#who gave him his license | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 11 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.”

Taglist: @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut

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

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

7K notes · View notes

clockwayswrites · 2 months ago

Text

A Bird and a Menace of Bats - Part 17

masterpost

“We could always look up where he lives,” Tim suggested.

Bruce gave his son a tired look, turning slowly that he was sure not to jostle the sleeping man on his shoulder. “No, we can’t.”

“Sure you can. WE has to have it on file.”

“That would be a gross misuse of my postilion and an invasion of privacy,” Bruce said. “As in something Danny could very well sue for as us taking him home has nothing to do with his work and why we would have his address on file.”

“What about his driver’s license?” Duke suggested.

“He doesn’t have one, or at least not on him,” Dick said. He had Danny’s jacket pulled open and was carefully feeling inside for pockets.

Next to him, Jason was going through the card pocket on the back of Danny’s cellphone case.

“He does have a rewards card for Lacey’s though, so good taste there.”

Bruce rubbed tiredly at his face. “Dick, stop looking for a wallet. Jason, put all the cards back where you found them, please, and no hacking the phone.”

“You’re no fun anymore,” Jason said in a mocking whine.

Stephanie stifled a snicker.

“Stephanie, stop stalking him on social media and Babara, stop using what she’s found to try and triangulate where he is from,” Bruce said.

“Jason’s right,” Stephanie said as she slumped dramatically back into the seat, “you’re no fun anymore.”

“Yes, how boring of me,” Bruce drawled, “not invading the privacy of a man so unwell that he fell asleep in a noisy limo full of near strangers.”

Cass leaned forward at that.

Bruce quickly shifted gears to try and reassure her. “He’ll be alright, Cass.”

“Breathing is shallow. Heart?”

Bruce nodded. “He said there was an accident when he was a child that affected his heart and pulse. It was very slow and weak early after he stood up from his seat and had to sit back down. But he also said that it wasn’t unexpected and that he’s been to his doctor recently.”

“He did take this week off.”

“Tim.”

“What?” Tim said defensively. “He befriended my sister, I had to check him out.”

At least that was a reasonable excuse in case Danny was hearing any of this.

“If he’s doing badly, he shouldn’t be home alone, right?” Stephanie asked far too innocently.

“Not that we even know where he lives without waking him. Shouldn’t we let him rest?” Tim added.

“I shall start to the Manor then,” Alfred said, bringing an abrupt end to the discussion so suddenly that was that.

For what felt like the millionth time that night, Bruce sighed heavily.

It rather said something about the family that they were both efficient and graceful in getting an unconscious body out of the car. Bruce, with Dick’s help, passed Danny to Jason who held him out of the way as the rest of the family climbed out. Bruce was surprised to have Danny passed to him the moment Jason was able, but Bruce was quickly distracted.

“Right?” Jason asked.

“Hn.”

“Hn? Hn what?” Steph asked, popping up at Bruce’s elbow.

“The guy’s too light,” Jason answered. “It’s like he’s got bird bones.”

Tim stifled a snicker. Bruce, once again, sighed.

“Tim, take Steph and go help Alfred make sure the room is ready,” Bruce instructed. “Dick, help wrangle. Cass, darling, go rest. Jason, manage the doors for me, please.”

There was a coarse of agreement and the children were off. Bruce and Jason followed more sedately to be gentle on Bruce’s sleeping cargo.

“Jokes aside, he’s too light,” Jason said, keeping his quiet words between them. “This might be more than just a weak pulse.”

What Jason didn’t say is that they knew it was more than just a weak pulse—or at least it had been that night. It was concerning to think what lingering effects the transformation might be having on Danny. Especially concerning because…

“Cass is already attached,” Jason said, as if finishing Bruce’s own thoughts.

“I know.”

“And now the others are curious. Well, more curious.”

“I don’t suppose I could pay you to keep them in line?”

Jason snorted. “Even you couldn’t afford that, old man.”

“I was afraid not,” Bruce said as he fought back a smile.

Despite Jason’s refusal, Bruce knew that his son would keep his eyes others. Jason wouldn’t likely stop them, but he would keep an eye on them. Danny was still enough of an unknown that Bruce couldn’t help but be wary of the man’s presence in the middle of the family.

At least the guest wing was on the other side of the Manor from the family wing. The spaced eased the anxiety, a little. Alfred was just finishing shoeing Stephanie and Tim from the guest room as they approached and Jason peeled off to take his leave with them. Bruce entered the room with Danny on his own.

And apparently it was going to stay that way as Alfred said, “I trust you to see our guest settled,” and closed the door.

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh one more time.

At least Alfred had already folded down the sheets.

Bruce laid Danny down and started with the dress shoes, mostly to delay having to decide just how much clothing was appropriate to strip a near stranger of. After all, Danny didn’t know that he had slept curled up with the whole family once before. Bruce was also aware that he had less propriety than most people, given his unusual night life.

By the time the shoes were off and set aside, Bruce decided that the bare minimum would likely be most comfortable for Danny in the morning. The tie and belt went onto the seat of the nearby arm chair while the suit jacket was draped over the back. Danny’s phone was set on the nightstand. Alfred, of course, already had clothing set out for Danny to change into in the morning, should he wish. Bruce left it at that and covered Danny lightly with the sheets before he took his leave.

#dp x dc #spirit halloween ship #Danny/bruce #birdritch

1K notes · View notes

tofixtheshadows · 7 months ago

Text

You guys really need to stop and consider the ways you're talking about Kabru I am dead fucking serious. Like I know that flattening characters is just what fandom does to a certain extent, but Kabru's actual personality is getting lost to the fandom hivemind insisting that he's aggressive/cruel/sociopathic/hateful, and these are particularly concerning takes to see leveled at the only brown character in the main cast day after day. "My poor sweet golden child Laios needs to be protected from this scary brown man" is not a good look! Like, it's very telling that the bulk of the hate and bad faith readings are reserved for Toshiro and Kabru. Everyone else's flaws get to be discussed and validated and forgiven (or erased), meanwhile people are straight making up things to be mad about with Toshiro and Kabru but patting themselves on the back for being smart.

The worst part is how undeserved it all is. I'm trying to lay off anime-onlys because we're still kind of in the red herring stage of getting to know Kabru, but I would still like to gently suggest that even if you think Kabru is up to something, you don't gave to get in the tags of every fan creator's post and bring up how you hate him or You Can Tell he's totally evil. Sometimes I think Kabru's blue eyes give people license to say things about his appearance that they know would sound completely racist otherwise, but referring to his blue eyes acts as a get-out-of-racism free card. The jokes about the dog with brown contacts are getting old, by the way.

For people who have read the manga, it's disappointing. Kabru is one of the most complex and important characters in the story, and if you base your interpretation of him and all your fandom interactions on shallow first impressions you are completely missing out.

I know part of this is because Dungeon Meshi is a comedy, but the story also wants to be taken seriously. For example, it's admittedly really funny when Chilchuck calls Laios "sick in the head", but that doesn't change the fact that the way Chilchuck casually belittles Laios caused him to hide the fact that he was "hallucinating" from his friends for weeks. Those feelings matter.

Like, this

is funny.

But this?

Is not. This is just a very clear example of a brown boy with PTSD. As someone else with PTSD, just looking at this fucking sucks, man.

The only reason why Kabru thinks about killing Laios is because he is in the middle of a flashback. He's struggling through a panic attack. If he truly wanted to kill Laios because he's violent or because he finds Laios inherently annoying, he wouldn't otherwise talk with Laios normally. Notice how he doesn't act this way at any other point in the story- it's just because he's triggered by monsters. Even when he's thinking about his plans to "deal with" Laios later, he's reluctant to actually kill him and only considers it to prevent another tragedy. Despite his deadly skills, Kabru relies far more on "soft" power- insight, persuasion, diplomacy. He's a rare example of a character who absolutely is, or at least can be, manipulative, but seems to use his abilities for good. He's not a pathological liar, he isn't looking down on everyone behind a smile. He's someone who is extremely emotionally intelligent, and he's willing to put aside all his own basic wants and needs to stop the cycle of dungeons devouring humans.

I'm going to cut a potential thesis on his character short and just give some examples of things that fandom should consider about his personality more:

Racism in fandom isn't just about whitewashing in fan art, or using racial slurs. The insidiousness of bad faith readings, reductions to racist tropes, lack of fan content for characters of color, and dismissal of a character's complexity are far more common. You can believe yourself to be completely neutral or even positive about a character and still churn out low-grade bile about them into fandom's collective unconscious. Fandom reflects real life.

And I have been around fandom long enough to see how these behaviors (mostly from my fellow white fans) affect fans of color, how it makes a fandom feel hostile and unwelcome to them. It's fun to make jokes and memes, I'm absolutely not saying that everything needs to be a deeply nuanced take, but we need to be careful that it doesn't veer into toxicity. Please think about how our contributions to fandom come across, and what sort of vibes they cultivate in this communal space.

#Dungeon Meshi #Kabru #Kabru of Utaya #Dungeon Meshi meta #I'm putting it in the tag. I'm making you look at it.#if you come into my inbox to bitch about this just know that people used to send me b*heading videos in there for similar racist reasons #so I will not be impressed #I'm in a fucking time loop someone get me out!!!!#musings with Dea

3K notes · View notes

slushycoookie · 3 months ago

Text

Shave and a Haircut ~ Logan Howlett x Fem! Reader

✩ Word Count: 7.2k ✩ Content: Deadpool & Wolverine spoilers! Worst!Logan with a black reader (but I don't go into much detail so anyone can still relate), very fluffy, smut near the end, oral sex (f! receiving), vaginal fingering, safe sex (Logan does indeed wrap it up), MINORS DNI! ✩ A/N: A one-shot about my man because after I saw that movie I had to write something about him. Enjoy!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

There is nothing like a cigar after an extended mission to ease the stress.

Logan lit his lighter, burning the cigar's tip and taking in some puffs. Smoke blows through his nose while his partner gets his sword out of his head.

"This is really stuck in here," Wade grunts, turning his head to get a different angle. "How the fuck-?" He jerks the sword around, managing to put it in deeper.

Logan watches, knowing he brought it upon himself when he taunted that gang leader, who was now dead on the floor, shredded. It was amusing to watch Wade struggle after giving him hell the entire time.

"Oh Wolvie?" Wade calls, giving him a wave. "Mind giving me a hand? Or are you just gonna watch?" Logan sighs, going over and pulling the sword out of his head with one motion. He tosses it to the ground while Wade cheers at his freedom from the blade. "Thanks, Dad."

