself for the better of seven years in a grief. Leaving you once again alone, as lonely as one can get with a living dead under your roof.

There’s no tears left by the time Alfred is gone. No more sorrows as Bruce decides is better to simply go face Bane alone, believing the word of Selena, the words of a woman who would trade him like he meant nothing for the safety of a false promise; and Bruce, in his anger his bitterness had accepted it, gone and left you, left you alone, his ego and cockiness probing to be fatal when he was taken down, when he leaves you behind, alone in the manor. No doubt Talia had already given Bane and his men the location of the house, the location of where you were.

It comes as no surprise when they break into the house. His men rough and menacing, grabbing you as they find you, no time to hide, no time to react as they grab you. One hand on your arm the other on your head as one of them, a man with blue eyes and a stubble, grabs you, pushing your head on the nearest table. A grunt of protest escaping your lips as you try to kick back in vain, the man lifts his radio to his mouth, a quick “we got her” is all he says before it all goes dark.

Most of his life had proven to be mistake after mistake brought on by a life of high egos and hard heads. Mistakes that he came to recognize now, as Bane holds him over his body, his knee about to collide with his back as his last words finally sink in. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your sister.”

Your head is fuzzy, throbbing, all around you is dark, the room is hot, and as much as you try to make sense barely anything seems familiar. The man standing by your feet looks down at you as you move, turning around as he speaks. “She is awake boss” he says, your eyes following the trace of his as they land on the figure crouching down on the floor. His back is the first thing you notice, big, wide, and imposing. A scar that looks deep runs from his neck to under the seam of his pants. He needs no introduction, you are more than sure of who he is. Bane. Bruce had rambled on about him, he had taken his strength for granted and it had costed him everything.

“I told Mr. Wayne you would be my most honored guest. And I intend to keep in my word.” He says, his index finger pointing at me, the tone of his voice, it borderlines in sarcasm and the resonance of it due to the mask only amplifies the figure he presents. He knows who Batman is, that much is clear, as to what he will do with you is still a mystery, a game he will play until he becomes bore and goes to find a new toy.

Your eyes look up and down his body, his mask, your breathes coming in harsh puffs of air. “You are not scare of me” he states, although it sounds more like a question but you both know there’s no questions when it comes to him. “Good, it will make this all the more easier” He says, tilting his head and joining his hands together before he crouches down in front of you, his hand moving to your face, low in your jaw and for a brief of a second you are sure this is how you die. But nothing comes, he just takes a good look at you before telling one of his goons to lock you in one of the rooms down there and keep an eye on you at all times. In a sense it could be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t such a different character. He had kept good on his promise, none of his men had so much as to lay a finger on you, they kept you fed, they kept you clean and with enough dignity to not try to throw yourself off one of the multiple bridges in here.

Bane didn’t show up often, you ever barely saw him, barely ever heard of him. This men as brave and cuntless as they claimed to be were still as brute as they came when it came to basic things. Basic things like hygiene, like cooking, like healing wounds. Their organization system down here was a mess, and food came only when they remembered to eat.

It doesn’t take long for chaos to begin, there’s always someone, always a loose end you need to dispose of. All it took was one mistake. Getting out of the room you were locked in to go to the bathroom, the only one around, Bane had made sure out of the kindness of his heart that none of his men would go near you while you cleaned yourself. But there’s always one, one that doesn’t listen, one that tries to play it. The man approached you, he had been the one in charge of watching over you for the day, his eyes raking over your body, his hands lingering on your arm as he guided you towards the bathroom. It didn’t take long for him to try something, to try to grab you. A kick to his groin he didn’t expect bought you enough time to run, to run as fast you could until another of the goons stopped you, taking you directly to Bane, your disobedience wouldn’t go unpunished.

“Why are you here?” Bane asks, turning his head around slightly, his eyes on you. “Answer little bitch” the man barks, his foot pushing onto your back, a grunt escaping your lips as your body jerks forward. “I wasn’t asking her” Bane tells him, his tone ice cold, gripping the man by his neck before he speaks.

“Boss” he begins to say before the forceful push of fingers against his skin makes him go quiet.

“Why were you running Miss Wayne?” Bane asks, the tittle mocking on his tone. You don’t reply, your eyes cast towards the floor, looking at his booth, suddenly too interested in the shade of black they are.

“I asked you a question little one… did the cat got your tongue or should I get it myself?” He asks, the cracking of his voice through the mask feels like thunder in the air. Swallowing before finally looking up at him, meeting his eyes before you speak, a part of you sure he will have your tongue either way.

“One of the man tried to grope me.” His eyes don’t change expression at your words but his head nods along, as if he was really interested in your opinion. “Which one?” Is all he says, his hand still around the goons neck, it doesn’t seem to even cost him a breath to hold a man up in the air.

“I don’t know… he was at my door this morning.” You say, trying to recall anything to give away his identity. But Bane knows who, dropping the man on the floor and grabbing your arm to lift you up, dragging you along with him as he walks back to the hall where the rest of his mercenaries are, awaiting for what they think will be punishment for you.

“Brothers” the crackling noise of his voice breaks through the noise, his hands intertwining in front of him as he speaks. “This is my guest, we wouldn’t want her to think of us as savages now” he says, turning to you as he speaks, there’s a tension in the air, his words may seem measured and calm but there’s the underline of a promise there. “Come forward boy, let me see the hands she complained about” he says, the man who had tried to touch you moving up front, a slight fear in his eyes as he looks up at Bane. “You will be the perfect example. Now since you are so eager to be noticed.” Bane speaks, looking at the man, his eyes twisting slightly, a rage inside that seems to always be brewing.

“cut off his hands, let it be a lesson for all of you.” He says, turning around, the man protest, tries to plea but you find yourself looking away, the sound of a blade through skin and bone making your ears ring, your blood rushing cold. They knew now, not to touch you, not to look your way, you were Bane’s property, for whatever use that may had been it was common knowledge for everyone but you.

“There was no need..” you begin to say when he halts to a stop, your body almost colliding with the impossible expand of his back as he turns around, a head or two taller than you. “Would you rather I let them all touch you then?” He asks, there’s a borderline note of sarcasm in his words, the edge of a joke that never comes out but only a fool would know better than to ever disobey what he says.

Your eyes cast down, looking at the floor, he is right, he always is, in way, in this madness, he is the boss, the alpha, and if there’s one thing you know for certain is that no one here will touch what’s his. It isn’t much of a choice really. Bruce is gone, he left you, and as much of grief you want to give him there’s simply no more left, not when he has left you one too many times before, when you have already grieved him one too many times before. Seems in the end he was always the fastest of you both.

“What will you do with me?” You ask, words that leave you before you can measure the repercussions of asking him. The beat of your heart too loud in your ears. You need to know, need to find out what he has plan for you before you loose what’s left of your sanity, and if there’s no use for you, then you must make one, find one before he decides to throw you like a bone for his dogs to eat. The choices are few but they are clear, Bruce left you to his mercy, but maybe it will be what saves you in the end.

He simply looks at you, his head turning to side eye you, there’s in reality no use to your existence other than of torturing what was left of the Batman, you have nothing to offer him, nothing he can think of, but maybe that is the problem, he can’t think of anything, because his mind has been clouded lately, has been on the edge of a knife. He knows, he knows how Talia thinks, how she acts, he knows by now she didn’t take any consideration into his feelings when she accepted Wayne’s offer, when she so smoothly leaned into his bed. Her point had been to hurt Wayne but in the end, the betrayal had tasted bitter in his tongue, she was all he had for certain, all he had ever needed. But that was the funny thing of love. It was only him loving her, feeding himself off the promise of her touch for far too long, a touch she gave to keep him in control, a wild animal on a cage is still just as wild, if only ever more dangerous.

Bane leans down on his desk, one of his hands lift to signal something and one of his man comes to move you, get you out of his sight. It wouldn’t do you good to irritate him. The walk to the room is quiet, but you notice none of the man even lift his eyes to look your way. The lesson was taught.

A sigh escapes your lips as the door behind you closes, the room feels slightly cold, it smells of humidity, but all in all it could be worse. There’s a bed with enough blankets to not be cold, and at least there’s light. It’s better than sleeping in between all the mercenaries as you have seen them do. It’s torturous, maddening, to be locked in this place with nothing to do, no hope to even escape with how tight he runs this place. And certainly no hero to come rescue you, perhaps this time there won’t be salvation, but if you must live in this hell you will make sure is the devil who protects you, there weren’t virgins in hell for a reason, they all needed to give up something to be saved.

The closest to freedom you will ever get will come from how far he lets off your leash, and Bane doesn’t seem the kind to let his animals run wild. You only need a chance, a moment, let him find the use in you, let him find a purpose to keep you here. He is a man after all, and there’s only one thing that can make a man grow weak, even if none will admit it.

Opportunities don’t arise in a place like this, and so you must create them yourself. Opening the door to your room the guard informs you is time to bathe, grabbing the one towel you have been given you make your way to the common bathroom. It’s disgusting, dirty and beyond repugnant but it’s better than nothing. You have been wearing the same clothes for days, weeks even; turning around before you enter the bathroom your head turns to the man, fingers crossed and a silent prayer that this action will set in motion a bigger way for you.

“could you ask Bane for clothes? I cannot keep wearing the same ones over and over”

“You are always free to walk around naked sweetheart” the man smirks, clearly not taking you seriously. “Maybe we should ask Bane what he thinks of the idea, I know he will be thrilled to know what his men are suggesting” you speak, a calm victory when the man’s smirk drops off his face, if the hand incident had taught them anything it was not to mess with what Bane was keeping safe. “Will you ask him or would you rather I walk to his office, naked, as you suggested and see what he thinks about it?” You ask, a condescending tone to your voice.

You aren’t sure what you would prefer, if the clothes or the nakedness, the second one would make this all the more easier.

The man speaks on the radio, his voice echoing to Bane my request, and you know you have won when he rolls his eyes as he speaks “Boss says to take you to his office, let’s go” he begins walking, making sure you are moving in front of him, the end of his gun always within reach of your back.

Two knocks come from the man before he is told to come in, pushing you in slightly as he stays outside, sending you into the mouth of the wolf.

“I hear the little bird is complaining” His metallic voice reaches your ears, his hands on the table as he looks over some papers.

“I can’t keep wearing this same clothes over again” you say, the tone of your voice slightly shaking until you find your footing. How bad could it be, how bad of a person would it make you, desperation was a funny thing when your life hanged by a threat.

His eyes move to you, and before he can speak your words cut through him, “I could always parade myself naked around, I don’t think your men would mind although some of them may loose more hands.” There’s a confidence in your voice that only fear can bring out. His eyes move to your face, staying there as he studies you. He is well aware you aren’t bluffing, he sits back down on his chair, his hands resting on his desk, fingers intertwined. “I didn’t think the little bird had it in her to make demands, not that she is in a position to place them” he speaks, calm, collected.

Your hands are sweating, your heart has either stopped beating or is beating so hard you can no longer feel it.

He gets up, walking around his desk, heavy footsteps resonating in the room, the hand at the front of his desk moving to grip your chin, gripping it tight, forcing your face to look up at him. “There’s no free entrance at this circus little one, you have to find a way to pay or you are out” He says, and you know in his words he means that even if he has you alive for a reason, he could easily throw you aside, find a darker future for you. Your eyes remain fixed on his, there’s a burning hatred festering behind them, a festering need to hurt that you can’t seem to place or hold. His hand moves, from your chin, slightly making their way over your jaw, resting on your cheek, his thumb settling under your bottom lip. He is testing, seeing how far you will allow, even when you both know he has all the power here.

Is this truly what you have come to be? What has come to be of you? The whore of a criminal, but who was anyone to judge you, if it meant staying alive, if it meant keeping some of the sanity you were slowly loosing.

When you don’t move, don’t flinch away or avert your eyes from him, he takes it as his sign, the sign to see just how much advantage he can have, how deep could the wound he wants to inflict be. An eye for an eye. Bruce had Talia, now he would have you. The way he could taste the sweet pain it would cause you. His hand moves softly, the feel of his callous fingers on your cheeks make something akin to tears gather in your eyes that he gracefully ignores. His hand moves to the side of your face, a perfect placement between your neck and the bottom of your head, and he pushes down, his other hand moving to the belt of his pants. You aren’t stupid, you know what he wants, what he is asking of you, and you know there’s a way out, refuse him and he will leave you alone, lock in that room where you won’t see another day. He pushes you lower until your knees hit the floor, his hand unbuttoning his pants, pulling himself out of his underwear, leaving it resting against the black cargo pants he is wearing as his hand moves to the opposite side of your head, both of his hands engulfing your head, a silent thread, that if you so much as to try anything he will undoubtedly break your neck. And you don’t doubt it, you don’t doubt he wouldn’t even consider it twice before snapping you in two.

Your eyes move to his, not out of obedience but out of silent permission to take him in your hand, he looks at you, expectantly, guiding your head slowly, his thumb moving under your bottom lip to feel as you open your mouth. Your hand moves to grip him, semi hard, the foreskin hiding the bead of precum already at the tip, thicker than you thought but what could you expect for a man his size. You are terrified, terrified of not liking it, of gagging, of not being able to handle the taste. God knows when he took a shower last.

