#Santorini Honeymoons | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pearlsephoni · 1 year ago

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The Big Fat Greek Honeymoon, Ch 2: From Athens to Santorini

Can also be read on AO3!

Rating: E

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Kagehina (Kageyama/Hinata)

Characters: Shoyo Hinata, Tobio Kageyama

Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: Two days of travel in a row won't stop the newly-weds from enjoying the villa they'll call home for the week.

A/N: Originally published on AO3 on May 28th. Further author's notes can be found there.

🏛️

For all of Tobio’s grumbling and bluster, he still wraps Shoyo back up in the now-filthy towel and carries him back to the bathroom, where he leaves him to rinse himself down in the shower while Tobio fills up the bathtub with hot water and a complementary bath bomb Shoyo found earlier. By the time Shoyo deems himself sufficiently filth-less, Tobio has already lowered himself into the bathtub and is waiting for him with surprising patience.

He feels floaty and half-awake the entire time, his mind still dazed after having two powerful, ruthless, sublime orgasms ripped out of him. He’s less smiley and more sleepily content when Tobio towels him down after the bath, tucking his head under his chin and holding on tight despite Tobio’s half-hearted grumble of, “Dumbass, I can’t dry you like this.”

“S’okay.”

“Lemme go.”

“No.”

He hears a gruff sigh, before strong arms and the fluffy towel wrap around him. “...Oi.”

“Hm?”

“Can you walk back to bed alright?”

Shoyo’s eyes slowly blink open as he peers up at Tobio. “...If I say no, will you carry me back?”

“Alright, that’s a yes.”

“Noooo,” Shoyo laughs, clinging to Tobio and shuffling along with his attempts to leave the bathroom. “Carry meeeee, you carried me here!”

“Yeah, and you’re fine now.”

“You really think my ass recovered that fast?”

“Jesus, shut up,” Tobio growls. Without any warning, he slips out of Shoyo’s hold and grabs him around the waist, hoisting him over his shoulder to the sound of his startled squawks.

“Ow, Tobi, what the hell!” he shouts, battering at his back and kicking uselessly at the air.

“You wanted me to carry you, right?”

“Yeah, like your husband, not like a sack of rice!”

“Oops,” Tobio deadpans, not sounding remorseful at all. Jerk.

He doesn’t put Shoyo down until they reach the bed again, where he still lowers him with the same care he’d shown before. “There. Happy?”

“No,” Shoyo grouches, turning away from Tobio to crawl up the bed.

“Are you seriously mad at me?”

“Yes!” With that, he burrows under the covers, keeping his back to Tobio’s side of the bed and not giving up any of the covers despite his tugs at them.

“Hey…Sho, c’mon.”

Shoyo doesn’t say a word…but he does let some of the covers loose.

They’re immediately tugged back to the other side of the bed, before a weight makes the mattress shift beneath him. “...Sho?”

Shoyo presses his lips thin and stays turned away, even though every part of him wants to turn towards the weight slowly approaching behind him. “Shoooo.”

“No.”

“Hey…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“Hmph.”

“You seemed fine after the bath, so I thought…” Hesitant fingers brush his waist, making him jerk a little from surprise, but he doesn’t move towards or away from the touch. “…What can I do?” Shoyo held his breath. “To make it up to you?”

Shoyo waits a beat or two, just to make Tobio squirm, before suggesting, “…Could you carry me to the Olympic stadium?”

“Are…are you serious?”

“If you don’t want to…”

“No, no, I’ll…I’ll do it.”

“…Really?!”

“Yeah…”

That’s all Shoyo needs to hear to make him turn towards Tobio with a sunny smile. His husband, for his part, looks like he’s just stuck a whole lemon in his mouth. “Now are you happy?” Tobio mumbles.

“Mm-hm!” Shoyo snuggles in, bumping his head under Tobio’s chin and brushing a kiss to his throat. “You don’t have to.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to carry me.” Shoyo peeks up with a cheeky grin. “I just wanted to see what you’d agree to. I wasn’t actually mad.”

“You little—” A broad hand suddenly covers Shoyo’s face, making him squawk when it shoves him back. “You sneaky little bastard!”

“Love you, too,” Shoyo coos, holding on tight. “Don’t be mad! I’ll let you win tomorrow!”

That brings a familiar glint to Tobio’s eye. “‘Let’ me? I’m gonna win fair and square.”

“Not if you don’t get some sleep!”

There’s a grunt, then an arm tucking Shoyo into a strong chest. “G’night, dumbass.”

“Good night, jerk!”

🏛️

In a rare twist, Tobio is the first to wake up in the morning, and Shoyo isn’t roused by his weight shifting out of bed. When he does wake up, it’s to gentle fingers in his hair, an ache at his hips, and the sight of a bowl of Greek yogurt with granola and honey drizzled on top sitting on the bedside table.

He stretches with a wince and a moan, before he catches the hand sliding out of his hair and slowly opens his eyes to Tobio’s soft grin and softer, “Hey.”

