#NOT THE RING BUT I FOUND IT AND IT WAS TOO COOL

[kultofkorii]

─ Old Habits, Die Hard

✎ Strawhats x gn! reader

Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Usopp [Separately]

• fic type: drabbles

• summary: Strawhat men with an s/o, who picks at their acne/scars; and they do whatever they can to help them try to break the habit.

• word count: 3.9k [Collectively]

• warnings: skin picking, acne picking

• a/n: These are based on my own experience with skin picking, which won't be like everyone else's. So I ask that you be considerate when reading, please! I kinda got carried away with Sanji and Usopp 🧍‍♀️

Luffy:

The sun beams down on the Thousand Sunny, its golden rays glinting off the calm ocean waves. You lean against the railing, your fingers drumming absentmindedly against the wood. Your gaze wanders toward the horizon, thoughts meandering as the ship cuts through the water.

You shift slightly, fingers brushing your shoulder. There it is again—the familiar itch of idle hands meeting your ever-stubborn acne. Before you can pick at it, a familiar voice snaps you out of your trance. “Y/n! Look at this!” Luffy’s voice rings out, cutting through the salty air. Turning, you see your captain sprinting toward you, holding something in his outstretched hands. Usopp trails behind him, yelling something about "not losing it this time."

Luffy skids to a stop in front of you, shoving a palm-sized beetle practically into your face. “Isn’t it cool? Usopp and I found it on the mast!” You lean back instinctively, raising an eyebrow. “Cool? It looks like it’s planning world domination.” Luffy cackles at your remark, his grin widening. “You’re funny, Y/n! But look at its horns! They’re huge!” You snort, glancing at the beetle. “Yeah, massive. Bet it benches twice my weight.” You flash a mock-serious expression before bursting into laughter, your tone dripping with pompous flair.

“Oi! Don’t insult Beetle-sama!” Usopp protests, pointing a dramatic finger at you. “He’s the strongest beetle in all the seas!” Rolling your eyes with a chuckle, you cross your arms. “Alright, alright, I concede. Beetle-sama is a paragon of strength and charm.” Luffy laughs again, his joy as infectious as ever. “See? Told ya it’s awesome!” He’s gone as quickly as he came, bounding off to show the beetle to Robin next. You shake your head, amused, as your fingers drift back to your shoulder.

“Stop that,” Chopper’s gentle voice interrupts, his small hoof swatting your hand away. “Caught red-handed, huh?” you reply with a sheepish grin. Chopper frowns, his little doctor’s coat billowing slightly in the breeze. “Y/n, you’ve gotta stop picking at it. It could leave scars or get infected. You should take better care of your skin!”

You sigh, nodding. “I know, Doc. It’s just...a bad habit, y’know? Boredom, stress—it happens.”Chopper nods sagely, but before he can respond, Luffy reappears, his curiosity piqued. “What are you two talking about?” Chopper hesitates, glancing between you and Luffy, but you wave him off. “It’s no big deal, just some skin stuff.”

“Skin stuff?” Luffy tilts his head, clearly not understanding. Chopper sighs, taking pity on him. “Y/n picks at their acne sometimes, especially when they’re bored or stressed. I’ve been trying to help them stop.”Luffy blinks at this, his rubbery brain gears turning. Then, with the sudden decisiveness only he can muster, he declares, “Alright! I’ll help too!” You blink, caught off guard. “Help? How?”

“By making sure you’re never bored!” Luffy grins, puffing out his chest like he’s just announced a grand plan. You laugh, shaking your head. “That’s a tall order, Captain.”

“Not for me!” Luffy insists, stretching his arm out and wrapping it around your waist. “C’mon, we’re gonna explore the ship!” And so it begins. Every time you find yourself sitting alone, fingers starting to twitch, Luffy appears like magic. Whether he’s dragging you off to explore a new island, shoving some bizarre food Sanji’s made into your hands, or excitedly ranting about his next dream, he always manages to keep your hands busy—and your mind off your habit.

One evening, after a particularly chaotic adventure involving angry sea kings and narrowly avoiding an ambush, the crew is sprawled across the deck, basking in the quiet. You sit alone near the bow, the familiar itch creeping up again. Your fingers twitch, drifting toward your shoulder, when—

“Y/n!

You startle as Luffy plops down in front of you, cross-legged and beaming. “Wanna hear about the biggest fish I’ve ever seen?” he asks, leaning in close. “Let me guess—it was this big?” You stretch your arms wide, grinning. “No, bigger!” Luffy laughs, mimicking your gesture but stretching his arms far past the point of realism. “It was huuuge!” You chuckle, shaking your head. “Sure it was, Captain.”

As he talks—animatedly describing a fish so large it could swallow the Sunny whole—you realize something. His hands have found yours, his fingers weaving through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The urge to pick at your skin fades, replaced by a warm, calm feeling. You smile softly, letting yourself be swept up in his energy. “You’re really something, Luffy.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” he asks, cocking his head. “Just...thanks,” you say simply, your voice lighter than usual. Luffy grins, his face lighting up with joy. “Of course! You’re my crew, Y/n. And you’re my partner! I’ve gotta take care of you!" The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, but you quickly mask it with your usual humor. “Aw, shucks. Flattery will get you everywhere, Captain.” He laughs, throwing his head back, and you join in, the sound of your laughter mingling with the ocean breeze.

Zoro:

The salty breeze of the ocean tickled your nose as you leaned on the Sunny’s railing, the waves sparkling under the sun. You were currently watching Luffy attempt to catch fish with his bare hands—unsuccessfully—and your amused chuckles were drowned out by his cries of determination.

“Don’t laugh!” he hollered. “I’m gonna catch the biggest fish in here!” You snorted, smirking. “Sure you are, Captain. At this rate, the fish are probably betting on who’ll pull you in first.” Luffy splashed water in your direction, though he was far too far away for it to land anywhere near you. You grinned, leaning back and crossing your arms. Being on the Thousand Sunny was never boring, and neither were the people on it. That was especially true when it came to Roronoa Zoro.

You felt his presence before you even saw him, his heavy footsteps and steady gait unmistakable. You turned just in time to see the swordsman approaching with his usual lazy scowl, swords at his side. He stopped a few feet from you, hands tucked into his haramaki. “Oi, you done slacking?” he asked. You grinned, tilting your head dramatically. “Slacking? My dear mosshead, I’m hard at work being me. It’s a full-time job, you know.”

Zoro rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched slightly. “Tch. You’re coming with me. Training.” You groaned, throwing your head back theatrically. “Again? Zoro, I’m not trying to become a human pretzel! Besides, what’s the point of training if I can already outwit you with my superior intellect?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who trips over their own feet,” Zoro retorted, grabbing your wrist. “I was testing gravity,” you deadpanned as he dragged you across the deck. “It still works, by the way.” You could hear Nami chuckling in the background, but Zoro ignored everyone, his grip firm yet not painful. You’d long since stopped resisting his training sessions, mostly because he was stubborn enough to carry you over his shoulder if you didn’t cooperate. Plus, you knew why he was doing it.

As the two of you reached the training area, Zoro handed you a practice sword. You stared at it with mock horror. “Oh no, not again. My arms still feel like noodles from the last time.” Zoro raised an eyebrow. “Good. Then you’re warming up faster.” You groaned but complied, holding the sword in a half-decent stance. Zoro began to correct your posture, his hands brushing yours briefly. You tried not to think too hard about it, focusing instead on his instructions.

“Stop slouching. Keep your wrist steady,” he said, circling you like a predator assessing its prey. “Sir, yes Sir,” you quipped. “Just focus, idiot,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. The training session lasted longer than you’d anticipated, and by the end, your muscles ached, and your bad habit had all but slipped your mind. Zoro had a way of keeping you so focused that there was no room for idle thoughts—or idle hands.

Later, as you sat on the deck with Chopper tending to a scrape on your hand, the little doctor gave you his usual stern look. “You need to stop picking at your skin, Y/n!” he scolded. “It’s bad for you, and you’ll get scars!” You gave him a sheepish grin. “Aw, c’mon, Doc, it’s not that bad.”

“It is bad,” Chopper insisted. “And Zoro’s been telling me you’re getting better about it. Don’t ruin the progress!” Your head snapped up, and you blinked. “Wait—Zoro’s been talking to you about it?” Chopper nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He said you’re too stubborn to admit it, but the training helps keep you from doing it. I think he’s really proud of you.”Your face grew warm, and you glanced over to where Zoro was lounging in his usual spot, swords by his side. He was fast asleep—or so it seemed—but his presence felt... steady, grounding.

That night, as you sat beside him in the crow’s nest after he’d dragged you there “to keep him company,” you finally worked up the courage to ask. “Hey, Zoro,” you began, your voice softer than usual. “Hm?” He cracked an eye open, glancing at you. “Why do you... you know, keep bugging me to train with you?” He stared at you for a moment before closing his eye again. “You’re less annoying when you’re focused.” You snorted, leaning back against the wall. “Wow, I’m touched. Truly.”

A brief silence fell between you, but Zoro’s voice cut through it, lower and more serious. “...You’re not alone on this ship. So stop acting like you have to deal with everything by yourself,” he said. Your chest tightened at his words, and for once, you didn’t have a snarky comeback. Instead, you smiled, your voice light. “Thanks, mosshead.”

He smirked, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “Anytime, idiot.” And just like that, you realized how much Zoro cared in his own, gruff way. You didn’t need flowery words or grand gestures. His actions spoke volumes, and you silently vowed to keep working on your habit—not just for him, but for yourself.

Sanji:

The scent of sea salt mixed with the delicious aroma of baking bread wafted through the galley. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as Sanji expertly kneaded dough with the kind of finesse that only he could muster. His blond hair fell into his eyes, and you couldn’t resist the urge to tease him. “Careful, chef,” you said with a smirk. “You’re going to knead that dough into another dimension if you keep putting your back into it like that.”

Sanji shot you a look, one eyebrow arched in mock offense. “Oh? And what would you know about dough, my dear?” “Oh, I know plenty,” you replied, puffing up your chest dramatically. “I’ve got years of experience eating bread. That practically makes me an expert, don’t you think?” He chuckled, shaking his head as he transferred the dough into a bowl to rest. “You’re impossible, you know that?” “Thank you, I try,” you said with an exaggerated bow, laughing at your own antics.

As much as you loved joking around, you could tell Sanji was keeping an eye on you—specifically on your hands, which had started to wander toward your face. You were picking at a small spot on your cheek, absentmindedly scratching at the imperfection as you talked. His smile faded slightly, and he quickly stepped closer, gently catching your wrist before you could do more damage.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice losing its teasing edge. “Don’t do that, Y/n.” You blinked, glancing down at his hand holding yours. “What? Oh, this?” You waved your free hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Just a little battle with my face, nothing serious.” “It’s not fine,” he insisted, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “You’re hurting yourself. I hate seeing you do that.” The earnest concern in his voice took you off guard, and for a moment, you felt a pang of guilt. “I’m not trying to hurt myself,” you said, your tone softer now. “It’s just... I don’t know. It’s a habit.” Sanji sighed, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand before letting it go. “I know, love. But it still worries me.”

There was a pause before you brightened up again, forcing a grin to lighten the mood. “Wow, look at you, Mr. Worrywart. What’s next? Are you going to start measuring my water intake?” He gave you a flat look. “If I have to.” You burst out laughing, unable to help yourself. “Oh, Sanji, you’re killing me! You’d make an excellent mother.” “And you make an excellent troublemaker,” he shot back, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “But seriously, Y/n, I want to help.” Later that day, you found out what he meant by “help.”

Sanji had roped Chopper into his mission. You walked into the infirmary to find the little reindeer scribbling on a clipboard while Sanji paced back and forth like a man on a mission. “I feel like I’m walking into a conspiracy,” you announced, startling them both. “What’s going on here? Are you plotting my demise? If so, I’d prefer poison. Very dramatic, very Shakespeare.” Chopper turned to you, flustered. “N-No! We’re not plotting anything bad! Sanji just asked me for advice on how to help you with your… um… habit.”

You raised an eyebrow and turned to Sanji. “You went to Chopper for advice? What, are you worried I’ll pick myself into oblivion?” Sanji crossed his arms, clearly unamused by your humor. “I’m serious, love. If you can’t stop, I want to at least help you keep your hands busy. Chopper mentioned stress balls and fidget toys, but I figured you might like something more… hands-on.” “Hands-on?” you repeated, intrigued.

That’s how you found yourself in the kitchen later, standing next to Sanji as he handed you a cutting board and a knife. “If you’re going to be fidgety, you might as well put it to good use,” he said, grinning. “Wow, I’ve been reduced to junior chef status,” you said, pretending to look offended. “What’s next? Do I have to peel potatoes?” “Not today,” he replied, amused. “Today, you’re cutting vegetables. Think you can handle that?” “Oh, I’ll handle it all right,” you said, twirling the knife dramatically before starting to chop. “Watch and learn, chef.”

To your surprise, you found the task oddly soothing. The repetitive motion of chopping vegetables kept your hands busy, and having Sanji nearby made it all the more enjoyable. He’d occasionally lean over to check your work, offering tips or cracking a joke to keep the mood light. “You know,” you said after a while, “this isn’t half bad. I might actually be good at this.” “Of course you are,” Sanji said, giving you a proud smile. “You’ve got me as your teacher, after all.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling back. “Don’t let it go to your head, love."

Over the next few weeks, Sanji made a habit of inviting you to join him in the kitchen whenever he had the chance. When he was too busy to cook with you, he’d leave behind recipes for you to try on your own—always tailored to your tastes. One evening, as you both worked side by side to bake a batch of cookies, you glanced at him and felt a wave of gratitude. “You know,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence, “you’re pretty amazing.”

Sanji looked at you in surprise. “What brought that on?” “Just… everything you do for me,” you admitted, your usual snark giving way to sincerity. “I know I joke around a lot, but I really appreciate it, Sanji. You’re kind of the best.” He blushed, his cigarette almost falling from his lips. “Y-Y/n, don’t say stuff like that so casually.” You laughed, nudging him playfully. “What, can’t handle a compliment? Poor Sanji, so unused to praise.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself “You’re impossible.” “And you love it,” you said, grinning. “I do,” he admitted softly, his voice full of warmth. The moment hung in the air like the scent of freshly baked cookies, and for once, you didn’t feel the need to pick at your skin.

Usopp:

Usopp was on of the most interesting people you'd ever met. He had this magnetic way of weaving words, turning even the most mundane tasks into grand adventures. He was funny, brave (well, mostly), and, above all, kind. And somehow, despite the larger-than-life personalities around him, he made you feel like the most important person on the ship.

Which was why you were currently sitting on a barrel in the workshop, your hands idly fidgeting with a small mechanism Usopp had given you. He was pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly as he described the intricate designs for a new cannon he and Franky were working on. “And then,” he said, his voice rising with excitement, “the cannon will have this rotating mechanism that lets it fire in three directions at once! Can you believe that? Three! It’s genius, right?”