It comes as a surprise when you finally wrap him around your hand and put your lips to him, it’s not exactly flowers and candy but it isn’t as displeasing as you thought it would be. Slightly salty, a little tart as you push with your hand his foreskin slightly back to push your tongue under him, cushioning him as you took him further into your mouth, the cracking sound of his breathing coming through the mask, the rhythm of it changed. His eyes don’t leave yours, his chest rises and falls as you look up at him, shifting on your knees slightly to get more comfortable. He urges your head forward when he decides you are taking too long to do it yourself, pushing all the way in until his head hits the back of your throat, a grunt escaping him as he throws his head back slightly. You can feel him growing in your mouth, stretching your lips around him as he pushes further down, and it takes all of you not to gag, your hand moving to his thigh, the muscle taunt.

You move your head back, letting the tip come to your lips before continuing down until all of him is sheltered in your throat, tears and gag be damned, everything be damned when his neck looks so big and his veins pop so deliciously. You can feel the pulse of his cock, the underside of it protuberant with veins, now that he is fully hard you can feel the way it curves to the side, pushing into your cheek. His stomach heaves with every breath he takes, a visible vein traveling from the low cut of his hips to the inside of his vest. Your mouth keeps moving, taking every detail of him you can. There’s a low growing sensation rising from your core, a wetness forming between your legs, and it’s not precisely out of want but out of the power trip it gives you to have such a powerful man rocking his hips into your mouth, the soft hairs at the base of his crotch caressing your nose.

Your hands move higher on his legs, moving to his hips, exposed by his pants, your nails softly tickling his skin and a broken grunt escapes him through the mask, his hands squeezing agonizingly hard at your head, pushing you to move faster, he can feel himself growing hotter, the tingling sensation in his lower back warning him, the tightening of his balls as he grunts, sloppily guiding your head now, controlling how much and how deep you drag him as he grunts, beginning to come inside of your mouth, pushing your head all the way until you feel his pelvis at your nose as he keeps pushing, making sure you take all of it, you swallow all of him. His fingers involuntarily had started to knead at your scalp, stopping and pulling you off of him roughly by your hair. He can see the shine of saliva and his cum in your lips as you stare at him, waiting, expecting to know if you passed the imaginary test.

He moves his hands from you, slight out of breath to he speaks, putting himself back into his pants.

“Clean yourself, you will have some clothes tomorrow.”

Somehow the dynamic changes, your meals get delivered in better timing, your showers are slightly longer, and from time to time one of his goons come to get you, to take you to his office where you spend the next couple of minutes praying on your knees. Never getting anything in return, not physical at least but you are okay with that, or so you tell yourself; until you find it hard, hard to focus, to concentrate, every time you shower your mind starts to slip, to think of him, of his callous hands. Your mind plays tricks on you, everytime he is inside your mouth wondering if maybe today is the day he will give something in return, that perhaps if you do it extra nice he will reward you. How indeed the roles have twisted. It must be the weeks piling up in solitude down here.

You don’t see him for nearly a week, a week where you eat, shower, sleep and repeat. Not so much of a word from the goon at your door, not that you would ask him anyways, but you have to wonder if it’s that he found another entertainment or that he simply lost interest. It’s neither or, he is simply too busy, the expansion of his plan moving forward, his men hard at work, Gotham is slowly falling into his hands, into despair. So it comes as a surprise to you when you are awaken in the middle of the night. One of his men opening the door, barging in to get you. Hauling you off the bed before making you walk barefoot through the hallways, shirt you use to sleep in hanging off your shoulder, sleep in clear in your face as you make your way to a place you have never been before, a door that you know for a fact isn’t his office. Two knocks rasp against the door before his voice comes through, the metallic sound of it sending chills down your spine as the man opens the door and pushes you in.

It’s his room you realize, looking around, it’s cold, dark and empty. Only a bed, big enough to fit him, a desk and a chair. A door is adjacent to it, a bathroom you presume, but what catches your attention is the man sitting at the foot of the bed. His pants the only thing on his body beside his mask. He is looking down onto the floor, his knees parted and his hands on each of them, waiting for your place in between them. It’s a silent transaction this time, he doesn’t speak, barely breathes as you kneel down, waiting for the permission his eyes give you before opening his pants. He is too quiet, so calm that something must be very wrong. He doesn’t usually call for you at night, even less in the middle of it and you know better than to ask him. Swallowing softly as you begin to work, to lick him, suck him, anything to take the frown off his face. But he doesn’t even seem to be enjoying it. His hand moves to your hair, pulling you off of him, your eyebrows kneading together in a silent question, but he doesn’t say anything, simply pulling you to him, your body in between his legs, one of his hands in your lower back, a sight that sounds too tired leaving his mask. “Lay down” is all he says, and a small fear settles in your bones, this isn’t how you want him to do it, this isn’t what you thought about.

But you know better than to ask, simply laying down on the bed, watching as he puts himself back into his pants, moving over to the door that leads to the bathroom. He returns not long after, mask still on his face, his pants still on, but he removes his boots, laying down on the bed, next to you, he doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even look your way but you understand, to a certain level that maybe this is the closest to affection he has ever received, even if he has to force it out of you. Turning to your side you close your eyes, it feels tense, the air slightly charged of an unknown feeling you don’t feel ready to disclose, words you want to speak but your mouth refuses to ask. Sleep soon claims you, taking you down as he looks at you, looks over your sleeping form, taking the details on your face. You would never know this, not that you would ask and he certainly wouldn’t tell you, but that night, along with what’s left of his humanity, he had lost part of the sanity he had left; she was never going to take him with her, she was ready to let him die, to leave him behind when the bomb detonated, Talia never meant to take him, it had all been a game she played, of soft words and night shared, she only needed him to build this empire of chaos for her, never planing to allow him to live it by her.

He falls asleep to festering thoughts of murder and chaos, of hurt and betrayal. But the dreams do not appear that night, the nightmares, the pit, the woman and the child, those ghosts of the past don’t visit him tonight. The only thing he can feel his the soft way you breathe, the way you smell, the warmth of your body, it makes him wish you were to never leave his bed, to never leave his room. He wants to lock you in, to keep you here where you can never betray him, where no matter what he knows he will always have you. A simple dream, an innocent one that men like him won’t ever be allowed. He wants to touch you, he craves it every time your body is between his legs, down on your knees, but he doesn’t deserve it, you didn’t belong to the darkness, you didn’t belong to the pain he knew his world brought, but still, he is selfish, selfish enough to keep you, but the one thing he won’t allow himself is to touch you, to erase Talia’s touch out of his body, even if to her he was simply a means to an end. But he knows deep down, somewhere on what’s left of his sanity, of his heart, there shouldn’t be sinners in a house of God, the way his hands shouldn’t be allowed to worship your body.

Awakening in his bed had been confusing, it smelled of him, sweat and aftershave. Looking around you sit up, noticing that he is gone, the room is empty, but there’s a tray of food in the desk and you can see your things around his room, your shoes, the few items of clothes you had, all located somewhere within this room.

Moving out of the bed you slowly make your way to the bathroom, cleaner than the common one, few items of clothing thrown around the floor, a few personal objects around the sink. There’s an extra toothbrush, and soap, frowning you realize is the one you had back in your room, the one he had given you when he brought you down here.

There’s a slight tremor to your movements as you open the door, peaking your head outside to find one of his men there, “Why… why are my things in here?” You ask, as if he would know the answer, but he simply shakes his head, asking through the radio something before answering you. “You are moving to this room.” He says matter of factly, moving to Banes room with him you assume, because otherwise it wouldn’t make any sense. Nodding your head you move back inside the room, looking around, he has few books, barely any but one of them calls your attention, enough to distract you, it was better than the nothingness you had before.

Bane doesn’t go to the room during the day, until very late at night. You don’t actually see him and not that you would complain, but there’s a certain warmth, a certain feeling that wraps around your body when the occasion occurs, when you wake up so late into the night the sunrise could be close by and you feel him, next to you, his arm next to your body, almost touching you, but the clear weight of his body on the bed is present next to you. The feel of him, warm, his breathing soft and for those seconds some resemblance of safety, of normality comes over you.

Strangely enough he hasn’t asked for you anymore, either too busy with his plans or simply not needing it, or receiving it from someone else, your mind tells you, unlikely but always a possibility. It makes a slow bitter taste simmer deep in your stomach, he isn’t yours by any means, and is not as if you want him to be, but the idea of someone else seeing him as you did brings festering feelings you don’t want to dwell on. It must be the entrapment, the claustrophobic nature of being in the same place for weeks on end, what is making your sanity escape out the door, what is making you miss him, crave the affection even as slim as it was. His threatening touches feeling like a feast when you have been starved of affection for so long.

The soft sound of water awakes you, the room dark except for the soft caress of yellow coming off the semi open bathroom door. Then you hear it, water running from the faucet most likely, and the sound of someone spitting reaches your ears. Spitting. Spitting. Spitting off their mouth. Bane can’t spit, unless….

Unless his mask was off, his mask, he had taken it off. It’s a realization that shouldn’t make your stomach burn in nerves and your toes go numb. Trying to regulate your breathing as to not give away you have awaken but in the end is unlike you will fall back asleep now. It smells slightly of soap, of water, a humidity in the air that gives away he must have taken a shower. And it makes all kind of thoughts run through your head. His footsteps approach the bed as he turns off the light in the bathroom, your cue to close your eyes again.

“I know you are awake little birdie.” He says, his voice sounds soft, unfiltered, his words slightly slurred, slightly mingled.

Swallowing you open your eyes, the room is so dark it makes no difference. Turning around you try to figure out where he is standing but it’s in vain; “does it hurt?” You ask him softly, your voice heavy with sleep. “To have it off I mean” you clarify, but he knows exactly what you had meant.

“It does,” he says, calm, softly, it’s the most the two of you have talked in weeks. Moving around in the bed, feeling your way around with your hand to try and find the edge, you kneel, getting up to try and reach his height.

“You are quiet tonight.” It’s the closest attempt to a joke you can make, out of place, with no humor but this is the first time you have seen him in weeks and you don’t want to let him slip through your fingers for god knows how long again.

“Is the lack of entertainment a complain you want to place?” He asks, the note of sarcasm his mask provides is gone, the electric feeling he gives disappears, leaving behind the dry air of his words. You shake your head, aware that he can’t see you but it felt almost natural to do so. “A man could think that you miss him.” He says, and you can feel his eyes looking at you, searching your face, the darkness will never be an impediment for him.

“Can I touch you?” Your words are soft, your breath warm agains his chest, your hand already half way in the air, moving slow enough to give him time to stop you if he wants. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch when your hand makes contact with his face, touching his cheek, your fingers slotting perfectly around his jaw. The skin feels rough, bumpy, like ragged scars that never fully healed. Your thumb moves, moving to his chin, finding soft broken lips, full and lumpy, and he swallows when the pad of your finger finds his bottom lip, caressing the marred flesh, the nerves under his skin crying in protest.

“Careful” he barks out, not loud enough to startle you but enough to give you a warning.

“Go back to sleep little bird.” He commands, grabbing your wrist, removing your hand from his face, turning around to get his mask and once again securing it over his face, the hum of his breathing audible in the air.

He begins to move towards the bed, and you move away, moving to your side of it, laying on your side, the bed dipping slightly when he lays down on it. He stays quiet, you don’t know if he is awake but you won’t check either, but as for you, you remain alert, all through the night, your fingers itch and your mind won’t quiet down. All of your thoughts are consumed by him.

His mood isn’t the best since the day started, and it for sure soured now that Talia walked in his makeshift office. His eyes drop at her presence, disdain and some measure of pain tantalizing his mind. But he knows, he knows deep down he could never lay a finger on her, not even if she threw him out the board like he meant nothing.

“I will be taking the girl with me, I have plans for her” she says, and he knows she means plans to make her an example, to display her corpse or worse, when he doesn’t reply right away, like a good dog on a leash her eyebrows frown in his direction. Suspicion crawling into her mind.

“I am afraid that is not happening.” His tone is cold, colder that she has ever heard him speak to her. It makes the nerves on her stomach twist, the cruel realization that she is loosing her grip on him settling in her bones.

“You are giving her to me, she is part of our plan, our fire, my love we need to destroy all the loose ends.” She tries, softening her words, her eyes soft, her hands moving to his over his desk, but his fingers don’t even flinch, they don’t grab hers to hold them as they used to. She is slowly but surely loosing him.

“You are not taking her. I have business to attend, you better take your leave.” It shocks her, makes her blood run cold. Her protector, her safety, leaving her behind, she has lost the ability to use him to her every whim and desire.

She leaves, anger coursing through her, a pain she hasn’t expected settles in her chest. She leaves the hideout, and she knows better than betray him, than to do anything stupid now, he is rabid, and pained, an unpredictable dog that could end up costing her everything.

He sits back on his chair, hands over his head, his fingers intertwined. A deep sigh leaving his mask, he has come to realize the pain of Talia’s betrayal has dulled to a calm numbing sensation. Your words from the other night coming back to his mind, your hands on his face. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched his bare face, since anyone has felt his skin. It sends a chill down his spine to think of you, to think of how you came to him, how slowly that fear you harbored for him has transformed into something else, into a feeling he doesn’t dare put even near close to caring. He would never deserve to touch you, to feel the softness of your body, the warmth it could provide him.

It makes him numb, it makes him worried, worried that your presence has become a testament of his sanity. If he were to ever loose control of your company, it would send him into a spiral he isn’t ready to discuss yet.

He returns to the room late at night, tired, his body aches and his head throbs. He removes his mask, he needs air, real air. Making his way to the bathroom he looks over at you. He knows you are awake as soon as he enters the room again, even in the darkness he can feel your breathing. You were waiting for him, a softness to your voice as you speak.