That earns a middle finger from Logan as he sits down on the crate to resume smoking. Wade sits next to him on a smaller one, turning towards him, head tilted, and Logan knows he's batting his eyes.

"Did you give it any further thought?"

"Give any thought to what?" Another puff of smoke escapes his lips.

"That coffee shop girl. The one who gave you her number before licking that stirring spoon all seductive like." Wade describes, "A bit unsanitary, but we do what we gotta do for love."

"I'm not calling her."

Wade starts throwing a mini tantrum, kicking the crate he sat on away, hands on his hips. "But why?"

"She puts too much fucking cream in my coffee. After I told her not to."

"That's because she wants your cream. Inside her. Like many of us do."

"Then she should say it to my face and not mess up my order."

Wade groans, bringing over another crate, smaller than the last one, before plopping down on it. "You need to give me something here. I tried to set you up with the cat lady who lives above us, but you said no."

"Because she smells like fucking mothballs."

"Hey, so does Althea. And you didn't say anything!"

"I don't want to fuck Althea."

"Who doesn't want to fuck Althea?"

"Not the person who lives with her."

Wade huffs, folding his arms. "Fine. Pushing the cat lady aside, there was that librarian who was eye fucking you in the fantasy section. She definitely wanted a taste of Mordor."

"No, absolutely not."

"Ugh, who knew you were so picky? The Wolverine I knew wanted to fuck anything with a nice pair of legs and a hole."

Logan didn't respond, tapping the ashes away and taking another smoke.

A few months after Wade and he stopped Cassandra, the former wanted Logan to start branching out. Meeting other people while the merc with a mouth rekindled a relationship with his lady, Vanessa. It was Wade's way of ensuring Logan wasn't alone after he was for so long. Even Laura agreed that he should try. She said she wanted to see him happy.

"It's my decision, not yours," Logan told Wade before finishing his cigar and smashing it.

Little did he know that Logan already found someone.

A hairdresser.

Well, a licensed beautician, but you liked doing hair.

Logan met you after needing to get away from the house. Wade used his shampoo, which he wasn't sure why since the mercenary had no hair. Instead of subjecting Blind Al to another one of their famous beatings, he decided to get some fresh air.

Logan needed a wash and a trim. He was willing to take care of himself this time and not let himself go like in his other timeline.

That's when he noticed the lights of a salon while coming up the block. A large neon sign still showed it was open as someone else was inside. You were sweeping away stray hairs in the vicinity when Logan walked in, the bell ringing to alert you that someone had come in.

"Hello!" You greet, "How can I help you?"

Your cheery smile made Logan pause, "Uh, can you do a quick wash and a haircut?"

"Of course!"

He takes off his jacket, and you go to take it, but he stops you, deciding to at least keep some of his gentlemanly traits by hanging up his own clothes. You lead him to one of the sinks and secure the cape around him before having him put his head back. He sits there for a moment when you mumble that you need to get more shampoo.

The inside of the salon was simple.

Logan thought a woman like you who works there would have a more aesthetically pleasing environment—a splash of color, fancy lights, something. Instead, there are just regular barber chairs, huge, plain mirrors, and a small waiting area in the front.

Your attire was even simple. A casual T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers that were clearly made for people on their feet all day.

"Sorry, I didn't have a chance to restock the shampoo." You come back with a big bottle, setting it by the sink.

"It's fine." Logan grunts. You tilt your head to observe him for a moment. He waited for you to recognize who he is, fan girl about him, and then try to get in his pants. He wasn't looking forward to that. Logan does think you're okay to look at, but he just wanted to get a haircut and go.

After looking at him for the longest time, he decides to cut out the middleman. "Yes, I am the Wolverine, now can we get to the part where you do my damn hair?"

"Oh." You blink momentarily. "I was just checking to see if you needed a shave."

Logan could hear Wade say something stupid in his ear. Like, "Really jumped the gun, didn't you, honey badger?". "Fuck, sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, I didn't mean to explode at you like that."

"It's alright, Wolverine." You snicker while setting up your tools. "I recognized you as soon as you walked in. I thought I handled your arrival pretty well."

"Yeah, you did."

"Didn't think you'd prefer me screaming in your ear about how you're in my salon, asking me to give you a haircut and no one else. Of course, you would ask me; I’m the only one here. Alright, I'm gonna do your hair now."

Logan huffed, relaxing in the sink as you turned on the water. He jerked when the jets first hit his scalp. He knew from how your lips tightened that you weren't trying to laugh.

"Too hot?"

"Ya think?"

Quickly, you fixed the water to a cooler temperature. Logan allowed himself to relax as you did your magic.

He counted on one hand the last time someone else washed his hair. How he missed the feeling. Your fingertips massage his scalp, getting rid of the oil and dirt. The suds covered his head while you lathered his hair. His nostrils twitched at the crisp scent of cucumber and mint. It smelled delightful.

Despite the water debacle, you rinsed his hair out nicely. Making sure all the soap was gone. You placed a towel on him, getting rid of the excess water before helping him sit up. Logan felt sluggish, knowing he was about to fall asleep if you kept massaging him like that.

You couldn't help but snicker. "Don't fall asleep on me now." Logan didn't have a good comeback, half-assed muttering something when you led him to your styling chair. "I think we should give you a shave."

"No." He feels his beard on instinct, protecting it from your razor.

You playfully pout, and for a moment, he thought it was cute. "Aww, come on. Not even a trim?"

"Are you like this with all your clients?"

"No, only with Wolverine."

Logan rolled his eyes, "Logan. Enough of this Wolverine shit."

"Okay, Logan." He shakes his head, not saying anything else. "You got until I finish your haircut to let me know about that shave."

You maneuver behind him and begin your work. Logan's mild annoyance turned docile as you combed the knots out of his hair. Nothing but your light breathing and the turned-down radio in the background. He holds in a breath when you run your hands through it once more with oil. Even that oil smelled good. Slightly sweet.

"You walked in here with these cute little tufts on the side of your head." You compliment as you pull out the blow dryer. "Do you still want those?"

"They're not cute." Logan rebuttals, "Just style it the same way I had when I walked in."

"With the tufts, got it."

The hair dryer cut him off before he had a chance to speak. He sat there, gripping the handles of his chair and watching the excess hair fly around his face. All this time you were still gentle, handling his hair with ease.

Logan felt how his hair was soft, much softer compared to when he does it. His hair hadn't felt that way for a long time.

"So, you probably forgot, but you saved me years ago." You mention, running the brush amongst his head.

"Oh?" Logan's stomach turned. Of course, he met a person that his best self saved.

"Yeah, I know you save a lot of people, so it's easy to lose track. But it meant a lot to me." You recount the event as if to remind him. How a few rogue mutants tried to take over a city block, including the bank you were in. One of the guys tries to hold you hostage, escorting you to a car to take you to a second location. Only for Logan, not him, the other one, to show up and attack the mutants after scooping up your shaken body. Telling you, "It's okay, sugar."

"I wanted to see if I could thank you by offering a free haircut. It was stupid, you probably had access to the best barbers wherever you lived."

Logan shrugged, "They were alright."

Your laughter was nice, squeezing his heart. "Thanks for saying that. I still felt ridiculous though. That's why I gave up on the idea. I knew I was never going to see you again. Until now."

You turn him towards the mirror, showing off the hair cut with his barely noticeable tufts. Logan's eyes lit up seeing himself. He wasn't sure how you managed to give him the same haircut but better.

"Shit."

"A good shit, right?"

"Yeah."

You motion around his beard, your offer still standing. A beard trim wouldn't be bad but Logan had a feeling that once he went home, Wade would notice something different about him and didn't want to deal with that.

"Maybe another time. Thanks."

When he stands, he pulls out his wallet. You place your hand on top of his to decline. It was a brief touch but enough to make his heart jump.

"It's okay. On the house."

"Forget that, I gotta pay ya."

"Were you not listening when I said I wanted to pay back the Wolverine who saved me?"

He was but that was the thing. Logan wasn't your Logan. He was the worst one and you were trying to give him a free haircut. The wrong Logan.

"I don't like taking stuff for free."

"You're gonna have to deal with it." You fold your arms, "I'm not having you pay."

Logan didn't want to go through this song and dance. Being around someone as kind as you was long enough for him. He grunted, taking his jacket. You said goodbye as if you weren't going to see him again. But he wasn't the type of man to receive things without giving back.

That's when it started. His odd relationship with you.

Logan saved money on the side to give to you when he saw you next time. Yes, he was planning to see you again. His excuse to himself was you did his hair well. No other reason.

So when it was time for his next haircut, Logan had a plan. When he went to pay you, he would include the money from last time. To just say it was an additional tip.

You were smart, though. Somehow, after the initial shock of him coming back again for the haircut, you did accept payment but only for the last haircut. The one he just received was now free. Logan scowled at you while you had the prettiest smile on your face.

"I'm serious about that free haircut."

"And I'm serious about not taking things for free."

Logan hovered above you, meanmugging you to get you to cave. But you didn't care, a playful glint in your eyes.

It was annoying. A person as kind as you doing this for someone like him. For someone who's not even your Logan. Yet, he kept coming back, getting his usual haircut.

Like a stray cat who received food. Coming back and gracing you with his presence. It was just because you were good at doing his hair.

But there were times when Logan went to see you, he didn't get a haircut. The thought of you being alone at night hit him one day. How you closed at nine on the dot. The neighborhood wasn't terrible, albeit decent. Logan didn't like the idea of you being by yourself at night. You were nice. He was worried someone would hold you up in your salon to get you alone.

So he hung around the last hours you had to close.

You said you were fine, that you had been closing by yourself for years, with hardly any problems. Logan just wanted to make sure you were safe.

You didn't put up much of a fight either. Instead, you continued to do your duties. Tidying up, restocking after the customers that came through. With an intimidating superhero on the sidelines.

"Do you go on missions?" You ask one time while sweeping.

Logan lifted the styling chair for you, making sure you could reach every crevice. "Occasionally. I have to pay bills."

"Are they dangerous?"

"Of course, they're dangerous."

He then picks up the vanity, careful to not damage anything. Logan notices how your eyes land on his bulging bicep for a second before you go back to sweeping. "Do you have anyone that worries about you when you leave? Besides Laura?"

Logan likes it when you remember the other people he's close to. He told you about Laura not long ago. How she was looking into colleges, making him realize how much of a young woman she was growing up to be. He holds off on letting her go out on many missions, wanting her to experience her youth as a citizen, not as a hero, despite having similar abilities.