“Hey, love,” Shoyo mumbles. He winces again as he pushes himself upright, blinking in the sunlight streaming into the room. “What time is it?”

“7:30. You have to hurry if we want to make it to the stadium.”

That fully wakes him up. “Shoot!”

It’s a mad scramble, but they manage to make it to the Panathenaic stadium by 8:00, giving them a full hour to workout. The stadium itself is stunning: it’s the only stadium in the world completely made of marble, and while its age shows in the yellow tinge to the stone, it still seems to glow in the early morning sunlight.

They stand at the entrance to the stadium for a quiet, awestruck moment before Shoyo glances at Tobio with a grin. “Hey, Tobi.”

“What?”

“Race you.”

Sapphire eyes meet amber for a single, charged breath. Then, as though they hear the same imaginary gunshot, they bolt forward to the black racetrack.

They race around the stadium, then up and down the marble bleachers, then race to get the most reps of push-ups and crunches and burpees. By the time Shoyo collapses to the ground, he’s added two wins to his tally, while Tobio’s added three.

“I win,” Tobio grunts as he plops down next to Shoyo with all the grace of a dropped potato sack.

“It’s not fair,” Shoyo whines. “You’re not the one who was fucked sore last night.”

“Dumbass, shut up! We’re in public!”

“Who understands Japanese in Greece?”

There’s a kick at his hip, and when he pushes himself to his elbows to scowl at Tobio, he instead finds his husband watching someone run past them on the racetrack. He follows his eyeline and finds himself staring at an East Asian woman jogging away, ears glowing red in a way that’s distinctly not from exercise. “…Shit.”

“Idiot.”

“Shut up! How was I supposed to know?”

“Maybe don’t talk about sex in public in the first place,” Tobio hisses. They scowl at each other before Tobio’s frown melts into concern. “Are you really still sore from last night?”

“A little,” Shoyo admits, carefully rising to his feet. “But I’m okay. I still beat you twice, right?”

Tobio’s concern hardens back into his grumpy scowl, but he still accepts Shoyo’s proffered hand and lets him pull him up. “I want first shower,” he declares, not letting go of Shoyo’s hand. “Since I won more.”

Shoyo gasps in mock hurt. “You don’t want to shower together?”

“If we shower together, we’re gonna miss the boat to Santorini,” Tobio says with a raised, intentional brow.

It’s not hard to understand what he really means, and Shoyo feels his cheeks warm from flustered surprise. “Fine, fine…you can have first shower if you take care of checkout!”

Tobio rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“And you can carry me back!”

Tobio doesn’t deign to respond. He just silently drops Shoyo’s hand and starts jogging towards the exit, leaving Shoyo laughing and running after him.

🏛️

After the hastiest shower and checkout either of them have pulled off, the couple take a taxi to Piraeus Harbor and hurry to their afternoon ferry to Santorini.

“Holy shit,” Shoyo gasps, collapsing into his seat. “We should never cut it that close again.”

“Right, I’ll note that down for our next ferry from Athens to Santorini,” Tobio snorts.

Shoyo swats at his arm before turning his attention to the window. Outside, the Aegean Sea churns against the side of the boat, battering it just enough to make it rock side to side. “I hope the sea’s not too rough.”

“We’re supposed to have clear skies today,” Tobio hums, leaning to look at the sea over Shoyo’s shoulder. “Even if it does get bad, the ride’s less than 5 hours. You’ll nap through the whole thing.”

“No, I won’t!” Shoyo protests. He nudges Tobio away with his shoulder so he can turn and frown at him. “This is my first time on a big boat like this! I’m not gonna fall asleep on it!”

🏛️

He falls asleep within the first hour of departure, and blinks awake to the sound of Tobio’s soft snores at his ear. He doesn’t want to sit up and rouse his husband, so he digs out his phone and brings it to his face to check the time.

Three hours passed. Which means they’re almost to Santorini. Which means Shoyo did, in fact, sleep through the trip. Oops.

The entire time that they disembark on Santorini and take a taxi to their hotel, Tobio is wearing a sleepy, satisfied smirk that is both infuriating and sexy. Shoyo can’t look at him for too long without nearly being overwhelmed by the urge to either shove or kiss him.

Both urges are forgotten when they step into their villa.

“Woahhhh!” Shoyo cries, dropping his bag unceremoniously at the foot of the king-sized bed. He at least remembers himself enough to drop it to the floor, keeping the crisp, white sheets clean, before he runs through the white, cave-like space and out onto the balcony. “Tobi, there’s a bed out here,” he calls back, “and a pool! Look, the pool goes inside, that’s so cool!”

“Dumbass, quit shouting,” Tobio hisses from the door.

