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#*living in a place i hate so much fuck this state
redditreceipts · 13 hours
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So this is the answer to an ask that @wild-wombytch has sent me, and I chose to answer it in this format because the original ask contains a link to a post that I'd rather not share, to maintain respectful of OP.
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Thank you, I'm fine! and cool that you like the cat pictures ❤️ I'll make a separate post for you just containing cat pictures
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and thank you so much for saying that! ❤️❤️
yeah, so @wild-wombytch refers to a post that deals with a person who got a tumor from HRT. They have made a post in a mainstream trans subreddit and the people on there got mad at them, because they didn't want to recognise the downsides of HRT:
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So this is just a whole other level. People hating on OP because they got a brain tumor is so despicable. These people can rot in hell
(Also, if you want to use my post to make fun of OP for having a brain tumor, enjoy getting blocked 🥰 I try to make this a welcoming place for people who are transitioning, detransitioning or having problems with their medical transition. If you can't handle that, please fuck off)
The specific kind of tumor this person is talking about, a pituitary brain tumor, is (as stated) probably linked to HRT in trans women. This reminds me of the myriad of posts by trans women talking about galactorrhea. Galactorrhea refers to the spontaneous lactation without having given birth or breastfeeding a baby, which can occur in women and men. And what is the most common cause for Galactorrhea?
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the most common cause of galactorrhea is a benign tumor in your brain. Even though benign tumors are not as dangerous as cancerous tumors, they can still cause severe dysfunction over time, because they can still grow slowly and compress vital areas of the brain. It's definetly not a topic to be joked about.
I was able to find a ton of "I am spontaneously lactating as a trans woman, is this normal"-posts in the span of seconds. Remember: Galactorrhea, a condition that is most commonly caused by a brain tumor. And what are the responses?
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keep in mind: this person probably had not only been lactating, but even had blood in their nipple discarge. Up to a fifth of women who have that sign of discharge have a malignant cause for it - I can't imagine that the prospect for biological males on HRT is much better.
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so yeah, instead of telling them to go see their doctor or anything, they link them to r/AdultBreastfeeding - it's a fetish subreddit for people who have a lactation fetish and want to induce lactation.
I mean, a large amount of the stuff I post here is kinda funny and absurd, but if you get a bit deeper in these online echochambers, it gets really dark real quick. Where did we go from "everyone should live their lives as they wish" to "downplaying brain cancer to own the terfs"? And this doesn't mean that every trans woman should immediately stop their HRT just to prevent that from happening. That's not what I'm saying here. I'm just saying that these people genuinely don't seem to care about anything other than their ideology, and even medical professionals are seen as "lying" and "bigoted", and people with brain tumors are accused of "attacking the trans community". How is this not a cult??
Also, I wish the person who made the original post all the best :) I hope they find people who support them and help them heal
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soooo i have 6 days to find an apartment if anyone wants to help me out with application/pet fees that'd be awesome
c*shapp: $casskrevlen
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screw-u-vaanu · 6 days
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formulahs · 7 months
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#had a Vision yesterday#a maxiel vision of all things surprise surprise#i was in the shower and remembered something my mother told me a while ago#when she was recently out of veterinary med school she moved to another state to work#and she said when the day was particularly stressful at the clinic she would just drop everything and fuck off to the beach#and like at the time she shared an apartment with 3 other vets (they owned the clinic together)#so like all that to say my rpf rotting brain put max in my mother’s place instead so like Vet Max AU#moved away from his dad who told him he was gonna be nothing and wanted him to be a people doctor to like this big enough coastal city#shares a flat with whoever 3 f1 idiots (for rpf funsies) he met in uni and is deeply lonely but girlbossing at thr clinic cuz he’s a G#meets daniel who HATES dogs but witnessed this cutsie little mutt get run over and takes the poor creature to the nearest clinic aaaaand#BAM HOT VET STRAIGHT IN YO BISEXUAL FACE#hot vet maxy has an accent and is too straightforward and can immediately tell daniel does not like to be touching lil doggo#but is incredibly endeared by the fact that he took the dog in despite himself yk cuz max is soul bound to animals etc etc#they fall in love daniel doesn’t really date men (until now bitch) its a whole thing etc etc#dealing with inner trauma while fucking non stop or whatever#luckily daniel doesn’t hate cats as much so he befriends jimmy and sassy and they live happily ever after yayyy#maxiel
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rosicheeks · 8 months
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12 days