"Laura doesn't worry about me." Logan snorts before placing the vanity back down. "If she does, she's really good at hiding it." You hum, keeping silent. "But I don't have anyone else worrying about me."

"I see."

"Why are ya asking?" You avoid his gaze, pretending that sweeping was more important. "Spill it, sweetheart."

You perk up at the sudden nickname. Logan realizes what came out but doesn't show on his face. Instead, he waits for your answer.

"I just wanted you to know that when you go on missions, I'll be wishing for you to stay safe and come back. If that helps…" You admit, your eyes on his own. Logan feels his heartbeat pick up, not expecting that.

"It does."

Your face gave off a look he wanted to hang on his wall. Gentle, kind, and caring. He liked that.

Logan couldn't sleep, and he could see your face once he closed his eyes. Your light scent was still on his jacket from afar when you brushed against him. It took a minute for his heart to come down at the thought of you.

"Hey." Wade waved his hand before Logan's face to snap him out of reminiscing about you. "Don't you think it's time to get another haircut? You're looking a little mangy."

Logan scowled before standing up from his position, ready to return home.

The good thing about all this is that Wade didn't catch on. Considering he was rekindling his relationship with Vanessa, Logan figured the merc would focus his attention elsewhere. Which was good because he was going to rip Wade's face off if he even teased him about his relationship with you.

When Logan goes to see you, he always makes the excuse of going to take a walk. Down to your shop where he always sees you. Alone, tidying up the place to close, playing some music in the background that makes you wiggle your hips a little. He finds himself staring at you for a bit before walking in. The aura of domesticity around your soft frame.

Logan's lips curl upwards when yours does and he enjoys the light in your eyes whenever they connect with his. He felt strange, a certain feeling he hasn't felt for a long time. Does he…like you?

"Can I wax your eyebrows?" You ask, touching up his hair in the mirror as you were almost done.

"What's wrong with my eyebrows?"

"They're so bushy." You trace your nail on one and he doesn't move. "Like that beard you won't let me touch."

"My beard is fine and so are my eyebrows."

You bat your eyelashes towards him, playfully pouting to convince him. "Aww come on. Pretty please?" Logan's breath hitched at the sight. Your pleading act was making you as gorgeous as ever. "You good? Your face is getting red."

Logan stared back in the mirror to see his flushed face. All because of you doing that stupid, adorable look. "I'm fine. Go ahead and do it."

Now you were surprised. "Huh?"

"What, you thought I was gonna say no?"

"Yeah." When you remove the cape from him, he stands, staring at you when you put it away. He is serious, and it makes you stop in your tracks.

"So, you're being for real right now?"

"Duh. Get to it before I change my mind."

You swivel your head, pursing your lips. "Ask me nicely."

"Wax my eyebrows, sugar."

Another nickname he didn't expect to come out, but you grin, motioning to the back of the building. He follows you into a small room, outfitted with a cot, a little dresser, and a stool. He wasn't a fan of how tight the room seemed, but the upside was he kept bumping into you. Or did you keep bumping into him? It doesn't matter because he felt you. That small bump against your front, and he felt your plump body—good enough to grope.

He should not be thinking about that right now.

"How's your pain tolerance?"

It was Logan's turn to shoot you a look, "I have been shot at, stabbed, impaled, what do you think?"

"Alright, alright. I just wanted to ask." You set up the hot wax, swirling it around in a bowl as you waited for it to get a suitable temperature. "Waxing might be worse compared to all of that."

He huffs, "We'll see."

You ordered him to close his eyes, and he lay there. The wax, which was bordering on very hot, coated the top half of his eyebrow. It didn't feel bad so far. He wasn't sure what you were talking about. Once the strip was placed on his hair, as quickly as you put it on, you ripped it off.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

Logan's hands balled into fists, but the claws didn't come out.

"I asked you about your pain tolerance and what did you say?"

"That shit is fucking different than getting shot at." He maneuvered to get up but your hand pushed his chest to settle him down.

"You can't leave yet, I gotta do the other brow."

"Fuck that, I'm not doing this anymore."

"Logan, I can't let you walk around with slightly uneven brows." You push him down again gently. He likes the feel of your hand on his chest. He can feel the heat from your palm. "Please let me do the other side and I'll stop."

What did he get himself into? Logan allowed you to make him suffer a little longer as you placed the wax on his other brow before ripping the hairs clean off. This time it was less unbearable but it still sucked. It wasn't all bad when you leaned closer on his face, observing his brows to ensure they were even. The shirt you were wearing this time had a v-neck, so he could quickly see your cleavage and how pretty your breasts were displayed.

"You're good."

Logan quickly got up right after you sat back. That's enough, he needed to go home. His face was redder than ever and he was about to do things a lady like you shouldn't witness. Despite the slight burn from his brows, he wanted you up in his face again. Admire your beautiful self. Kiss you.

"Sorry." You call out after closing up the back. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared." He grunted.

"Uh-huh."

"I wasn't."

"Sure."

Logan rolls his eyes. He wanted to leave but he had to take you home. He usually does when he started to see you. What if you invite him in this time? Then he'd be all over you. Wanting to bury himself in between your thighs and have the whole block know how good he made you feel. He was never like this before.

Logan leads you out and waits for you to lock up. Sweat starts sticking to his forehead and down his neck. He was just taking you home. That's all he had to do.

"Caught red-handed!" Wade jumps up from behind a car, pointing at the two of you as if you were about to kiss. That's what Logan wished he was doing. "So this is where you were going late at night. Snuggled up with another woman."

"Another woman?" You questioned, brows furrowed and Logan could see you were going to get upset. But he didn't have time to wonder why.

"My roommate here has been very secretive," Wade teases. I sometimes lie in bed waiting for him to come home, worried that he got lost or found his way into a bar. Little did I know…" He shoots Logan a mischievous grin.

If you weren't nearby, Logan would stab him in the balls.

"Alright, relax." Laura appears from the same car Wade was. "He's not doing anything shady."

Logan looks confused at her, "You two thought I was up to something?"

"Just me." Wade slides closer to him, "I brought Laura here because it's been so long since we had a girl's night."

Laura rolls her eyes. "I was worried about you. Now I don't need to." She glances over at you, who is so confused about everything but is taking this in stride. "Hi, I'm Laura."

"You're Laura?" She nods for confirmation, "Oh my god, I didn't think I get to meet you!" You shake her hand while admiring her. "I love your hair, by the way."

"Oh, thanks." Laura shoots Logan a smile of silent approval.

"And I'm Wade." He gets close to you, Logan's back hunching a bit as Wade is too close. Of course, you don't mind when you shake his hand back. "Do you like my hair too?"

"Uh, of course." You observe the worn-out toupee. "Although I'm not sure why I see staples…"

"It's because he's a fucking idiot." Logan cuts in.

"Not only that, but I can't grow hair." Wade tells you, "Sometimes I'd like to spice it up when I see my lady or when I want to go to the Dollar Store."

"Is…is that the only one you have?" You ask, eyes filled with worry.

"Yeah, pretty much."

You observe him momentarily and Logan sees the hairdresser glint in your eye. "Do you want some more? I have a couple of wigs in the shop that were given to me."

Wade blinks, looking at Laura and Logan in shock, "Really? You'd give them to me for free?"

"Yeah, I'm not using them." You turn to go back to the door but Logan blocks your path.

"You just closed up."

"I'm just going to grab a few wigs for your friend to try-"

"You've been on your feet all day. He can wait another day, sweetheart."

"Sweetheart?" Logan heard Wade whisper.

You purse your lips, "I didn't recall this being your salon."

"It's not."

He stares you down, and you stare back, trying to will him to let you back inside. Logan's not sure how long the stare-off takes, but Wade stands between you two.

"The wigs can wait, I don't need to go to the Dollar Store anytime soon."

You tear your eyes away to focus on Wade. "Are you sure? It's no problem."

"I'm sure. Plus, the sexual tension between you two was a little crazy-"

"I just remembered!" Laura silences Wade with a hand on his shoulder. "We were going to get donuts. For Althea."

"Is 'donuts' a new code for cocaine-?"

"Actual donuts." She pushes him away down to the sidewalk, Logan being eternally grateful. "Bye, it was nice to meet you!"

"It was nice to meet you too!" You wave them away, watching them go down the block. Logan made sure Wade was far away from his sight before sighing.

"I didn't expect them to show up."

"It's okay. I'm glad I got to meet Laura."

The corner of his lips go upwards, "Me too."

Logan walks you home to your apartment in a complex similar to the one he lives in with Wade. Once you go to your door, you turn to him, head slightly tilted.

"When will I see you again?"

"Soon." He says, causing you to roll your eyes at his vague words.

"Please tell Wade to stop by, I was serious about those wigs."

"You keep inviting him in he's not going to leave."

"So…like you?"

Logan lets out a short chuckle, "Not even close."

"You sure about that?" You step closer to him, playfulness in your eyes. Logan looks down at you, feeling the subtle warmth of your body through his leather jacket.

"What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing…"

You pull away and he wants to chase after you, but he doesn't. Logan makes sure you go in, saying goodnight to you.

This can't continue. His heart was going to implode if he kept dancing around you. He needed to tell you of his predicament. That he wasn't the Logan of this timeline. After dealing with Wade and Laura.

When he came in, Wade immediately handed Laura twenty bucks, face filled with defeat. "I know you're over two hundred years old, but I thought you had some game, man."

"For once, I agree." Laura adds, "It's good you're taking it slow, though. She seems nice."

"She is. The only thing is she thinks I'm this timeline's Logan."

The bombshell Logan drops makes Wade and Laura look at each other.

"I don't see the problem here." Wade says.

Logan explains how this timeline's Logan saved you and why you've been so generous to him. He tries to not let the fear of telling you his true origins get to him. He knows it's the right thing to do.

"Wait a minute." Wade squints and goes up to Logan, who eyes him suspiciously. "Why are your eyebrows so neat?"

Oh shit, Logan completely forgot you waxed his eyebrows.

"Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, they are really neat." Laura observes before running her thumb over his eyebrow. "And smooth."

"Stop messing with my fucking eyebrows." He snatches his head away.

"Did you get your eyebrows waxed?" Wade asks, then proceeds to explain, "I know this because Vanessa usually does. And I like feeling how smooth her eyebrows are—like a baby's bottom. Wait a minute. Did the hairdresser lady wax your brows?"