“Why? Look at this place, we’re aaaaaall alone!” He’s not exactly wrong. The honeymoon villa is set apart from the rest of the hotel, offering almost-complete privacy while still presenting stunning views of Santorini’s caldera. After the afternoon ferry ride, the taxi ride to the hotel, and a hasty dinner, it’s already evening, with the horizon starting to turn orange and the rest of the sky dancing between a lavender purple and gauzy blue. It’s beautiful, and Shoyo is excited for the dinners and breakfasts they’ll share with an orange sky that week.

But the sunset can wait. Right now, he’s more interested in continuing to explore. He scurries back into the bedroom, oohing and aahing at the door leading directly from the bedroom to the infinity pool, then at the couch built into the wall, before he’s brought up short by the window above the couch. He hadn’t noticed before, because the space beyond is darker than the rest of the bright villa, but the window looks directly into—

“That’ll be a view,” Tobio remarks, resting a knee on the couch to peer into the huge shower. The listing online said the rain shower doubles as a steam room, but Shoyo’s still startled by how big it is.

“Just a view?” Shoyo hums with a coy smile. “Noooothing else?”

His skin immediately warms beneath the smirk Tobio pins him under. “We just got here and you’re already getting ideas?”

“I told you, that’s what honeymoons are for!”

“Uh-huh.”

Shoyo pokes him in the ribs and quickly dances away from his grabbing hands and into the bathroom. It’s nice, all glittering white tile, but the true prize is in the back: an indoor plunge pool, surrounded by black stone and lit by tiny lights around the water. Broad steps lead into the depths, and the pool fills almost the whole dark cavern, apart from a little ledge next to the steps. It’s probably meant for drinks or candles, but a thrill shudders through Shoyo at the thought of what else they can use it for.

“Hey, Tobi,” he murmurs, already sensing his husband behind him before his arms snake around his waist.

“Hm?”

“I think we’re in paradise.”

“Mm.” Soft lips brush over the line of Shoyo’s tank top against his shoulder. “What should we do first in paradise?”

Shoyo flashes a roguish grin over his shoulder. “We should get naked.”

“…Dunno why I asked.”

“C’mon!” Shoyo snickers, nudging Tobio away and towards the shower. “We just spent the whole day on a ferry! Don’t you feel gross?”

“I don’t think what you have in mind will help with that.”

“Shut up! Are you calling me gross?!”

“You said it, not me.”

“Fine,” Shoyo scoffs as he tugs off his own clothes. “I’ll just take a shower alllll myself, and you can watch through the window.”

He doesn’t have to look at Tobio to know he’s wearing his annoyed little frown, but he does feel a little disheartened when he doesn’t hear any clothes rustling or bare footsteps following him into the shower.

Then he turns the water on, and suddenly he’s yelping from fingers digging into his side. “Ow, you asshole!”

He whirls around to glare at Tobio, only to falter at the sight of him standing naked with their shower toiletries bag in his hand. “You forgot this. Dumbass.”

“No, I didn’t,” Shoyo sniffs. “I’m going into the plunge pool after this, I can just use the hotel shower gel.”

Tobio blinks. “…Oh.”

He looks so startled and pouty, Shoyo can’t resist pulling him down for a quick kiss. “But thanks! Now they’ll be ready for when we get out of the pool!”

“Who says I’m going in with you?” Shoyo just raises his brows and smirks, earning delightfully pink cheeks in response. “…Shut up.”

The shower is distinctly Not Sexy—somehow, by some unspoken agreement, they decide to race to be done and in the pool first, resulting in record-time showers and wet feet slapping across the tile floor to the plunge pool. Shoyo wins, but only because he nearly slips on the wet tiles, distracting Tobio with an attempt to catch him before he wipes out. “Woah, careful— oi!”

Shoyo catches himself, zooms to the dark pool room, and hoots as soon as he steps into the water on a submerged stair. “I win!”

“You cheater!”

“Who’re you calling a cheater?” Shoyo gasps in mock scandal, wading down the stairs until he can push off into the standing part of the pool. “I nearly died!”

“Yeah, and you didn’t, because I stopped and saved you.”

“I caught myself! I didn’t ask you to help!”

“Fine, next time I’ll just let my husband crack his head on the floor!”

Shoyo grins up at where Tobio is still standing in the entrance. He’s backlit by the bright lights of the bathroom, while the blue lights of the pool room throw his features and the contours of his body in sharply-contrasted light and shadow. He looks beautiful, ethereal, even with that stupid pout on his lips.

Shoyo’s stomach swoops low in his belly. “Are you gonna keep whining,” he murmurs, his soft voice echoing in the small cavern, “or are you gonna come here?”

Even in the dim light, Shoyo can see Tobio’s eyes darken before he starts taking slow steps towards him. The water comes up around Shoyo’s shoulders, but only rises to just below Tobio’s pecs, almost presenting the plush muscle like a meal. The light shining through the blue water makes his dark eyes flash, sending a shudder down Shoyo’s spine.

He looks surreal, like a god rising from the water, and Shoyo suddenly understands how the mortals of myths could be seduced by the divine.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there and staring at Tobio until his husband mutters, “What?”