“Bane?” It’s the first time you have said his name, your voice soft, a whisper. He wants to pull away, to simply stop your hand from reaching him but it’s too late, the soft caress on his skin is like electrical shock through his system.

“Little bird…” he tries to warn you, his voice tired, rough, a pain in it only those who have had nothing can understand.

Your hand moves lower, tracing the shape of his neck, your fingers meeting the dip of his collarbones, your eyes never leaving his. His throat swells around a swallow, your hands tracing soft patterns over his chest, his shirt long forgotten. Your other hand settles on his cheek, your face moving towards his, slowly, giving him time to retract if he wants to, but he doesn’t, he allows your closeness, your nose caressing his and the soft breath that escapes him when your lips meet his bumpy ones is not lost to you. For such a powerful man he is sure as heavens falling apart in your arms.

His kiss is soft, shy almost, his lips unsure of how to move and it dwells on you that perhaps he hasn’t been kissed many times before. Your body presses against his, his hand moving painfully slow to your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt, like he is scare he will hurt you. Your lips open slightly, your tongue tracing his bottom one, waiting for him to allow you in; the hot soft muscle meets yours, his kiss is slow, sensual even, the way his tongue shyly pulls you into his mouth, like a trap in which at any moment he will snap his teeth and bite you. But it doesn’t happen, he simply kisses you, he kisses you like a man who has been starved of water for too long. He lets you undress him, he lets you feel him, he allows you to tear him open, skin to bone, taking all the slow pieces of him, destroying him until he is nothing in your hands, and only then, he feels at home.

When your hand move to the button of his pants a low growl escapes his lips. You pull him towards you, crawling backwards on the bed and bringing his body down with you. His arms cage in your face, your hands working to open his pants. It’s a silent exchange, words are not needed, not when his eyes speak so loud. His hands move under your shirt, feeling the skin of your stomach, finding their path forward towards your breast, squeezing the flesh, a groan escapes him, and he isn’t prepared for how delicious you would feel in his hands. Wiggling his hips to help you put his pants down, taking his underwear down with them. His lips find your neck, soft kisses and nips marking your skin, his hand moving to remove your shirt, the need to feel your skin against his overwhelming his senses. He moves away from you simply to remove his pants completely. Moving over you again, this time completely naked as his hands move over your thighs, gripping the edge of your underwear and pulling it down, his eyes trained on the treasure he finds there, his pupils dilating when he sees the shine of your wetness for him.

He moves over you again, his hands holding your leg, the muscles of your thigh burning as he makes space for his hips in between your legs. His thumb moves over the skin under your navel, before moving lower, the pad of it softly grazing over you, feeling how moist and hot it is. Your hand moves next to your face, your finger catching in between your lips as you look at his hand moving over you, your eyes half lidded as he teases your clit, tracing a line up and down over it with his finger.

A whimper escapes you, your eyes closing when his pointer finger enters you, a groan escaping his lips when he feels the tightness inside of you.

“This is what you do little bird, you rip open what’s left of my sanity.” He growls, his middle finger joining the other inside, opening them in a scissoring motion as your back arches slightly.

For how gentle he is being he is awfully impatient, the vein on his neck prominent as he moves over you better, his eyes moving to your face, he doesn’t want to miss any of your facial expressions as he grabs himself with his other hand, opening his fingers once again inside of you before he pushes them down, stretching you open, pushing himself inside of you at the same time that his fingers remain buried in your heat. A cry leaves your lips as he begins to settle in, the burn of the stretch is a maddening threat between pleasure and pain, your hand flying to his forearm as he keeps pushing in, only stopping when he is settled completely in. He loves the way your face breaks, how your eyebrows are furrowed. He moves his fingers out of you, leaning over you completely as his hand holds your face, the other moving over your head and his lips collide with yours as his hips begin to move, hard and deep, he takes himself all the way to the tip before slamming in again, and the weight of him over you feels suffocating, his hand moving down your back, until he finds the curve of your lower back, his hands gripping the skin there, drawing you to him, deepening himself as much as he can into you.

It’s a pleasure he hadn’t experienced before, the soft cries and quiet touches, how your face breaks and you put your hands over his shoulders, how he can basically feel himself so deep inside of you he swears he can feel your heartbeat every time he thrust deep into you. It’s nothing like he has done before, with Talia it had always been fast and hard movements, no soft touches, no kisses, no cries of pleasure. It makes him feel like he has missed the point of living until he stumbled upon you.

“Light in my eyes…” he murmurs as you writhe absolutely wrecked under him. His lips on your neck, on your cheek, on your mouth, claiming you in a possessive kiss that threatens to break you apart.

His hand moves down your stomach, his fingers trapping your clit between them as he pinches it, a cry escaping you as he massages it, playing with it, feeling how you squeeze him, how you tighten around him.

“D…don’t stop… gods don’t stop” you beg him, feeling the coiling sensation rising inside of you, the warmth threatening to spill and take you over the edge.

Bane’s eyes never leave your face, a growl adorning his lips as his fingers move, the muscles in his arm taunt and his hips relentlessly connect to yours. He feels it, how you squeeze him, how your body swallows him in and refuses to let him go, your back arching off the bed as you come apart in his arms.

His hips keep moving, his pace faster. He hides his face in your neck, his arms tightening around you as he moves, sloppier, his mouth opening in a silent cry when the feeling in his lower back snaps, the pleasure coursing through his veins as he begins to come, your hand reach for the back of his neck, holding him, afraid he may disappear; his hips slow down, his movements uneven as he comes back from the high of his orgasm.

He holds you, not moving at all from you, not even letting you get up, it’s like a new vice he discovered, a new drug he can’t let go of his system anymore. You are the venom that curses through his veins, that alleviates his pain, the only thing in this world he refuses to let go off now. It doesn’t matter what happens with Gotham or the future, wherever he goes he will take you with him, it doesn’t matter to him if he has to tear cities apart to keep you by his side, even if he has to threaten the whole world just so you stay. It’s a shame, a tragedy. The moment his eyes fly open and the realization dawns upon him, a fragment of his broken mind. A hope to have some light in the dark, and maybe, if life was to ever be kind to him, someday he will have you willingly giving yourself to him.

[obsessedhoneycomb]

Mr. Russell

George Russell x fem!reader

Summary: when you’re digging into secrets of dangerous people, you might get burned or…

Warning: this is pure filth, SMUT, 18+, cursing, spanking, reader being tied up, maybe dark theme?, unprotected sex, mafia!George, no use of Y/N

A/N: I am sick this week and laying bored in my bed made me wrote this. I hope you enjoy it!

My mind couldn’t wrap around the fact that I woke up tied to the bed, in the bedroom I have no recollection of getting into, completely naked.

“I see, you’re awake, darling.”

The voice of a man was heard beside me. Laying on my stomach with my head towards the direction of the window it was very hard to turn to that voice, but I tried my best. It was George. George Russell. The mafia boss everybody warned me about. And I didn’t listen.

“Tsk, tsk. You were a very bad girl. Poking into secrets that you know nothing about. You should’ve been careful. But.. you were so goddamn curious, weren’t you? So, I thought that you’d be happy to experience some of that secrets for yourself.”

My mouth was dry, I swallowed hard as I listened to him. Working as an investigative reporter, it was my job to look through some cases to make my articles interesting. There were some rumours, that Russell had his own sex club, and that alone wasn’t so bad, but also drugs were involved along with some torture and violence, leading to deaths of clients and sometimes even of the “employees”.

Reels of my thoughts was interrupted by his hand on my cheek, caressing it lightly, tracing gently along my jaw.

“Speechless now, huh? You know, I can make you talk.”

“No, no, I’m gonna talk, just don’t, please.”

My voice sounded desperate and hopeless, exactly what he wanted. Trying to move my hands, the restrains dug more into the delicate flesh of mine, the soft whimper leaving my mouth.

George chuckled, when he got up from the bed, walking around it to stand right behind me. I couldn’t see much, but I bet that he liked what he was looking at. Next thing I know was his hands slipping under my stomach, pulling me upwards by my hips.

“Ass up, darling. You’re a sight for sore eyes. This is how you should be - naked, desperate and completely at my mercy. But no, you’d rather dig into shit to get informations for your stupid articles about me.”

“G-George, I-“

“For you, I’m Mr. Russell.”

And with that he slapped my ass. Hard.

“Fuck… Mr. Russell.” Choked whimper escaped my mouth as I was shocked, what just happened.

“That’s my good girl.”

His hands caressed the flesh of my ass, squeezing it and massaging it. My face was flushed with embarrassment, because, believe it or not, I liked that. A lot.

“You wanted to say something, darling? I interrupted you.” He spoke so casually, like this whole situation wasn’t even happening.

“I wanted to say, that- that I never intended to interrupt your business. I didn’t want that informations for articles, it was just my own curiosity.”

“And I am supposed to believe you, huh? Because I can’t, sweetheart. I saw the drafts you wrote.”

“But-“

Another slap across my ass. This time I felt the tingling and my toes on my feet curled from it as I bit into my lip to suppress a moan.

“You’re a fucking liar, darling. And I hate liars.”

I wasn’t able to say something else, because he spanked my ass for another five times. Delicate flesh of my behind stung and surely was red, his hands marked deeply into my skin. I was panting, tears burning in my eyes, because it fucking hurt. My body, on the other hand, had its own way to betray me.

“Ah, darling, you’re a naughty girl. Look how wet you got just from a little spanking session. We’re gonna have a lot of fun together. Unfortunately, I think that you’re not gonna get back to your usual job. Maybe I will keep you as my fucktoy from now on.”

I wanted to protest, but he was always a step ahead of me, his fingers now teasing my leaking pussy. That made me shut up instantly. Just as his fingertips traced the way to my sensitive bundle of nerves, I moaned softly and I knew it made him smile.

“Mmm… I can’t wait to claim you. You make me unbelievably hard, baby. Consider yourself special, it’s not happening often, because I’m not quite impressed by anybody.”

His voice was laced with lust and desire, it was like a music for my ears, getting straight to my core, to clench around nothing, craving him, aching for his cock to fill me.

“Please…”

“Please what, darling? Use your words. Tell me, what you want.”

Embarrassed by my neediness, I buried my head into the pillow, feeling the tension in my shoulders from the way I was tied up to the headboard.

Humming in disapproval, his fingers slid through my soaked folds, poking at the entrance, my back arching from the sensation.

“You need to say it, baby. Without that, I’m just gonna tease you to the oblivion. I can do that all night.”

Now I could feel his breath fanning over my aching core, my arms pushing against the restraints.

“I want you to eat my pussy, George, fuck, please. Please!”

I let out a loud plea, begging him to taste my arousal, to relieve the tension in my lower belly.

He just tsked at my desperate attempt, his fingers smearing my wetness across my ass cheek.

“You forgot about something. I thought I made that clear earlier.”

My mind was hazy from the desire and arousal but then I remembered.

“Please, make me cum with your mouth, Mr. Russell.”

“I knew you’re a good girl, darling.”

With that words, I felt his hot lips on my wet pussy, lapping on my bundle of nerves, while sliding his fingers inside me, stretching me out. Loud moans of mine filled the room, it was like ecstasy, my legs trembling from how good he was. I tried to move my hips a little, to get more from him but his strong arm kept me in place, just like he wanted. At first he made slow circles around my swollen nub, his fingers deep inside me, poking at my sweet spot, but then he picked up the pace with his fingers, while he was practically latched on my clit. That was too much, overwhelming feeling and I was a moaning mess, gasping for air, closer and closer to my climax.

Suddenly he stopped, getting away from me and I shifted in disapproval that he didn’t make me cum.

“W-why-“

“Shhh. Don’t worry. You’ll get to cum. But I want to feel that around my cock.”

I heard him undoing his pants, freeing his rocking hard length and as far as I could see, he smeared his cock with my juices he still had on his fingers from a while ago. It made him go feral, nearly cumming instantly of how erotic that was.

“Please, Mr. Russell. Fuck me. Fuck me like a whore.”

I didn’t care about my reputation or my image after this. I needed him, his cock seemed perfect to fill me up good and it was all that mattered now. My pussy was so worked up, dripping with arousal that I would do anything to have him.

“You’re my whore. Remember that.”

He said almost breathlessly, teasing me with his cock as he neared with it to my entrance. With one slow motion he pushed into me, stretching me to the limits, while I was nearly screaming from the overwhelming pleasure. I heard his huff along with chuckle, he was really satisfied with his making, giving my ass one slap before he started moving his hips against mine.

My brain went blank, my sight blinded as I let out a choked moans, saying his name in raspy voice, my throat dry from all that.

“You love this cock, right? Nobody can ever make you feel like this. Nobody can ever make this pussy so wet like me.”

His words made my mind spinning, I was so cockdrunk that I was drooling into the pillow. Each of his hard thrust was like a heaven for my sweet spot inside me, getting me closer and closer to release.

“Oh- my-“

“You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Huh? You think you deserve it?”

I nodded yes, desperately.

“Hm. Cum for me, darling.”

With another stretching thrust I felt my pussy tightening around him, slipping over the edge of my arousal, giving me the most toe curling orgasm I ever experienced. My body was writhing underneath him, his hand slapping my ass again to heighten my pleasure even more.

As I was coming down from my high, I also felt him twitching inside me, his pace picking up, riding to his high.

“That’s it, baby girl, I’m gonna fill you up, you’re gonna be dripping. I- ah- fuck!”

George couldn’t even finish the sentence, how he was caught off guard when my pussy squeezed him once more, ending with him painting my inner walls with his precious seed. He nearly collapsed onto me, how much he was done, breathing heavily like if he just ran a marathon.