“Absolutely,” you replied with a grin, turning the small gear in your hand. “Though I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Usopp paused mid-step, his jaw dropping in mock offense. “Y/N! How could you? I’m sharing my brilliant ideas with you, and you’re not even trying to understand?”

“Hey,” you said, holding up the gear like it was a prize. “I’m doing my part. Look, I’m keeping my hands busy so I don’t accidentally pick at my face and send Chopper into another lecture.” At that, Usopp puffed out his chest, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Well, you are welcome, by the way. I did make those fidget toys for you, remember?”

You laughed, the sound ringing through the workshop. “Oh, don’t worry, Captain Usopp. I’ll sing your praises for the rest of my days. Truly, what would I do without you?” His cheeks flushed a deep red, but he quickly turned away, pretending to inspect a nearby toolbox. “Y-you don’t have to go that far,” he mumbled, though you caught the hint of pride in his voice.

You hopped off the barrel and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a sudden hug. “Thank you, though. Really. For noticing and for caring. It means a lot.” For a moment, he froze, his entire body going stiff. Then, as if on cue, his chest puffed out even more, and he placed his hands on his hips, striking a heroic pose. “Of course, Y/N! As your boyfriend, it’s my duty to look out for you!” You stepped back, biting back a laugh. “Wow, look at you. The very picture of chivalry.” “Darn right,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

Your days soon seemed to develop a rhythm, and you found yourself spending more and more time in Usopp’s workshop. Whenever he noticed you sitting by yourself, your fingers absentmindedly scratching at your skin, he’d beckon you over. “Y/N! Come here! I’ve got something cool to show you!”You’d roll your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. He’d hand you some little trinket—usually a part of a gadget he was working on—and challenge you to figure out how it worked.

“These gears fit together how exactly?” you’d ask, holding up two mismatched pieces. Usopp would smirk, leaning against the workbench with a cocky expression. “Ah, you see, that’s a trade secret. But I suppose I could teach you… if you’re nice to me.” “Nice? Oh, please,” you’d reply, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’m always nice to you, Love.” He’d chuckle, then launch into an enthusiastic explanation about the mechanism, complete with sound effects and exaggerated gestures. Half the time, you had no idea what he was saying, but you didn’t mind. Watching him light up, his voice filled with passion, was more than enough for you.

Then there were the quieter days. On those rare occasions when the crew wasn’t caught up in some grand adventure, you and Usopp would retreat to the aquarium. The peaceful hum of the water and the gentle swaying of the Sunny made it the perfect spot to relax.

The gentle gurgle of water and the soft, rhythmic swish of fish fins filled the aquarium, creating a tranquil symphony. The light refracted through the tank’s glass, casting wavy blue shadows across the floor. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Usopp on the cushioned bench, his hand clasped warmly in yours. Neither of you spoke, but there was no need for words—the silence felt full, not empty, like a soft blanket wrapping around you both.

Your thumb idly traced the callouses on his palm, a subtle reminder of the work he put into everything he cared about. Usopp’s hand fit perfectly in yours, rough yet comforting, like holding a tether to something steady in an unpredictable world. You could feel his heartbeat in the quiet stillness, a steady rhythm that mirrored the calm you felt whenever he was near.

Usopp’s gaze lingered on the tank, but you caught him sneaking glances at you out of the corner of your eye. His face softened whenever he looked your way, a quiet, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. For all his bluster and bravado, there was a gentleness to him in moments like these—an unspoken vulnerability that made your chest tighten with affection.

The fish glided lazily through the water, their vibrant scales shimmering under the soft glow of the tank lights. You wondered if Usopp saw the same beauty in them that you saw in him—bright, intricate, and endlessly fascinating.As if sensing your thoughts, Usopp gave your hand a small squeeze, grounding you. He didn’t say anything, but the action spoke volumes, You'd leaned your head against his shoulder, a quiet smile curling at your lips.

Over time, you started to notice a change in yourself. The fidget toys Usopp had made, the trinkets he gave you to tinker with, the quiet moments in the aquarium—all of it seemed to help. You weren’t picking at your skin as much. The urge was still there sometimes, but it was easier to resist. One evening, as you sat on the deck watching the sunset, you turned to Usopp. “Hey.” He looked up from the slingshot he was polishing, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. He tilted his head, confused. “For what?” “For everything,” you replied. “For noticing when I’m struggling. For finding ways to help without making me feel bad about it. For just… being you.” His eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Then he smiled, a small, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. “Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess I should say thank you too. For putting up with me. And, you know, for being you.” You laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder. “We’re a pretty good team, huh?” “The best,” he said, his voice full of confidence.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink, you couldn’t help but feel grateful. Life on the sea was unpredictable, filled with dangers and uncertainties. But with Usopp by your side, you knew you could face anything. After all, he wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was your partner, your teammate, and, most importantly, your friend. And that was more than enough.

[imujings]

hai the event you're doing is so cute omg! what about puppy princess by hot freaks and vernon??? thank you!!

'cause i feel weak and your hands, and your feet are precious and i'll never feel your touch

wc <1k. warnings unrequited love, one (1) mention of a dick LMAO. jay’s musings this song is so good but so sad skfjdk do enjoy anon!! <3

Vernon’s exhausted.

His limbs ache for reprieve, fingers cramping from his eternal hold on the washcloth as he wipes down the table for what feels like the fiftieth time. He glances over at your booth like it’ll make his work any less tiring.

It does, in a sense.

Your beat up converse are up on the booth chair’s red and weathered cushion, little smiley marks and stars scratched out in pen decorating the material. You’re talking animatedly about something he can’t quite hear, hands waving back and forth as your mouth moves quicker than he can keep up with. A tray of fries lays before you on the table untouched.

And of course, Kim Mingyu sits across from you, his gelled black hair gleaming just right in the diner’s low light, leaning forward with his arms crossed and hanging onto your every word.

Sometimes, the man would steal a fry from your basket, and you would smack his hand away with a giggle. You two have been here for hours, showing up early into his shift engrossed in conversation and fingers intertwined.

“Yo, Vernon,” Mingyu had grinned. “Booth for two, the usual spot?”

It’s not like Vernon hated Mingyu—stars above, if anything, Mingyu was one of his closest friends. The countless number of fences they’ve hopped and movie theatres they’ve snuck into amounted to their bond.

No, the problem was you.

Lively, energetic and bubbly you. You, who was welcomed into his friend group with open arms, who knew all the blind spots to the rickety old security cameras at their mall’s theatre and who knew how to scale a ten foot wired fence without getting as much as a scratch. You, who bumped elbows with him in silent inquiry of Are you okay? Do you wanna dip? when he started spacing out for a little too long at a party. You, who smiled at him and wordlessly passed a wired earbud, listening to his favorite rock bands with him as the pair of you walked back from the corner store.

You, who he was totally, absolutely cool and normal about and definitely not head over heels for. You, who was dating his friend, Kim Mingyu, for three months and counting.

Yeah. Checkmate.

Vernon decides he’s had enough of scrubbing at the faded vindication of a phallus some emo teenager definitely drew, plopping the washcloth into the bucket full of soapy water and wiping his hands on his apron. As he makes his way towards the back he faintly hears your teasing remark at something Mingyu had said, probably in an effort to make you flustered. Laughter explodes behind him.

It’s unfair, he thinks. It’s unfair that your favorite diner is the one that he works at.

He remembers your study sessions after school as he tended to the many customers. You always ordered the same milkshake and basket of fries, hunched over your math textbook as if it had all the secrets to the world. Vernon would send refills over every time one of them got too low for his liking, trying to get you to crack that lovely smiley that made his heart flutter.

How did Mingyu manage to do it so effortlessly?

Vernon felt like a fool. He rings up your booth’s receipt and, on autopilot, walks back out to where you’re now resting your head against the diner’s white walls.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but the diner’s closing soon,” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he places the check on the table right in front of you.

You perk up, eyes following his movements. “Thanks, ‘sol!”

Mingyu, rummaging through his pockets for some bills, is too occupied to notice the way Vernon’s breath stutters slightly at the nickname. Ever since you found out that Vernon was just the street name he went by, Hansol being his actual given name, you took it upon yourself to call him what he thought were terribly endearing nicknames.

He fumbles to pick up the check once a twenty dollar bill is passed over and just nods. You reward him with a little laugh.

“Keep the change,” you offer kindly.

Mingyu whines something about that being his money, but you roll your eyes. “Vernon is always dealing with our late night dates during his closing shift. The least we can do is pay him for putting up with us. Right, ‘sollie?”

Vernon makes a noise somewhere between a “mhm,” and a “sure,” causing another laugh to spill from your pretty lips. He wishes he could kiss them shut sometimes.

The world doesn’t deserve to hear your melodic sounds—only him.

He compartmentalizes those selfish thoughts away as you stand up, dusting crumbs off your clothes, and reach for Mingyu’s outstretched hand. Mingyu preens at the touch and you smile up at him.

“Good luck with closing, Vernon!” you wave with your free arm, eyes crinkling with friendliness.

His friend—your boyfriend, Vernon reminds himself—raises his own hand to dap him up. He barely feels the numbing sting of the handshake before the two of you are whisking away out the diner doors into the late night.

Vernon sighs and runs a hand over his face.

Good luck to him, indeed.

want to queue a song?

[wandonthecouch]

farmers market jegulus au - snippet <3

another snippet for you all! for context, james, effie, and baby harry have a tent where they sell their farm's produce, and regulus and sirius have their text (next door ofc) where they sell their art - regulus with his wood carving/sculptures and sirius with his paintings. oh and remus is an Australian cowboy at @venear-tmblr 's insistence and I love it so here you go!

---

“Morning, Mr. Black!”

Regulus smiled at the small ten-year-old, one that he rarely showed in public. 

“Harry, you can call me Regulus, you know,” he leaned over the foldable table separating the two, peering over into the tent next to his, taking in the array of fresh vegetables, fruits, and jams. “Has your nan got any of that goat cheese yet?”

Harry frowned, running a finger over the duckling carved out of mahogany, and then the giraffe made of oak. “I don’t think so. Da says Jenny is being real stubborn lately.” 

Regulus let out a light chuckle. “Oh, Da says that, huh?” He began rummaging through his tote bag slung over his foldable chair, making a noise of triumph when he found the pouch with the small carved giraffe. “I made you something.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, a big toothless grin on full display (he’d lost one of his front teeth last week) that Regulus couldn’t help but mirror. “Really?”

Regulus nodded, holding out the pouch. Any other kid would have snatched the present out of his hands in seconds, but not Harry – he didn’t have a greedy bone in his body. It’s one of the reasons that Regulus actually tolerated the child, instead of being blatantly disgusted like he was others. 

Harry gently accepted the gift, turning the giraffe around in his hands. 

“Thank you, thank you! This is so cool,” Harry gushed, looking up at him over his glasses. Then, in almost a whisper, “You remembered.”

Regulus, to his surprise, found himself holding his breath in anticipation. Who the fuck was he? He had clients booked for his art years in advance, he’d made thousands off of his wood carving alone. Why did he care about what some glass-wearing, crooked-smiled child at a farmer’s market thought of anything he’d made?

“Harry, love, can you give me a hand—”

Oh. That’s why. 

James appeared from behind his family’s tent, carrying a wooden crate full of turnips. Fucking turnips. The man was carrying turnips and Regulus was trying not to drool at the sight. 

Disgusting. 

“Oh, hey, Reg,” James stopped, eyes softening, mouth turning up in a way that made Regulus think his heart was swelling, almost too big for his chest. “How’s your morning been?”

It wasn’t until Harry looked at him, brow quirked, that Regulus realized he needed to actually respond. 

“Good, not too busy,” he stumbled over his words. James adjusted the crate in his arms so he could hold it with one arm (oh god), and reached down to pick the giraffe out of Harry’s hand. 

“Oh, this is cool! I bet it’ll sell right away.”

Harry furrowed his brows and made grabby hands at his father, who promptly returned the figurine. “It’s mine, Da. Mr. Black–Reg made it for me.”

James’ eyes resembled warm honey, their color especially bright in the early morning sun. “Really?”

Regulus shrugged nonchalantly, looking between the two and fiddling with his rings. “Well, yeah. We spent all last Sunday talking about how he wanted to see the giraffes at the zoo in town, and how they were his favorite animal, so…”

James’ smile was blinding. He ruffled Harry’s hair, who grumbled under his breath but leaned into the touch. “Did you say thank you to Regulus?”

Harry, huffed, seemingly done with the conversation. “Yes, Da. Moony says being polite is sexy.”

Regulus coughed out a laugh, while James sighed and shook his head at Harry’s retreating figure. 

“I swear, he’s such a bad influence sometimes,” James muttered, turning to set the crate down on the ground by their tent, giving Regulus a full view of… everything in his athletic shorts. Regulus sucked in a breath, willing his cheeks to not turn pink. He couldn’t even blame it on the heat– the air this morning was anything but humid. Perfect for a day at the market. Not perfect, Regulus deduced, for being around James Potter all day.

--

thanks for reading, lmk what you think!

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: To obtain a mystic gun capable of destroying the demon that killed their mother, the group must team up with John and face off against vampires.

Warnings: cannon violence and gore, John Winchester, arguing, girl kissing (not really a warning but), slightly jealous Dean??, reader being a nerd

Word Count: 8.5k

Dead Man's Blood

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

 The cafe is quiet except for the distant chatter of conversations that melt together, the clinks of glasses and dishes, the clacking of a keyboard, and the shuffling of paper. So, maybe quiet isn’t the right word. Nevertheless, the steady background noise is peaceful. It brings me back to the days when I’d linger in cafes to study for an upcoming exam in both high school and college. Though, I suppose, looking through various obituaries and news articles to find our next hunt isn’t that different. “Well, man,” Dean starts, folding his newspaper. “Not a decent lead in all of Nebraska. What’ve you got?”

  I lean back in my seat, pushing away from the screen I’ve been looking out for God knows how long. “Nothing of note in Iowa, Kansas, or Missouri,” I announce, noting some of the states surrounding Nebraska. The various tabs open for each state are a little concerning. “Unless you count a woman in Iowa who managed to fall 10,000 feet from an airplane and survive.”

  “Sounds more like ‘That’s Incredible’ than, uh, ‘Twilight Zone,’” Dean remarks.

  “Yeah definitely weird but not that concerning,” I nod. It surely reeked of the supernatural because there was no human way to do that, but it also wasn’t a top-of-the-list concern when no one got hurt and it seemed like an isolated event.

  “Hey, Sam, you know we could keep heading East. New York. Upstate. We could drop by and see Sarah again. Huh?” Dean suggests, smirking as he leans his elbows on the table. “Cool chick man, smokin’” he whistles. I shake my head, mentally grimacing. Yeah, she was attractive but to say it aloud and whistle about some girl your brother was clearly into? A little weird. “You two seemed pretty friendly. What do you say?”