Logan was so close to ripping his head off. But Althea just got a new rug and he didn't want to get blood on it.

"If he let her wax his eyebrows, that man is down bad." Althea says on the couch, eating a glazed donut.

"Truly down bad." Wade cosigns, and Logan decides that's enough talking and retreats to the bedroom.

He wants to follow through on his plan to tell you about his true origins, but he isn't sure how or when to tell you.

The next time he saw you, Wade and Laura tagged along. The latter wanted to see you again while the former wanted to see what types of wigs you had. Logan watched you give Wade plenty of options to choose from. Although he instantly grabbed the one that radiated 'Legolas' vibes, with the long, platinum blonde hair to his waist, saying this would be a good one to role-play with Vanessa.

You suggested giving Laura a quick trim of her ends, seeing that some of them were split. As always, you were so quick in your work. Laura's face lit up at the subtle difference touching up her hair made. His heart squeezed when you made his daughter smile.

He wants to tell you. He wants to tell you so badly.

Logan didn't know how you'd take it. If you'd be mad at him for lying in your face. Or horrified when he tells you all the dark things he's done. But he couldn't take another moment of staring at you, heart skipping a beat at the sight of you.

He knew how he was going to tell you.

"I think it's time for a trim." Logan says while sitting in the chair.

You examine his hair, "No, your hair is okay right now."

"I'm not talking about my hair." Logan runs his hands over his beard, earning a gasp from you.

"Really? Really, really?" He nodded before you squeal, going through the drawers to pull out your tools. The beard comb, razors, and scissors.

"Just shape it up and make it neat." He instructs, getting worried that you would shave it off completely.

"I got it."

Logan felt weird with your hands on his face. You rubbed a bunch of liquids along his beard, took the comb and made sure the hair was neat, and used the razor to trim up the sides and his sideburns. It had been a while since he's had a gorgeous woman like you feel along his face.

He admires the work you've done on his beard, how neat and clean it was compared to how he was growing it out. A look of pride on your face shown while observing him in the mirror.

"You look handsome."

Logan's mouth twitches to hide back a smile, "Thanks." When he stands, once again he gathers his wallet to pay you. As he hands you the money, you reach to take it but he doesn't pull away. "I'm assuming this one is free too?"

"Of course."

Logan grunts as you take his money from his last haircut, putting it in your pocket. "Look, I need to tell you something."

"Okay?" Your brows raised in curiosity, "What's up?"

A lump forms in his throat as he takes a minute to say what he's going to say. "I'm not your Logan." You blink with confusion and he continues. "I mean it. The Logan who saved you years ago, isn't me."

"Oh. Oh!" You take a step forward, "You're a clone then? Infused with the other Logan's memories?"

"No, not even close, sugar."

Logan briefly explains the multiverse, the different timelines that include a multitude of realities and people. He is from another timeline, one where he was alone after his team died. He went on a murderous rampage and killed bad and innocent people alike. He wasn't this timeline's Logan who died a hero—or about to die as one.

"I couldn't lie to you anymore." He admits, "I didn't want you to get your hopes up. Over a guy who you've admired for years. I'm not that guy. In fact, I'm the worst of them all."

You shake your head, fingertips grazing against the fabric of his shirt. "You're not the worst. Not one bit."

"I just told you I killed people. Innocent people."

"In the past. And you made up for it by saving this timeline right?" All he could do was nod and not focus on how close you were to him right now. "You're not the worst Logan. You're the same one who stayed with me almost every day when I closed, lets me give you free haircuts, and has a wonderful friend and daughter who cares for him so much. I'm pretty sure there aren't any other Logan's who do that. Or have that type of support."

He laughs briefly, "I don't like how you're so understanding about all of this."

"Why?" Logan doesn't know what to say, feeling he doesn't deserve this. Deserve you. However, Wade and Laura's words appear, telling him that he deserves this. To be happy. "I like you, Logan. Shouldn't I be a little understanding?"

"You should." He gazes at you, seeing your eyes fill with care. "I like you too." Logan's fingers curl around the belt loops of your jeans to pull you closer, your body flushed against his. He submerges himself in you, his forehead amongst yours, the tips of your noses brushing along one another.

"Just tell me to stop."

You don't say anything, giving him permission to kiss you.

Immediately, Logan groans against your lips. He's finally able to taste you. And how denied he's been for so long. He presses you against the vanity, your hands forming a death grip on his shirt. You've been desperate for this as much as he's been. You just had better self control.

Logan takes over, placing you on the vanity. He grunts in satisfaction as your legs wrap around his waist. Your tongue is in his mouth, and you taste the cigar he had earlier. Your light moan is the only thing he focuses on, his hand on your lower back and pressing your body closer to his.

"Mm!" You hum when pulling away, your lips forming a cute pout that Logan held back in kissing you again. "I'm a bit rusty."

"At kissing?"

You nod, "That and…you know."

Logan chuckles, his nose brushing against yours. "I don't know. You're gonna have to say it, sweetheart."

"Sex." You whisper like it was a secret, "I know it's surprising for someone in their forties."

"It's more surprising when you look like this…" Logan gropes your thighs, burying his face in your neck. His eyes almost roll back in smelling you, wanting to do so for a while. "It's been a while for me too."

"Really?" You gasp, but that was because he gently nibbling on your neck. "I thought you would-" You're cut off when Logan sucks on your skin, creating a dark mark that causes you to squeeze your thighs against him.

Logan freezes, getting a whiff of something new. Straight down to your core. He growls at smell of your arousal and pulls you closer if possible.

"You should close early."

He allows you enough room to check your clock on the wall. "We've got thirty minutes left."

"I don't know if I can hold on for that long." Logan's lips are on you again, not wanting to forget how you taste. He's not sure why he's like this. Maybe it's because he finally confessed to you. Or because you liked him back. Or because he's finally getting his libido back after a long time. He knows he'll fuck you in the salon if you keep stalling.

You pull away again, trying to catch your breath from his kisses. "Okay, okay. Closing early wouldn't hurt."

Logan wanted to carry you. His stomach twisted when you had to part when you were closing up. He was by your side the entire time, wanting to at least keep ahold of that intoxicating smell you were radiating. A light grope to your ass that made you giggle. An arm around your waist once you finally locked the door. Anything to be close to you.

The two of you were speed-walking to your apartment. Logan's palm pressed against your stomach, face against your head while you tried to unlock the door. Having a hard time as he was humping against your plump bottom. Clearly showing you how aroused he was.

You stumbled forward once the door opened but he caught you with his arm. Your back was pressed against the door when you two made out again. Tongues dancing, nipping at each other's lips. His jacket fell to the floor before picking you up, trapping you against the door.

"Wait…" You pull away again.

Logan starts getting concerned, "What's wrong? We going too fast or something?"

"No! No, not at all. I'm worried that my condoms might be expired."

He gets a moment of clarity. He didn't bring any. Logan honestly didn't think his night with you would lead to this. Now, he was underprepared.

"Fuck, I don't think I bought any-" While searching his pants, he feels a wrapper. Logan pulls it out to see a condom in his back pocket with a sticky note. It was filled with a little drawing of Wade's Deadpool persona sending him a bunch of hearts.

'Go get 'em, tiger.'

He'll need to thank Wade later.

"We're good. Where's the bedroom?" You point down the hall and he carries you there, all while you pepper his hair with kisses.

Logan lies you down on your comforter before raising your arms. He pulls off your shirt and gets a glimpse of your sports bra. He swears he gets harder when removing your shoes, then your jeans. You maneuver to take off his shirt as he kicks his boots away. Your hands unbutton his jeans while he kisses you for the hundredth time.

He wasn't sure what you were worried about as everything about you was making his cock form an imprint against his boxers. If anything, Logan wasn't sure about himself when you went to rub him and he almost keeled over.

"Keep doing that and I won't last."

Logan pushes you flat on the bed, covering your skin with kisses. Your neck, collarbone, the tops of your breasts. You raise the sports bra over your head and Logan can't stop staring.

Your breasts were so perfect, sitting pretty just for him. He takes a moment to admire you. A fingertip grazed your nipple, causing you to jerk a little. His eyes scan to your soft stomach, adorned with stretch marks. And your black panties that covered up the place he was excited to get to the most.

"All of this for me?"

"It can be…" You spread your legs wider, inviting him in. Logan fits in between your legs and leans down to suckle your breasts. Running his tongue all over the areola and nipple. Rolling your other nipple with his thumb, reveling the sweet sounds you made. Your hands gripping his hair as your arousal was getting stronger.

Logan groans against your skin before trailing kisses down to your tummy, across your navel, and hovering above your underwear. He almost drools when removing your panties. The smell getting stronger once the piece of fabric was gone.

"F-Fuck…" He shudders, "You smell so fucking good."

"You can smell me?" You question but he doesn't answer. Logan parts your legs wider, one leg over his shoulder. His palm takes its place on your stomach when he dives in. Oh, he wants the taste of you seared in his mind. He groans as his tongue flattens against your clit, licking that sensitive bud with a purpose. Burying his face in your pussy.

"Logan…" You sigh his name in a mix of your sounds of pleasure. While he flicks your bud, a finger goes inside you. And he feels how wet you are. How easily you're taking him in.

He adds another finger, and you squirm, but he makes sure you don't move away. He wants you to take it, to take all that he has to offer.

Logan picks up the pace in eating you out and fucking you with his fingers. All while your whines become constant and your body starts moving more and more. Even with his enhanced strength, its getting difficult to hold you down.

"Ohh Logan, I'm-" Your panting gets heavier, and he smells the sweat on you. Logan keeps going, alternating between sucking on your clit and pumping into you. You try to warn him about your climax but it was too late when you scream for him. Filling up the entire bedroom with your arousing sounds.

Logan sits up, watching you bask in the bliss of your ecstasy. Your eyelashes fluttered while you catch your breath. He can't hold back anymore. He needs you now.

"You did so good for me, honey." He breathes out, pulling off his boxers. Your eyes widened at the sight of his girthy cock. A few veins along the shaft, his tip beading with pre cum. Logan's chest swelling with pride as you couldn't stop staring. "You ready?"

"Yes."

He does his best not to tear the condom, sliding it on his shaft. Logan hovers above you, wanting a clear view when he enters you. Your mouth gapes, and his brows furrow, watching himself disappear inside you. You fit him perfectly. He puts his head back to keep control. Just entering you was enough to make him want to come right there.