“Huh?”

“Why’re you staring at me?”

“Oh…” Shoyo smirks, trying to distract from the flush warming his cheeks. “I was just thinking—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to compliment you!” Shoyo laughs, splashing at Tobio. “Do you want to hear it, or not?”

“Fine, fine,” Tobio sighs, easily blocking the small splash.

“I was thinking,” Shoyo starts again, wading towards him, “maybe it was unfair of us to get married.”

“This is a weird compliment.”

With a snicker, Shoyo winds his arms around Tobio’s trim waist and smiles, fluttering his lashes. “Don’t you think it’s unfair? That I’m keeping the sexiest setter in the world aaaaalll to myself?”

Tobio’s guarded confusion melts with his scoff, replaced by a small, fond smile. “People have eyes,” he reminds Shoyo in that flat, matter-of-fact voice, “they can still look at me.” His hands cup Shoyo’s jaw, tracing a thumb along the curve of his lips. “And since when have you lost sleep over being greedy?”

“Are you calling me greedy for loving you?!”

“Yeah. I’m greedy, too.” Tobio leans in, lets their lips ghost together. “I’m the only one who can enjoy Ninja Shoyo’s moves off the court.”

“Yeah…wanna see what he can do in the pool?”

“Only if you stop referring to yourself in third person.”

Surprised laughter bursts from Shoyo, made louder by the echo in the cavern. But Tobio doesn’t flinch with surprise or ask him to be quiet. He just lets out his own, much-softer laughter and watches Shoyo with a heartachingly fond expression. In the midst of his laughter, Shoyo is aware of Tobio’s hands moving over his body, one stroking down his spine and the other sliding past his hip. Tobio bends down to curve that hand around Shoyo’s thigh and hoist it up, forcing Shoyo to move his own hands from Tobio’s waist to his shoulders. He’s more than happy to hold on when Tobio lifts his leg around his hip, holding him up as he presses him to the wall of the plunge pool.

As he moves, he carefully keeps his lips just out of reach of Shoyo’s, only letting their noses brush and their breaths bead on their cheeks in the steaming air. “Tobio,” Shoyo whispers, wrapping his other leg around him and pulling him even closer, “kiss me.”

“No.” Tobio’s eyes are intense, making Shoyo somehow feel even more naked and exposed as they slowly drag across his face. “I want to see you.”

“See me?”

Tobio hums. With the water carrying most of Shoyo’s weight, he can let go of his leg and trail his fingers up his thigh, along his waist, and to his chest, where he draws circles closing in on Shoyo’s nipple.

“Oh,” Shoyo sighs, trembling from anticipation and the cold, wet spirals Tobio traces. “T-Tobio, we can’t…in the pool…it’ll be gross.”

“I know,” Tobio chuckles, eyes still fixed on Shoyo’s fluttering lashes. “I’m just getting you ready for the shower.”

“The shower—? Ah!” With all his attention fixed on Tobio’s wet fingertips, Shoyo’s not ready for the glancing lick at his other nipple.

Tobio hums again, this time with his lips brushing Shoyo’s skin. “I want to fuck your thighs.”

A shudder runs up Shoyo’s spine, but not without a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

Tobio pulls away with a frown. “What?”

“We haven’t done that since high school.” Sure, they’d tried it a few times, but once they both got up the courage to actually fuck, thighs were quickly abandoned in favor for ass.

“Yeah, because we never had a shower big enough to fuck in,” Tobio reminds him. He’s not wrong—even with their professional athlete salaries, the most they’ve been able to do without risking twisting an ankle were hand and blow jobs.

“Aw,” Shoyo mutters with a pout, “I wanted to ride you in there. Brought waterproof lube and everything.”

Tobio mutters a low curse, emphasizing it with a featherlight bite at Shoyo’s nipple. Shoyo keens and tries to curve away from Tobio’s mouth, but a hand slips around his back and keeps him arched forward. “Next time,” Tobio mutters, soothing his nipple with a wide-tongued lick, “you horndog.”

“Takes one to know one,” Shoyo retorts, before sighing at the kisses Tobio brushes across his skin. “Tobi…”

“What?”

“I wanna kiss you.”

“Nope.” Tobio grins up at Shoyo’s pout. “But you can touch me.”

Shoyo knew that, of course he knew that, but brushing his fingertips over the sharp line of Tobio’s collarbones isn’t the same as sucking a mark into the curve.

Still, with Tobio so intent on keeping his eyes on him, Shoyo has to make do with stroking up the back of his neck, sinking his fingers into black hair, and tugging just enough to wring a moan from his husband. “Touch me more,” he whispers, tugging again until Tobio meets his eye. “C’mon, you’re missing a spot.”

“A spot?” Tobio echoes with a raised brow. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

Suddenly, without warning, he reaches down and wraps his calloused fingers around Shoyo’s cock. The novelty of being naked in a private pool and being caressed by his husband has already made it begin rising in interest, but the first brush of Tobio’s fingertips is what makes it fully strain from Shoyo’s body.