  “Yeah, I dunno, maybe someday,” he answers vaguely. “But in the meantime, we got a lot of work to do Dean, and you know that.”

  “Yeah, alright,” Dean gives in.

  “You get anything in the states you checked?” I ask Sam, knowing he had looked at Wyoming, Colorado, and South Dakota. More states that surround the state we currently reside in. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Uh, a man in Colorado. A local man named Daniel Elkins was found mauled in his home.”

  “That’s certainly one way to go,” I mumble.

  “Elkins?” Dean echos. “I know that name.”

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Sam shakes his head.”Sounds like the police don’t know what to think,” he continues as his brother mumbles Elkins under his breath and pulls out their Dad’s journal. “At first they said it was some sort of bear attack and now, they’ve found some signs of robbery.”

  “You know, sometimes it amazes me how the police solve anything,” I remark. Sure, if it’s supernatural related then they don’t have the upper hand of knowledge but seriously a bear attack and a robbery are two completely different things.

  Dean hums absentmindedly in acknowledgment, flicking through the journal. “There, check it out,” he announces, flipping the book around for us to see. A phone number resides on the page right next to the name. “You think it’s the same Elkins?” Sam asks.

  “It’s a Colorado area code,” Dean points out. 

****

  Sam kneels on the wooden porch, the flashlight illuminating his work with the lockpick. It’s not too long before the lock clicks, and the door creeps open with a turn and push.

  “Looks like the maid didn’t come today,” Dean comments, looking over a table cluttered with books and papers. Otherwise, this room was pretty clean at least in terms of the crime. “Hey, there’s salt over here. Right beside the door,” Sam announces, lingering by the front door. 

  “You mean protection against demon salt or, ‘oops I spilled the popcorn’ salt?” Dean asks, his interest tuned into a journal he discovered on the desk.

  My flashlight guides my eyes across the room. It didn’t happen in this room, it doesn’t seem like the perpetrator(s) came from the front door into the entryway. “It’s clearly a ring,” Sam clarifies. “You think this guy Elkins was a player?”

  “Definitely,” he answers. I wander a little further into the house, the real mess lying in the next room over, the door knocked off its hinges. “That looks a hell of a lot like Dad’s,” Sam says. I look over my shoulder, and both boys are checking out the journal. “Yep, except this dates back to the 60s,” Dean responds.

  I step into what looks to be an office, or what’s left of it. It’s pure destruction. If you told me a tornado came through this room I’d believe you. Broken and overturned furniture litter the floor, books and papers scattered about. I can barely see the floor, it's all covered. “Whoever this guy was, he put up a hell of a fight,” I comment as I carefully step further into the room, glass crunching beneath my shoe. Glass but no broken windows. “Whatever attacked him, it looks like there was more than one,” Sam adds, looking up at the ceiling. I follow his gaze to the broken sunroof, the source of the glass.

  Where did the police get a bear attack from even if he did have scratch marks on him? Did they think it fell into the sunroof? I could understand the robbery considering the mess, but a bear? Seriously? I shake my head at the thought, walking over to the cleared-off desk. Whatever was atop it was on the floor now. “Do you think whoever or whatever did this was looking for something?” I ask, taking in the mess again. Some of it was from fighting, but the desk's open draws, which were barely hanging on, suggests it may be more. It could be an added motive. “Maybe,” Sam answers before his attention turns over to his brother who is crouched down and examining the floor. “You got something?” Sam asks.

 “I dunno,” he answers. “Some scratches on the floor.”

  “Death throes maybe?” Sam suggests, referring to the last moments before the end. 

  “Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, grabbing a nearby notebook. He opens a page, placing it over the scratches before using a pencil to scratch over it revealing the marks better. “Or maybe a message.” He peels up the paper, some blood soaked into the back, but the markings are clear. “Look familiar?” He asks, holding it up.

  “Three letters, six digits,” Sam answers. “The location and combination of a post office box. It’s a mail drop.” The message was an incredible feat to manage before death took him under. To be able to scatch it out…it must be more than important.

  “Just the way Dad does it,” Dean adds. 

****

 A simple letter rests in Sam’s hand. The letter was found in the post office box. “‘J.W.’” Sam reads off the envelope, “You think that's John Winchester?”

  “I mean your Dad clearly knew the guy,” I offer, his number is inside the journal. “Maybe he even learned this way of communicating from him.” 

“Should we open it?” Dean asks, something uncertain yet insistent in his voice. But, no one gets to answer the question on each of our minds when, instead, there is a knock on the driver-side window. Dean gasps and flinches, his arm raised in defense. “Dad?” he breathes, his fist lowering. The door beside me opens then, hazel eyes looking at me expectantly. I raise my eyebrows with a tight-lipped smile as I scooch over. He takes my seat, closing the door behind him. “Dad, what are you doing here?” Sam asks. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” he answers simply. He looks the same as the last time we saw him, with messy dark hair similar to Sam’s cut and a ragged beard. “I read the news about Daniel, I got here as fast as I could. I saw you three at his place.”

  “Why didn’t you come in Dad?” Sam questions, his voice soft as if he knows the answer.

  “You know why. Because I had to make sure you weren’t followed…by anyone or anything,” John responds. He sounds more paranoid than anything. It sounds like a sad excuse to avoid speaking and seeing his kids again, but I keep those thoughts to myself. “Nice job of covering your tracks by the way,” he compliments. And it’s like being buttered up before the roast— before you’re put right back on the fire that eats at you until you forget your self-worth. 

  “Yeah, well, we learned from the best,” Dean answers with a proud smile on his face as his chest puffs out a little bit.

  “Wait, you came all the way out here for this Elkins guy?” Sam points out.

  “Yeah. He was... he was a good man. He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting,” he reveals. I guess I was somewhat right on my assumption. “Well, you never mentioned him to us,” Sam shrugs.

  “We had a... we had kind of a falling out. I hadn't seen him in years,” he explains, gesturing towards the envelope. “I should look at that.” Sam hands it over easily, and his father wastes no time in opening it. “'If you're reading this, I'm already dead',” he reads, trailing off. “That son of a bitch.”

  “What is it?” Dean asks.

  “He had it the whole time,” he answers vaguely as if we know what he's talking about. “Has what?” I ask.   “When you searched the place, did you, did you see a gun? An antique, a Colt revolver, did you see it?” He asks each question one right after the other almost frantically.   “Uh, there was, there was an old case but it was empty,” Dean answers.

  “They have it,” John announces.

  “‘You mean whatever killed Elkins?” Dean asks. John opens the door, shifting to get out. “We gotta pick up the trail.” But before he can make it out of the vehicle Sam stops him, “Wait. ‘You want us to come with you?”

  “If Elkins was telling the truth, we gotta find this gun,” he explains, doing that thing where he’s insanely unhelpful.

  “The gun–why?” Sam pushes.   “Because it's important, that's why,” he replies. I roll my eyes, for a guy who wasn’t very present he managed to be incredibly irritating. “Dad, we don't even know what these things are yet,” Sam reasons. 

  “They were what Daniel Elkins killed best: Vampires,” he reveals, finally being helpful.   “Vampires? I thought there was no such thing,” Dean answers.

  “You didn’t?” I ask, surprised.

  “You did?” He throws right back with a just as surprised tone as mine.

  “Yeah,” I say like it's obvious. “I took down a nest back in college.” It was the first and only time I had encountered a vampire let alone a vampiric hunt. Students started to go missing, seemingly picked off one by one, and like any school word had spread quickly. It was weird, yes, but with no bodies and only having gossip I had nothing to work with. No one saw anything, the picks were clean and concise. Well, that was until certain bodies did show up. Four out of nine bodies were found, two were located near or around campus grounds, and the others were left in the town that was a short drive from the school. I managed to pull some strings and cash in ‘I owe you’ to see the bodies firsthand. My initial thought was vampires but the thought was more of a joke than anything, I thought I was watching too much Buffy. But then some research made a joke no longer a joke. It was vampires and I had to kill them.

  I can remember it still, the way the heads went flying and how blood caked my clothes. Buffy makes it look cleaner than what it is. 

  “You did?” John asks, his voice dripping in disbelief and sass. “Don’t sound so surprised,” I mumble, my distaste for him almost painfully clear in the curl of my lip. He has been here for less than five minutes and I’m already a little irritated. I’d like to think that I’m not a hateful person, that I don’t hold grudges or malice but when it comes to John Winchester suddenly I’m the biggest hater you’ve ever seen. “Well, I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and—“ he throws a glare at me. “And others had wiped them out. I was wrong.”   “You were,” I agree, smiling a little at the slow turn of his head as he stares at me with daggers. 

  “Most vampire lore is crap,” he starts, his voice gruff, looking back at his boys. “A cross won't repel them, sunlight won't kill them, and neither will a stake to the heart. But the bloodlust, that part's true. They need fresh human blood to survive. They were once people, so you won't know it's a vampire until it's too late.”

  “The way to kill them is decapitation,” I add. “Interestingly enough the story to get it right is a work of fiction, though, of course, you could argue that it was only presented that way and the author knew more than any normal person would. The final blow in Carmilla, written by some Irish guy, is her head being struck off. Before that was a stake through the heart but, it��s interesting that he would add the decapitation aspect especially when it’s the first ever Vampire novel so it’s not like he changed things to be different.”

  “Are you done?” John remarks, unamused.

  “Yeah, now I am,” I respond, equally unamused with him.

  “Wake up! Come on,” a voice demands. I grumble something incoherent, my fingers softly curling into the warmth beneath my hand. The something beneath my hand rumbles with the “Mm-hmm,” that follows from its lips. 

  My eyes squint open, my hand resting on Dean's chest, fingers clutching his shirt, his arm resting around my waist. We didn’t fall asleep like this when John hated the very idea of us sharing a bed even though we’d done it before. I know John doesn’t trust me, even though I haven’t done anything to warrant such feelings. It’s more like he doesn’t trust who I am and he makes it known with every look and side comment. Yet, as much as he hated it, he didn’t want me in a separate room because it would “waste time and money.” So, we had slept back to back which felt so horribly unnatural.

  I do not make a move to separate from him. He rubs his eyes and I want to bury my face into the pillow in a desperate attempt to grasp onto the remains of sleep but the sight of his messy short hair going every which way, and his eyes barely being held open from the sleep that clings to them keeps my attention. Even on interrupted sleep, he looks so good. “I picked up a police call,” John announces, the faint noise of radio static proving his statement. 

  “What happened?” Sam asks, his voice laced with sleep. Dean’s hand drops from his eyes going, instead, to my hand on his chest. He gives it a little squeeze and it would be so easy to just fall back into a sweet sleep with the butterflies that dance in my stomach. But, the harsh reality of, well, reality comes crashing back when John answers, “A couple called 911, ‘found a body in the street. Cops got there. Blood was missing. It's the vampires.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asks logically. But, John is already halfway out the door forgoing explanations as he typically does. “Just follow me, okay?” he responds, shutting the door behind him. 

“Huh, vampires,” Dean muses, his eyes still half open. “Gets funnier every time I hear it.”

****

 The spin of red and blue lights shatters the atmosphere, a long cloth placed over a body in the middle of the road, yellow tape sanctioning off the area as cops work the scene, and a certain irritating Winchester talking to a cop as we are forced to wait by the Impala like kids waiting while their parent talks to an old friend and you just know you’re going to be waiting forever. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have gone over with him,” Sam complains, sulking slightly. 

  “Should’ve let us sleep,” I agree, mumbling. I don’t see the point in dragging us from bed just to put us on the back burner, but I guess that’s John for you. 

  “Oh, don’t tell me it’s already starting,” Dean responds.   “What's starting?” he asks. But he doesn’t get his answer as their father approaches, Dean putting his focus there. “What have you got?” he asks his Dad. 

  “It was them alright,” John confirms. “Looks like they’re heading west. We’ll have to double back to get around that detour.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Sam asks, arms crossed. 

  “Sam…” Dean warns.

  “I just wanna know we're going in the right direction,” he snaps at his brother.

  “We are,” John answers vaguely.

  “How do you know?” 

  John hands something small to Dean, answering with “I found this.” 

  Dean cups the long and sharp tooth in the palm of his hand. “It’s a…” he tries to find the words, “a vampire fang.”

  “It’s not necessarily a fang,” I correct. “An entire set of teeth that look just like that descends when they attack, covering the normal set of teeth.” 

  “Any more questions?” John asks, looking at Sam expectantly, a certain bite to his words. Sam remains quiet, his eyes flicking away—the kind of answer his father wants. No, an answer he expects. “Alright, let’s get out of here, we’re losing daylight,” John orders. He walks to his truck, a vehicle I suddenly love because he doesn’t have to be in the same car as us. “Hey, Dean why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust?” he throws back the comment, “I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were going to ruin it.” 

  I look at Dean with widened eyes. His face drops. Drops. My heart might as well drop with it. I dig my nails into my palms in an attempt to control my mouth, my teeth clenched painfully to hold in my own comment. I should make him apologize. I should do more than that but I know it will only make it worse for them and that is the last thing I want. Yet, saying nothing feels worse so the word slips out before I can reel it back in. “Asshole,” I grumble beneath my breath, opening the back door to the Impala.

  “What’d you say?” John asks, seemingly having super hearing, pausing short of his truck. The stiffness in his shoulder is familiar, or similar. So, I duck into the car with an, “I didn’t say anything.” I expect him to say something or for him to make some sort of move. I see the unamused look on his face even as I close the door behind me, creating a barrier between us. I half expect him to drag me from the car and make me answer him. Dad said I never knew how to hold my tongue or when to stop. And maybe he was right.

*****

  The Impala rolls down the road, following John’s truck. “Vampires nest in groups of eight to ten,” Dean reads from the passenger seat. “Smaller packs are sent to hunt for food. Victims are taken to the nest where the pack keeps them alive, bleeding them for days or weeks. I wonder if that’s what happened to that 911 couple.”

  “I didn’t see the corpses well enough but it’s likely,” I answer, though I don’t know why John didn’t let us see the body or do any work.

  “It’s probably what Dad's thinking. ‘Course it would be nice if he just told us what he thinks,” Sam grumbles, a certain furrow to his brow.   “So it is starting,” Dean remarks.

  “What?”

  Well, this is my queue to keep my comments to myself and let them talk this out. 

  “Sam, we've been looking for Dad all year,” he explains. “Now we're not with him for more than a couple of hours and there's static already?” 

  “Hm. No. Look, I'm happy he's ok, alright?” he responds. “And I'm happy that we're all working together again.” “Well good.”

  “It’s just the way he treats us like we’re children,” Sam adds, seemingly unable to help himself. But I’m here for the John bashing. 

  “Oh God,” Dean mumbles. 

  “He barks orders at us Dean, he expects us to follow 'em without question. He keeps us on some crap need-to-know deal.”