After a while I decided to speak up. “G-George… my arms.. it hurts.”

George got out of the trance as he carefully slid out of me, kneeling beside me to untie the restraints on my hands that surely will leave marks. Then he laid down on the bed, pulling me closer to him, making me whimper a little, feeling my body sore and stiff.

“Was it the way you imagined it?” George placed a soft kiss in my hair, caressing my back lovingly.

“Mhm… much better than that, actually.” I hummed with smile.

“I enjoyed it too. We should do this role play thing more often. I felt powerful as a dangerous mafia boss.” He chuckled as he spoke.

“My dangerous Mr. Russell. You know how hard it is to say that when you’re begging for something?”

“You didn’t think that I would go easy on you, did you?”

He captured my lips in tender kiss, giving me all comfort and love I needed after that rough session.

———

Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures not mine, they’re from Pinterest.

[moonydustx]

Crocodile x F!Reader

warnings: a little smut at the end.

The first time you caught him looking at you it was just curious irises on top of the scar that adorned his face. Despite how little time you had been working at the casino, it wasn't uncommon to notice Crocodile's curious gaze roaming over all the employees, except this day was different.

"Good evening sir." you simply responded as he approached the bar counter. "What do you want to drink?"

"If I remember, this isn't your place." he said. Even with a long counter separating you, the shine of his hook almost stole all your attention.

"Yeah, today I traded with Sirah."

In your response, it was possible to perceive the fearful tone. He was your boss and as much as you hated being there at that moment, you still needed a job.

"Are your red eyes related to this?" he asked, the hook resting on the counter as he seemed to analyze your every expression. "Are we having any problems with guests?"

"No, it was just bullshit." You tried to put on your best smile and put the topic out of Crocodile's mind, from the way he was looking at you that wouldn't be enough. "I caught my ex cheating on me with someone else this week, they both work here and today they seemed more concerned about throwing shade at me than anything else."

Only an indecipherable growl left the lips of the infamous man in front of you. He turned his back to you and began to observe the rest of the casino.

"I'm sorry I bothered you with that." Your voice was lower than expected, but it didn't go unnoticed.

"Bring me something to drink, please. Something strong." he ordered and within minutes the glass was next to him on the counter.

In the first sip he could smell whiskey along with some citrus notes and something else that he couldn't immediately decipher. Strong but tasty.

"Make yourself a drink too. I recommend the same as mine." he said and left, leaving you alone with your own thoughts.

The second time you saw him look differently was shortly after you had spoken at the casino bar. It was the second time you had consciously realized this. Other people had already told you that the most feared look in the casino seemed to follow you for a while.

That night Crocodile had some of his business partners around a betting table along with some members of Baroque Works. You didn't expect that and you also didn't expect Miss All Sunday to come find you and tell you that according to Mr. 0's orders he wanted you to command his VIP gaming table.

"Let's see..." you waited for everyone to turn over their cards, analyzing the deck. "Looks like Mr.0 won, again." Crocodile's laugh echoed through the room as you dragged the chips towards him.

"This is unfair." one of the men complained, amidst a disbelieving laugh.

"I bet that little girl over there is helping him." one of the others grumbled, frustrated at losing all his money. Before he could continue, Crocodile interrupted him.

"Be careful with the next words you say." your body shivered completely when you felt his hand touch your waist. "Don't blame the lady for my streak of luck. It's not her fault she's my good luck charm tonight."

His eyes searched yours, a mischievous smile on his lips brought a slight laugh from yours even though you felt your body burn - and weren't so sure why.

The third time you could barely meet his eyes. Every time I opened your eyes the image was too intense to be able to stand firm.

His eyes remained fixed on your body in front of the mirror. His hook holding your legs open as you squirm on top of his lap. His hand fingered your intimacy, tracing circles on your clit while he admired the scene against the mirror. In addition to your moans in the background, you could hear your ex knocking on your door and calling you without the slightest idea of ​​what was happening.

"I bet that bastard didn't make you feel like that, did he?" Crocodile slid his fingers to your entrance, just teasing you. "I'm proud that you're mine now, my good girl." he slowly licked your neck making you squirm even more

"Please Sir." You asked, turning your face and finding his lips. Crocodile was intense in everything he did and taking your lips to him was no different.

Before you could recover from the lost air he slowly penetrated you with a finger, the cold touch of his rings against your sensitive intimacy made you scream.

"Keep it up my dear." he increased the speed soon giving space to one more digit. "Be loud let him know who you belong to now."

. . .

a/n: just an idea that popped into my head this weekend and I wanted to write it quickly. Perhaps, among the many lost wip, I will write the complete story.

[makeyoumine69]

Guilty Pleasure

— PAIRING: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

— SUMMARY: After you made a mistake in one of yours latest reports, Patrick Bateman — your boss — calls you to the meeting room to teach you a lesson.

— CONTAINS: Smut, Daddy kink, degradation, praising, dry humping, pet names, dirty talk, humiliation, nipple play/sucking, hair hulling, biting, spanking, marking.

— WORDS: 1.2k

— A/N: Sorry, I had to repost this fic due to this situation. More information about my writing challenge you can find here.

— LINKS: [MASTERLIST]; [2k CELEBRATION MASTERLIST]

Your heart was beating like a ticking bomb inside your chest as you made your way to the conference room where your big boss — Patrick Bateman — was waiting for you. You had no other choice but to comply, even though you didn't want to go. Tense, yet annoyed, you turned the last corner and saw a small group of yuppies whose arrogant expressions made you sick. Although you tried to ignore the way one of them looked at you — Timothy Bryce as far as you could remember — something heavy dropped in your gut, you hated that kind of attitude, so you had to bite your tongue and open the door to the meeting room.

As soon as you stepped inside, you noticed Patrick sitting at the large wooden table across from the entrance, wearing his favorite black pinstripe suit with red tie and Oliver Peoples O'Malley glasses.

"You're late." He muttered, not even bothering to look at you as he flipped through a folder of documents.

"No, I'm not! You asked me to come at eleven."

Only then did he deign to glance at you — his piercing gaze instantly sent shivers down your spine. "11 o'clock was 10 minutes ago, darling."

Damn it!

A sharp breath escaped your lips as you checked your watch and realized that he was right. "I'm sorry, sir."

Bateman couldn't help but grin with satisfaction and put the folder aside, tapping his long fingers on the table surface. "Do you know why you're here?"

Embarrassed, you looked down for a second, unable to bear the way he was staring at you. "Actually, no."

His low hum bounced off the walls of the meeting room, and now you could finally admit to yourself that you were so damn nervous and even scared, but you couldn't show it to him. After all, you needed this job, you'd already done so much to get the chance to work at P&P, you couldn't let it all end like this.

"I wanted to talk to you about the last report you did for me," Patrick beckoned you with a soft smile, and you could swear that this jerk was enjoying every second of this situation, almost like having the power over you was his personal kink. "I think I found a mistake that is quite serious."

"That can't be," you gasped, moving toward his seat. "I've double-checked everything so many times and—"

"Hey, it's all right," he cut you off, watching you come closer and shamelessly checking out your legs. "Mmm, this skirt is better than your previous ones, but it's still not short enough."

Scowling, you took a deep breath to not just punch him right in his perfect face and just leave.

"C'mon, have a seat." He playfully motioned to his knee, but you pretended not to understand his gesture and tried to sit on the chair nearby. That annoyed him slightly, so he grabbed you by your hips and forced you to sit on his lap. "Are you testing me, babydoll?"

His large palm was already tracing invisible patterns along your breasts through your silk blouse, not even giving you a chance to protest. Taking advantage of your shock, he nipped at your neck, leaving a few hickeys that made you squeal.

"Mr. Bateman!"

"Shush," he growled in a raspy voice, quickly positioning you in a way that made you face him, and his knee was right between your thighs. "Do you want the whole office to know what a slut you are? If I remember correctly, you care about your job."

Smirking, he watched you close your eyes in embarrassment and pulled up the hem of your skirt to squeeze your ass. The cold metal of his Rolex brushed against your skin, making you gasp, and he used the moment to kiss you hard on the lips. He plugged his warm tongue in and your mouth and you immediately squeaked against his lips.

"Ahh, look at you," Bateman crooned sweetly, drawing a long, wet line across your face. "Such a dirty little whore! You like it when Daddy plays rough with you, huh?"

Panting, you whimpered as he tugged on your hair to make you look at him. "Yes, Daddy...I l-love everything you do to me."

"Ohh, is that so?" He chuckled and unbuttoned your blouse so he could slide his hand inside to play with one of your swollen nipples. "Now be a good girl and prove it to me."

God, everything was too much, his hoarse voice sent shivers down your spine, and not to mention the way his skilled fingers twisted your little tip, pinching it a bit too tightly, but that only spurred your pussy to pulsate even more. You let him pull you into another kiss, his lips moving greedily against yours, and you didn't even notice that you were starting to grind against his thigh, your throbbing clit rubbing against the expensive fabric of his pants, increasing the tingling in your lower abdomen.

"Mmmhm, Daddy," you clang desperately at his strong biceps through his suit, causing him to grunt in response. "Someone can see us."

"Then be quiet," Patrick licked your neck and groped your hips, forcing you to move faster. "I'm going to rip your panties off and fuck you right here if you don't cum soon."

Holy shit.

You wanted to cry at the strength which he held your thighs, pinning you to his lap and twisting your taut nipples one by one until he took one of them into his mouth.

"Aww!" You yelped quietly as he bit your peak with his sharp teeth. "I'm so… I'm s-so close… mhmm…!"

Wrapping your hands around his neck, you surrendered to his power, letting the delightful rapture consume you completely as your soft inner walls began to clench around nothing. When Bateman noticed the way you were twitching, he squeezed your hips even harder, pressing you close to his firm body as you couldn't stop shaking. You thought you would bite your lips so hard till the point of drawing blood, but Bateman stopped you by pushing his thumb inside your warm mouth, and you sucked on it as if your life depended on it.

"Yes. Just like that," he cooed to you, unable to take his eyes off your shivering body. "You make Daddy so proud."

With that, he slapped your ass and stood up, holding you in his arms. Gently, he placed you on the table and spread your legs to admire the view of your soaked pussy. He then roughly pulled down your panties — you didn't have the strength or courage to resist.

"Imagine if someone came in and saw me eating you out," he snickered, giving your cunt a quick slap that made you whimper and flinch from the overstimulation. Smugly, Patrick adjusted his pants and hid your wet underwear in the pocket of his suit. "I bet you want this."

The voices behind the door only grew louder, but you couldn't hear them because your own heartbeat drowned out all sounds. If you ended up losing your job, at least you would know who was to blame, and one day you would take your revenge, one way or another.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my side blog @makeyoumineagain and turn on notifications to know when I update!

[waywardcrow]

Timeless.

Chapter III.

Summary: 1943. 1975. 2024. Three different decades, three different lives, three different times your life and Bucky's interwined; he lost you twice, will he do it again?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader.

TW: It can change each chapter but themes of Bucky as soldier and as the Winter Soldier in general, letters between Bucky and reader which are in italics like this, lots of feels, death of reader's sister mentioned, reader's boss being a cartoon villain, very bad headaches and fainting, hospitals, past reader is mentioned to be named Beth but that changes for 2024 version of her so I nicknamed her little bird for Bucky, Ace for everybody else, this will be a +18 story so minors dni.

Disclaimer: Please remember english is not my first language so if I make a mistake or forget something let me know.

Pictures from pinterest and graphic and dividers by the amazing @ firefly-graphics so all credits to the creators.

Previous chapter <<<

Bucky still had your letters, Steve had kept them safe for him when he fell off the train and sent them home before going to the ice, your mother –Beth’s mother- kept them safe after your death only a year later of his disappearance. Your brother’s grandkid gave them to him after he went looking for your family, it was a surprise he knew about him and even so that he didn’t feared him or hated him for his past.

Your letters and his, so well-kept, were his most treasured possession, it allowed him to fill the blanks the brainwashing left and remember when he had happiness at his reach.

Even if it was so hard for him to make you understand his feelings were true.

Sargent Barnes,

My brother’s unit is the 103th, I appreciate your promise and I know you will honor it.

And regarding the other matter, I know you are good man because Rebecca said so and I trust her judgment but I’m also aware of your refusals to meet me in the first place so you have to understand my skepticism is justified.

You don’t have to fight for anything else but the war you’re in so you can come home to your loved ones, what’s in your destiny will happen no matter what, I don’t need you to prove me wrong, just be my friend like you said you will be.

With my best wishes.

Bucky traced your name with his fingertips before putting your letter in its box and then in the safe, breathing to calm himself. He will see you that night and it had to be perfect, he will never try to make space for him in your life again but he could take care of you.

The suit Sam chose for him was navy blue like his old uniform in the Howling commandos which made him feel better about it, still he picked the gloves like a reflex. He would not be close to you but didn’t want that part of his past to be near your presence again.

Pepper was kind enough to invite him, their relationship was strictly professional after she regained some power in the Avengers, what happened with Wanda and Spider-man made her reclaim her husband’s legacy, it was better under her control anyways. She didn’t seem to hate him but didn’t trust him completely and Bucky understood that.

He will never made emends with Tony but will do his best to protect the world he and Natalia saved.

The charity gala was one more thing he will have to deal with to be useful to his team. 

You, on the other hand, were in the brink of collapse, giving in to every stupid tantrum from Mia wasn’t enough, she always wanted more.