"You feel fantastic. Oh fuck…"

Logan grips your thigh when he moves his hips, enough to almost be out of you before sinking into you again. His pace consisted of slow but rough thrusts as he watches your breasts jiggle during each moment. Your face was there but not there as you took his thrusts. Being fucked out of your mind.

He loves how he's easily he's able to slip in and out of you due to your wetness. Obsessed with how he's handling you. He leans down on his elbows, hitting a much better spot that makes you gasp. Immediately, you grip the nape of his neck, moaning in his ear.

"Oh, right there!"

Logan moves his hand to your ass, lifting you up a bit more to get a better angle. You cry out for him, and he knows your throat will be sore in the morning. He ruts into you, growling and grunting as he's getting close. His pelvis rubbing against your clit was enough to push you over the edge once more. Your cunt squeezing around his cock just right. And made Logan almost tear your sheets the way he climaxed.

His groans fill your ears, cum filling the condom. It was so much that he wondered if it was about to overflow.

Logan rolled over next to you, chest heaving in tandem with yours. He wanted to say a lot of things, wondering what this would mean for his relationship with you. But you curled up beside him, a gentle hand on his chest. Gazing at him with your signature warm eyes.

"I hope my neighbors don't complain tomorrow."

"If they do," Logan unsheathes his claws, and you stare at them in awe, "I'll scare them with these."

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x black reader #wolverine x black reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #x black reader #wolverine smut #logan howlett smut #wolverine #logan howlett

816 notes · View notes

dwaekkicidal · 2 months ago

Text

𝖪𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋: '𝖤𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖴𝗌' ༄࿔ S.C.

⤷ Daddy Kink | Exhibitionism | [Semi]Public Sex

♱ word count: 2.3k

♱ warnings: fem!reader, dom&sub dynamics, daddy kink, sex in a public place (basement car garage), p in v with no prep, overstimulation, exhibitionism (chan watches & sorta participates hehe), might be considered cnc, creampie, chan “fingers” reader at the end, slight mention of partner sharing? (mentions of binnie letting chan have a go)

♱ notes: thank u my silly googey for helping me with this :3 @bbokicidal <3 also these pics of him drive me fucking nuts.

Kinktober Schedule

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

The first sign was your leg bouncing. He thought you might just be stressed or tired and eager to go home, but he still made an effort to give you extra attention, even while feeling the weight of daggers aimed at him. He and Chan were busy working on a new beat, and he understood how much his hyung wanted his complete focus on it, but he was worried about you.

The next sign was the lip biting; the way you shamelessly eye-fucked his biceps while biting into your lip so hard that he swore you were going to bleed. It was at this point he was growing suspicious and occasionally narrowed his eyes at you, but he nonetheless charted it up to you being exhausted and simply wanting to go home.

The final sign was your thighs pushing together. The way you squirmed on the couch as you pushed your knees together was a telltale sign of what was going on in that pretty little head of yours.

It normally would make him ecstatic, excited even, to watch you get so built up over nothing. He loved watching you grow so desperate that you would beg oh so prettily for him. What he didn’t like though, was how hot and bothered you were getting with his leader in the same room.

Even if Chan was the one who caused you to get so horny all of a sudden, Changbin knew at the end of the day, when you needed to be broken down just to get built back up, that you went to him. Not Chan. Despite this, he could still feel the jealousy dripping off his skin. He wanted- no. needed to remind you who you belonged to.

“Love, can you get me some water?” He watched you blink a few times to screw your head back on before you nodded silently and scurried out of the studio. The second the door closed behind you, he turned back to Chan to put the rest of his plan in place.

By the time you returned with the water bottle, Changbin was already zipping his bag shut and rising to his feet. He gave his elder a pat on the back along with a message about not staying in too late before helping you gather your things.

The whole elevator ride was quiet aside from your sighs of happiness as you nuzzled into his arm. Changbin, however, kept his eyes straight forward and his jaw locked in place as he waited for that familiar ding that announced your arrival to the garage floor. He granted you a few hair pets as the elevator descended, but nothing more.

Once the doors opened, he hurried you out towards the car. Long, quick strides towards his dedicated parking space all while his hand was on your lower back, almost pushing you alongside him. The beep of the car unlocking was heard for a moment before he all but threw his bag inside the backseat.

You tried making your way around to the passenger door, but he didn’t let you get far. You got maybe 2 feet away before he reached out and grabbed a tight hold of your wrist. He led you to the back of the car and popped the trunk, pulling you towards him before shoving you to sit in the trunk and leaving your legs dangling helplessly over the license plate.

“Binnie!? What are you doing?” He simply scoffed and trailed his hand up your arm, lightly grazing any bare flesh he came across before settling his hand around your throat, squeezing it just enough to make you understand exactly what was going on.

“Do you think I’m stupid baby? You think I don’t see my pretty girl being a whore on the couch, right behind my best friend? Hm?” Your mouth is parted slightly and you’re at a loss for words. While you can’t deny that what he said is exactly what happened, you also weren’t expecting him to flip his mood so fast.

“I…”

“You… You what, Love? You want Channie-hyung that badly? Should I tell him to come down here and take my place?” The hand around your neck tightens and you can’t hide the whimper that comes out.

“No! I was only thinking about you the whole time, Binnie. I promise.” You pout and look up at him under your eyelashes, even going as far as to chew your lip in hopes that he would believe you. It was the truth after all, but Changbin tended to get very jealous and would get in this headspace that always ended in your lower half aching for a few days.

Which is exactly the mood he seems to be in tonight.

“That’s not my name, baby.” His other hand moves up to your chest where he grabs a handful of your tit and squeezes it. Your legs squeeze together and he sighs happily at the sight of your body already reacting to him, taking it as his sign to continue. He moves his hand down your body and only stops when he meets the button on your shorts.

He snaps it open and lets his fingers trace your panty line for a moment while he silently decides what he wants to do with you. The hand on your neck loosens its grip in favor of cupping your cheek, using his thumb to play with your bottom lip.

“So pretty... You know I love you, right baby?” His eyes are still sharp as he stares down at you and waits for your response.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He licks his lip and smirks, nodding his head in satisfaction and dipping his thumb into your mouth. “Good. My good girl.” He mumbles quietly as he watches your lips wrap around his thumb, his dick twitching in his sweatpants as you suck the digit. He moans lowly at the feeling and pulls his thumb out.

He pulls you out of the trunk and spins you around, shoving you headfirst into the trunk as he pulls your shorts to your knees. He groans at the sight of your underwear; his favorite set paired with an evident wet spot right where your- his cunt is.

A hand comes down on your ass, fast yet more playful than he would if it was a punishment. It causes you to jump and moan against the fabric of the trunk. He only laughs, his calloused hand massaging the area he just hit while he grinds his clothed dick against you.

“Such a pretty baby with a pretty ass… I can’t wait to see that pretty pussy again.”

“‘S all yours, Daddy-” He grins and smacks the other cheek. “Damn right it is, baby.”

He hooks a finger into each side of the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, letting them fall into your shorts as he lets them go to spread you open. He’s quiet as he stands there and stares. It’s not until he blows lightly that one of you makes a sound- you being the one to moan desperately at the cold air.

Your pussy clenches as well and he almost moans, already excited to take you despite the lack of privacy. But he doesn’t care. He has a goal and you are going to take it right here, right now.

He shoves his sweatpants down just far enough for him to slip his cock out. One hand rests on your tailbone while the other pumps himself a few times. It doesn’t take long for him to grow impatient though, and you find him sliding his tip through your folds only once before he slides in.

The stretch is noticeable, but it’s not unwelcome nor does it hurt. You let it be known by pushing back into him, making him groan as your tight cunt wraps around him even more. He curses under his breath as he bottoms out and you shake as he rests right beside your G-spot in this position.

“D-Daddy…” He shushes you and pushes your back down, arching it just how he likes it. His hands find home on your hips once he has you positioned perfectly and he wastes no more time, moving his hips backward before sliding back into your heat.

A low groan leaves his throat and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief at how warm and tight you feel. He’s more than familiar with your body, but it never ceases to drive him crazy. So much so that he finds a fast pace rather quickly, using it to desperately fuck into you for a few minutes.

The sound of the elevator dinging can’t be heard over the squelching of your pussy and the huffing from Changbin, so neither of you notice the audience. Nor does Changbin notice his best friend staring in his direction with wide eyes and his own dick growing hard in his pants.

He doesn’t notice it at all, but just so happens to pound into you even harder right as the older man starts watching. The hands on your hips maneuver to hold both of yours in one hand while the other slides underneath you, quickly rubbing his fingers back and forth over your clit.

“Daddy!! I’m cumming-” You can feel your orgasm starting to take over your body and you clench tightly as it snaps. It pulls a squeal from you as his hips keep up their pace, fucking into you fast and calculated as he fucks you through your orgasm.

The overstimulation kicks in fast and he has to tighten his grip on you when you start thrashing. Your body does everything it can to make him slow down but to no avail. The final attempt was when your legs squeezed together desperately, making your pussy tighten around him.

It only slows him momentarily, and he recuperates faster than you thought. With a growl, he returns to his pace and the now free hand comes down on your ass harshly before tangling itself in your hair.

He pulls your upper half out of the trunk with his newfound grip and uses the new angle to his advantage, thrusting more calculatedly and ramming into your G-spot. He leans forward, pushing his chest against your back and continuing to use you as his personal fleshlight.

Your tits bounce with each thrust and tears start forming at your eyes, causing your onlooker to sigh loudly as he holds back a moan. This is the sound that finally meets Changbin’s ears, and your boyfriend's hips stutter as he prepares to shield you with his body.

He’s completely bottomed out, his tip digging meanly into your G-spot, as he whips his neck to the side. You go to ask him what happens when a familiar voice meets your ears, causing you to clench around Changbin.

“Oh- don’t mind me bro! I’m just enjoying the show.” Chan smirks and looks into his member's eyes. He tilts his head playfully and licks his lips, almost ordering the younger man when he tells him to “Continue, Bin.” The man in question holds eye contact and experimentally grinds his hips into you as he gauges both your and Chan’s reactions.

“W-Wait! Daddy-” Changbin thrusts sharply, excited that you’re using his title so freely in front of somebody he’s looked up to for so long. Chan himself whistles at the name and leans his head against the concrete wall behind him, arms crossed and eyes now boring into where you and your boyfriend’s bodies meet.

“Damn, didn’t know you were into all of this, Bin. Always thought you were the least kinky out of everyone.” Chan tilts his head the other way now, trying to get a better look at your pussy sucking Changbin in.