  Sam’s not wrong. His vagueness is one of his worst traits which is saying something because he has a long list of horrible traits. He’s really the King of being as vague and unhelpful as possible for a reason I simply can’t discern. Maybe it makes him feel like he has some power or the upper hand.

  “He does what he does for a reason,” Dean reasons.   “What reason?” Sam pushes.

  “Our job!” Dean snaps. “There's no time to argue, there's no margin for error, alright? That's just the way the old man runs things.”   “I’d argue that leaving you guys in the dark can lead to more error,” I comment, accidentally saying my inside thoughts out loud. Luckily, I’m pretty much annoyed as Sam challenges his brother. “Yeah well maybe that worked when we were kids but not anymore, alright. Not after everything you and I have been through, Dean. I mean, are you telling me you're cool with just falling into line, and letting him run the whole show?” 

  A heavy silence fills the car as Dean stares at his brother like he’s trying to muster the right words. “If that’s what it takes.”

****

 We drive for what feels like an eternity, though it must only have been a couple of hours, the sky falling to darkness. Dean is on the phone with his father, keeping in touch with him even as we follow after his car. “Yeah, Dad. Alright, got it,” he answers before hanging up. “Pull off at the next exit.”

  “Why?” Sam asks with a certain edge or bite to his voice.

  “Cause Dad thinks we’ve got the vampire’s trail,” Dean responds.

  “How?” 

  “I don’t know; he didn’t say.”

  Suddenly I’m pushed back into my seat as the Impala goes faster, fast enough to overtake Johns truck. The car swerves in front of it, my body jerking sideways and forward as the vehicle swerves again and slams to a stop. My heart stammers in my chest as I look out the window, John's truck nearly missing the side of the Impala. “What the frick, S–” I yell, my cursing cut off as Sam gets out of the car. “Oh crap here we go,” Dean mumbles, following him out of the vehicle. I sigh, rolling my eyes, as much as I expected an argument to break out this is a very dramatic and dangerous way to start it. Even so, I follow them out of the Impala as Dean calls out for his brother.

  “What the hell was that?” John yells, stomping over to his son.

  “We need to talk.”

  John steps closer, getting face to face with him and I half expect him to grab Sam by the collar and shake some “sense” into him. “About what?”

  “About everything. Where are we going, Dad? What's the big deal about this gun?”

  “Sammy, come on, we can Q and A after we kill all the vampires,” Dean says.

  “You’re brothers right, we don’t have time for this,” John adds.   “Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous for us to be together. Now out of the blue, you need our help,” Sam yells. “Now obviously something big is going down, and we wanna know what!”   “Get back in the car.”   “No.”   “I said get back in the damn car.”   “Yeah. And I said no.”

  “Okay, you made your point tough guy,” Dean tries again, hovering between his father and his brother. But, of course, his words are directed at his brother. “Look we're all tired, we can talk about this later. Sammy, I mean it, come on.” Dean grabs him, pushing him back toward the car. He gives in, allowing his brother to move him along even as he glares at his father, mumbling, “This is why I left in the first place.”  “What’d you say?”

  Sam steps forward, snapping back, “You heard me.”

  “Yeah. You left. Your brother and me, we needed you. You walked away, Sam.”

  “Sam…” Dean warns.

  “You walked away!” John yells in his face.

  “Come on, stop,” I urge, trying to push John back as Dean had tried with his brother. But he just shoves me off, forcing me back a couple of steps.   “You're the one who said don't come back Dad, you closed that door, not me. You were just pissed off that you couldn't control me anymore!”

  Dean jumps in the middle, forcing them apart. “Listen, stop it, stop it. Stop it!! That's enough!!”   They don’t say another word; they just glare at each other over Dean’s head. “That means you too,” Dean adds, looking at his father. Despite the harsh words that linger in the air and the unspoken jabs that are begging to be said, they back off. Each step back into their vehicles. Dean sighs, the tension clear in his shoulders until he turns to me, brows furrowed as he half yells, “Are you okay?” The question is genuine despite how harsh they sound escaping his lips. There's a silence that falls between us; I don’t know why he asks me; it’s not like I was the one arguing. Perhaps it was because I stumbled back as his father shoved me or because he knows I do not like arguments. Either way, I nod silently, and he gives a single nod back, the stress soon returning to his face.

  With the sun on our back and the tree line at our front, blocking us, I watch a beat-up Camaro pull up the old barn. A man in a t-shirt walks up to the car, shielding his eyes as he escorts the person inside and making a very good guess it’s likely they’re both vampires. “Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “So they’re really not afraid of the sun?”

  “Direct sunlight hurts like a nasty sunburn. The only way to kill ‘em is by beheading,” John answers and I roll my eyes at the repetition especially when half the information is something I already said. “And yeah, they sleep during the day—doesn’t mean they won’t wake up.”

  “So I guess walking right in’s not our best option,” Dean remarks.

  “Actually, that’s the plan,” John answers, immediately creeping from the treeline back to where the Impala and his truck are parked. 

  Weapons are handed out like candy on Halloween night, the machete's blade seeming to gleam as the sun hits it just right. Grasping the hilt reminds me of that day long ago, how my hand shook as I killed the first vampire. They look human, and the blood that falls is so human that it’s like killing one instead of a vampire. I had to remind myself they weren’t human and that they killed so many. Then, it was almost too easy.

  “So, you really wanna know about this Colt?” John suddenly asks.   “Yes sir,” Sam answers.

  It's just “a story, a legend really. Well, I thought it was. Never really believed it until I read Daniel's letter,” he starts. “Back in 1835, when Halley's comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo. They say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter, a man like us only on horseback. ‘Story goes he made thirteen bullets, and this hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. And somehow Daniel got his hands on it. They say... they say this gun can kill anything.”

  Something unsettling settles in my gut, something I don’t want to discern. We aren’t in the nest, and yet it’s like the fight-or-flight instinct has kicked in. “Kill anything like supernatural anything?” Dean asks. The same thought eats at my mind but where concern hits me surprise hits him.

  “Like the demon,” Sam connects, and I feel foolish. Maybe it’s a survival instinct, or maybe it’s selfishness that makes me worry more about a weapon that can kill me rather than a gun that can kill the yellow-eyed demon. I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of dying, at least not totally, especially when what I am makes it incredibly difficult to kill me, to begin with. But now I’m aware of something that can. It won’t be like a bullet wound you can maybe heal from; there won’t be hope—just death. Gone in the blink of an eye with no goodbye or warning.

  “Yeah, the demon. Ever since I picked up its trail I've been looking for a way to destroy that thing. Find the gun -- we may have it,” John answers.

  I want to be happy for them. I’m trying to be happy. I’m trying to push the fear away because isn’t it an irrational one? But I am scared. What if I don’t get a goodbye? What if it winds up in the wrong hands and I’m at the other end of it? Technically, right now it is in the wrong hands if the vampires do have it. “No offense, I'm glad this is an opportunity to get the damn thing,” I start, my fear turning into anger. “But did you, oh, I don't know, plan on informing us about this before we go into the place that has this gun, or was it Sam that convinced you?” I’m not an idiot; I am aware of the possibility that this could’ve been left out for God knows how long. “I mean, this could literally kill me, like end-end me, and you were just gonna, what, not mention it? ‘Cause it would’ve been a great warning.”

  He doesn’t answer, and I’m not sure if he’s going to acknowledge me, which is answer enough. I move to try to get in his way. “You know, somehow I find a new reason to dislike you, which is kind of impressive.” I know I’m being mean as if a jab could heal the panic in my veins.

  “You should be grateful I haven’t sent your ass back home,” he bites.

  “Yeah well, this ass saved your life back with the Daeva’s.”

  “Y/N,” Dean says, carefully touching my arm. But I step out of his hold, my shoulders going up as if trying to un-feel the touch, which is weird because I never do that with him. “No, Dean, this is serious,” I reason, my voice higher in an attempt to be louder, though it never nears a yell. I don’t dare look at him, weary of the hurt that might pass over his face.

  “Were you going to say something if Sam hadn’t called you out?” I ask him again. But, I’m sure I know the answer. He pauses for a beat too long, and I feel foolish again. I’m arguing with a guy who couldn’t care less about what happens to me. The anger simmers in my gut, bubbling down until it’s replaced by shame. “You know what? Never mind,” I give up. “Let’s just go kill the vampires.” I shake my head, walking away from the group towards the run-down barn. 

  I creep between the trees, careful of where I step so that I don’t make a sound, even though I’m outside the barn. I take a couple of deep breaths as I walk; I need to have a clear head. This isn’t the kind of hunt you can be careless on; one wrong move and it all goes up in flames. I clear my head of any leftover anger or negative emotions; I need to lead with focus, not emotions. 

  I move closer to the barn, finding a window that looks easy to get into without making so much noise. That is key. I lift myself onto the thin windowsill, cautious as to not let my legs or any body part slam into the wall. And with the knowledge that the boys are close behind, I move into the barn. I move silently, first observing the layout and the countless hammocks filled with vampires as well as the occasional vamp that rests on the floor. 

  Ever so slowly, I move forward, careful to step over the beer bottles as I move as quietly as a mouse. Inch by inch, I lurk towards a random vampire in a hammock. A lone vampire, or at least one that’s farthest away from the others, even if far isn’t far at all.

  I stand over his sleeping figure like a predator ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. Ever so carefully, I lift my blade, hovering it above its neck. With one quick motion, I know I am a hypocrite. Blood drips down its neck in waves like a relentless ocean; its eyes shoot open as the blade is plunged deeper. Its mouth parts in an attempt at a screech it can’t possibly make as its head is severed from its body. It did not get to warn the others. It did not get to say goodbye.

  I pull my blade from the mess; blood seeps into the fabric of the hammock and drips to the floor. I sense the Winchesters enter the barn as I pick my next target. The goal is to get as many asleep so that should they wake, it’d be a slightly easier fight. Again, I take my stance over a vampire when I hear the faint clink of a glass bottle knocking over. I hold incredibly still, so still, I feel like the narrator in “Tell-Tale Heart.”

  By luck alone, the vampire beneath my gaze does not stir, nor do any others. I turn my head slowly to where the noise originated, seeing Dean and Sam at the other end of the barn near each other. I swallow roughly, focusing in on the task at hand. Again, I drive my blade into the pale neck of the resting creature, blood spraying onto my cheek. I move to the next, stalking forth with my raised blade when an unearthly roar breaks the silence. The vampire beneath my gaze shoots up, clutching my wrist before I can lay the blade onto it. The machete vanishes from my hand, appearing in my other. I swing the blade; the cut is uncoordinated and messy in my non-dominant hand, slashing off its hand. My wrist is free as the limb goes flying, a horrible screech coming from the vampire as it clutches its wrist, blood spurting from where the hand used to be, bone exposed to the air. Glass shatters somewhere overhead, and I switch the weapon back to my dominant hand, unable to get another swing in when I dodge the lunging vampire.

  “Run!” John yells from the same direction as the broken glass. I sidestep just in time, narrowly avoiding a swing from a vampire lunging at me. More of them surge toward me, their snarls filling the air. Reluctantly, I turn and run. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound almost drowning out the thudding of their footsteps behind me. I race toward the back of the barn, but there’s no clear exit—just solid walls and shadows. I sprint toward one of the walls. My legs push forward harder, willing myself to pass through before I crash into it. 

  The world blurs for a heartbeat, and then I stumble forward, my feet skidding on the dirt outside. I glance back, breathless, at the wall I just passed through. A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, I’m getting really good at the whole teleporting thing. But enough celebrating, I quickly round the outskirts of the barn and make my way up the hill to where the distinct figures of the Winchesters wait. A look of relief passes over Sam and Deans face at the sight of me but I can’t say the same for John. I know he doesn’t care if I get injured or die. 

  “They won't follow. They'll wait till tonight. Once a vampire has your scent, it's for life,” John informs, slightly out of breath.   “Well, what the hell do we do now?” Dean asks.

  I wipe the blood from my cheek with the back of my sleeve, glad that I decided to wear dark clothes today. “I’ll go back in there and finish it,” I answer.

  “No, you’re not,” Dean declares, taking a single step toward me.

  “Why not?” I ask. “I already killed two and—”

  “You did?” John cuts me off, reflecting the same surprise he did before.

  “No, my machete is just normally covered in blood.” 

  “You’re not goin’ back in,” Dean says firmly.

  “Dean—”

  “Not on my watch.”   “Oh, come on. This is quicker than waiting until night and you can have your special gun sooner,” I reason, following him as he walks away. 

  “Not happening.”

  “Don’t you want that gun?”

  He stops short of the Impala's trunk, his expression firm as he faces me. “Not at the expense of your life.” His eyes are set on mine, a challenge burning behind his irises.

  “I’m very capable of doing it myself,” I argue, my chin raised to meet his gaze head-on.

  “I know you are,” he replies, his voice low and sure. “‘Doesn’t mean I’m lettin’ you go.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you, you know,” I point out, the words sounding childish on my tongue.   His brow arches, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. He wets his lips, voice dropping lower, “I don’t see you goin’.”

  The words hang heavy between us. He’s got me, and he knows it. I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my throat. His eyes drop briefly, flicking to the small space between us like he’s daring me to move. He tilts his head slightly, waiting, his confidence annoyingly attractive. His fingers brush my wrist, featherlight, trailing down the inside. It tickles my skin, my breath hitching slightly, loosening my hold on the machete. He doesn’t rush—his hand glides lower, steady, until he slides the weapon from my grasp as if he already knew my answer before I had the chance to utter it.

 “We’ll need dead man’s blood,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intended. His eyes flick back to mine, dark and unreadable, the weapon now clasped firmly in his hand alongside his own. He nods, his lips parted slightly.

****

  After splitting up from John and Sam—and some lying and distracting on our part— Dean and I managed to grab the dead man's blood from the local funeral home. Afterward, it took some extensive convincing, including arguing that it would be safer for me to act as bait instead of Dean to be where I am now.

  Now, I lean over the car’s popped hood, peering at the engine while the Winchesters watch from somewhere in the trees. “Car trouble?” a woman's voice asks. I turn around to see a dark-haired woman with thin eyebrows and striking blue eyes standing with another girl lingering behind. It didn’t take them long to show up. “Let me give you a lift. I’ll take you back to my place,” she purrs.

  I lean against the front of the Impala, tilting my head slightly as I eye her. “I���m sure you’d like that,” I respond, biting my bottom lip, purposefully teasing. She steps closer as expected, so close I can smell the lingering metallic scent of blood on her mouth as well as her strong perfume. She grabs my jaw roughly, her fingertips digging in as she holds my face firmly, forcing my head back an inch so that she can use our small height difference to her advantage. I let her do what she wants, I’m not afraid of her or the other vampire. I’m just here to get her close enough for a good shot. “Would you like that?” she asks, spinning my question.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not Buffy and you’re not Spike,” I smile teasingly. 