Mia wasn’t happy when you finished her work for next month’s issue, she wasn’t happy with your lame simple black dress with long sleeves and white collar hided every curve of your body, wasn’t happy about her driver being on time because she was late and complained the whole ride to the Avengers tower about it.

You were considering jumping out of the car in movement when you finally arrived and you could have some space away from her. The main hall was as impressive as the tower; it was so good that Mrs. Potts could take it back from that idiot Fisk.

Someone guided you to the adjacent room where the party will be hosted and your headache intensified with the bright lights.

“You, come here” your checks burned hot in anger hearing her call you like that but you did as you were told after counting to ten, remembering why wasn’t a good idea to kill her with a silver tray in a building full of superheroes. “Where are the questions?” she hissed when you were in earshot.

“I gave them to you miss Alexander” maybe your calmest tone will work with the brat “you put them in your purse back in the car”.

“Well I don’t have them” she said with such arrogance that made you wonder for the million time how could she be sister to someone as lovely as Harper “so go and find them for me before I have to interview that boring woman” Mia spat with mockery “like I don’t have better things to do than being here”.

Something about her words threw more gasoline to the flames of your anger and the pain in your head.

“You chose to do this interview and this gala is for people who are still homeless after The Blip” there was no point in trying to be rational with her but your family lost everything in that five years, your house, your chances at a better life that you still fought to get back and someone like her will never understand it. Still wasn’t right the way she talked about that and about Pepper fucking Potts.

“And? Poor people are poor because they don’t work hard enough, they don’t have a home because they are lazy” at that, you snorted with disdain and her perfect face contorted with ire “fix your attitude, I have to talk to that woman and I don’t have time for you or for the next thirty minutes I will pretend I give a shit about her dead husband.”

That was enough; the pain in the left side of your head, the black spots in your eyesight, your anger running through your veins, all the awful comments she made about you the entire time you worked for her, about everyone without anyone to stop her… before you knew it your hand took her champagne flute away to splash it in her face.

“You are a fucking bitch, a miserable excuse of human” you yelled at her with the anger pulsing in your heartbeats, how could she said that? Just like Tony Stark there were a lot of people who lost their lives, not just avengers like Natasha Romanoff or Vision, there were simple humans like your sister who died fighting to save people, there were people still suffering.

The whole room went silent and you went back to the present.

Everyone was staring at you and a pair of men in black suits started to walk in your direction so you ran to the entrance still with the glass of champagne in your hand.

You were so fired and even more than that, you were ruined, Mia will make sure of it for humiliating her. Your heart dropped to your feet, what will you do? How will you pay for your folk’s home?

Hot tears ran down your face but before you reached the street a strong hand stopped you. It was when you realized the expensive glass in your hand.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to take this with me” you started but your plea for mercy died when you met the most amazing blue eyes you have ever seen in your life. The man before you looked so confused and some other things you couldn’t understand when the pain increased, your hands dropped everything to hold your head, barely aware of your knees touching the pavement while the agony made the world disappeared.

Bucky couldn’t lose you, not again, why this kept happening? It was like the universe wanted to tell him to stay away from you but what if this had nothing to do with him? What if you were sick and needed his help?

He insisted in going in the ambulance with you and Sam arrived minutes later.

“What happened man?” his neck tie was loose and the confusion in his eyes made Bucky lie to him.

“I don’t know, I went outside from some air and I saw this girl crying, thought I could help and then she had an attack, like- like if someone was hurting her” Bucky made an effort to don’t let his emotions show but the lump in his throat was impossible to avoid “then she fainted.”

Sam was trying to read him before speaking again.

“It’s a little weird that you were there and also you saved this same girl to get hit by a bike a couple days ago, don’t ya think?” his southern accent came to play like always he was trying to convince him of something.

Bucky looked at his gloved hands, he couldn’t tell Sam, he may believe him but Bucky didn’t believed himself most days so it was better to keep lying.

“It was a coincidence I guess” nobody else could know, it was for the best.

“Hmm” was the simple response of Captain America who knew something was happening but will wait for his friend to tell him.

“Excuse me Sergeant Barnes, the patient is awake” your doctor approached him “her emergency contact is coming but she asked for you.”

“Is she going to be fine? What happened to her?” Sam’s presence will not stop him from knowing.

“She is going to be fine, we suspect it had to do with a lot of stress and not taking care of herself properly” the eyes of the doctor went to his left arm when a noise of metal whirring interrupted. If it would be for him, Mia Alexander will have more than a ruined dress to pay but right now you were his priority.

“Can I see her?” the doctor gave him a nod and Bucky muttered a thank you, leaving Sam behind more confused than before.

His heart was racing in his chest, the last time he talked with you –with an old version of you- he was still him and you will never know how even in his darkest time you were his light.

You smiled shyly at the sight of him and it took every ounce of strength in his body to don’t run to your side and kiss you. Your make-up was slightly smeared and your carefully styled hair dishealved which brought some other memories he should not be having when you just woke up in a hospital.

“Hi” he heard your heart going as fast as his, making him feel like the flustered mess you made of him in the 40’s “the doctor told me you brought me here after the incident and I told her to call you so I could thank you.” His stare started to play with your nerves, he was more handsome in person and your self-consciousness didn’t help you “I also wanted to apologize for what I did back in the gala, it was so improper and selfish of me to do that.”

Guilt drowned you since you recover your senses, hoping the raising of money was not affected by you and it was enough for Bucky to move, his protective instinct winning over anything else.

“You have nothing to apologize for, little-“ his old pet name almost rolled out of his tongue so naturally that it hurt him physically to stop it “there’s little petty people like your old boss who deserve more than what you did.”

Nice save, Barnes he congratulated himself.

Your whole face turned in a mortified expression at his words, how did he know?

“You heard her?” it wasn’t bad enough being humiliated, you have to be humiliated with an audience.

Bucky had to use all of his restraint from the moment you arrived with that idiot, he was actually in his way to you when she said all that awful things and he made sure of letting Pepper know while waiting for you to wake up.

“I heard enough” he gave a few steps towards you, reading your conflict perfectly clear in your eyes. The reasons why you didn’t resign before, all the things he couldn’t fix for you without being noticed, finally having a chance to change them this time “you don’t have to worry about her anymore, Pepper will take care of it.”

“Oh my god, does she know what that bitch said? I’m so sorry”

Why were you apologizing?

“It’s not your fault” his brows furrowed and he didn’t think twice before taking your hand in his right one to give you a soft squeeze “like I told you, Pepper will take care of it and I’ll like to help too.”

Before you could answer the door opened again and Harper stormed in.

“What the hell, Ace? Don’t scare me like this!” the red haired woman didn’t notice him when she went to your side to hug you “are you okay? Did she hurt you? I swear to god this time I’m going to put peanuts in her food and-“

“Harper, what did I tell you about planning murder in front of other people?” you remind her, giggling, sending a greedy feeling through Bucky’s body, he missed that laugh.

“That we need plausible deniability” your friend answered like a scolded child before setting her eyes on Bucky “thank you for bringing Ace here.”

Her honest words made him feel weird, didn’t she knew who he was?

“Ace?” he asked instead.

“It's what Harper calls me” you responded feeling your cheeks heat.

“Because she’s so smart and quick and awesome” the love in her voice made him feel a little jealous, in all the time following you he didn’t sense something else going on between you two but how could someone be close to you and not fall in love?

“Well it was my pleasure, just like watching her splashing someone with five thousand dollars champagne” his eyes never left yours while speaking but Harper barely noticed it.

“Please tell me it was Mia” she begged and when you nodded, Harper let out a happy yell “I’m so proud of you, sweetie. It was about time, don’t you think Mr. Barnes?”

So she knew him, why wasn’t she hiding you from him?

“Totally and please, call me Bucky” again, his eyes were only on you. A hint of pain hit you when he said his name making close your eyes “everything ok?”

“Yeah”

“I should leave you sleep” he hated being away from you in times like this but you needed it “nice to meet you. Both” he added.

“Same” Harper’s smart eyes went from you to him; it was time for him to leave.

“Thank you again, Mr. Barnes” he opened his mouth to protest and you corrected yourself “Bucky, thanks.”

“Get well soon, Miss.” He looked at you one last time before walking out, how will he stay away from you after this?

Tag list: @cjand10 @bunnyforhim

Next chapter >>>

Hey! I liked this chapter, mostly because we will not see Mia again (maybe) and these two finally get to talk! But maybe I'm going to take this story slowly, feel free to tell me what you think!

Love, Lily.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

To Mama Rosehearts: (calmly but sarcastically) Oh, hello. You must be Mrs. Rosehearts. How do you do on this fine day? Forgive me for staring but I must say, you look quite stunning, madame. Your haircut really suits your face. (Mama Rosehearts asks about Riddle) Riddle? Oh don't worry about him, he's doing fine. He always had a knack for keeping things under control. Unlike some people.

Aaaand here’s the big one… the final boss of Family Day…

I tried to write this with a nuanced look at Mama Rosehearts, as I felt this was the most fitting for TWST’s themes of grey morality (which also comes through in the OB boys). No one is truly 100% evil, and I didn’t want to just have her screaming at other people 💦

Mama Rosehearts’s parenting methods are overly controlling, she’s uncompromising, and she has a bad temper. But in her eyes, she believes what she’s doing is genuinely the best for her son, and she’s also protective of him. She absolutely cares for Riddle in spite of her strictness. I wanted those aspects of her character to be present too, not just the worst parts of her that we tend to hate.

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

The problem with bad apples, you sometimes thought to yourself (blame Epel for sticking the apple metaphors in your head), is that they appear so normal at a glance. It’s hard to tell they’re rotten until you’ve had a close look for yourself.

Gazing at Mrs. Rosehearts, you’re shaken. Your mental image of her, cobbled together by hushed words and wisps of shadow, was always that of a monster—the kind that caged children and relished in feeding them lies, keeping them ensnared and submissive. Mother knows best. Listen to your mother. It’s a scary world out there.

She stood before you in blood red heels, wrapped in a smart business suit and modest pencil skirt in the same shade. Her hands were adorned in tulle gloves, sheer enough to grant a glimpse at her immaculate nails. Arms folded, head high, she was poised like an imposing queen before delivering her judgment.

Her eyes a blue-grey, red hair tightly pulled back and secured by a hair clasp. Even her bangs were cut the same, two locks atop her head curling into a heart-like shape. Mrs. Rosehearts was the spitting image of Riddle—or was it more accurate to say that he was a spitting image of her?

But if she was a monster, and Riddle, the same as her…

The terrified expressions of Heartslabyul students blitzed through your mind. The garden and its roses falling apart around them.

“He… He was really gonna do it…”

“He’s completely out of control.”

“He’s like some kinda monster!”

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. They quivered, burning with an indescribable intensity.

“Hello.” Her first came clipped, cutting right by your greeting and fabricated compliment. “I can’t say I care for your tone of voice.”

Mrs. Rosehearts diverted her attention from you and to the young man standing in her shadow. “Riddle. They seem know you, but surely this one doesn’t belong to your dormitory?”

You could barely recognize him. The Riddle you knew was serious and strict—but he was also someone who loved to tend to the hedgehogs, and adored tea parties in the garden. His smile could practically make the flowers bloom.

But now he was less of a blossoming rose and more of a shrinking violet, most traces of his confidence wiped away. He diligently trailed behind his mother, appearing even smaller than usual. Meeker, and less sure of himself.

A remnant of Riddle. Not a rose-red ruler, but just a sad little child.

You stared at him helplessly, and he refused to meet your eyes.

“No, mother.” A trained, automatic response. “They are not a student of Heartslabyul.”

“I thought so,” Mrs. Rosehearts sniffed, unimpressed but satisfied. She silently noted your untucked shirt, stray hair, and crooked tie. “They’re far too ungroomed to be someone under your rule.

“And here I was, worrying that you had fallen in with the wrong crowd again. You aren’t still hanging around those horrid Clover and Pinker boys, are you?”

Trey and Che’nya. Your stomach churned, upset for them in their absence.

“Well…” Riddle fidgeted uneasily. Unable to tell a lie, and lacking the courage to tell the truth.

You took the chance to cut in, your eyes close to burning a hole in his mother. “Oh, don't worry about him. Riddle’s doing fine. He’s always had a knack for keeping things under control, unlike some people.”

Mrs. Rosehearts frowned at the insinuation. Her next words could make flowers freeze over. “You’d do well to learn some control yourself. This conversation is between a mother and her son.”

She placed a protective hand on his upper back and gave a slight nudge. “Come, Riddle. We wouldn’t want to be late to speak with your professors.“

“Yes…” He reluctantly turned away from you, trying to focus on the road head. At the path already chosen for him.

You couldn’t help yourself. Your feet fell forward, and you called after him.

“Riddle…!!”

“That’s quite enough,” Mrs. Rosehearts snapped. Her cheeks colored red with rage as she stepped between you and Riddle. “I don’t know who you think you are, sticking your nose in our affairs like this!! I won’t have another unruly child and their bad attitude invading my son’s life—not again!”

Anger surged in your chest. There were so many things you wanted to tell her, things she couldn’t possibly know because she never bothered to entertain them.

Riddle likes strawberry tarts. He doesn’t care if the roses are white, or if the flamingos are pink. And he prefers honey to sugar cubes in his tea, and milk tea over lemon tea. After a meal, he wants to sits and talk with everyone.

The smart thing to do, you thought, is to bite my tongue, or else it’ll just lead to a pointless screaming match.

But you weren’t so smart. Your opened your mouth, prepares to let loose a torrent to challenge her.

What rang out instead, loud and clear, was a boy’s authoritative voice.