Changbin whines at the newfound attention but he continues to move his body anyways. He even goes out of his way to angle his body so that Chan can get a better look at you.

You blink a few tears away and glance back at the older man. You moan when you’re met with his lidded eyes staring so intensely at your backside. He looks so interested in the way you’re literally dripping around your boyfriend and it causes you to clench again, your second orgasm building up faster than the first.

“D-Daddy, I’m gonna cum again…” You mumble it out of embarrassment, but the older man hears you anyway and teases you for it.

“You hear that, Daddy? Baby says she’s gonna cum again.” Both you and Changbin moan at the same time and he has to rest his forehead against your shoulder to ground himself.

“Shit… Channie-hyung, you’re so d-dirty.” In his stupor, Changbin loosens his grip on your hands and you fall forward, hands settling in the truck and causing you to put yourself on display in a new position.

Both men groan at the sight of your arms shaking and Chan has half the mind to come over there and hold you up himself. But he’s not trying to push any more boundaries than he already did just by being here, so he just watches in amusement as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“Y/N, you gonna cum, baby?” Chan using that nickname on you isn’t new. He uses it with all his members when he’s trying to tease them, and he often considers you an honorary member. But when you’re like this, getting split open and fucked within an inch of your life all the while he watches, the nickname only pushes you closer to finishing.

“B-Baby…” The man you’re more familiar with calling you the nickname gasps it out and whines loudly as he starts to cum, his cock spurting everything he has to give into your cunt. The feeling of getting filled up triggers your own orgasm and you milk your boyfriend dry, arms finally giving out and causing you to fall forward into the trunk.

Changbin groans when a few drops of his cum spill out as he pulls out, but he doesn’t push it back in. Instead he watches it drip and allows the older man to see his claim to you.

He can’t tell if he accomplished his goal of reclaiming you or not. Especially not when Chan walks over and fingers his seed back inside of you with his knobby fingers. But that doubt didn't stop his cock from twitching, so it sure as hell won’t stop him from saying what he's about to say.

“So… Channie-hyung’s turn. Right, baby?”

Taglists: (red=can't be tagged)

@valkyriexo @lunearta @jabmastersupriseee @rylea08

@yaorzu-blog @amararosesblog @jiminssluttyminx @clemissleepy

@miss-daisy04 @kittyxnoa @dwaekkiiracha @bubblerizz

@mariteez @fun-fanfics @honeyybbuubblleess

@dreamingaboutjisung @everythingboutkpop @velvetmoonlght @4l17h4

#sian’s writing #changbin smut #changbin x reader #changbin x reader smut #skz smut #skz x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader smut #stray kids x reader #sian’s 2024 kinktober <3

873 notes · View notes

3amfanfiction · 2 months ago

Text

Neighbor Johnny

A new neighbor moved into the house behind yours. He is insistent on being friendly. 2k cw: none

You had a new neighbor, Johnny, who was . . . something else.

He cornered you outside the first time you met him— scaring you half out of your mind.

“Ach lass, dinnae mean ta frighten ye.”

He's handsome, was your first thought, the second—how much you enjoyed the Scottish burr that rolled off his tongue.

As your heart tried to settle back into your chest you turned to face him properly. With a sheepish grin on his face, he had his shoulders hunched forward as if trying to make himself smaller, hands tucked into his blue jeans which clung to his tree-trunk like thighs.

"You're okay, I'm kind of jumpy in general," you laughed shakily, attempting to brush off the fear still lingering in your veins. "Sorry, what was it you asked?"

"I was sayin' I jus' moved into the unit behind ye," he pointed to an apartment that was the mirror image of yours, "and I dinnae ken where's good ta eat. Ye wouldn't happen ta have any suggestions, would ye?" A boyish smile curled up his lips, blue eyes squinting in the sun.

As you asked him what he was in the mood for you never noticed the laser focus he kept on you, taking in your every word, every shift, every breath. Every moment memorized.

///

The next time he bumped into you he was on his way back in from a run and you were taking out the trash.

Of course you would see him again when you were in ratty, baggy shorts and a 2 sizes too big t-shirt with a sauce stain from dinner last night on the collar, the socks in the sandals were the finishing touch on your ensemble.

And then here he came, shirtless in a pair of running shorts, thickly muscled legs leading down to worn-in tennis shoes. You wanted to bite those thighs.

Sweat was dripping down his face when he saw you, eyes lighting up in the early morning air. He course corrected your way, slowing his jog incrementally.

Why was life this unfair?

"Mornin' birdie, aren't ye a vision," smiling ear to ear, he came to a stop right in front of you, lifting a hand up to drag across his face, clearing the beads of sweat. You resolutely ignored looking at his chest, covered in a thick mat of dark, curling hair. It was damp with exertion and you yanked your eyes back up to his when you noticed you were following a droplet as it trailed from behind his ear, running down his neck, past his collar bone—

Hurriedly laughing off his joke you finished tossing the trash into the bin, "Good morning Johnny, I hope everything's been going good?"

Johnny took this as license to begin telling you all about his week, from the grocery store being out of his favorite pastry, I was plumb heartbroken hen, the lady behind the counter gave me tissues when she saw me tearin' up, to his footie team losing the match, and then because of the bet, ye remember, I had ta do the whole course naked as the day I was born. The splinters, ye see—

It was a good 20 minutes before you were able to get away.

"Well," you said, dusting off your hands like you hadn't tossed the garbage bag ages ago, "I don't want to keep you. Have a good one Johnny and I'll talk to you later," you smile as you edged towards your front door, ready to be back in the comfort of your home and away from this ridiculously handsome man who didn't seem to realize how good looking he was.

Or how much he invaded others' space.

“Aye lass, I’ll hold ye ta that,” he allowed, coming in for a damp hug which you returned quickly out of shock. As he stepped back he kept his eyes on yours until he finally turned around.

Creepy.

Almost as creepy as you licking your lips, tasting salt from where they had been pressed up against his shoulder during the hug.

///

It was a few days later when he caught you again, “Running ta the grocery, 's there anythin' ye need?” He was standing at your front door, where he'd knocked great booming thuds against the wood just moments prior.

“Oh no, I’m good, thank you though Johnny," was this weird? Or were you making it weird by thinking it was weird? He was only being neighborly, why are you so against him being friendly? He hasn't done anything wrong.

“Surely there’s somethin' yer runnin' low on," he tries. "Lotion? Batteries? Soap?”

You laughed at the random combination, charmed despite yourself at the sight of his roguish grin and bright eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I did just use the last of my butter this morning," you threw him a bone—allowing him this. You missed the way his face got sharp for a moment before evening back out.

"Aye, I can handle that," orders received, commencing operations.

"I'll be back 'fore ye know it, hen," was tossed out over his shoulder as he headed out, no more flirting, no lingering, no sidelong glances. If you would've known it was this easy to get rid of him you would've sent him on assignments long before now.

You brushed it off and headed inside, door closing with a soft click before you locked it.

///

In no time at all you heard a knock knock coming from the front. Opening the door you're surprised when Johnny breezed right in, as if it was his right.

"Hi hen, I'm back."

You're not sure how he talked his way around seeing your home. He must have a golden tongue of some sort because it's like he started talking and you find yourself pulled under his sway, helpless but to follow along. Weren't you trying to keep your distance?

“How long have ye lived here, then? ’S lookin' a little bare” he said, gaze running over the empty walls.

You gave an embarrassed shrug, “A few months but I’m not exactly the most . . . handy of people,” here you gestured to the television that was mounted on the wall a touch too high.

When Johnny followed your lackluster waving to look at the screen, he couldn't help but bark out a laugh.

The TV was — well. It was on the wall and that’s about all that could be said for it. “I didn’t mean to mount it that high. It just kind of happened,” you said haltingly, embarrassed at the look he was giving you. Your cheeks must have been 200 degrees, “—and it was such a pain to get the screws in the first time that I just," you shrugged, "left it.”

“Ye have ta practically lay flat on yer back ta watch it!” Johnny exclaimed in astonishment. You buried your face in your hands, unable to keep his gaze any longer.“It’s fine! I’ll fix it. Eventually," you allow. "I just haven’t needed to yet.”

“Nah, I’m nae gonna have ye puttin' up with this. I’m busy today but I’ll be by early tomorrow mornin', ya hear?”

You tried to argue, insisted that he didn't need to fix it. He didn’t listen and steamrolled right over you.

\\\

The next day he was back at your house, making good on his promises. He didn't bring any tools over, using what you had to correct your mistake. That would have been perfectly fine if he would just. Stop. Talking.

"Ach, look at how prepared you are, dove. You've got the whole kit then, don't you?" He looked over your, honestly not-that-impressive tool kit with a discerning eye. Reaching in for what he needed he nodded his head at you with a condescending wink, "haven't you done so well."

After that you found yourself fluttering around him; offering him help, a drink, anything he needed.

Johnny put his hands on your shoulders. physically stopping you, "Sit down, beautiful, you donnae need to be faffin' about like this. Get comfy on the couch and just sit there lookin' pretty for me, yeah?”

Oh—you're not—that's not something—

You didn't say anything, you couldn't say anything. Instead you did what he told you, taking a seat on the couch and talking to him while he worked.

He adjusted the TV to a more acceptable height embarrassingly easy. What had taken you an hour to do incorrectly he had fixed in fifteen minutes. You stood to thank him, assuming you would be leading him out of the house shortly.

So how did you end up sitting back on the couch, watching a movie with your neighbor pressed all up against one side?

He was characteristically persuasive when he convinced you watching a movie was necessary to make sure all the connections worked right, seeing as how he'd had to unplug everything when he pulled it from the wall to fix your mishap. He had tugged you back into your seat and sat close beside you, pulling up a streaming service and selecting a movie you hadn't heard of before.

As he settled in to get comfortable with an arm thrown around the back of the couch you decided there wasn't really a whole lot for it and settled in yourself to watch the movie.

That was an hour ago and you were regretting your decision fiercely.

The movie Johnny had chosen was a dramatic romance with plenty of R rated scenes. There was one playing out across the screen currently and you were trying to be subtle as you squirmed, rubbing your sticky thighs together as the female lead moaned enthusiastically for the male lead eating her out on the kitchen table.

You probably could have restrained yourself if not for Johnny unabashedly rubbing his chubbing cock through his jeans. He had shifted and pulled his arm off the backrest but he was still pressed to you from shoulder to knee. You didn't realize what was happening at first until you glanced away from the screen after the lead's second orgasm and realized where his hand had crept.