“Ah, yes!!” Shoyo cries out, rocking into Tobio’s touch as well as he can without making his legs slip from his hips.

“Feels like a little more than a spot,” Tobio remarks, as casually as though he were commenting on the weather.

“Shut up,” Shoyo laughs breathlessly, words immediately melting into another moan. “Don’t make me want to fuck you.”

“Too late, I called dibs.”

“Dibs—?! Mmh!” Shoyo’s glare feels weak on his flushed, lustful features, but he pins Tobio under it anyway.

“Dibs,” Tobio confirms. “I still have to make up for last night.”

A jolt sparks up Shoyo’s spine as he bites his lip, feeling somehow even more exposed under Tobio’s heavy-lidded gaze. It’s a silly feeling—it’s not as if Tobio doesn’t already know and accept everything about him. The reminder feels warm and soft spreading through Shoyo, even as it tangled around the electric desire zipping in his veins.

“You keep staring at me weird.” The grumble snaps Shoyo out of his horny daze, and he finds Tobio staring at him with eyes that speak of more fondness than real annoyance.

“I just— nnh, I love you. So much.”

All the amused, fond annoyance slides off of Tobio’s face, leaving only the most tender, heart aching adoration pooling behind those eyes. Shoyo only gets to enjoy it for a breath, before Tobio leans forward and finally, finally kisses him. “Me, too, Sho,” he breathes between kisses. “Fuck, I want you. Can we shower? Please?”

“You sound so hot when you beg, Your Highness.” Shoyo slides his arms around Tobio’s shoulders, brushing their noses together and making Tobio’s angry retort die in the breath between their lips. “Carry me?”

“You little princess.” Tobio’s grumble is accompanied by his arms tightening around Shoyo and holding his leg against his hip as he begins moving out of the pool.

“Yeah? Are you my little prince, then?”

Annoyance flashes across Tobio’s face, leaving Shoyo unprepared for his quiet, “I could be. If you wanted.”

I can be anything you want me to be. The sentiment is loud in his shy words, and Shoyo wonders once again at the fact that he gets to be so loved by a man so stubborn and strong and incredible.

He shakes his head, dipping in for a kiss. “No,” he whispers, “I don’t want you to be anything but yourself.”

“Sap.”

An unflattering snort escapes Shoyo just as Tobio catches his lips again and reduces him to soft sighs and moans. He’s lowered to the cool tile floor before he hears fumbling at the tap for the shower. The cold spray shocks a gasp from Shoyo, but he still clings stubbornly to his husband and steals as many kisses as he can. “Dumbass, back up,” Tobio grouches against his lips, as though his voice isn’t shaking from laughter. “We can’t wash like this.”

“Can’t. Want you too bad.”

“Is that Japanese?”

“Are you gonna shut up and fuck me, or not?”

“Bossy dumbass.”

When Shoyo gasps again, it’s from their hard lengths rubbing against each other, slipping on the soap that Tobio drips down their bodies. After Tobio’s wandering lips and stroking fingers in the plunge pool, Shoyo’s patience is frayed. He’s had enough of teasing touches. He wants skin on skin, wants to feel every callous on those perfect hands over his body.

And Tobio’s not giving him that. He slides his soap-slippery hands along the lines of his body, depriving him of the slight bite of his callouses, and when he finally does dip below his hips, it’s only to trail his fingertips along Shoyo’s length. Shoyo’s breath hiccups in his chest from the stifled anticipation, and he just barely keeps a whine choked back in his throat.

Unfortunately for him, Tobio knows him better than anyone in the world, down to the sound of him stifling his own moans. “You okay?” he asks, with a smirk that betrays how smug the question actually is.

“I won’t be if you don’t touch me.”

“I am touching you.” Slippery fingers slide back down his cock and trace the curves of his balls, making him gasp and press to his toes. “What about you? You’re not touching me.”

Shoyo glares at Tobio, before leaning up again and catching his lips at the same time he wraps his hand around his cock. Tobio’s gasp is sweet on Shoyo’s tongue, tasting like honey as he traces the inner curve of his lips. Tobio chases his tongue back into his own mouth, taking the chance to stroke his palate and nip at his lip in retaliation. It’s messy and competitive and fills Shoyo with so, so much love that simmers over the ever-present flame of competition.

When Tobio pulls away, Shoyo shivers under his heavy gaze and the sound of his rough voice ordering, “Turn around and hold on.”

“What’s the magic word?” Shoyo asks cheekily.

An exasperated grin cracks at the haze of arousal over Tobio’s face as he leans in, nudges their noses together, and murmurs, “Turn around and hold on, dumbass.”