“Excuse me, mother!”

"Yes, Riddle? You have something to add?"

“I..." He caught his still-quivering words and straightened. A quiet resolve burned in his steely eyes. "Those selected by the Mirror of Darkness boast exceptional potential and strong moral character. That holds true for myself, as well as my peers. I will not underestimate them, and nor should you."

Mrs. Rosehearts pursed her lips.

"They are worthy rivals that are deserving of respect," Riddle continued, "and they will continue to push me to excel. That is all I wished to say.

"Now then, we should be on our way. We're running late for a very important date with the teaching staff."

His mother looked as though she had a rebuttal, with her brows knitted and the color of her mouth vanishing. Riddle held his breath—and you weren’t sure if it was safe to take one.

"... We will discuss this at a later time," she declared at last. “We need to stay on schedule.”

Riddle released the air in his lungs, and you took a sharp intake.

Mrs. Rosehearts turned away, tossing an icy farewell to the wind. “Good day to you.”

She led her son down the street, saying something to him in a hushed tone. You couldn’t tell what sort of expression Riddle was making, but he held his head high the entire time, like a defiant rosebud in a bed of snow.

When they had finally disappeared into the horizon, you let yourself smile. He’s come into his own… even if just a little.

[cosmic--dandelion]

So how did we get from this

Dedicated to his Worshippers, George Frederic Watt (1817-1904)

To this?

A brief history of Mammon

Addendum Because We Can't Have Nice Things: this essay is in no way meant to be a "critique", criticism, or personal attack against Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel/Vivziepop as I am, in fact, a big fan of all three! I actually loved the newest episode and Mammon as a character. Seeing him in motion, I think he looks damned near perfect as a modern take on the King of Greed. I wrote this ONLY for educational purposes.

Mammon is a Chaldee (the Semantic language of ancient Chaldeans, the people of a small Mesopotamian country who were later absorbed by the Babylonians) or Syriac word meaning "wealth" or "riches".

The Worship of Mammon, Evelyn De Morgan (1909)

He is best remembered from the Sermon on the Mount from Mathew 6: 24 (King James version): “No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.”

Some scholars believe Mammon might have been loosely based on Dīs Pater, originally a Roman God of mineral wealth and fertile lands who was later merged with the chthonic deities of the underworld Pluto and Orcus (because minerals come from underground). Pluto was depicted in the Divine Comedy as "wolflike demon of wealth"; wolves in the medieval times were symbols of greed. Others think he might have been an ancient Syrian god, though no trace of his cult or temples exists.

Mammon transformed over time from an abstract concept to major demon. This is thanks to later philosophers and theologians such as Saint Gregory of Nyssa, a third century Byzantine scholar, Archbishop of Constantinople John Chrysostom, and Peter Lombard, bishop of Paris from 1159 to 1160. His book of Four Books of Sentences (Sententiarum libri IV) was the standard theological text of the Middle Ages.

Mammon was assigned the sin of greed according to the Peter Binsfield classification of demons.

John Milton of Paradise Lost fame imaged him as a fallen angel. He is described as being stooped over (literally the "least erected" of Lucifer's demonic host) because he always has his eyes downward looking for gold and would rather use Hell's resources to finance his lavish lifestyle than wage war against Heaven.

In Edmund Spenser's 16th long poem, The Faerie Queene, Mammon is a “uncouth, salvage, and uncivile wight” who sets up his cave of riches right next to the entrance to the underworld. Subtle, huh? He tries to tempt Sir Guyon, the protagonist of Book II, with all his fabulous wealth, arguing that he could use it for good. (This is a religious-moral-political allegory about temperance, so you can guess how well that went.) He shows up again in Jacques de Plancy's Dictionnaire Infernal as Hell's ambassador to England. Yes, really.

Just like in Biblical times, reformists used Mammon as a symbol of exploitation and unfettered capitalism during the industrial age.

Fun fact: Mr. Burns lives at the corner of Croesus and Mammon street.

So how does Vivziepop's version compare to the historical Mammon? I dunno, he hasn't appeared in the show yet. It's not my favorite design, but I like the fact that half the fandom was expecting him to be the Big Bad of Helluva Boss, and he's a just big heckin' chonk who sort of looks like a demented Dr. Suess character crossed with a demonic air freshener. It's a silly design for a silly dude, but he could be more dangerous than he looks...

[anakinsgirlfriendreal]

Parts Of The Truth

Masterlist

Chapter Three

Warnings: foul language, my bad writing, infidelity, kinda sad, angst.(I listened to the other woman while writing this)

You sat at your desk, looking into his office. The position of your desk offered a direct view into it. Chewing on your pen, your eyes locked on his form, he was in a meeting, standing as he spoke to a client; Gary or Gus something like that, you truly were assistant of the year. You watched as he spoke, the way his lips moved, the way he spoke with his hands, the way he stuck his tongue in his cheek, signaling he was annoyed. You watched and watched as you often did. Your mind wanders to what your mother had said, you wonder if she is right, maybe you were incredibly stupid, maybe you were naive but frankly, you didn't care.

It had been two weeks since he fired Henry, he filed it as some bullshit like poor work performance. Things were fine so far, Padme came in often; more often than she usually did, bringing him lunch and making him laugh,fixing his tie and kissing him before she left again. Things seemed good between them, though not good enough for him to stop coming over. He came over to your place three nights a week, always the same excuse "My kid needs me" liar, was he a bad father? No but he wasn't exactly good either, he came; made sure Darcy had what she needed, bribed her with toys and kisses so that she'd tell him if mommy ever had any friends over. You chew on your lip as you watched him, his eyes meet yours through the glass for a mere second before he goes back to half ignoring whatever proposal this Gary Gus guy was pitching. You wonder what he's thinking if his thought match your own-

"Y/n" Ahsoka's voice almost gives you a heart attack. You shake your head, freeing yourself of the thoughts that plagued you, looking at her.

"hm?"

She squints at you, she was practically your best friend; the first person to warm up to you when you'd started at the company and stuck by your side since. "You better hope no one else catches you making heart eyes at the boss" she teases, you scoff.

"I wasn't 'making heart eyes' I was...thinking and just zoned out on accident"

"Right. How's Darcy? I miss the little brat" she asks.

Your face lights up, you love your baby, the sweetest most magical little girl. "She's good, she's starting school soon. She's so excited, made me buy everything cause she can't wait, even though it's just pre-school" you chuckle thinking of how she had made you and your mom buy one of each box of crayons at the store in the mall.

Ahsoka shakes her head "she's better than me, I hated everyday of school, pre-school to highschool I cried nearly everyday."

You cringed. "College was even worse, best years of our lives my ass." Ahsoka opens her mouth to speak when she's interrupted by Padme's voice behind her.

"I didn't realize it was lunch and you could gather already." You fight back the urge to roll your eyes, Padme wasn't a bad person, she just annoyed you. Ahsoka sighs walking back to her desk, you smile at Padme, as politely as you could.

"How can I help Mrs. Skywalker?"

She smiles, "Sorry, is Anakin free?"

"Sorry he's-" you're cut off by Anakin's hand around Padme's waist, he kissed her on the side of the mouth. You turn away watching as Gary Gus makes his way to the elevator.

"Y/n, push my meetings for this afternoon to Monday." He orders you. You smile.

"Are you sure Mr. Skywalker? The Chandler meeting was supposed to be at 2 to discuss th-"

"I said push the meetings," he says harshly, his free hand forming a fist on top of your desk. You swallow the feeling of embarrassment and nod.

"Yes sir"

He eyes you for a second before leaving with Padme, ushering her out, his hand tracing down her spine, you roll your eyes as you watch them head out. You don't know why, but you felt the urge to cry, taking a deep breath you composed yourself fixing your focus back to work.

Soon enough the day was over and you couldn't be more grateful. You shrugged off your coat, kicking off your heels, Darcy was rambling about her day with her grandma. "That's good baby" you kiss her cheek, you scrunch your nose jokingly.

"You need to bath, you smell like a boy"

She giggles "thanks a lot mama." You chuckle, she looks up at you, with her big blue eyes that she inherited from her father, "Can you do bath time mama? Pleaseeee?" You smile at her.

"okay, but don't beg, you look like a puppy" you chuckle, she raises her arms celebrating, you scoop her into your arms, taking her to the bathroom. Bath time was something Darcy loved every Friday, where you'd fill the tub with bubbles, put on the coloured lights and wash her while she played with a toy. You'd thought she would have outgrown it but so far, she hasn't. You figured it was comforting for her, in the same way she liked to sleep in your bed and crawl under your shirt, you allowed it because you didn't plan to have another child and Darcy was only so small for so long.

After bath time, you made her a nice dinner, she'd asked for Mac and cheese and of course you gave in. You stood in the door way of her bedroom watching as she snuggled up with her teddy, she was quick to fall asleep; a thing you were grateful she did from the time she was born. She had always been a good baby, quiet and cute; you wouldn't call yourself a religious person, but she was for sure your blessing.

Finally able to unwind you laid on the couch, prepared to finish a bottle of wine, stuff your face and watch every episode of 'Shameless' but that plan was interrupted, when a knock hit your door in an all too familiar pattern. You roll your eyes as you open the door.

"What are you doing here?" You ask in a hostile tone as Anakin pushes past you and into the house.

"It's my house, I can stop by when I want" he stands in the living room, eyes scanning for the smallest hint that another man had been around of course he'd find none.

You scoff, "Right. How come Padme let you out" you settle on the couch again, he joins you, his hand on your thigh.

"She's asleep. We have fun" he smiles, you swallow the lump in your throat. His hand comes up to run over your hair, pulling you close. You let him, enjoying the moment while it lasted.

"We fought" he says. "She's uh...she's just in one of those moods, angry about nothing, I don't know. She's just...she just needs to cool down" he sounds sad, he didn't really speak about his marriage when he was with you and Darcy, this was the first time and he seemed genuinely upset. He sighs tiredly, settling comfortably into the couch, he holds you in his arm, his eyes close.

"I love you Padme" he says. Your eyes close, you feel the single tear drop roll down your cheek, unable to stop it.

[evita-shelby]

National Anthem

Chapter 2

Cw: mentions of injuries, death, sex and scars

Taglist: @thegreatdragonfruta @zablife

“I thought you were a nurse during your war.” He said tracing idle circles around a spot on her shoulder where a bullet grazed her and left its mark on her.

They had ended up at his place, tearing each other’s clothes off and fucking again in his magnificent four poster bed.

She’d never been with a man, done things that had him question her uncle’s claim until he learned it for himself.

Eva had wanted him to take her in the confessional, and he had, against the wooden walls that were supposed to be holy.

A religious experience in many ways.

You are the first woman I fuck here; he had said out of breath after.

The only woman you will ever fuck here and there and everywhere, she had corrected, and he agreed only to humor her.

I’m gonna return you to your uncle with a limp, Mrs. Nelson, he had promised as he carried her over the threshold of his house like a bride.

He had no driver, thank God, it had been so long Eva had ridden in the front seat of a car.

They had decided on the flowers, the colors and the name of their first child by the time they got to his place, a lovely townhouse he shared with his sister-in-law who mercifully was visiting family in the country.

Didn’t help he was calling her Mrs. Nelson and introduced her as such to the housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with an Irish accent strong enough to remind her of her grandfather.

“Nurses are in the line of fire too, you know.” She responded, keeping her secrets to herself.

The witch isn’t sure if she trusts him enough to tell her what she really did during the war.

Would he look at her the same way when she tells him she killed Americans by the dozen to avenge her parents, neighbors, and friends?

It is better if we forget it happened, her aunt had said as they wiped her records clean.

But she cannot simply shut the door behind her.

It comes and goes as it pleases, sure her sobriety has helped quiet the screams and the grief that led her to try and take her life several times, but it will never be over.

Jack was lucky that his post as the newly minted General Manager exempted him from military service.

There was a part of him that hated he was seen as less manly for not having fought in France like his brother had, though, but Laurance Nelson had died in his first real battle and left little Gina and her mother in his brother’s care with his kid brother resenting him for leaving them all behind.

Jack had lived and risen to great heights his brother never got to see. Would live to see his children have grandchildren of their own.

Still, Jack has his own set of scars, scars she kissed and caressed as they come to know each other here.

Eva kissed a faded stab wound near his clavicle and kissed every inch of skin down his sternum.

Marked him as hers to the next lady he fucks, then he’ll know she meant what she said that she is the only woman he’ll have from now on.

He had another one in his abdomen, had found him to be ticklish there as she ventured lower until she reached that wondrous thing that made her see God several times that morning.

Jack was an open book, with the right person.

His past he keeps guarded under lock and key and yet she knows it.

Grown up being an errand boy to a gangster and eventually Party Boss of South Boston, who had taken him and his brother under his wing once they were old enough.

His mom had been his whore for a while, needing to keep her children clothed and fed by any means necessary when his father up and left her with four little ones.

By the time Jack and his brother, Laurence, had become men, they’d seen so much death.

After their little brother and sister died, their mother followed shortly after.

Asked PJ Kennedy to watch over them for her on her deathbed and good old Pat had sworn on Saint Patrick himself to honor her last wishes.

The man had done more than that, he’d left him and his brother everything, including the steel factory that Jack eventually became General Manger of in 1914.

She wasn’t supposed to know that. Eva had learned it when she had seen him from her window when he came to meet her uncle on business.

He hadn’t seen her, but she had gotten a good look at the tall American man who came looking for a wife.

Saw his intentions and past laid out bare before her as he came into the house.