He didn't look at you as he palmed himself—he kept his eyes firmly locked to the screen. It was almost as if he didn't realize he was doing it. Should you say something or just leave it? If no one drew attention to anything does that mean no one gets embarrassed?

Thankfully the scene ended soon and Johnny stood up with an excuse of using the bathroom, leaving you to get a grip on yourself. As he stepped inside the room he must have been a little too wound up because he failed to close the door properly, leaving it cracked just enough for the sound of skin rasping on skin as he touched himself to echo out into the living room.

After what felt like ages you heard the water running as he washed his hands. Shortly afterwards he was back on the couch, arm slung behind you once more.

There were no more heated scenes before the movie ended which was a relief. This time Johnny didn't argue as you led him to the door, simply told you he would be back the day after tomorrow to help with other handy-man items he had seen while he was there.

With an exasperated eye roll you agreed and told him you'd see him then, unable to help smiling back sweetly when he beamed at you before he headed home.

A short while later you went to the bathroom when you noticed your conditioner sitting on the back of the toilet, cap ajar, when you were sure you had left it on the lip of the tub. You frowned as you picked it up and looked at it curiously before you fixed the cap and placed it where it belonged. When you went to wash your hands you noticed your toothbrush sat on the counter. That was strange, it had been hours since you brushed your teeth, why was it still wet?

banner by @/cafekitsune

Current Stories || Main Repository

#johnny soap mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #neighbor johnny #he doesn’t understand boundaries #he’s like a dog with a scent

608 notes · View notes

cuntwrap--supreme · 2 years ago

Text

Guess who has to talk to their GM today because yesterday they screamed at the guys who own the bar they work for/told the guy who took their job that they'd likely get in a fistfight with him if he didn't leave them alone?

#it's me. I'm who.#gm all but told me I'd get the truck. then they give it to the other guy.#said not a single person had even recommended i run it #which is cute because that's not what gm said #the owners didn't even know my name. i had to remind them.#said i don't have kitchen experience that i was just a front of house employee #i asked why i worked 15 hours a week in their kitchen then #asked what me being a kitchen manager or a shift leader several times in my life has neant #asked if it mattered at all that my last long term job i was doing the work of 4-6 people by myself every day #the guy they gave it to didn't even want the truck. he said he wanted something in the pub #also said if they asked him he'd siggest we both run it because he doesn't want to #and then didn't. instantly took the offer and smugly told me he's sorry when he had to give them his license #this guy knows I'm trying to escape my oppressive household and this was an easy way for me to do so #the raise i would have gotten would like help me qualify for home loans and shit #which by the way i make 46k a year at this job and only qualify for a 90k loan. i want to kill myself.#so I'm telling my gm today that he's either going to pretend to know shit about how i work and stop telling me I'm a good worker #or he's going to put his money where his mouth is and grow up and do shit about it #i don't need some random grown man to validate that I'm a hard worker. i know i am.#but I'm not working another job where I'm told i work so well and they give me more shit to do and not more money #either fucking promote me or shut the fuck up. i do not need your praise. i need you to show you mean it.#and if they don't mean it I'm not scared to quit on the spot. period. same goes with any job.#i will be homeless before I'm disrespected like that. and i mean that.#I'm not working another job where I'm kept in some weird limbo state of will i or won't i be promoted #do it or shut the fuck up #considering telling them to move me to a whole other location too. just like permanently. just kitchen work. no truck.#anyway I'm clearly livid #i don't deal with liars well and i don't do great with empty promises. 2023 is not gonna be about that noise.#ranting

1 note · View note

kyxhiin · 20 days ago

Text

Billy is smoking. And the JL are confused cause who let Marvel have a pack of cigarettes. With the time bubble thing in Fawcett and it being stuck in the 1950s the doctor gave him a pack of cigarettes cause it will help whatever cold or infection he has now. Cause it's healthy!

After a relatively tough fight the JL are tired. Captain however seemed to be the opposite, he's still his usual happy go lucky self cheering up the rest of the League. And it's all going fine and all and they enter the space ship. Everybody's in the control room sighing, and talking. The team's spirit seemed to be lifted up until... Marvel pulls out a pack of cigarettes. But he doesn't seem to be the guy who smokes so casually.

Flash: Woah dude you smoke? Isn't that bad for you? If you even have lungs but dude, I don't judge.

Flash doing a little shrug as Captain lights up the cigarette with electricity.

Captain Marvel: Oh, yeah I do. My doctor prescribed me it, I need to take it hourly.

Flash, along with the other audible confusion of the JL: ..What do you mean your doctor prescribed you it...?

Captain Marvel with a confused glance puffing out smoke:.. Yeah? I don't understand what's wrong with it, the doctor said the smokes gonna cleanse my body or something. People always take a cigar, Mary and Jr have been prescribed it once too?

Flash now with a deadpanned but also a confused expression: What.

Superman: Marvel.. I don't think that's a licensed doctor your seeing.

Captain Marvel tipping the ash onto a coke bottle cap: What? Of course my doctor is. Look Mr. Superman I would think to know to trust a professionals words.

Superman: No, cap. Smokings like really bad, it has nicotine in it and it can cause lung cancer.

Captain Marvel holding the cigarette between his fingers: Oh, you believe in those theories? They've been going around a while now.

Green Lantern: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEORIES??? THIS IS BASIC KNOWLEDGE????

Captain Marvel now with a chuckle to his speech: Yeah right, nice joke. You should really consider becoming a come-

Flash: DONT STEER THE CONVERSATION?? AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN JR AND MARY HAS BEEN PRESCRIBED THE SAME THING.

The JL are now speed questioning well more like interrogating Captain. Batman now scheduled a visit to Fawcett to see what the hell is going on in there.

#dc #dc comics #dc universe #dcu #billy batson #shazam #captain marvel #batman #detective comics #superman #green lantern #the flash #fawcett city #fawcett comics #fawcett

467 notes · View notes

zepskies · 2 months ago

Text

Maybe More Than Enough

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: You’ve been a friend and ally to the Winchester brothers for years, but you and Dean break new ground while on a stakeout to catch a witch.

AN: Here’s another entry for @jacklesversebingo! It’s also based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @lacilou. 💜

Prompt: Window—Letter Opener—Binoculars

Request: I'd love to read about Dean and the reader who's his age or even a little older.

Song Inspo: “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 2.9K

Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, bit of hurt/comfort, bit of spice.~

💜 Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Discreetly from the passenger side of the car, you peered through the binoculars again. Your target was in view through the unusual circular window: an average looking white man in his fifties, peeling a tangerine from the comfort of his kitchen.

According to his driver’s license, his name was Martin Reynolds. Sam was investigating the sudden death of his wife, Laura, and the wives of two other men in the small town of Whitebury, Mississippi. Laura was the first victim, so you and Dean were watching Martin for any suspicious activity.

Your companion shifted in his seat. You could hear the give of the well-worn leather against denim. The Impala wasn’t exactly inconspicuous for a stakeout, but he refused to be trapped in your “tiny-ass” Toyota Camry all afternoon. You preferred the term compact.

“What’s our he-witch up to?” Dean asked.

Your lips twitched at a smile.

“We don’t know if he’s a witch,” you said, but you passed him the binoculars.

Dean’s mouth quirked to one side before he took a look. “Well, he probably isn’t a shifter.”

“What makes you say that?”

He gestured back at the window and gave you back the binoculars. You peered over and saw that Martin had half the tangerine in his mouth while he opened his mail with a letter opener. It flashed like silver in the afternoon light.

“If that is silver, it would rule out a lot of things,” you agreed, “but it still wouldn’t tell us why he killed his wife.”

Dean looked over as a white Porsche pulled into Martin’s driveway.

“Hmm, well, I’d say motive is comin’ in hot. Literally,” he said, watching intently when a young woman stepped out of the car. Her dress was as tight as the ponytail tied high on her head, a coil of blonde bouncing down her back.

You sighed, with a roll of your eyes. “Typical.”

You noticed the way Dean’s smirk wiped the boredom away from his eyes. It was annoyingly handsome, along with the neatly trimmed stubble across his cheeks, framing a strong jaw and the enticing bow of his lips. You had to resolve to ignore all of it, heaving a small sigh.

You wedged the binoculars between you both and toyed with the silver rings on your fingers—both a fashion statement and a safety precaution.

“Could be a demon deal,” you said. “Three men sporting Touch of Gray, three wives over 40.”

“Damn. That’s cold,” Dean shook his head, crossing his arms from the driver’s seat. Always from the driver’s seat. “That’d be pretty cut and dry though. Downright stereotypical.”

You gave him a smile. “Since when do you like it complicated?”

“Like it?” he scoffed. “What I like and what I get are on two different fucking hemispheres.”

You sensed bitterness there, underneath the dry remark. You looked away from the scene in the kitchen where Martin was pouring Barbie, his presumed girlfriend, a glass of white wine. Just like you thought, Dean’s brief good humor faded, falling into his resting state. It was a harder look than you were used to seeing on him over the years. His lighter, devil-may-care attitude in his younger days seemed to gain a little bit of edge every time you saw him next.

A few decades of bullshit, blood, and loss will do that to you.

But every time he called, you answered.

“You okay?” you asked. You tried to hide the depths of your concern, but maybe you just weren’t good enough. Dean glanced at you and forced his crunched brows to relax, as if he’d caught himself opening the hatch a little too much. Letting his true depths come to light a little too long.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he replied.

Sure. Always good.

You met him with a long look, your head rolling onto your shoulder.

“Hey. You can be honest with me, you know,” you reminded him. “What, you think I’m gonna tell Sam all your secrets?”

Dean smiled a little, but he shook his head, remaining stubborn.

“Look, I’m fine. Just the usual bullshit,” he said. “Nothing you gotta be dragged into.”

You frowned. “What, aside from this hunt? Aside from the last ten years of bailing your ass out?”

That last part was more joking. The truth was, Sam and Dean had helped you just as often as you’d tried to help them.

Now, Dean just shook his head. The fact that he didn’t levy back a smartass response further let you know that something was off with him.

You bumped his arm lightly over his jacket.

“Come on, tell me all about your man feelings,” you teased. It had its intended effect, bringing a reluctant smile to Dean’s lips. He shot you a look, and you couldn’t help but admire how the dimming sun caught in his eyes, that pale green.

“Whatever. Like I said, I’m good,” he said, deflecting further by turning up his music. Yet another Led Zeppelin song was playing, but at least this one was more mellow. The guitar riff filled the car at a moderate volume. You guys were still on a stakeout, after all.