  Her smile deepens, turning a little wicked. “You know, I should kill you for what you did to them.” 

  And I know she’s talking about the two I killed and the third I hurt. “Will you?” I challenge. I’m sure she won’t, at least not now. They like to play with their food. So, just as expected her eyes trace down my face, the collum of my neck, and dip beneath my shirt. “We could have some fun first,” she answers, eyes tracing back up.

  Her head tilts down, her hold on my face tightening as her lips brush mine. Her hand slips to the back of my head, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging. My lips part in a groan, my head harshly bent back, giving her the chance to crash her lips to mine. She kisses me roughly and fast, all teeth and tongue before pulling away and licking her lips as if savoring the taste. “Heard you had a boyfriend,” I remark. “You think he’d mind you–” She cuts me off with her lips, teeth clashing with mine. My hands grasp the Impala behind me, the cold metal digging into my palms contrasting with the heat of her mouth. 

  She gasps, an almost choking noise as she pulls away and I know the shot has been taken. My eyes fall to her chest, the arrowhead sticking out. “Dammit,” she curses. The Winchesters emerge from the trees, crossbows in hand and unreadable expressions on their faces. Her hands fall from my face as she steps back, my chest heaving a little as I try to catch my breath. “It barely even stings,” she claims.

  “Give it time, sweetheart,” John answers. “That arrow’s soaked in dead man’s blood. It’s like poison to you, isn’t it?”

  Real surprise passes over her features, a hand coming up to cradle where she’s been hit as she staggers backward, wavering before she collapses to the asphalt. “Load her up,” John directs, moving to the other vampire who’s also on the floor with an arrow through her. “I’ll take care of this one.”

  I turn around, shutting the hood of the car just as I hear the familiar squelch of blood.

****

  The campfire burns bright in the middle of the small clearing of woods. She's still unconscious, secured with a rope around her that she could tear easily the moment she awakens. “Toss this on the fire. Saffron, skunk's cabbage, and trillium. It'll block our scent and hers until we're ready,” John orders as he walks back into the clearing with his eldest son in tow.

  Dean sniffs the bag contents and coughs, “Stuff stinks!”

  “That’s the point. It has to be strong enough to cover your scent,” I smile while simultaneously feeling bad for finding his reaction to the ingredients funny. “You can dust your clothes with the ashes and they, hopefully, won't be able to detect you.” I move to him, willing to take the bag from his grimacing face. 

  “‘You sure they’ll come after ‘er?” Sam asks as I carefully separate and dump the ingredients into the fire.

  “Yeah,” John answers. “Vampires mate for life—”

  “Didn’t seem she cared about that with Y/N” Dean remarks, cutting off his father. I give him a pointed look. And he just responds with, “What? She was the one who looked real into you.” There's a certain edge to his voice that I can’t quite discern, something almost snarky.

  “Well, one thing interpretations got right about vampires is how inherently sexual they are,” I explain. “I’m not sure why but I guess it makes sense considering how they take the blood is intimate.” Still, Dean doesn’t seem particularly satisfied with that answer.

  “She means more to the leader than the gun,” John continues. “But the blood sickness is going to wear off soon, so you don't have a lot of time.”   “A half-hour oughta do it,” Sam answers.   “And then I want you out of the area as fast as you can,” John orders.

  “But…”

  “Well, Dad you can’t take care of them all yourself,” Dean cuts his brother off.

  “I'll have her and the Colt,” John reasons.

  “That’s hardly a lot of protection,” I point out.

  “And if I remember you wanted to go in with less,” he bites back.

  “I also have abilities that you don’t. I can stay with you, ‘make sure you get it safely.”

  “‘Don’t need your protection,” he answers. I figure ego has some part of his decision so I drop it, if he doesn’t want backup then he doesn’t want it.

  “But after. We're gonna meet up, right?” Sam asks. “Use the gun together. Right?” There's a long pause, the question hanging in the air for one too many seconds. “You're leaving again, aren't you? You still wanna go after the demon alone. You know, I don't get you. You can't treat us like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like children,” Sam answers firmly.   “You are my children. I'm trying to keep you safe,” he reasons. I bite back my comment about how ironic that is coming from him as I walk a couple of steps away.   “Dad, all due respect but, uh, that's a bunch of crap,” Dean says, all heads snapping to him.   “Excuse me?”

  I half expect him to back off, instead, he doubles down. “You know what Sammy and I have been hunting. Hell you sent us on a few hunting trips yourself. You can't be that worried about keeping us safe.”   “It's not the same thing, Dean.”   “Then what is it? Why do you want us out of the big fight?”   “This demon? It's a bad son of a bitch. I can't make the same moves if I'm worried about keeping you alive.”   “You mean you can't be as reckless.”

  “Look... I don't expect to make it out of this fight in one piece.” The atmosphere seems to change, becoming a little heavier in the wake of his words. “Your mother's death ... it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die too. I won't.”

  I’m sure there is some truth to his words but at the same time, he's been a horrible father to them, leaving them alone as mere kids to fend for themselves, forcing them into the hunting world at a young age, and even bringing them on hunts when they should’ve been worrying about school not their lives.   “What happens if you die?” Dean points out. “Dad, what happens if you die, and we coulda done something about it? You know I’ve been thinking. I ...think maybe Sammy's right about this one. We should do this together.”

  Sam nods.

  “We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it,” Dean argues. It may sound cheesy but it holds merit.  “We're running out of time. You do your job and you get out of the area. That's an order.” His answer is unsurprising and yet the way Dean looks down and the way Sam clenches his jaw makes me want to deck John Winchester until he agrees.

****

  We quickly follow after John, having already killed the vampires in the barn and freed the container of people they had. Of course, it’s against what we were directed to do but we aren’t exactly known for following rules, so there's that. We ditched the Impala some ways back, sticking to the trees with our crossbows as we approached John's truck and the group of vampires.

  We arrive in time to see John get knocked to the ground, his plan going south immediately. He’s backhanded into the door of his truck just as one of many arrows flies through the air, hitting the other vampires that crowd around. We emerge from the trees and I switch my crossbow to my off-hand to unseathe my machete. I easily walk up to one and in one clean motion send their head flying, the body buckling to the floor.

  Quickly I turn, my crossbow raised to shoot a vampire that was creeping up on Dean. “Don't!” someone yells. I pause, eyes landing on a vampire who looks like a rock band reject with his arm around Sam’s neck while Dean tries to lurk forward with a machete. “I'll break his neck. Put the blade down,” the man orders. Everything stands still for a moment as I drop both my weapons. Dean, however, pauses until the man tightens his hold on Sam’s neck and then the machete is dropped to the ground with a clink.

  Suddenly, the man’s arm is forced from Sam’s neck. It shakes as it's pulled away by an invisible force, his face contorting with confusion as he loses the ability to control his limbs. My head tilts slightly as I control him, forcing his other arm to remain at its side so that Sam is free to stumble away, his brother immediately dragging him behind him. The knees of the man buckle, forcing him to kneel on the asphalt. “You people. Why can't you leave us alone? We have as much right to live as you do,” the man cries and I falter. 

I falter. The one thing you’re never supposed to do in a fight. But, it doesn’t matter because his head is cleaned off his body before he can get up. John standing behind him, blood dripping from his machete. “Lutherrrr!!!!” the girl from before screams a horrible guttural scream that seems to reverberate in my ears. She’s dragged away by another vampire, fighting against their hold as she stares down John and her lover's body.

  I stand over the little table in the motel room making sure I didn’t leave anything when John enters—the first we’ve seen him since last night. “So boys,” he starts immediately, the door closing behind him feeling like a death sentence.

  “Yes sir,” Sam answers, both boys straightening out like soldiers.

  “You ignored a direct order back there,” he starts.

  “Yes sir,” Sam answers.   “Yeah, but we saved your ass,” Dean intervenes, nervous looks thrown his way from Sam and I.

  “You're right,” John, surprisingly, nods.   “I am?”

  “It scares the hell out of me. You two are all I've got. But I guess we are stronger as a family. So...we go after this damn thing. Together.”   “Yes sir,” they say in unison.

  “And I guess you can be there too,” he adds, looking over at me.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @ugvvguggvvgu @yasmin12312 @squishytap

[andy-15-07]

Hello! Love your fics! Maybe a Paul Mescal fic about tattoos… like maybe after sex the reader and him are laying there talking about their tattoos?

Ink and Intimacy

PAIRING:Paul Mescal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1527 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Paul Mescal Masterlist

warning : smut

The sheets, crumpled and damp, lay tangled around them. Paul, his hair damp and plastered to his forehead, traced lazy circles on Y/N's hip. She sighed, a contented sound, and shifted closer, pressing her body against his.

"You know," she murmured, her voice husky from the aftermath of their lovemaking, "I've always wanted to get another tattoo."

Paul hummed in agreement, his eyes still closed. "What would you get?"

Y/N thought for a moment. "I don't know, maybe something small and delicate. Maybe a tiny bird, or a constellation."

Paul opened his eyes and looked at her, a mischievous glint in them. "Or maybe," he suggested, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could get matching tattoos."

Y/N's eyebrows shot up. "Matching tattoos? Paul, are you serious?"

He grinned. "Why not? It would be a way to always remember this." He leaned down and kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers. "Besides," he added, "I think it would be kind of hot."

Y/N giggled. "You're impossible." But she couldn't deny that the idea intrigued her. "What kind of tattoo were you thinking?"

Paul shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe something simple, like a line. Or maybe a symbol that means something to us."

Y/N's eyes widened. "A symbol?"

He nodded. "Yeah, like a heart, or an infinity sign. Or maybe something more personal."

Y/N thought about it. "What about a moon?" she suggested. "It represents so many things – mystery, magic, the passage of time."

Paul's eyes lit up. "I love it. A moon. It's perfect."

They spent the next few minutes discussing where they would get the tattoos, what style they would choose, and what it would all mean. Y/N felt a thrill of excitement. This was something special, something they would share forever.

Later that day, they went to a tattoo parlor. The artist, a young woman with a nose ring and a constellation of stars tattooed on her arm, listened patiently as they explained their idea. She sketched a delicate crescent moon on a piece of paper, then added a tiny star to one side.

"Perfect," Y/N breathed, her heart pounding.

Paul grinned. "I can't wait."

They scheduled their appointments for the following week. In the meantime, the anticipation grew. Y/N found herself constantly touching the spot on her wrist where the moon would be tattooed. She imagined the cool sting of the needle, the feeling of permanence.

The day of their appointments finally arrived. Y/N, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement, met Paul at the tattoo parlor. They held hands as they walked into the studio, their fingers intertwined.

The artist set up her equipment and began to work. Y/N closed her eyes, trying to relax. She could hear the rhythmic hum of the tattoo machine, the steady thrum of her own heartbeat.

When she finally opened her eyes, the moon was there, a perfect little crescent on her wrist, sparkling with a delicate sheen. She gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. It was even more beautiful than she had imagined.

Paul, seeing her reaction, smiled. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She nodded, unable to speak. He leaned down and kissed her wrist, then whispered, "I love you."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes shining. "I love you too."

They spent the rest of the day celebrating. They went out for a celebratory dinner, then walked along the beach, holding hands and admiring their new tattoos. As they watched the moon rise above the horizon, Y/N knew that this was a moment they would cherish forever.

The sheets were tangled around them, a testament to the passion that had consumed them earlier. Y/N lay beneath Paul, his weight a comforting anchor against the soft mattress. Her breath hitched as he moved, his lips trailing a path down her neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

"You taste incredible," he murmured, his voice a low growl against her skin.

Y/N arched her back, pressing herself closer to him. "You're not so bad yourself," she whispered back, her hands tangling in his hair.

Paul chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down her spine. He shifted, his hands moving lower, exploring her body with a practiced touch. Y/N moaned, her fingers digging into the sheets.

He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin between her legs. Y/N gasped, her body arching involuntarily. He moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his tongue swirling around her, eliciting a series of involuntary moans from her.

She reached for him, her fingers finding the waistband of his boxers. He met her gaze, his eyes dark and intense. With a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered himself onto her, filling her completely.

Y/N cried out, her nails digging into his back. He moved inside her, his strokes slow and powerful, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She arched her back, meeting him with her own hips, desperate for more.

He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth as he moved within her. Y/N clung to him, her body trembling with the intensity of the pleasure. She felt herself nearing the edge, a wave of euphoria washing over her.

"Paul," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I'm—"

He groaned, his movements accelerating. "I know, baby," he murmured, his voice rough with desire.

With a final, explosive thrust, they both erupted, their bodies trembling in unison. They lay still for a moment, their breaths mingling in the air.

Paul pulled back slightly, his eyes filled with a lingering afterglow. "That was incredible," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Y/N smiled, her heart still racing. "It was," she agreed, her voice soft.

He leaned down and kissed her gently, his lips lingering on hers. "I love you," he murmured against her lips.

"I love you too," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

Paul shifted, his hands moving lower, tracing circles around her nipples. Y/N gasped, her body already tightening in anticipation. He leaned down, his mouth finding her breast, sucking gently on her nipple.

She arched her back, her hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. He moved to the other breast, repeating the motion, his tongue swirling around her nipple, eliciting a low moan from her.

Y/N reached down, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, then moving lower, exploring his chest, her hands lingering on the small constellation of stars tattooed there.

Paul groaned, his hands moving lower, exploring the sensitive folds between her legs. Y/N moaned, her body arching involuntarily. He moved his fingers inside her, his touch sending shivers of pleasure through her.

She reached for him, her fingers finding the waistband of his boxers again. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled them down, revealing him fully. He was hard and throbbing, a sight that made her gasp.

She reached for him, her fingers closing around him. He moaned, his head thrown back. She began to move her hand, slowly at first, then faster, her fingers tightening around him.

Paul's breathing hitched. "Y/N," he groaned, his voice rough with desire. "Don't stop."

She continued to move her hand, her fingers finding his sensitive spot. He cried out, his body arching involuntarily.

With a final, explosive burst, he came undone in her hand. He let out a low groan, his body trembling.

Y/N continued to stroke him, her fingers soothing his arousal. He leaned back, his eyes closed, savoring the afterglow.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and looked at her, a mischievous glint in them. "Your turn," he whispered, his voice husky.

Y/N smiled, her eyes sparkling. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He gasped, his body tightening.

She moved slowly, her lips tracing a path up his leg, then lower, exploring his most intimate areas. He moaned, his hands gripping the sheets.

She continued to move, her tongue swirling around him, eliciting a series of involuntary moans from him. He reached for her, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer.

With a final, explosive thrust of her tongue, he erupted again, his body trembling violently. He let out a low groan, his head falling back against the pillow.

Y/N smiled, her heart pounding. She leaned down and kissed him gently, her lips lingering on his.

"That was incredible," she whispered, her voice husky.