“Frank Wallace, Gutin Gang tried to hijack me thinking I’d gone soft when PJ gave me Bethlehem Steel. Last time they every thought of fucking with me.” He says before she asks.

They have been doing this for a while, worshiping each other’s scars and learning the context for them.

“Zacatecas, artillery felt like it was raining from heaven. Didn’t notice I was hit until we got my brother, Alan, to the only hospital left with an operation theater.” The witch supplies feeling more comfortable as she returns her head to his chest. “He died of sepsis a week later.”

“Laurence died in his first battle. Went in ‘because he wanted to die, and God granted him his fucking wish. They gave him a fucking medal for bravery and called him a hero.” Jack says not bothering to hide his bitterness at having his big brother abandon him and his daughter and have only a fucking medal and a folded-up flag to mourn him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, it must have been terrible for you to lose your brother that way.” She says because she understands his pain. “And I’m sorry for making the both of us dredge up the past, Jack.”

Gabriel could have chosen to accept the deal with Carranza and wait out the war in the safety of America with their uncles.

But when he refused to stop fighting, Eva stayed by his side because she didn’t want him to die alone.

In the end he did, everyone dies as alone as they came into the world.

Such a dark turn this wonderful moment took.

“Got to admit for first dates, it sure as hell it’s gonna be one to remember, Mrs. Nelson.” He said, tilting her chin up and kissing her.

“It sure is, Mr. Nelson.”

[binarybitex]

OC development spotlight: Mr. Andrei Wright

with the release of Boss Babysitter, I thought it'd be fun to show Andrei's progression as a character!!

below, i share some notes and old drawings of him and his creation that are spoiler free... enjoy!

some fun facts about Andrei through the ages:

i don't recall if Andrei was the owner of the Resort when I first started coming up with the series. he has always been the General Manager, as far as I know.

originally he was going to be Russian! i dropped that pretty early on though, however his name would remain as "Andrei"

his last name is a play on the popular phrase "Mr. Right" (similarly to how most of the other characters have some sort of "love core" or similar name.)

for a brief time, a mutual and I had written in a sister for Andrei. she played as a very strict and hard-headed head chef at the Hotel. that character and the active kitchen are now both scrapped.

the earliest written mention i have of Andrei within the story is from the very first arc list. there's no specific date, but my best guess is late 2018 to early 2019. I had originally made him a pretty hardcore drug addict, but later opted for hard liquors and the occasional muscle relaxer.

the earliest art of Andrei I have - actually, he is one of the earliest characters I created for the series! again, this is probably around late 2018-early 2019. there's a lot of things that have stayed the exact same about his appearance.... his gold chain is a homage to one of my favorite gravity falls bits

i fell into a pretty severe art slump mid 2019, finally finding my way back to creating in mid 2021. i did all these turn arounds for the characters while i was learning to draw again. (lol, since when was kara 5'6? oh how times have changed)

here are some iterations of him from 2022, when i first started the comic. can you tell i absolutely hated drawing him? most of these are the same pose traced over.

an old "meet the character" sheet for Andrei. this was the art i used the longest to reference him. also, side note, he is actually in his early 60s. I noticed he loses his gold watch here.... he just doesn't care that much to wear a watch these days.

Andrei's presence within "Monster Sized Mystery" from the comic. actually, this may be the first time I ever actually doodled him. also shown is a bit of dialogue as the core four decide who this mystery item belongs to. lew's comment at the bottom made me giggle

an early drawing of Andrei in his 20s. there's some notes on his character back before he was hardened into the man he is today. the way I directly draw Martin Mertens as an inspiration to his younger self is very interesting. now that I've fleshed out his backstory, i'm not sure if he'd actively be bad talking the Hotel in his younger years.

more art of younger Andrei. here he is with Hana Yang, his previous general manager during the Hotel & Resort's swing back in the 80s.

aside from the core four, I think I've drawn the most adult content of Andrei. if you're interested in viewing the two colored ones, they're currently up on my twitter. links to: left & right. enjoy! i haven't posted the middle one.... sowwy

anyways! that is about it for Andrei Wright's development :-) I think I've really solidified his character while writing Book One. in the comics and before, I don't think I had a very concrete idea for him.

[icepixie]

baseball and russia both have me intrigued 👀

"baseball" was almost certainly inspired by a conversation @rivendellrose and some other folks in our B5 rewatch group on LiveJournal about which sports the B5 characters were fans of. I think we came to the conclusion that Ivanova was a hockey fan and turned Delenn into one as well. Anyway, this is a riff on the Mulder/Scully batting practice scene from "The Unnatural" featuring my ship of choice, Ivanova/Garibaldi.

"russia" is my white whale of a fic, in that it requires PLOT and POLITICS and ACTION in order to finish, none of which I am great at. I am better at all three than when I started it, though, so there's that. Again part of my Ivanova/Garibaldi universe, to take place between "Epithalamion" and "Biological Inefficiencies." While trying to have a honeymoon on Earth, they get pulled into stopping a plot to assassinate President Luchenko. I have about 5,000 words and a two-page outline, but there's a lot of "and then we somehow get from point A to point B" in that outline.

Here are a couple of snippets (okay, long snippets) I particularly like:

She was pacing again.

Michael Garibaldi watched his wife of not quite four days, thoroughly amused at her obvious frustration.  "You're going to wear a path in the carpet," he commented.

Susan Ivanova paused, glared at him, and then joined him in leaning against the bulkhead of their tiny cabin, ostentatiously standing still.  "I just wish getting to Earth on a commercial liner didn't take so long."

He laughed.  "That's not why you're pacing."

She raised an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation of the patently untrue words that had just come out of his mouth.

He provided one.  "You just hate being on a ship you're not commanding."

She looked like she was about to glare at him again, but then she shrugged.  "Captain's prerogative.  Besides, don't think I didn't see you re-encrypting the standard lock code right after we boarded."

Michael blanched.  He thought he'd been more subtle than that.  They didn't have any reason to suspect someone would want to get into their berth for purposes nefarious or otherwise, but accusations of paranoia or not, it never hurt to be cautious.

"All right, so we're both married to our jobs," he said.  He caught her hand in his, and began tracing his thumb lightly across the inside of her wrist.  "We are also married to each other.  And since both my boss and your second were very insistent about us taking time off for a honeymoon, I think we should use this trip as it was intended."

"Do you," she asked, but it wasn't a question.

"Absolutely," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her.

"Incoming message," the computer said before he got there.

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, sighing softly.  He heard a matching sigh escape Susan's mouth.  "Who's it from?" he asked.  Sheridan and McCreary were the only ones who would dare call them during these two weeks, and if they were on the line, something serious had happened—like B5 blowing up, or one of the Alliance races declaring war.  He really hoped no one had declared war.

"John Sheridan," the computer replied.

He opened his eyes, catching Susan's annoyed expression.  "I suppose this is his idea of payback," she said.  At his questioning glance, she shook her head.  "I'll tell you later."

Curious on two fronts now, he let her go and turned to face the vidscreen.  "Put it through."

Sheridan's face appeared on the screen.  "Susan, Michael," he greeted them.  "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but we *really* need your help."

----

[At one point, Susan throws herself in front of a PPG to save Luchenko, which enabled me to write the angsty-then-fluffy hospital scenes I wanted.]

Around one in the morning, he was about to experiment with making a bed out of four of the chairs when a doctor walked in.  "Mr. Garibaldi?"

The smile on the doctor's face gave him more hope than he'd had all night.  "Yes?"

"She just woke up.  We had a little trouble in surgery, but she came through just fine in the end.  It's going to be a while, but she'll make a full recovery."

He nearly collapsed onto a chair, but managed to convince his legs to hold him up.  *Thank you,* he sent into the ether.  Just in case.  "Can I see her?" he asked.

The doctor nodded.  "This way."

He found her lying partially propped up on the hospital bed, pale where bruises didn't mottle her arms and shadows darken her face, but her eyes were open and she was alive.  He'd never in his life been happier to see her.

This time he let himself sink into the chair beside her, unable to speak for a long moment.  She was *alive*, and she was going to be just fine.

"Hey," she said, her voice husky from the ventilator that had been used while she was under.

"Hey," he replied, finally finding his tongue.  "How're you feeling?"

She shrugged her good shoulder.  "They've got me on so many painkillers I can't actually feel much of anything.  They said it'll start hurting in a couple days."

"Well, you look like you've been through a war."  Actually, he'd seen her when she'd been through a war, after the Shadows.  She'd looked better then.

She snorted.  "Thanks.  You don't look so great yourself."

"Well, you try pacing around a waiting room for seven hours straight and see what you look like," he joked back.  God, he'd thought he'd never get the opportunity to speak to her again.  He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go, but he settled for squeezing her hand between both of his.  "You scared the hell out of me," he admitted.

"Sorry," she murmured.  They both knew she'd do it again without hesitation, but the exchange made it better, somehow.

"The president asked after you," he said.  "You're going to get a medal out of this."

She let out a tired laugh.  "Great.  My office needed something shiny."

[radarrider87]

The Seven Year Sleep (Chapter 1)

There’s always a dame to remind me how far I’ve fallen.

A tapping sound out in the hall stirs me awake. The old office is a blur at first, but that’s easy enough to explain as I tighten my grip on a bottle of vintage Romani.

When I finally manage to peel my face off the desk, I find her staring at me. She’s always staring at me, those lovely eyes frozen in a monochrome print. The memories of our time together fill in the missing colors—red hair, red lips, skin as smooth as milk.

Too bad the memories turned sour a long time ago.

I turn the frame over to hide her picture, just in time to see the other woman. She’s nothing but a shadow outside my door, her pageboy hairstyle made soft by the frosted glass. The moment drags on—her silhouette stays put and the woman just stands there, stiff as a board, caught between a decision and the hard knock that might follow.

She makes things easy for herself. Without saying a word, she leans down and slips an envelope under the door.

I listen as she heads back the way she came, her heels tapping on the linoleum. All traces of the mystery guest fade away when she calls up the elevator, and now everything’s gone silent. Real silent and peaceful.

At least, that’s the way it should be, but that would require a fella who could bury his curiosity good and proper. And hell, I was never that kinda fella.

I push away from the desk, taking one last draw on the bottle before leaving it behind. The thick glass makes a dull thud on the hardwood, an ominous note to follow up on, but what else is new? The longer you live in this city, you get used to the ominous sounds that follow you and the evil that sneaks up like a toothache. It hurts every damned day, but sometimes you just gotta live with it.

There’s nothing special about the envelope on the floor. No markings, no symbols, no clues to whatever’s inside. Obviously, that dame wanted her message to stay hush-hush, which is something you get used to in the private eye business. Everybody has their secrets, and giving them up seems like the end of the world as they know it.

Well, hate to break it to ya, lady. If you work the streets as long as I have, you find out real quick what those secrets of yours are worth—a rupee a dozen.

I slap the envelope on my desk and take my time with it. Besides, I still have half a bottle of Romani left and a thirst to quench. And believe you me, it’s a deep thirst, seven years in the making. Whatever’s got her stockings in a bunch, it can wait.

But when I pull out the sheet of high-class paper inside, all of that changes. I recognize my uncle’s perfect handwriting in an instant, and his message leaves nothing to chance. He’s a good lawyer, always fighting for the little guy. He knows how to get your attention.

He’s going downtown this morning. He’s gonna testify against the big boss, Mr. Ganon. You see, he’s got it all figured out, and now he’s gonna lift the stain on the Fitzgeralt family name and put the right people back in charge.

It’s a nice idea, but I know he’s walking straight into the jaws of the beast.

I snatch up my coat and holster, checking the master revolver for ammo. One look at the clock tells me it’s 9:36, and the trial starts at 10. Numbers are bouncing around in my head, beating each other senseless. Even if I run to the courthouse, I would only have a few minutes to spare, and I know Ganon won’t spare my uncle.

I bolt out of the office, bowling over a few clerks and knocking over an expensive piece of pottery on the way. The guard at the front desk shouts at me, demanding justice for those shattered goods, but his voice fades away as I keep running and praying for one miserable shred of luck.

But luck would not be a lady today. Luck is a cold hard bitch bent on holding me up.

The skies are thick with smog, the same damned pollution that’s been hanging over this city for the past seven years, and now a storm’s kicking up. The rain falls steady, causing me to slip at every street corner and land in every puddle from here to Market Street.

When I finally reach the courthouse, the way is blocked by an army of reporters, holding their pads of paper under dark umbrellas. I push through the crowd. One of the Zora reporters glares at me as I shove past him, flaring his neck gills. If he could breathe fire, I’d probably be toast.

An old man makes his way up the courthouse steps, and it’s clear that he’s got everyone’s attention. My uncle, dressed in his best pinstripe suit and fedora, moves past these agents of the press with the tight-lipped confidence of a poker player who knows he’s got the best hand.

He nearly reaches the door when he spots me in the crowd. He smiles and waves, as if a simple gesture could reassure me that he’s got everything in hand.

The sound of gunfire splits the air. Red puffs of blood explode from my uncle’s suit jacket and he twists around. One of his hands grabs for a nearby column, but he misses it by a mile and tumbles down the courthouse steps.

The press scatters, their entire bewildered army retreating in panic. Their screams and shouts are roaring like the storm. As they try to escape, I run to my uncle, grabbing the shoulders of his jacket and keeping him from cracking his head on the marble steps.

His shirt is drenched in water and blood, pools of crimson welling up from the holes in his chest. He looks up at me, struggling to keep his eyes open, the folds of skin around his mouth trembling in pain.