Shoyo’s surprised laugh is muffled by another kiss before he finally obeys the hands pushing at his hips and turns around. His own hands fall on a bar above the numerous taps and dials in the shower, right at his eyeline and the perfect height for his head to loll between his arms when he moans from Tobio’s hand on his cock. “Hah…”

“Keep your legs closed,” Tobio murmurs at his ear, fitting his legs on either side of Shoyo’s thighs. Shoyo does so, only for a large hand to press between his thighs and slide up to cup his balls. He doesn’t get a chance to press into the touch, because the hand quickly slides away to be replaced by—

“Mm, that’s it,” Tobio hisses. His cock is slippery between Shoyo’s thighs, and sublime against his length. Shoyo is viscerally reminded of why they’d taken so long to properly fuck—sure, anal was intimidating to two virginal high schoolers, but more importantly, it was so much work to go through when tight, slippery thighs worked just as well.

Or so they’d thought. Now they know the perfect squeeze off a hole and the overwhelming pleasure of a cock against a prostate. But this, the nudge of Tobio’s thick cockhead against the vein under Shoyo’s dick paired with Tobio’s hand closing around Shoyo’s tip…there’s a special type of hasty pleasure in this, too.

“Hey, Tobi,” Shoyo gasps, words cracking on a moan.

“Hm?”

“Remember when we did this after Nationals?”

“Fuck.” His forehead falls on Shoyo’s shoulder, startling another laugh from him. “Still can’t believe you convinced me to do that.”

“Like you weren’t into it.” Shoyo presses his hips back and smirks when the hand on his waist slips down to squeeze at his ass.

“You’re hard to say no to.” Tobio pulls at his asscheek and leans back. The realization that he wants a peek at Shoyo’s hole makes him eagerly tighten up, coaxing a groan when Tobio sees it wink at him. “Can’t wait to fuck you.”

“It’s your fault we’re not,” Shoyo points out, rocking forward to remind him to pump his hand.

Maybe it’s being in such a large, steaming shower. Maybe it’s the desperation implicit in Tobio’s desire to fuck his thighs. Maybe it’s the combination of precome and soap and water slicking Tobio’s hand around both their lengths. Whatever it is, the combined handjob feels better, more potent, than it has any right to be, and the drag of Tobio’s cock between his asscheeks makes him whine from how much he wishes he were thrusting in him. “Tobio…Tobio, please…”

“Hm?”

“More.”

“Greedy. Hold still.”

Shoyo’s ready to disobey, until he realizes why Tobio gave the direction: the hand at Shoyo’s ass traces back up his body, bumping up the lines of his abs, before sliding under the curve of his strong chest.

Shoyo never gave much thought to his chest before he and Tobio rekindled their romance. The new, strong swell of his pectorals was just another part of the way his body had grown and broadened with his training. Tobio was quick to change that view, always spoiling his chest with squeezes and licks and bites.

Now he drags his hand across the muscular expanse, letting his callouses catch ever-so-slightly on his nipples along the way and tugging soft moans from Shoyo. “How’s this?” Tobio gruffs as he circles his fingertips around Shoyo’s nipple again.

“Good,” Shoyo breathes, “but more.”

His greed is answered with a rough thrust between his thighs, making him whimper from the pressure along the underside of his cock and the texture of Tobio’s trimmed hair against his slick ass. “Better?”

“More!”

There’s a soft swear, before Tobio’s hand tightens around Shoyo’s tip. Shoyo whimpers from the sweet pressure, but then Tobio slows his pumping down, tugging at Shoyo in almost-lazy pulls. “Tobi, c’mon.”

“No,” Tobio grunts, biting at the curve of Shoyo’s shoulder. “Stop rushing and enjoy it, dumbass. We’ve got time.”

Shoyo whines, but bites his lip against more whines, trying to listen to his husband. Something about the water makes him feel everything so much more, and the languid pace lets him soak in every sensation: Tobio’s expert pumps at his straining cock, the delicious slide of their lengths on each other, the way his ass cushions against Tobio’s rocking hips, the glancing circles and pinches and flicks at his nipples, and, most potent of all, the soft lips and gentle teeth kissing and nipping the curve of his neck.

His gasps for air slow into deep breaths that carry soft moans on every exhale. Arousal doesn’t prickle at him anymore. It spreads, syrupy and molten and delicious, from Tobio’s hands through Shoyo’s whole body. When it begins to crest, Shoyo feels every bit of the rise, his nerves coiling with anticipation as though he were on the slow ascent of a rollercoaster.

“Tobio,” he breathes, his head falling back against Tobio’s body. “Tobio, please—”

“M’close, Sho,” Tobio groans in reply, catching his earlobe between his teeth with a light tug. “Fuck, you feel good.”

Shoyo can’t help snickering. “Really? My thighs feel that good?”

“All of you feels good,” Tobio grunts.

He punctuates his gruff praise with quick pumps at Shoyo’s cockhead, pulling a surprised, unraveled cry from him. “Ah, you, too!”

“Gonna come.”

Shoyo presses his thighs tighter against each other, and is rewarded with a moan. “Then come.”