Paul smiled, his eyes still closed. "It was," he agreed, his voice rough with satisfaction.

They lay there for a while, content in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Y/N traced lazy circles on his chest, her fingers lingering on the small constellation of stars tattooed there.

"I love your tattoos," she murmured, her voice drowsy.

Paul smiled. "I love yours too." He leaned down and kissed the delicate crescent moon on her wrist. "It's perfect."

Y/N sighed contentedly. She knew this was just the beginning of their story, a story that would be written on their bodies, a testament to their love, forever.

[acesandocs]

Assigning jewelry I found on Pinterest to my mutals' ocs

Amber kind of inspired this, as I kept seeing cool insect jewellery I think she would wear. I feel this one represents her though. It has a butterfly motif which Yancy has said sometimes represents Amber. I don’t know the exact size from the pic but it looks like it fits a bit tighter around the neck like a choker (which have a Victorian/Regency vibe to me) and the oval/circular pendant are also reminiscent of this. I also felt that there being multiple pendants also symbolizes her Chrysalis gang with the center pendant being her.

Benjamin is a small child and I don’t think hes super into jewelry at the moment but I saw this baby chic in an egg pendant that reminded me of him. The egg opens and has the chick inside so it has an interactive element that I think would be cool to a kid. Its very cute and innocent but the darker silver egg around it reminds me of Moredcai protecting him.

I haven't known Cassie and Bailey long and I’m not as familiar with them so I put them together, this one is mostly vibes tbh. They escaped a bad situation recently so a running rabbit was kind of symbolic of both the situation the ran away from. The rabbit being in a rectangular inset could also symbolize a cage. Bailey also has a bunny plush so it felt right. There are also two pearls attached to what I think is supposed to be a tree also represent Cassie and Bailey and them being part of the same family tree( siblings).

Luc already has kind of a signature jewelry which is his heart locket necklace. So this is a bit more of an extension of that. Forget me nots of course symbolize everlasting love and remembering loved ones. The everlasting love makes me think of Katherine which can take on a sinister connotation as well. And remembering loved ones as reference to Luc starting to forget people as The Curse™ overtakes him. At least that what I think is happening from the cryptic tidbits of Luc lore 4U has posted.

Maríanne of course gets something snake themed. Its very straight forward snake with an apple for some of that original sin symbolism and trees, apples and snakes are a big part of her story. While this is a ring I really like the idea of this design as a bangle because it can also be a golden shackle. Really hone in on the snake going from a symbol of safety to one of entrapment.

Maura is a lover girl and I felt she needed something that wasn't too serious. So a simple pendant with a white flower and some young love symbolism fit her. I can imagine her fiddling with the pendant every time shes about to see Rocky.

Millicent reminds me of a bird always flying here and there, and pearls a lot for some reason. Shes very outwardly elegant and typically feminine so i wanted something that captures that. Though this broach is more reminiscent of a bug the wing motif is still there. If there was a bird on the back instead it would be perfect.

Amber: @yanci-indigo

Milicent and Benjamin: @aghostnamedclamity

Cassie and Bailey: @funfairsundaes

Luc: @tohot4u

Maríanne: @ahhhh-118

Maura: @rudnitskaia

[fleetinggabi]

Anyways I think it's kinda funny how our reactions to Radhan being Miquella's consort are probably very similar to how people in the lands between felt when they heard that Radagon, the guy who stopped an invasion from Leyndell to marry into the house of the Moon because he was just that smitten with Rennala had abandoned her out of nowhere to become Marika's Elden Lord. Like yeah bet they also thought the lore sucked and this was some bullshit fanfic that the guy who broke the news in their little town had made up in a silly little act of mischievous fun.

[zellkabellk]

I finally beat Shadow of the Erdtree's final boss.... it was hard but going slowly day by day helped learn most of the patterns (and survive the ones I still didn't get completely) ;;;;;;;; TIS DONE

[king-of-tragedy]

yeah sex is cool but have you ever been an objection in motion you've lost all emotion your two legs are broken but look at you dance yeah an object in motion don't ask where you're going 'cause where you are going is right where you am

[phagodyke]

dating an art student was so crazy I'm just thinking abt that one birthday I had where my ex got me stickers from the etsy of the person they were cheating on me with....

[waywardsalt]

easily my favorite boss in elden ring so far

[timey-fandom-stuff]

you ever have a dream so unbelievably cool that when you wake up you just about screech in rage that it ended too early...

[grinchwrapsupreme]

there are so many cool earrings in the world and i have so few money to buy them

[inthecarpets]

"the only thing i knew about Yuri on Ice is that it was gay. If i knew it everyone else knows it. I'd more easily believe in people who thought yuri on ice isn't about figure skating."

vs The memories of me back in the day watching Yuri on Ice and being like "the show is cool, tho idk why people call them gay or expect anything super gay, it's just fanservice cashgrabbing, isn't it?"

And i- i already knew i was bi when watching it. I Legit thought that the show is about figure skating but with fanservice for some reason. 😭

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ! ❞

❝ THEY TOOK YOU. SO SATORU GOJO DID THE ONLY REASONABLE THING — HE TOOK THEIR LIVES ! ❞

✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken and found hurt, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, canon compliant, feral gojo, acts of violence, reader gets kidnapped and attacked, gojo goes insane, gojo clan sucks, higher ups get asses best, yaga and Ijichi featured, dom!gojo, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing,

✧ w/c: 8,446

The worst mistake Satoru Gojo ever made that morning was to get out of bed.

If he had just stayed in bed that morning, turned his cellphone on silent, and basked in the warmth of the soft comforter you had picked out (even as you balked at the exorbitant price) and especially in the warmth of your embrace — the one place where it felt as if it was okay to be himself, just him.

And now it was just him.

Because you were gone.

When his phone rang that morning, your lips had been against his, indulging in a lazy morning tryst because for once, Satoru had been off duty — or he was supposed to be off duty. Your gaze had been the ones to stir him from sleep, as even in the embrace of sleep he couldn’t resist you or your adoring eyes — the very same he held more precious than his own.

“I didn’t even say anything, how did you wake up?” And his lips curl at your slight frown, his fingers brushing over the curve of your cheek.

“Thought my pretty wife was admiring my beauty while I slept so I had to wake up to the same,” and he’s leaning over to press lazy kisses along your jaw.

“Did you just call yourself beautiful?” You snort, and he grins, before falling into a playful pout.

“My own wife doesn’t think her husband’s beautiful?” And you’re rolling your eyes, before rolling over on top of him, your body only covered by the black t-shirt you had stolen from him last night, a small groan as he felt your very bare thighs brush against his boxers.

You were a goddess — your smile ethereal in the sunlight streaming in from the window as you leaned over him, and he was willing to worship all his life at your altar, if you would only give him a brush of your lips.

“Of course I think you’re beautiful, I’m the one always saying that anyway,” your lips brush his chastely, far too quick and teasing, “I was just imagining what Nanami would say if he heard that,”

“Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

“He would say the size of your ego is becoming a threat to Earth’s atmosphere,” and Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“And my darling wife would disagree, right?” and you look away, biting back a smile, “eh? You’d let him say such heinous things about me?”

“It’s not heinous if it’s true—“ you gasp, and he’s flipped you on your back, pressing his lips to yours to swallow your words, along with your giggles, as you break free, “Toru! Ah—“ and he nibbles at your neck, “hey!”

“You have to pay for the consequences of your actions, baby, what kind of sensei would I be?” And you’re rolling your eyes.

“I’m not your student, ngh,” you’re gasping as his teeth sinks into your neck, “if anything, I’m the one reigning you in,”

“Well then,” he chuckled in his words, as his fingers trace your jaw, “I’ll have to show you how far your student has come then,” and his lips only brush yours, when his phone rings.

“Baby,” you sigh, and he’s glancing at the phone, a sigh on his lips, as he reaches for the phone, sneaking a glance at you, before he picks up.

You press sweet kisses to his chest as you hear the faint murmur of Yaga’s voice through the phone, hearing reports of the special grades they’ve been tracking, “Old man, this is the first day off I’ve taken off in so looooong,” and he holds the phone away from his ear until Yaga’s screams fade, “fine, fine, send Ijichi,” he hangs up while Yaga was still mid-yell, tossing his phone on the bedside table with a sigh, “sweetheart,”

“I know,” you cup his cheek, his lips in a pout not made for the strongest sorcerer, but for your Satoru, “I’ll be here when you come back — waiting very impatiently,” and he chuckles, his lips finding yours.

“How’d I get so lucky to have such an understanding wife?” And your lips curl.

“You annoyed her into falling in love,” and he gapes at you as you giggle, until he’s got you pinned underneath him yet again, “what? It’s true!”

“Then I’ll have to annoy you some more, just to make sure,” and he’s finding you in another kiss, until his devilish fingers run down your sides, beginning their assault on the spots that made you laugh the most.

You pulled your lips from his, squealing, “Nooooo! Satoru, stop!” you tried to push him off from tickling you, but he was the strongest for a reason—a reason you usually were very grateful for, but not right now. And finally he relented, as you gasped and chuckled still, lips in the most adorable pout, “you’ll pay for that,”

“Oh really? How’s that, wifey?” and you kiss his lips chastely, barely a brush, as you cross your arms, fighting back a smile.

“That’s the only goodbye kiss you get,” and he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, before that smirk of his returns, “and you try to steal one and I’m making you sleep on the couch,” And he pouts, before you press a longer kiss to his lips, “you’re lucky I love you,”

Satoru grinned, “I know.”’

Yeah, he should have never gotten out of bed.

“Where is she?” For once, Satoru’s words were devoid of humor, the laughter and happiness sapped from his very essence the moment he had heard. The moment he had felt your cursed energy waver. All this time, Satoru’s eyes had been focused on the outline of your soul, no matter where he was, because you were always the one thing he wanted to come home to — that he needed to.

“I don’t know Satoru, that’s why I had called you,” Yaga runs his fingers through his hair, “goddamnit,” he swore, scrubbing a hand down his face, “the mission came from the higher ups, they wouldn’t give me the specifics, but they said it was confidential—“

“I don’t care for the details right now, do we know anything about where she is?” Satoru keeps his words carefully measured, muscles wound taut, the only thing keeping him from using blue to destroy Jujutsu Tech in one fell swoop was the thought of you, “did she tell you anything else—“

And Ijichi bursts in, brow furrowed, “Gojo, we have a lead.”

~~~

Was this how it would end?

You knew it was in your fate to die, eventually. A wretched cycle that all of you were forced to live. An endless baton pass that always ended with the last runner dying — nothing but a pile of corpses left behind and to look back on.

And it would almost be a relief, a blessing to finally be done — if it wasn’t for Satoru.

You knew he would blame himself for this. He always blamed himself. Blamed himself when he couldn’t beat Toji. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Riko. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Geto. Because he was the strongest, and that meant he should be able to solve everyone’s problems — do everything no one else can do, be everywhere at once, and never fail.

Never. And yet, that’s not what the sleepless nights he spent working told you. It only told you that jujutsu would take everything from him, if he let it, and he would let it, if only that meant he could do more good.

And he was so good. Even if he didn’t see it — you could almost feel the lingering warmth of his embrace this morning, the wide grin on his lips as he peppered kisses down your neck, and the soft gaze of blues made of affection just for you — you would always see it for him.

You don’t see the curse coming, your vision blurred from the last strike. The crack of your bones barely registers in your ears, the curse presses you into the wall, claws pressed to your throat, drawing blood to run down your neck.

“Now, now, we can’t kill her, at least not yet,” a voice calls out, “we were given strict orders to wait,”

The curse’s growl reverberated across your skin, a desperate growl deep in its chest, the string of control being pulled taut, as its black nails dig deeper into your side, until it dropped you onto the ground like a rag doll.

Your body ached only for moments before it was chased away by numbness. And you could only wonder if this was how they felt? Riko, Haibara, Geto, all the others you watched die — was this the pain they felt? The ache of muscles that they could no longer feel, the sticky wetness of blood that seeped from their unknowing bodies, and the cold thst crept up from the tips of your toes.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted to stop. But each time you felt the tug of the other side, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t. Not when Satoru needed you.

Your eyes burn with tears. And you needed him.

~~~

“Where is she?” The same question was ringing in Satoru’s head over and over since he had heard.

Candle wicks trembled with fear, casting shadows on the wall that shivered in the presence of the man before them. The papered panels was all that stood between him and these old men — the very same that played with the lives of many day in and day out. It would be far too easy to kill them all — in fact, it would barely take any effort at all with his cursed technique.

But he wouldn’t allow them the warm embrace of an instant death.

“Such insolence — how dare you enter this place and speak—“

“You ought to be thanking me,” his power sparked in the glint of his eyes, the glow of the lit wicks catching in the hard blues, “for not bashing your skulls in and ripping your hearts from your chests from the moment I entered,”

A silence swept over the room, another voice speaking, “Gojo—“

“The next words out of your mouth better be an answer because I don’t want to ask again,” his voice fills the silence in the room, only broken by the sounds of the candles crackle, “where is she?”

“We cannot disclose where—“ there’s a loud crack, the splintering of wood and the wet squelch of flesh and blood, and a cold breeze swept through the room, the candles going out.

Satoru’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his neck, forcing the broken floorboards digging into his wrinkled skin, “I said I want an answer, do you think I would think twice about killing any of you?”

There’s a pause and the silence is only filled by the sound of gore dripping down the paper screens and hitting the floor.