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eatyourdamnpears · 10 months
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I hate the fact that I couldn’t get out if I needed to. I don’t have a car or license. I can’t work. I can’t afford any rent in my area with disability. I don’t have control of my finances. I can’t take care of myself. I’m just… stuck here. I’m stuck living in a house that can become so easily volatile and I don’t know how to get out if the time comes where I need to
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fiddlepickdouglas · 1 year
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#i live in hell#im barely climbing out of the hole of a major depressive episode that i barely made out of alive#and i agree that for my own sanity it was a good call that i not move away from here as soon as i had planned#but i have been lowkey harassed twice while shopping for groceries entirely unprovoked#and some dude decided to preach at my work just now for over an hour with like prayers and everything#and that's just within the past 5 days#i felt so uncomfortable#evangelist christians really have no clue they could be sending someone hurrying home as fast as possible#because my religious trauma is so fucking deep and i really wish my manager had kicked the asshole out because#THAT PLACE IS PUBLIC. NOT EVERYONE IN THIS FUCKING STATE BELIEVES THE SAME SHIT.#I WAS HOLDING BACK A PANIC ATTACK UNTIL I FINALLY JUST GRABBED MY SHIT AND LEFT AND KRPT MY EYES DOWN SO I WOULDN'T GET CORNERED#and i had already spent half my night waking myself up having mini panics too#and other bullshit that im really too frustrated about to repeat today#i hate utah#i hate it here so much 😭#im terrified#i wanna be openly queer so bad but if strangers are feeling free to see anything questionable about me#and think it's fine to be outright assholes then i really don't want to imagine the danger i would be in if i were out#i don't have my therapy appointment until wednesday and i already hate that im gonna have to dump all this too#please someone just take me to whatever queer utopian island alternate universe there is i need a break
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nblizzieforbes · 1 year
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i think my brain decided i'd been doing too okay for too long and decided i was getting too brave about it
#i say okay bc i wouldn't say i've been doing Good but. yknow. okay.#but apparently my depression is not in fact permanently better#which isn't surprising like i knew that i guess but. it's not Nice.#i'm not sad i'm just tired and have a good bit less energy than normal (which isn't even much to begin with)#and more easily emotional and having a hard time wanting to do anything and not finding as much enjoyment in shit. yknow.#not that i'm generally a super happy person but. yknow.#i'm not being super articulate right not but i'm in a not fantastic place i'm not gonna dwell on the exact way to explain this#i kinda just want to sleep more than normal too which i Hate and a certain family member who i always hate having around it making me#annoyed/sad/more mad than normal by just existing in my vicinity#like i'm not being mean to him but i've got a lot of bad shit associated with him he always bugs me but i've gotten a lot better about it#like i wouldn't say i'm past the ways he purposefully fucked with my mental health under the guise of fucking teasing but hearing his voice#hasn't been getting to me as much as it used to (i used to get such an unpleasant feeling and just want to go anywhere else to not hear his#voice). but i think it's getting bad again. like i just hear him in the living room when i wake up and immediately want to go back to sleep#so i don't have to hear him#and i'm having a harder time faking niceness with another family member who i literally live with.#which. i thnk everyone else is too and that's been building but i do also think it's partially bc of my emotional state#like i don't have the energy to deal with her and i don't have the energy to ignore her shitty behavior either but.#also the other day i was so. id been thinking about transphobia so much and it was bothering me a bit and idk if that's connected but i#think it kinda was. anywyay she wasn't being transphobic specifically but she was complaining about a guy on a show wearing a skirt#and said something like 'i don't know what i would do if a guy walked into my house with a skirt on' like it was disgusting#and i even got her to agree with me that she was being stupid but before i got to that part of the conversation i said 'god you're so#messed up' after she said the thing about her house and god do i feel like a shit person about that. i kinda don't think she even heard me#but when i said it i wasn't trying to make her not hear it. i was saying it to me more than anything but i very much said it loud enough#for her to hear. (by saying it to me i don't mean i was saying I'M messed up. i was talking to her but like to myself?)#but anyway yeah i feel shit about that because that's not an okay response and knowing how much i get down on myself and feel like i'm#super messed up and knowing she has her own mental health shit? i feel pretty bad i said it whether she heard it or not and it's like i#don't think i'm a mean person but it was a bad day and shit with her builds and she was being stupid but that wasn't okay#and it makes me feel like i am a mean person and i don't want to be and i mostly don't think i am but i just. idk
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coffin-bird · 1 year