You shook your head, despite your smile. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”

His brows popped up. “Old?”

You shrugged impishly.

“‘Cause if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a bit more mileage than I do,” he retorted.

You laughed, shoving his shoulder.

“Well, that’s just rude,” you said. “You’re not even a year behind me. Matter of fact, you’re just a few steps shy of Touch of Gray in there. I can even help you find your shade. I’m thinking, what, medium brown with a hint of silver fox? Could be very George Clooney.”

The disgruntled look on Dean’s face had you dying.

“Now that’s just uncalled for,” he said, even though his lips were curving upward at the sound of your laughter. Without you knowing, he took in the infectious sound, and the way you pressed the back of your hand against his arm while you tried to get ahold of yourself. It was everything he’d ever liked about you.

Easy. That was what it was, being with you.

The hard part always came afterward, watching you leave.

Letting you leave.

“It’s just…I don’t know,” you said, biting into your lower lip. You smudged your lipstick there, a dark, juicy red. It was distracting enough that Dean almost missed what you said next.

“You seem weighed down.” Your eyes were more serious then, beautiful and warm in their honesty. “Every time I see you, it’s like you’ve got fifty more pounds on your shoulders.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for you, even as he held your gaze.

His cell phone ringing cut through the guitar melody slowly fading into the next song. Dean fished it out of his pocket and answered Sam’s call.

“Hey, what’cha got?”

Your hunch proved correct. Sam tracked down the demon that made soul-claiming deals with a handful of men from the same golf club. All of them bored of their wives, and all of them with too much money on their hands—enough that they refused to lose any of it in a messy divorce.

It was like the opposite of the First Wives Club, and you were sickened.

When you and Dean questioned Martin, he felt just guilty enough to spill his guts.

Sam managed to gank the demon on his own, which left you and Dean with a conundrum: what to do with the marked men who sold their souls. No matter how much justice you thought they deserved, their souls were still damned to Hell either way. As Dean pointed out, that would be price enough to pay.

You were sour about it, but you let Martin and the rest of his scheming bastard friends go…after leaving him with a well-placed knee to the nads. At the very least, he wouldn’t be making any more scheming bastards anytime soon.

Dean was still smirking when you two piled into the Impala. Sam was waiting to be picked up at the bar across town, where he’d found the demon.

“Shut up already,” you laughed.

Dean shook his head, still grinning as he put the car in Drive.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your smile remained, but not for long as you stared out the window. You liked the evening time, where there was still light enough to see, but the world was winding down in shades of orange-gold and violet. The streetlamps were slowly coming on, lighting the way along the road.

The car pulled to a stop at the red light, there at a busy intersection.

“Hey.”

Dean’s voice, deep and a little tired, caught your attention.

“You okay over there?” he asked. He was side-eying you again, this time in concern. You could see it behind the usual gruffness.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said. “Just makes me glad I never got married. Else I might’ve gotten shivved just so he could get out of paying alimony.”

Dean sucked his teeth. “Apparently it’s a bitch.”

You gave him a dry, withering look. He chuckled and briefly reached over to squeeze your arm.

“Hey, come on. That shit’s not happening to you,” he said. “He’d have to be dumb, deaf, and blind.”

You tilted your head at him, a small smile lighting up your face again. You couldn’t help the way your face warmed in a blush, especially with the way he was looking at you, all smirky and charming and unequivocally Dean.

“Green light,” you reminded him.

He returned his attention to the road. His right hand was molded onto the steering wheel casually. His left rested on his thigh, while his fingers bounced to the beat of a song off his second favorite Zeppelin album. And you knew that, because he’d been playing it on repeat all day.

Many have I loved, and many times been bitten. Many times I've gazed along the open road…

You watched his profile, for a moment spellbound. The sky dimmed over his shoulder, casting him in both light and shadow, gold and dark.

“Have you ever…” You didn’t even know where you were going with this, but you’d already opened your mouth, and Dean was already glancing your way, with half his gaze on the road ahead.

“You ever gotten close to having something real? Someone who's not gonna shiv you when you’re fifty,” you said.

A laugh caught in his throat. “Hell, I never thought I’d see my forties, but here we are. Apparently I’m old.”

He shot you a wry look. You smiled.

“That’s one hell of a way to avoid the question,” you said.

Dean shook his head, this time with a sigh under his breath. For a second, you didn’t think he would answer you. You almost didn’t blame him.

The music filled the silence in between.

Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing. Many, many men can't see the open road…

“Once,” Dean admitted. “I thought I had it, but uh…didn’t take.”

“Was she a hunter?” you asked.

Dean shook his head, his eyes staying on what lied ahead.

“Just wasn’t my life,” he said. “Couldn’t keep dragging her into mine.”

There was a lot there, buried deep. You couldn’t even begin to find a shovel, so you let it be. Though you should’ve predicted the way he turned it back on you.

“And you?” he said, brows raised. “Never had a douchebag in a sport coat, playing Caddyshack at the club every weekend?”

You shook your head as you laughed. If nothing else, Dean could paint a picture.

“Definitely fucking not.” You rested your chin in your palm, your elbow finding purchase above the door handle. “You know me. I’m either too much or not enough.”

You didn’t notice it then, but Dean looked over at you with a frown tugging at his lips. He didn’t like the melancholy in your voice, or the way you turned to look out the window, like you were trying to hide from him.

Instead of putting voice to any of the thoughts rolling through his head, he kept driving.

The Impala rumbled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the bar. You were ready to meet Sam for a couple of beers inside. You grabbed your bag resting on the floor between your feet, but Dean’s stayed your hand, his own wrapping warmly around your arm.

You looked over at him with blinking, expectant eyes. He met you with sincerity.

“Anybody who says you ain’t enough, doesn’t know you,” he said. And then, his smile was back, quirking up at the corner. “At least, not like I do.”

Slowly, you smiled back. Your blush fairly radiated down your neck as well as your face, but you crossed your arms.

“So I’m too much. Is that what you’re saying?” you said.

He chuckled. “I plead the Fifth on that one.”

You fell into a fit of laughter along with him, and you both climbed out of the car feeling a little bit lighter. The blaring red neon sign above the bar blinded you for a moment. You turned to see Dean fiddling with his keys, trying to pick out the right one to lock up the car.

Some deep-seated feeling compelled you to go to him. You made your way around the hood and stopped just behind him. You called his name softly.

Dean turned to look at you over his shoulder. He was surprised to find you there so close. It led him to turn around all the way.

You didn’t give him, or even yourself time to think.

You grabbed the edges of his jacket and pulled yourself up to press your lips to his. It was more or less a gentle kiss. Just a sweet, slow meeting of lips. You pulled away just as slowly, the heels of your boots lowering back down to the ground.

Dean blinked his eyes open. When he came back to himself, he looked down at you in surprise and with a hint of a smile. He had the imprint of your lipstick smudged across his plush mouth.

“What was that for?” he asked.

You smoothed your hands over his jacket. It was a bit too hard to meet his eyes, so yours landed somewhere around his chest. It was also too hard to say what you really wanted to say, so you settled on half of the truth.

“A thank you, I guess,” you said. “And maybe the next time I see you, you’ll have a little less weight on your shoulders.”

His calloused hand cupped your cheek, and he earned your gaze, blinking up at him through your lashes. You couldn’t name everything you saw in his eyes, but it was more than just surprise or lust. In fact, he seemed to be debating with himself, fighting something deep inside.

You saw the exact moment he made his decision.

“Maybe we should make it count then,” he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

You didn’t even trust your voice, but your gaze drifted down from his eyes, to his mouth. Your shallow nod in agreement was like releasing him from his chains.

Dean framed your face with both hands and drew you into his kiss, like he was breathing life into you. You certainly felt alive.

You clung to the back of his shirt, to his arms, while he gathered you flush against his chest. His strong hands glided their way down the small of your back, eliciting tingles down your spine. All the while, he drew you in deeper and deeper with each new sensuous glide of his lips against yours.

You yelped in surprise when he turned with you in his arms, just to press you into the side of his car. Dean pulled open the door to the backseat, and you climbed in willingly. He followed after you, at the same time you dragged him over by the front of his shirt. Soon his jacket was wrenched off his shoulders along with yours, both tossed somewhere in the front seats along with his shirt.

While you explored the new expanse of tanned skin, roaming your hands over his strong, broad shoulders and dipping down his back, his lips had fastened to your neck, teasing and grazing with his teeth along your pulse point.

You were already moaning and panting in his ear, your body arching to meet his as you slung a leg across his lap. He grabbed onto your thigh and squeezed, pulling you even tighter against him.

Still, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

“Aren’t we a little old to be making out in the backseat?” you said.

“You can be a little old for a lotta things, sweetheart,” said Dean, his voice gravel and deep as sin. “But this ain’t one of ‘em.”

AN: Some spicy flangst there for ya! It was honestly refreshing to write some Dean after working on so much Soldier Boy. I love that guy, but he gives me stress sometimes. 😂 Trying to cure Dean's angst is a fun break! 💜

Read the Sequel:

Bonus shot! Resless Nights:

Summary: After a tryst you instigated in the backseat of his Baby, you and Dean have started something new. He’s just not sure that you’re as “all in” as you claimed to be.

▶️ Keep Reading: Restless Nights

Join Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

Jacklesverse Bingo 2024 Masterlist

Dean Winchester One-Shots

Dean Winchester Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms

@foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @roseblue373 @this-is-me19

@emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found

@thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28

@adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka

@branj19 @agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley

@sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @mimaria420

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse @twinkleinadiamondsky @ajjustice

@ades106 @my-stories-vault @cevansbaby-dove @kayleighwinchester @rizlowwritessortof

@tmb510 @skyesthebomb @syrma-sensei @harleycao @king-of-milf-lovers

@pizzagirlxnsfwx @justsom3onesworld @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @beskarfilms @lunaticgurly

@malindacath @mrsjenniferwinchester @jc-winchester @charmed-asylum @fromcaintodean

@violetlilysunshine @traiitorjoe @tsofo26 @k-slla @jackles010378

@deanbrainrotwritings @urfav-tz @alwaystiredandconfused @torchbearerkyle @mrlonelycat

@deans-daydream @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70

@clinicallydepresso @liopleurodean @brujaporfavor @xiphoidbones @xsophianicolex

@call-me-mrs-winchester @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989 @ghostslillady

@siampie @hell-o-kittys

739 notes · View notes