“The only reason I haven’t yet was there was no point to it — no meaning,” and he could see you this morning, his lips curled for you, a strangled choking noise leaving his throat as the pads of his fingers squeezed around his neck, “but now I have every reason to, so tell me before I lose my patience,”

A silence fills the room again, until one of them speaks, “Let him go, and we’ll tell you.”

~~~

“Who do you work for?” the words come out strangled, your fingers bunching up your soaked fabric and pressing it to the gash on your stomach, “why did you bring me here?” You force yourself not to give them the satisfaction of a flinch.

“Do you really think it would be that simple to get me to reveal the reason, jujutsu sorcerer?” you hear a distant laugh, “we have our reasons, isn’t that simple enough? Or rather—”

His footsteps clapped against the floor, your head wrenched upwards, as a small yelp escapes your lips, “does it matter when you’re going to die either way?”

And you grit your teeth, before spitting on his face, half blood, half saliva, “At least I don’t have to live a life as pathetic as yours,” his fingers squeeze at your chin, your jaw aching under his grasp.

“Pathetic?” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt before, throwing you to the floor, body screaming in pain, but you refuse to show weakness, even as tears burn at your tear ducts, “And yet, I’m not the one bloodied and battered and two inches from death, bitch,” he scoffs, muttering, “I can see why they ordered us to kill you now, who would want someone like you around?”

“Now I’m listening, who gave you those orders?” Another voice says from behind him. The man freezes, while you lift your head, a small smile on your lips, “are you hard of hearing or just plain stupid? Well, I don’t really need to even ask that, do I?”

He was shrouded in shadow, but you didn’t need to see him to know it was him — especially as he tugged his blindfold down with two fingers, blue eyes devoid of any humor or joy, and instead only with hatred.

“Satoru Gojo,” the voice left the man’s lips slowly, but before he could react, the special grade curse that had held you was barreling towards him in a moment, before Satoru held it at bay with his infinity, the other curses following suit — how many did this curse user have in the room with him? Three? No more like five or six, but even so — you scoffed under your breath, it wouldn’t matter, “No, you idiots! Don’t—”

And in a moment, they are eviscerated — held back by his infinity, deep seeded growls and roars leaving their lips, “c’mon now, is this the best you can do? I was expecting more from those bold enough to take my wife, but I guess I expected too much,” he sighs, before he lifts one hand, “Cursed Technique Amplification, Blue,”

You barely can make out the screams from one another, the splatter of their essence raining down from above, until you hear footsteps rushing towards you, and you’re hauled to your feet, pressed against the cursed user, his hand around your neck.

“One more move, and I break her neck,” Satoru landed below with ease, his gaze raised until he met yours, and you saw it soften for you — a silent question of ‘are you okay?’ and your nod and a forced smile that told him you were okay enough.

“You can try,” his words were slow and measured, just as his steps towards you were, “but I don’t think you understand who you are dealing with,”

He tensed, fingers digging into your neck, “I know perfectly well who you are, Satoru Gojo, and I am not afraid to die by your hand for this,”

Satoru’s lips curled, “I wasn’t talking about me,”

The kidnapper’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

And you jabbed at his knee, the bone splintering under your force, but you barely hear the snap or his scream because of the blood roaring in your ears. You don’t spare a second before slamming your other hand into his head, nose breaking from your fist, blood splattering across your arm. You ready yourself for another move, before you felt him ripped away from you, a strong arm around you to steady you.

“It’s okay, I got you, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Satoru murmured, soft words meant to soothe you, as his body envelops your tense muscles, until you finally relax into his arms. Your eyes burned with tears, as you looked up at him, before your eyes slid to the kidnapper, Satoru’s hand around his throat.

“I knew you’d come for me, Toru,” you whispered, grasping onto the front of his jacket, “I knew you would,”

“I always will,” and his eyes turned to the man, voice even, “should I kill him once I’m done questioning him?”

You know he means it.

“I don’t know,” you reply, fingers curling as you pressed your face against his chest, “but I don’t want you to have blood on your hands, not for me,”

“It wouldn’t be for you. It would be for me,” he says softly, “but we can discuss it later,” and then others began to flood the scene, the sights and sounds feeling distant as your eyes drooped with exhaustion.

“Satoru, I’m—“ your voice broke, “I really tried—“

“Shh, you did great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head, as you finally succumbed to exhaustion, slumping over in his arms, “I’ll handle the rest.”

~~~

“You all must be wondering why I called this meeting,” Satoru said, standing at the head of the Gojo clan’s meeting room. It had been long since he had stood as the head, but far too short for his liking. He had discarded this part of his life as soon as he could, joining Jujutsu Tech without a second of hesitation, and continued to run the operations of his clan as an adult, behind the scenes.

But it seems he was too lax.

It had been a few weeks since the incident. You were asleep for a good day in and out while Shoko worked on you. She came out of your room, pulling off the surgical cap off her head, and Satoru got to his feet, as Shoko removed her gloves and mask, “She’s fine, Satoru,” and he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“How bad was it?” he asks, and she tilts her head, hands slipping into her pockets.

“Are you asking that to know how badly she was injured or so you can do worse to whoever did this?” Satoru shrugs, lips parting and she holds up a hand, “never mind, the less I know, the better,” she grabs your file and opens it, “most of her injuries related to cursed technique burn out — it seems whoever took her used curse spirits to attack her, she mentioned when she was conscious briefly that they didn’t control the curses, but they seemed to be able to work with them somehow,”

“More intelligent curses have been appearing since Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru murmured, but this wasn’t related to the asparagus special grade or volcano head. It was separate — it was personal.

“But all of this to take a first grade sorcerer, why?” and he shakes his head.

“It wasn’t for her — it was for me,” and that’s why they hadn’t killed you, “is she awake?”

Shoko sighed, “She should be waking up in a bit. She didn’t need much aside from some RCT treatment and stitches for the wounds she sustained,” she places a hand on his shoulder, “go see her, and try not to murder anyone until she wakes up,” she turns to leave, heels clicking.

“Wait,” Satoru stops her, and she pauses, “I need a favor.”

~~~

Satoru never liked hospitals. He hadn’t spent much time in them for actual injuries, because of his abilities. However, he spent far too much time inside medical facilities for the Gojo clan’s required medical check-ups. It was to ensure the future head’s health, he was told, but really, it was an excuse to make sure their cash cow would still give them milk.

Because that’s all he ever was — a pawn.

But he had long shed that role, tossed it from the board, when he had left for Jujutsu Tech. But even so, he lingered outside your room, some things still stuck. Especially when he had new memories — of seeing his comrades dead bodies laid on cold metal slabs.

And would you have been another if he hadn’t made it in time?

Satoru shakes his head of his thoughts, and opens the door. You were still asleep. Tucked into the hospital bed, you looked so small somehow, fragile — two things he never saw you as. How could he have? When you were the one on his first day to greet him and then slap him when he had something pretentious or childish (neither of you remembered but you had insisted it was one or the other).

And he had never let you go after that. But now…he couldn’t even hold you.

The sharp beeps of the machine monitoring your vitals, connected by the tubes and wires that ran all over your body. He reaches for his blindfold so he can look at you, really look at you, but he can’t. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into the soft of his palms,

But you were alive. You were alive. You were alive.

That’s what he had to tell himself as he drew closer to your side — no matter how you looked now, you were okay. And that’s what was most important.

“Are you going to brood by my bedside all day?” his gaze snaps to you, your eyes fluttering open still, still drooping and exhausted, but a soft smile on your lips, “Because hospitals are depressing enough, Toru,”

He chuckles, forcing his tears back and his voice to be event, “Sorry, sweetheart, I forgot to pull out the stops for you this time,” and his fingers find yours, lacing as they always did, but they felt so cold, “next time I’ll bring confetti, balloons, streamers, and I’ll serenade you even—”

You snort, “You may be the best at everything, but I know you’ll sing offkey on purpose just to piss off Shoko or anyone else that visits me,” and he laughs shakily, a sigh stuck in his throat.

He presses his forehead to yours, “I love you, so much, y’know that, yeah?”

“I love you too, so much, Toru,” you cup his cheeks, turning your head to press your lips to his hand, “thank you for saving me,”

“You saved yourself, I just cleaned up a little,” his lips find yours in a soft kiss, and your brow furrowed, “what? Are my kissing skills that bad?”

You roll your eyes, “No, but are you okay?” and he scoffs softly, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who got kidnapped and hurt, and you’re asking me if I’m—”

“Satoru, you asked me if you should murder that guy,” you tilted your head, “I know you’re not against killing if it’s necessary or deserved, but the way you said it, I got worried,”

“I’m fine, I just—” he cut off, “I just need to figure out who did this,” you squeeze his hand, “I have to,”

“Satoru—“

“I know you’re okay, but you don’t know how afraid I was that you wouldn’t be—“ he cuts off, “and it’s not just that,” his fingers curl around yours tighter, “it’s not just us we’ll have to worry about in the future. We’re already a family, but what will happen if someone targets you and our future kids?” He takes a shaky breath at the thought,

“I have to make an example.”

Your gaze grows sad, pressing a kiss to his lips, if only to ground him for a moment, “I know,” but you frown all the same, “but promise me, you won’t do anything stupid, ok?”

But he was far from stupid — but the people before him were as close as anyone could get.

“You all are aware of my wife’s attack a few weeks ago,” he said in measured words, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m here to tell you that she has succumbed to her wounds,” his voice wavered, breaking, “she’s gone,”

There were whispers and murmurs that swept over the room, all were silenced by the lift of a hand — one of the Gojo Clan elders, the geezer leader as he liked to call him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Satoru,” he said, lips twisted in a fake frown, “we heard that your beloved wife passed from her injuries a week ago,”

“And yet, I see you’ve brought someone for me to meet,” his eyes slide to the woman dressed for a wedding rather than a meeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The woman’s painted lips kept in a neutral expression, her body so rigid he could have mistaken her as a statue if not for his six eyes, and her eyes refused to meet his.

“Satoru, I understand you are mourning, but we have to think of the future of the Gojo clan, and our future place in the Jujutsu world is only as secure as the next heir—“

“And so you thought to disrespect my wife by trying to marry your choice?” but their brows furrow as he begins to laugh, one that sends shivers down their backs.

The elders all gape at him, sharing looks, before turning back to him as his laughter finally settles into a quiet chuckle, “Satoru, what is this?”

“It’s funny that you ever thought I’d fall for this bullshit,” he pulls off his sunglasses, cerulean eyes gleaming in the low light, “did you know my wife was never supposed to be sent on this mission? Or rather, there were no reports of cursed spirits in the area, but yet, orders came for her to report to where she was,”

A hush falls over the group, “And why are you telling us this?”

“Because I think you all have forgotten your place,” in a blink, he’s grasping the neck of the elder, the very same man who had taken him away from his parents at the age of two to ensure his training was done properly, “I am the strongest, not the Gojo clan. I’m the only Gojo needed for the clan to be prosperous,”

“You insolent child—“ Satoru squeezes around his neck, gasps and whimpers clawing their way out from his grip, veins bulging as he tried and failed to pull Satoru’s hands off. He had even let the old man penetrate his infinity and all he had managed was a scratch or two.

“You should be careful when you’re talking to the ‘child’ who has your life in his hands,” and he grows silent, “now, to get back to the point, where did those orders come from?”

A quiet washed over the room, the only sounds were the shaky gasps of the elder in his hand, “W-what are—“

“I had a chat with the higher ups — those rotten old geezers may not like me, but I know they like all their limbs intact,” he drops the elder and twists his arm behind his back, wrenching back until he heard a cracking noise, “and they told me the orders came from the Gojo clan, and I wondered why would my own clan send the wife of the head off to be executed,”

“Satoru—“ one of the elders spoke, and he tilted his head.

“If you want him to die, your excuses will only make this go faster,” and his mouth shuts, “I’ll take your silence as a confirmation that all of you had a hand in this,” he sighs, removing his sunglasses, running his fingers through his hair, “man, I’ve had conspiracies against me, but I never guessed you’d target the one person I value above everything else. But I knew you would fail her little test,”

He’s met with furrowed brows and gritted teeth, the elder looking up at him in fear, “W-what?”

“You see if I had it my way, I would have killed you all, no questions asked,” his fingers close over the top of his head, wrenching him backwards to meet his gaze, “But my wife, my very much alive wife,” he adds, with a glance to the woman looking increasingly faint with each second that passes, “she would want me to see if you’d come clean about the plan and whether some of you were innocent,” his lips curl, “but she doesn’t know the bloody history of the Gojo clan like we do,” and his fingers dig into the flesh of the elder, “so what’s a few more bloodstains?”

He tears off his head, screams ringing out as a rush of scarlet paints the walls, splattering across the other elders. The woman offered to be his wife rings over the others, her shrill shriek piercing their eardrums. It’s a dull thud as the lifeless corpse falls to the floor, as Satoru wiped the blood from his cheek, a cock of his head and eyes flashing with anger.

“You can’t do this! You—“ Satoru’s fist connects with his face, blood flooding his features.

“I can, because I’ve decided the Gojo clan needs to get rid of the tumors that infect it, and besides,” his body crumples to the floor as his foot slams into their stomach, a sick, wet noise that draws gasps and open mouthed silent screams from the others, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Please, please, she’s alive—” one of them begged, all of them falling to their knees, wrinkled faces contorted in fear, blown out eyes and faces wet with tears only making them more ugly than he thought was possible — he really couldn’t end up like these geezers, “we only wanted what was best—we wanted the next head of the clan to be even more powerful than you are—”

He laughs, not an ounce of mirth or levity, shivers running down the spines of the others who watched, as he stepped over the body of the elder, lips twisted into a wide grin, “And there’s your mistake,”

He loomed over the one who spoke, shadow cast over him, as his fingers curled around his arm, before breaking it off, spurts of blood splattering on his clothes, mixing with the other — some of it flecked across his face.

Satoru wiped his face with his forearm, tilting his head. He knew they were begging and pleading — lips moving, words forming, but it all fell on deaf ears. After all they had never bothered to listen to any sorcerer before, did they? Suguru’s face came to mind — flashes of the spring he would never get back — so why should he listen to theirs?

“You were too busy worrying about the next head, when you should’ve been worried about the current one.”

~~~~

You were asleep.

Moonlight gave way to your features in the pitch black room, your soft breaths warming his fingers that ran over your cheek. Shoko had discharged you yesterday, and he had brought you home — but even now with you home, he couldn’t sleep. It felt as if you’d disappear the moment he took his eyes off you, slipping from his grasp just as you almost did.

But you didn’t. You’re here.

It was the same words you had whispered to him every night when he had curled up beside you, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, aren’t I?”

But you could disappear.

You could if he wasn’t there with you — if he wasn’t fast enough. Because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, not even the strongest could accomplish that. But he wanted to keep you safe all the same. Would it be selfish to lock you up? Hide you away somewhere others could never find you? Keep you hidden if only to keep you safe.

But you never would be safe, not while you were with him.

“Toru?” Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, eyes fluttering open to meet his as your fingers reach for his cheek, “is that blood?”

And he’s pinned your hands in a blink of an eye, quickly and quietly, “it’s not mine,” his gaze glows in the dark, catching the moonlight streaming in, and he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Toru, what happened?” And he kisses along your cheekbones, your jaw, your nose, your chin, “Satoru—“

“I killed them,” his fingers trace the folds of the satin robe he had helped you into, brushing against the bandages that hid your wounds from his sight, but he could see them all the same, “the people who did this,”

Your brow furrows, “Toru, what do you mean the people who—“

“Why do you stay with me?” He leans down to find your lips in a bruising kiss, lips sliding against yours as his fingers undo the knot of your robe, letting the fabric fall away from your bare body.

“What—“ his lips part from yours, strings of spit connecting your mouths.

“Why do you stay with me when I’m a monster?” and your eyes soften.

“You’re not—“ and he’s cutting you off with another kiss, as your hands struggle under his grip, the other grazing down your side, finding the swell of your hip only to squeeze.

“I’m the perfect weapon,” he kisses down the side of your neck, teeth grazing against your soft flesh harshly, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I could have killed them all, because I know they all knew—“

“Knew what?”