There’s one last groan, before Tobio suddenly clutches Shoyo’s hips back against his and presses his chest to his back. His hips stutter against Shoyo as his cock kicks between his thighs, splattering come under his shaft and against the smooth, dark brown stone of the shower. He keeps pumping at Shoyo, though the rhythm stutters just a bit, and his hand mixes his own release into the slippery mix already undoing Shoyo.

“Oh, fuck,” Shoyo gasps, looking down to watch the milky whiteness spreading on his cock, “shit, Tobio, that’s so hot.”

“Good.” Tobio’s dick begins to soften, eventually slipping out from between Shoyo’s thighs and leaving his balls free for his hand to dip down and cup them. Shoyo keens at the featherlight pressure, feeling them wind tight as if in response. He was close, he was so close, he just needed—

“Come on.” That hand returns to his cockhead and begins pumping urgently, making Shoyo’s lips fall open with a wrecked moan. “Come for me, Sho.”

Finally, after who knew how long, Shoyo felt himself begin to teeter over the edge. “Unh—” His orgasm didn’t explode so much as overflow in him, making him feel as if pleasure were pressing at his skin. “Ah, ngh, Tobio—”

He blindly reaches behind him and sinks his fingers into smooth strands, using his hold to pull Tobio into a clumsy kiss at an awkward angle. He doesn’t care. He just needs to moan his orgasm into his husband’s mouth, and Tobio seems more than happy to oblige. He doesn’t stop tugging at Shoyo’s dick, like he’s determined to get every bit of come out of him, until Shoyo grabs at his wrist to still him. “S-stop,” he stutters.

“Sorry.”

Shoyo lets out a soft hum of protest, craning his neck to brush a kiss to Tobio’s cheek. It feels warm under his lips, and the warmth matches the bashfulness in Tobio's voice when he asks, “...Was that good?”

“Of course it was,” Shoyo laughs with another kiss. “Buuuuut…”

“But?”

“It’s still not as good as you fucking me.” Shoyo turns into Tobio’s arms just in time to see his face practically catch fire.

“Not…not now, dumbass,” Tobio mumbles.

“Why? We’re all clean now.”

“Yeah, and we woke up early. I’m tired.”

A light flick at Shoyo’s forehead makes him cringe away. “Fine, fine…You owe me tomorrow!”

Tobio snorts. “Sure. Can we go to bed, now?”

Shoyo rolls his eyes, but gently nudges Tobio into sitting on one of the broad, seat-like stairs set against the shower’s window, and uses his lowered position to properly rinse him down, head to toe. Tobio follows the pressure of his hands easily and wilts under the warm water, resting his head against Shoyo’s stomach and letting a hand trace through the downy hair of his thigh. When Shoyo announces “Done!” and slides the shower head back into place, Tobio kisses his abs and blinks up at him with a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“Geez, you really are sleepy,” Shoyo laughs. He gently brushes Tobio’s wet hair out of his eyes, smiling at the slow flutter of his lashes. “Sleepy-yama.”

His point is only proved when Tobio just hums instead of grumbling a protest at the nickname. Where yesterday, he had been the one to lead them through cleaning up for bed, he now slouches over Shoyo like a weighted blanket, nuzzling into his neck and draping his arms around his waist while Shoyo does his best to towel off. “Tobio, move,” he laughs.

“No. You didn’t.”

“I’m not a big heavy giant!”

“Like you have a problem with that.”

Shoyo just huffs as he tries to shuffle to the bed. Once he reaches the end, he maneuvers around until Tobio’s the one leaning against it, and mutters, “If you don’t let go, I’m gonna make you fall and crash on top of you.”

There’s a long, low groan, before Tobio finally straightens up and crawls onto the bed by himself. Shoyo doesn’t follow him, happy to watch with a grin as he trundles around like a drunken bear, and his heart melts when Tobio rests against the pillows, pouts at Shoyo, and reaches for him with honest-to-goodness grabby hands.

“Awww, Tobi,” Shoyo coos, quickly moving across the bed and curling into Tobio’s side. “Why’re you so cute when you’re sleepy?”

“M’not cute,” Tobio sighs. His arms wrap around Shoyo and pull him even closer, letting the curves of their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces as he buries his nose in his hair. “M’just sleepy.”

“That’s what I said!”

“Oh. Whatever.”

Shoyo snickers into the warm skin of his chest. “Go to sleep, you big baby.”

Tobio grunts in protest, but then, with one last kiss pressed to Shoyo’s hair, his breaths even out and his body relaxes against Shoyo.

He can’t think too hard about the fact that he’ll get a lifetime of nights like this. A lifetime of sleepy grunts and clingy cuddles and clumsy kisses. If he dwells on it, he knows he’ll burst into happy tears, and he doesn’t want to wake Tobio up for something so stupid.

He knows luck isn’t the only thing that got him here—his own hard work made it all possible. But as he lies there, breathing in the comforting smell of Tobio’s freshly-washed skin and holding on tight despite the balmy air of the Greek islands, Shoyo still feels pretty certain that he’s the luckiest man in the whole wide world.