“Linny. Linny, my boy...” He coughs. A trail of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. “I need you... to take this...”

His hands shake as he reaches into his suit. He pulls out a folded piece of paper, another damned scrap of paper, and hands it over. Blood stains one of the corners and the rain threatens to pull it apart. I lean over my uncle and take the paper, shielding it under my coat.  

“Follow the leads,” he says, his voice cracking with every word. “There are three sides to his power. Save the city... Zelda Fitzgeralt is your...”

The words stop with his breath. I realize now that I’m staring into empty eyes, and my uncle has closed up shop for good.

I let go of his shoulders and let him rest on the courthouse steps, tucking the paper into my coat. And now my teeth are starting to hurt, probably from clenching my jaw so tight.

One of the reporters cries out. “Look! Up there! It’s the Sheik!”

My eyes dart up out of instinct, out of the need to grab hold of every clue and shake loose the answers. I see a man, standing on a rooftop. He’s shrouded in a dark blue ulster coat. A white scarf masks the lower half of his face and a fedora casts a shadow over his eyes, but I choose to focus on the gun in his left hand.

There’s no puzzle to solve now. My uncle is dead, and his killer is looking down on us.

I’m off like a shot, bounding down the courthouse steps, climbing up the fire escape of that building across the way. The metal bars clatter and clang all the way up, playing a big band song in my head, fueling my rage.

I reach the top and clear the railing, drawing my revolver from its holster to deal out swift justice, but the rooftop’s empty. The Sheik is nowhere to be found.

I walk to the edge of the building. Three stories below, my uncle’s body lies broken on the steps, and all I have to go on are a few broken words and a scrap of paper.

Reaching into my pocket, I unfold the paper carefully, first taking note of the shapes. Three triangles, all connected to form a larger version of themselves. Each holds a letter at the center: C, W, and P.

Follow the leads. Three sides to his power. That Zelda dame, after all these years.

So these are the clues, the only evidence of my uncle’s big break, the keys to the kingdom, as it were... which is just a fancy way to describe a big, fat pile of nothing.

But I do have someone. The Sheik.

They say he’s a vigilante, a shadowy killer that prowls the streets. No one could ever tell you whose side he was on before tonight, but now there’s no doubt in my mind. He shot my uncle before he could testify against the big boss. He’s Ganon’s puppet, through and through, and my only lead.

They also say that no one knows the Sheik’s true identity, but I know someone else who could tell you the real name and favorite killing method of every scumpile that walks these streets. He’s a piece of scum himself, willing to trick his brother out of his nightclub, willing to turn it into the seediest horse gambling den you ever laid eyes on.

I fold up the paper and place it in my pocket. It’s time to pay a visit to the Ranch.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/39944304/

[thekingsy]

"The Lethal Man" Short Story

Project Title

Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy “Story Mode” Trailer

Project Role(s)

Video Editor

Project Description

This video is an edited, 30-second trailer for the video game, Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy from the game's "Story Trailer" made for social media use.

Skills Showcased

Video editing, storytelling, creative asset use, editing for social media

Software Used

Adobe Premiere Pro

Equipment Used

Personal Computer

December 25th. Walking the streets on a dark, cold Christmas night on the way to the bar. The smell of chimney smoke, smog & piss filling the air. People getting in fights on every corner, crime everywhere you look, and no one bats an eye. Never a dull night in Phorrea.

Sitting at the bar before starting the next job. Liquid courage & a stogie before dealing with another case. A necessary evil. Every cop is dirtier than a baby’s diaper in the mud, so I pick up the slack. Good ole supply & demand. At least it pays well. Time to get moving.

I arrive at the address provided by the client. A small, well-decorated apartment. Medical books on the shelves & dexterity tools on the desk. The tenant was either a surgical student or had weird collecting habits. Walking into the kitchen, traces of blood & mud are found.

I go to the bedroom to find it untouched. It looks like a young woman lives here. I hate these kinds of cases. It takes me to that dark place. Back to that night. It’s like a hole I can’t climb out of –

I shake it off & focus.

The trail of mud particles shows the scuffle started at the front door & ended in the kitchen where there are traces of blood. The blood is dried & looks a few days old. Whoever did this had time to come back & try to clean up the mess left behind.

This is bush league. Sloppy. This is the work of some low-level cat, no way this was a professional. Not that I can say much, I’m no professional. I’m as close to a low-level detective as one can be. Luckily, I have a brain that works sometimes, not that it does me any favors.

I search the kitchen drawers & find a roll of clear packing tape. I tear a piece off & use it to grab the dirt particles from the carpet. I take the tape back to the kitchen & grab a glass from the cabinet to get a better look at the dirt. Like I said, my brain works sometimes.

I take one look at the clay-colored dirt & there is only one place in this shithole city it could come from.

The docks. A criminal’s wet dream.

A necropolis of bones & souls of those unfortunate enough to come across some of the crazy pricks this city hosts.

This well has run dry. Time to head to the docks.

As I head out the door, I notice an envelope sitting on an accent table. The senders name & address has been torn off; the letter taken. On the top right corner of the envelope is a familiar crest.

My eyes go wide; I freeze. I’m seething. Consumed with rage. All of those emotions rushing back. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m about to lose it. It’s been 15 years since –

(STOP! BREATHE! NOW’S NOT THE TIME! SHAKE IT OFF MARTIN! FOCUS!)

I stop. I breathe. I focus.

I move towards the door & leave the apartment. I get in the car & I light a cancer stick. It helps calm the devil. Medication & therapy could fix it, but with no insurance, it’s nothing but a pipe dream. I’ll let the stick will take me first.

As I leave the scene, I look in the rearview mirror & see a “Joe’s Cleaning Service” van pull up. Everyone in this town knows Joe’s Cleaning Service is a front for the mob. Professional cleaners for a professional price. Only City Hall crooks could afford a service like that.

Everyone in this town is mobbed up. The police, the lawyers, the DA, and the mob boss himself, Mr. Harvey Short, the Mayor. It’s why I have a job doing this. Anytime something big or little is called in, it’s ignored & brushed under the rug & I pick up the slack.

Halfway to the docks.

(It’s time.)

Investigating that young woman’s apartment reminded me of what happened 15 years ago. It still lives in my head. No matter what I do, it never goes away. Every case, it’s as vivid as a theater screen. My poor angel. If only I got home sooner.

This town. It can change you in a heartbeat.

There is no law, no order. Everyone is their own judge, jury, & executioner. It’s why any case I solve, the criminal doesn’t get a second chance. I am the executioner. The completely incompetent, incredibly sloppy executioner.

I guess that’s why I’ve been given the moniker, “The Lethal Man.”

I don’t care much for it, but it seems to have a boogeyman effect on the trash that live in this town. All I care about is taking out the trash & providing closure to those who need it. Getting paid is a bonus.

Finally, I pull up to the docks. I step out of the car & I’m hit with the smell of old faithful, death & despair. There is no life at the docks. No spirit, no hope. The only guarantee at the docks is finding dead bodies & a stench that will take weeks to remove from your clothes.

As I make my way to the boardwalk, I take in the only impressive part of this dump. Makeshift shops built out of old shipping containers. Drug dens, black-market bodegas, brothels, gambling; if you want it, the docks have it. You’ll pay for a good time with your life.

As I walk down the boardwalk, I hear the sound of & see container doors closing. A normal occurrence for me. It’s times like this I enjoy that I have a reputation that no one likes to challenge. Makes it easy to get through hell pits like the docks.

I reach the end of the boardwalk & take a look behind me. I lock eyes with a sole straggler who proceeds to bang on a container door frantically. He’s screaming, “LET ME IN! LET ME IN!”

The look of fear in his eyes as he stared down the boogeyman. It’s like a drug. It fuels me.

I turn the corner to make my way to the port. Most of the investigations I’ve solved have ended with a body being found in the harbor, so when a case leads me to the docks, it’s the first place I check. I stop to light a butt & it begins to rain. An all too familiar setting.

The rain puts out my match & destroys my last cigarette. As I throw it to the ground, I hear the loud metal grind of the container crane moving. I turn around and look up to find a shocking clue to the investigation.

The young woman!

Hanging from the container, strapped at the wrists by metal chains crying out for help. Similar to how I found my angel all those years ago. My heart rate jumps to 200 bpm in an instant!

I yell out to her, “STAY CALM! I’LL GET YOU DOWN! I PROMISE!”

Flashbacks of that night 15 years ago consume me in a flash.

Getting home late from a shift at the Phorrea police department to find my angel strung up by chains in the kitchen. Eviscerated like an animal in a slaughterhouse. As pale as a ghost.

If only I had left on time. Maybe I could hav –

(WAKE UP, MARTIN! FOCUS!)

I snap out of my haze & book it toward a ladder that would take me up to that storage container. I’ve got to help her. Somehow. Someway. I’ve got to get her down. I’m about 50 yards away from the ladder when suddenly – time stops.

A click. A thud. A crash. Silence.

The crane that – the container that she – had fallen – crashed – it happened in a flash.

She was gone. I couldn’t save her. Just like my angel. Incompetent – sloppy – if had been there sooner – it’s happening again.

I fell to my knees, rain falling on my face in the moonlight. I’m glaring at the moon. Eyes wide, breathing deeply; I feel like I’m going to explode. All of my senses are heightened. It feels like I am trapped in a time loop, being forced to relive that moment.

All of a sudden, in the distance, I hear the splashes of someone running. My neck whips my head around to see a man running away from some barrels nearby, gunning it for the warehouse. I jump up & begin sprinting. My eyes are locked on this man; I have tunnel vision. I’m running faster than ever. Rage has taken over my body. It feels like a superpower.

I feel like I’m being controlled by a motor. As I begin to gain on this scumbag, he turns around to see my eyes stabbing needles through him & screams out for help while trying to run away. It’s no use.

30 yards. “HELP!” 20 yards. “PLEASE HELP!” 10 yards. “OH GOD! HELP!” Zero.

I tackle him to the ground. I turn him over & mount him.

“WHY’D YOU DO IT!?”, I screamed.

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”, he said in a panic.

“LIAR!” I drove down my fist like a hammer over his nose.

“I’M SORRY!”, he cried out.

“WHY DID YOU KILL HER?!”, I screamed.

“SOMEONE WANTED HER GONE!”, he screamed in a haze.

“WHO?! GIVE ME A NAME!”, I yelled as I raised my other fist.

“I D O N ’ T K N—“, is all that he could say before driving my other fist down.

“LAST CHANCE – GIVE. ME. A NAME!”, I screamed while raising both fists above my head.

“I c a n’ t . – T h e y’ l l k i l l m e.”, he slurred, barely conscious.

(MARTIN! STOP! DON’T DO IT! BREATHE! FOCUS!)

“WRONG. ANSWER!”

I scream at the top of my lungs as I bring down both of my fists AND THEN –

Silence. Everything goes black. Complete darkness.

(Oh, Martin. See? See what happens? Do you see what happens when you can’t control yourself?

When you don’t listen to me? You let the devil in your mind win & now you’ve lost your lead to the bigger fish.

Remember: Stop. Breathe. Focus. Listen to your angel.)

I start to come to. First, my hearing. No sound other than the rain hitting the ground. Then, my vision returns. I’m looking straight up at the night sky, rain falling down on my face. Breathing heavily, my heart rate through the roof. Slowly lowering as I come back to reality.

I raise my hands to see them painted crimson, covered in viscera. I slowly stand to my feet, knowing of the carnage that lay below me. This wasn’t the first time this happened & it won’t be the last. I shake it off & focus. I need to call the client.

A jingle plays.

That man – his phone is ringing. I walked back to where he laid & reached into his pocket. I see the caller ID & my eyes widen. “Maria” is calling. That name – my wife, my angel – this isn’t a coincidence. I take a deep breathe. I focus. I answer the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Williams or should I call you ‘The Lethal Man’?”, the voice on the phone mockingly asked.

I answered with silence.

“I presume you dispatched the owner of this phone. Why, thank you! That must have been very satisfying for you.”, he excitingly proclaimed.

“Why?”, I answered tersely.

“Vengeance, of course! The last time I hired this man for a job he walked away unscathed! I ordered him to gut some nosey cop’s wife because he was poking his nose where it didn’t belong!” he said with malice, cackling like a lunatic.

It felt like my soul had left my body. The man that I am standing over – who murdered that young woman – was the bastard who took my angel away from me 15 years ago. He was hired by this pompous asshole on the phone? Who is this prick?

Suddenly, my phone vibrates.

“Enjoy your payment ‘The Lethal Man’. Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m the one who hired you for this investigation! Isn’t that hilarious?” As he cackles over the phone, I check my phone to see a payment has been sent by an unknown account with a note that reads – “15 years and you’re still coming up short.”

That’s when it clicked. I knew who I was talking to. Thinking back, I should’ve known who it was from the very beginning. Some low-level mobster I busted back when I was working for Phorrea PD. I laughed into the phone.

“WHAT’S SO FUNNY?!” He angrily shouted as I laughed into his ear.

“I’ve let you have your fun over the years, but you are becoming a nuisance to me & my business! THE TAX MAN IS COMING TO COLLECT! Enjoy your last few hours because this entire town is going EAT YOU ALIVE!”

As I let this insufferable man finish screaming & ranting, a calm comes over me. I close my eyes, take a deep breathe, exhale, and focus. Before launching the phone into the harbor & heading back to my car to prepare for the ensuing war, I laugh & say to the man –

“Sounds like a fun time. I’ll be seeing you – real soon – Mr. Mayor.”

Copyright William King 2023