“My clan elders — they wanted to have you die on a mission, they wanted to stage it, so they could have me marry who they wanted,” he pauses, drawing a finger down the valley of your breasts, “create a perfect heir,”

“Satoru—“

He kisses you again, swallowing your words along with your thoughts, parting only to speak, “so I killed them, I didn’t use my cursed technique, I wanted them to feel the pain they gave you, wanted them to feel a fraction of what you did,”

You can’t find a second to speak, his fingers now sliding up your bare leg, as he presses himself closer, erection against your inner thigh, “Toru, you didn’t have to put yourself through that—“

“I wanted to,” he parts your thighs easily, large palm spread against your inner thigh, fingers toying with the edge of your panties, “wanted to tear them to shreds for what they did to you — and what they wanted to do—”

“I’m okay, Satoru, I’m—” a bitter laugh leaves his throat, as his fingers find your bandages again.

“Do you call coming home half dead okay now by jujutsu sorcerer standards?” he shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, “I told you after Suguru that I would fix this rotten jujutsu world,” he presses kisses up your thigh, “and their deaths did fix one thing — no sorcerer will touch you or our future children again, especially when they speak to the woman the clan wanted to marry off to when your body wasn’t even cold yet,”

“You left her,” and he nods, eyes unable to meet yours.

“I only killed the elders I gathered, anyone else was spared — they didn’t dig their own graves,” his hand loosens around your wrists and you reach for his cheek, cupping his cheek, despite the blood, “I don’t regret it, I’d kill anyone who hurts you, but I didn’t want you to see me like this,”

“Like what?”

“Like a monster,” and you click your tongue, his eyes flitting to yours.

“You’re my Satoru, not a monster, you did what you did to protect me, protect our family,” you murmur, “that’s just about the most Satoru thing you could do,”

“But—“

“And if you are deemed a monster anyway?” You lean up, fingers smearing the blood against your own cheek, “then I’ll just become a monster with you,”

He crashes into you with a kiss, cupping your cheeks, as his tongue slips into your mouth, “can you really be a monster, sweetheart?”

He drags his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your soft flesh along the hollow of your throat, “T-Toru—“ and his lips find the swell of your breasts, his tongue dragging over your pert nipple, while his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, snapping it against your skin, “y’know I can be, I would be, for you,”

He peers up through half lidded eyelids, his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, “I can’t imagine someone so sweet like you as one,” he murmurs, as he pulls back, lips slick with spit, as he drags his fingers toying with the soaked fabric of your panties, “and I wouldn’t want to drag you down with me,”

Your fingers reach forward, propping yourself up on your other arm, “Drag me or not,” you cup his chin, “you’re stuck with me,”

“Can we make it a binding vow?” you roll your eyes, and his lips curl for the first time since he’s got here, “c’mon sweets, I have to get my reassurance somehow,”

You hold up the giant rock on your finger, the very diamond you had told Satoru was too much, “this wasn’t enough—” the last word is a bite back gasp, as he noses at the drenched crotch of your underwear, a deep inhale that has you squirming, “No, Toru—” but he’s pinned your thighs down, prying them open, as he gazes up at you.

“Uh-uh, princess, I don’t remember saying you could move, especially when you could reopen your wounds,” his nose bumps against your clothed clit, a wicked smile as he drags his tongue over the already wet fabric, “you still haven’t seen how much of a monster I can be.”

~~~

“Ngh, Toru, can’t, I can’t—” but you can — you know you can from the heat building in your sloppy cunt under already soaked through sheets, and he knows too well you can too, from the way your pussy flutters around his three fingers, knuckle deep as they piston in and out, while his mouth toys with your abused clit, “please—”

You lost track of how many times you had orgasmed — his fingers, his mouth, and sometimes both — he had pulled each one after the other, allowing small reprieves, only to bury himself back in. He had even had you ride his face at one point, and you were sure he’d suffocate under your drenched cunt, until he flipped you on your back again.

“Please what, sweets?” he slows his fingers, curling them a certain way that makes your lips fall open, “you’ll have to use your words,” he pulls back.

Chest heaving, chin glistening with your release, his tongue cleaned his lips off before he wiped the rest off, before pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs. And soon enough, his fingers were sinking back into your messy pussy, splitting you open with his thick fingers.

“Didn’t you say you wanted this, sweetheart?” his words cut through the wet squelch of his digits fucking you open, “wanted to drag you down with you, wanted this—” and he sucks hard at your clit, tongue flicking over it, making your back arch, “wanted me to drag you down with me,” and he punctuates it with a thrust of his fingers, brushing against a spot that has you seeing spots, “gotta make good on your promise, and I have to erase all the pain they gave you,”

And you barely manage to latch onto the desperation in his voice, the way the facade flickers.

He fucks you ever so slightly deeper, and you cum hard, tearing through you as your body tenses, pleasure washing over you as it did every single other time, melding into the others, “Good girl,” he murmurs, as he works his fingers through your orgasm, the slick noises becoming white noise, until he finally pulls the digits from inside you.

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his digits clean one by one of your cum, his lips curled in a soft smile as they meet your gaze, his hand sliding up your thigh gently as it quaked, the very same fingers he had used to murder the people that hurt you, were so gentle when it was you — he was always so gentle when it was you.

But never himself.

You reach up for him, palm cupping his cheek, while the other finds his bare shoulder — clothes long discarded, “I love you,” and the cracks spread, spider webbing from the epicenter, “you know that right?”

His words seem caught in the back of his throat, “Even now?”

“Especially now,” and he’s pressing you against the mattress again, your thighs folded against your chest, legs slung over his shoulders, “you saved me,”

His gaze softened, “you saved me first,” and again and again, he couldn’t count the number of times you did, by just existing, pressing a kiss to the side of your thigh, “but if I’m too late next time?”

“You can’t be everywhere,” your fingers lace with his, “and I just need you,” and still in this situation, his ego can inflate at your praise — nosing at your thigh, a deep inhale, before dragging his tongue up the side of your leg, “only you.”

He drags his weeping erection over your soaked folds, leaking tip teasing your slit while he watched his pre mix with yours, “Think you need more than just me,” and when he lets the tip sink into you, your lips part with his name, just as your walls part for him, “want something else, wifey?”

“You’re the worst,” you look up at him, lips curling despite your pout, your fingers grasping at the sheets under you, as your cunt tries to swallow him whole, “Toru, how long are you going to tease me for?”

And he’s pulling out only to draw a groan from your lips, “If you’re such a monster, thought you could take it—“ and your hand reaches for him, tugging him close by his neck.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now—“

He grins, “If you insist,”

Fuck.

He sinks into you all at once, all too fast and all too slow, balls deep as he bottoms out inside you, your walls fluttering only to pull him deeper, “fuck,” your head falls back as his tip brushes against your cervix, “too fucking big, I swear if you rip my stitches open—”

“You don’t think I cleared this before I decided to do this, baby?” He grunts, glancing down to see how your messy hole stretched open as he sunk into you, “can’t believe anyone thought I’d fuck anyone but you — you’re the only one for me, sweetheart,”

You couldn’t help but notice his eyes flicker to your pussy stuffed full with his huge dick, “You talking to me or my cunt—“ and he begins to fuck you, remark undercut by the moan that he pulled from your lips, “f-fucker—“

“That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it sweetheart?” the lewd sounds of skin slapping together filled the room, his soft grunts and your moans, “wanted me to fuck you open, yeah?” and he wanted this, needed this after this week — it had been too long since he felt you under him like this — real and alive, his name leaving your swollen, kiss bitten lips.

And you needed it just the same — needed his fingers to dig into the softness of your thighs, needed the way only he could fill every inch of you, needed the soft murmurs of how good you felt, how much he loved you.

“Fuck, Toru, so fast,” you whine, but how could slow down he when you felt so good — so wet and warm, you had joked he could cum just looking at you alone barely a fist around his dick, but it was true — and being inside you just made him unravel completely, all sense of himself lost and drowning in just you, “hngh, it’s so deep,” you babble, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s right, sweetheart, gonna fuck you deep, gotta make sure you feel it don’t I?” he coos, and his hand snakes between your thighs, pressing his palm to the bulge in your stomach, making you gasp as your walls clench around him, drawing a grunt from his lips, “that’s it, good girl,”

You keen at his praise, the wet squelch of your cunt around his cock ringing in your ears, balls slapping against your pussy with a rhythm that echoes in your head, as your body arches into him, needing him deeper, harder, faster. He’s nearly rutting into you, his thrusts growing shallow as you clamp down on him, achingly close.

“Those old fucking geezers don’t know what they were talking about—“ he grunts, running his mouth all the same even as he sunk impossibly fucking deeper, “don’t know this is the only cunt I’d ever breed. The only one I’d ever breed. The only one I can. Know why?” And you only can whimper, as his fingers rub against your clit, “because this is the only one made for my cum,”

And his words push you over the edge, cumming hard and fast, head lolling back, as his tip bullies your womb, as he fucks you hard over and over through your orgasm, sending pleasure ripping up your spine. Satoru groans as he feels you spasm, soaking in him in your juices, as he watches a white ring of your cum form around the base of his dick, dripping onto the clean sheets with the evidence of your arousal.

He can’t hold back.

He rails into you, a moan of your name falling past your lips making you pull him close, shifting your legs around his back just so he can sink into you even a centimeter deeper—

“Fuck, g’nna cum,” he’s meeting your glazed over eyes, knowing “gonna fill you up, yeah? Get you nice and round with my baby,” he groans at the thought, the image of you carrying his kid, stomach swollen as you grow his child, “and they’ll know, all of them, that you’re the only one I’d cum in,” and he’s so close, dick twitching as your arms around his neck tug him close.

“Cum in me, Toru, give me our baby,” and that’s it, he’s spilling inside you, spurting his hot release inside, again and again, as he fucks it deeper, filling you up.

“That’s it, take every drop,” he’s relentless, until he finally eases from you, his release trickling out. A soft sigh parts your lips that grows into a sharp gasp as he’s already flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Toru—” you whine.

“Aw did you think we were done sweetheart?” a pillow cushions your still bandaged stomach, placed underneath to support you, a shudder down your body as he rubs his cock against you, as he leans down, hot words murmured against your ear with a grin, before he sinks back into you with one thrust, stuffing his spilling cum back inside, “One thing about monsters are that we also have monstrous stamina.”

~~~

It was early, but Satoru was already awake.

He always had trouble sleeping, but now? His eyes found your sleeping form beside him, under the covers and safe, just as he had left you that morning. He didn’t know if he’d ever sleep more than three hours now. He brushed the back of his knuckles over your cheek, but you needed sleep — one of three things you never could live without (food and himself being the other two). And you definitely needed it now, after he had kept you up — nearly all night.

You shifted in your sleep, revealing several blooming hickies and love bites he had littered your body with, lips curling at the sight, as he pulled the blanket back up around you.

He was selfish — he should have divorced you the moment he had gotten you back. Let you leave because it was the right thing to do — to let you live a life safe without him. But he couldn’t — because he couldn’t imagine waking another morning, spending another day without knowing where you were, how you were doing.

It was selfish. But you let him be — especially when it came to you.

And his phone vibrates on the nightstand, whirring again and again, as he picks it up with a sigh, Yaga’s name flashing on the display. He takes one last glance at you before slipping from bed, stepping into the living room.

“Sensei! To what—“ he hardly gets a word out before screams fill his ears. He rubs his chin, it was too early for this.

He makes out the words — Gojo clan, dead, scandal, murder (wasn’t sure if he meant if he was going to murder Gojo or he meant what happened to the elders).

“It was a clan dispute, there was no need to tell you,”

Satoru held the phone away from his ear, Yaga’s yelling told him everything he needed to know, “Yeah, yeah, I know, the higher ups know — or they probably do by now,” he almost chuckles at the thought, and how he would love to do the same to them — knuckles white as he grips his phone — love to make them feel the same pain the sorcerers cared nothing for felt, make them—

Arms curl around him from behind and he knows it’s you, his body relaxing into your touch with practiced ease, your face buried in his back. His fingers relax, finding yours, tracing over the back, as he lifts one hand to his lips.

—But it wasn’t the time for that.

“Fine, fine, no need to have a heart attack, old man — I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Yaga was still speaking until Satoru hung up, turning to face yoy, your eyes half closed as his fingers found your cheek, “what are you doing awake, sweets?”

His lips curl as you lean into his touch, “you weren’t next to me when I woke up,” you murmur, nose brushing against his fingers as your eyes flutter open and closed, “how am I supposed to sleep when my pretty husband isn’t next to me?”

“Just pretty?” and you snort, as his arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you to his chest, your head right over his heart, a content sigh on your lips.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Always,” and you smile up at him, chin resting against him, “what is it? Do I got something on my face?”

“You think our baby will have your pretty face?” You hum, and his gaze softens at the thought, “I hope so,”

He grins, “You do huh? And here I thought my ego didn’t need more stroking,”

“It doesn’t, but my husband deserves every bit of praise he gets — because he doesn’t get enough,” you kiss him softly, nose bumping against his.

“You planning on showering me with your praise, sweetheart?” And your lips finds his again.

“Always,” and he’s leading you back towards the bedroom, “where are you—“ you squeal as he scoops you up into his arms and carries you back to bed, gently placing you down, a grin on his lips.

He drags his thumb down your kiss ruined lips, “Do you think I’m gonna let you leave this bed without breeding you right?” He clicks his tongue, “I’m far from done with you, wifey,”

You’re so beautiful, hair spread on the pillow like a halo, “So we’re not leaving until I’m pregnant?” Your fingers brush against his cheek, “we might be here a while,”

Satoru wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He kisses you again, long and languid, “There’s nothing I want more than to stay in bed with you.”

✧ a/n: sorry i've been gone for a bit!! i got super busy with work and got hella writer's block and right when i was feeling ready to write-- i got sick. but i'm doing much better now!!

✧ taglist: @arrivedercis, @ssetsuka, @ch3rryistheg, @satorusmochis, @sunarins-bae, @blindbabycadder , @yihona-san06 , @dantaku , @archieballs , @ceruleansol , @mqcht , @xxemmarldxx , @chiyokoemilia , @theshylittleelfgirl , @rroseselavyyy , @out4thenight , @jatyes , @unreliablefangs , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @celestialseasart , @minsified , @akemfs , @ranatherealestsigma , @zherryxtar , @virtualangelllllll , @itsmebien , @difluenza , @rougebrainsludge , @mochigod , @euphorism , @vii-is-free , @elliesndg , @beneaththelamina , @monarch-of-anime-simping , @hhimetsu , @simply-a-s1mp , @jennieclips , @svt-backup , @angelbunsx , @duhhitsmiranda , @satowooo , @fushitoru , @lesaurita , @briluvslee , @gojo-gets-me-wetter , @catsgomurp , @pinkyvomit , @hyori2 , @wakashudou , @celestialgojo , @sxnkuna, @nakariabnrb, @dazailover1900, @hanlay, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @kxouri, @forest-fruits-jam, @spider-fan72, @strawmariee

[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?”