14 notes · View notes

gutsby · 10 months ago

Text

License to Kill

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

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

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

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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

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

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

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

Hazards of the job, he’d said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I-I am,” you whimpered.

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

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

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

“I do.”

“Who loves making daddy feel this good?”

“I do.”

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

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

Suddenly, the chirp of a ringtone diverted your attention.

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

“Yeah, Steve?”

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

“So what?”

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

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

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

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

“Ready to cum for me, honey?”

You whimpered and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you displaced my cervix, James.”

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

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

“Like hell you are.”

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

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

“Can you horndogs hurry the hell up?!”

So Sam had heard you after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? I feel great,” Bucky replied.

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

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

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

Bucky’s mom and dad.

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

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

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

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

“Sure looks like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re glowing, my dear.”

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

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

“Places, people!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A series of shuttering sounds, then another directive.

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

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

“Feel it sliding down your thighs?”

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

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

“Bucky.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Now just the bride and groom!”

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

“How ‘bout I push it back in?”

“Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Now kiss!”

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

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

“I love you, too.”

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

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

“You look stunning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt pathetic. Maybe you were.

In any case, you didn’t really care.

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

Bucky! Your lust-addled brain all but squealed.

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

A grinning, bright-eyed blond.

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

“Hi.”

“Howdy.”

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

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

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

“Courtesy of your husband,” he said.

You frowned. A flask?

“It’s not even noon,” you answered.

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

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

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

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

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

“Joey, by the way.”

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

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

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

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

“The service,” you repeated.

“Russian Armed Forces,” Joey smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

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

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

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

You continued to smoke and shoot the shit.

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

“Huh?” You leaned back to stretch.

“You haven’t touched that flask.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Open.”

“No!”

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

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

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

“Honey? Hon, you there?”

Immediate relief at hearing your husband’s voice.

You craned your neck to look around.

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

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

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

“Bucky, I just—”

“We need to go,” your husband cut in.

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

“Go wh—”

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

Your face dropped.

“We’re leaving?”

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

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

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

“Get the fuck up,” Steve spat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here!” Steve called presently.

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

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

“Hangar’s clear.”

Sam, by the sound of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Some of it,” one nurse answered quietly.

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

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

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

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

“She looks like death warmed over.”

Thank you, Steve.

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

Your husband turned to the nurses again.

“She’s pregnant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mind the bandages, Mr. Barnes.”

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

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

Sam watched the medics’ departure with a wary look.

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

Bucky’s eyes never strayed from yours.

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

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

“Feelin’ alright?” Sam asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll go.”

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

When you turned to Steve, you understood why.

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

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

“Something wrong?”

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

“You tell me.” Tone dripping with disdain.

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

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

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

Your jaw slackened a bit.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

Steve was beaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

Sam snagged the scotch and made a heavy pour.

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

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

“Because my dad was in debt.”

“For what?”

You paused.

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

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

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

“Steve,” Sam warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“James?” You finally turned to him.

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

“James,” you pressed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A peace offering,” Bucky said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, did you need a drink.

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

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

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

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

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

“Liquor? For our baby?” he barked.

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

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

“You, dumbass!”

“Me?”

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

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

All three men looked up at once.

“What friend?” Sam asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I-I dunno. Blond. Light brown eyes.”

“Tall fella?” Steve asked.

“Very.”

“Have a German accent?” Sam pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Joey?” he intoned feebly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence gripped the room.

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

Still, he wouldn’t speak to you.

The inside of your head was throbbing.

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

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

Then your nose started to bleed.

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

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

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

You reached for his hand before he could leave.

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

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

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

“You know what I mean.”

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

Infuriating.

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

“No, you’re not,” Bucky returned.

“What? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Yes, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You met me yesterday, motherfucker!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I don’t,” Bucky objected.

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

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

“I had to do that,” he snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m chickenshit?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Coward,” you spat.

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

“Precisely.”

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

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

“It sounded like—”

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—” you started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and smiled.

“You worry too much, Mr. Barnes.”

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

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

“Hurt me how?”

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

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

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

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

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

Even confined to his boxers, Bucky looked fucking huge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should I…lick it first?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, the frown was turned in his direction.

You raised a brow.

“Why? That all you got, Barnes?”

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

“Honey, are you s—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lots and lots of babies.

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

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

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

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

You refrained.

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

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

“Mean what?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“You do?”

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

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

“What else do you want to be, doll?”

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

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

Your husband nudged his cock a little deeper.

“A good girl?” he hummed.

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

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

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

“Bucky!”

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

“Uh-huh.”

“My bunny?”

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

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

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

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

“W-what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gonna cum for me, doll?”

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby, let go, I gotta—”

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

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

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

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

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

You stroked his bicep and shook your head.

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

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

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

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

A phone call? At 45,000 feet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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(If I missed anyone or tagged improperly, please let me know! This is my first rodeo taglist)

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