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#ive been slowly coming to the realization over the past couple years#that idt i have much of a future#its been a lot of different things sort of culminating into that#and ik im only in my early 20s but like#i rly dont think im thinking illogically here in the grand scheme of things#i just. dont have anything going for me. nothing pushing me to more#im living off of a monthly allowance my dad can barely afford to give me#i cant hold a job down for more than a few months before i get so burnt out on it i have to quit#i cant get to a job bc i dont have a car bc we cant afford one. and i dont have money for public transport/lyft/helping w gas for carpool#i dont have the space or money to set up a small area to record voice work remotely#which means i cant get voice work. and i barely have the money to apply to acting gigs let alone ways to get places#i have severe debillitating tomophobia so i cant get to.p surgery#and even if i could i wouldnt be able to pay airfair and accomodations there if my insurance covered it#and definitely not the actual surgery if it wouldnt or if i didnt have insurance by the time i could pay for the other stuff#i want to stay in my state for now bc its convenient and i cant afford to fly to see friends#but my dad hates it here and im the fucking burden keeping him here#my misophonia keeps getting worse. and so is whatever else i have#so im a nightmare to live with and a horrible friend and inconsiderate selfish person#im stuck here. im stuck like this.#im never gonna have my own place by myself. im never gonna pick out dishes and furniture. ill never have a nice bedframe#ill never have an office. or a car. or even a garage at all#ill never have a little closet to record in. ill never have a separate room for an automatic litterbox and the food and water bowls#ill never pick the colors of my walls and host halloween and do dinner parties with my stocked liquor cabinet#im unfortunate. im the burden. im the selfish mean one. im the monster#im a fucking leech and incapable and lazy and so fucking annoying#i dont have a future and i get to fucking sit here and listen to and watch all my friends around me#amount to things and go to college and have jobs and have plans for a fucking future#knowing full well that someday everyone will be gone and away and ill still be here#unable to do anything but sit here and cry wishing i could just fucking kill myself#vent
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bibleofficial · 7 months
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allegedly my ac has been broken & is the cause of why my battery has been being sapped but it took 5 days for this braindead mf to tell me this shit & wont even give me an ESTIMATE of WHEN the bitch will be FIXED im going to strangle him
#stream#like everyone will be murdered & then myself#i hate this city i hate this city i hate this city i hate this city i hate this city#i’m abt to just start ubering places & bill him 😭😭😭#LIKE MF ……….#WHAT HAVE U BEEN DOIN BUT WASTIN MY TIME 😭😭😭😭😭😭#my parents keep telling me like ‘how much would it be at firestone’ LIKE TRULY I COULDNT GIVE LESS OF A FUCK ILL PUT THAT SHIT ON A CREDIT#CARD AT LEAST ID GET THE FUCKIN CAR BACK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭#I GOT SHIT TO DO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i cant even use the bus bc it’s still REDUCED SCHEDULE & COSTS 5 FUCKING DOLLARS 1 WAY 😭😭😭😭😭😭#FOR 1 BUS#like bro …… 10$ can get me like 3 gallons that’s 3 trips downtown &!!-#& back like !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#SO 60$ WORTH OF BUS TICKETS & 2X THE TIME#not worth nothin i hate this ain’t shit ass country this pitiful fuckin state im sooooooooo MAD#BC U CANT LIVE HERE WITHOUT A CAR !!!!!!!!!!!!#but also my other option is like ‘remove the ac’ & it’s like …. ur on crack. it’s 105° all day every fucking day WHAT DO U MEAN REMOVE THEAC#TO TAKE A SHOWER AT MY DESTINATION ? NO WTF 😭😭😭 IT ALREADY TAKES 20 MIN FOR THE AC TO KICK AS IS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭#car was running fine then my father takes it once and now she’s dead. not a surprise. everytime my father touches anything of mine it comes#BACK DESTROYED 😭😭😭😭#i need to live somewhere w … any public transport#like bro i couldn’t even get to the bus w/o an uber 😭😭😭😭😭😭#it’d only take me like an hour & a half walking 1 way & i can pray i’ve money on the fucking bus card bc there’s no cash option to GET ON#THE FUCKING BUS#AND THE MACHINE TO RELOAD THE CARD IS STILL FUCKING BROKEN#SO THE ONLY WAY TO PUT MONEY ON IS IT TO GO FUCKING DOWNTOWN BUT GOOD LUCK BC UR NOT GETTING THERE BY THE BUS#now ur walking 30mi on a highway#or pay like 35$ for an uber lol
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havegaysex · 11 months
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My dad telling me about the new horse he just bought when I'm crying over car repairs and making my car payment really just pisses me off so much
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moongreenlight · 5 months
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Have you ever seen that corny ass skit where it’s the girl talking to her husband asking him to fix things and he says “I’m not a plumber” “I’m not a carpenter” bla bla bla and then one day he comes home and the girl’s like “oh yeah I had the neighbor come over to fix the things you wouldn’t” and the neighbor says she can either bake him a cake or sleep with him as payment so the husband asks “so what kind of cake did you bake him?” And the girl says “I’m not a baker?”
Very much Neighbor!Price x stay-at-home-mom!reader coded :)
Mdni. Nsfw below cut.
Neighbor!Price who’s found a quiet little cul-de-sac to settle in when he’s got some time off. It’s a little neighborhood, mostly older people who’re thrilled to have a man like him around to help bring out bins and offer to mow their lawns or rake their leaves or shovel their drives when he’s around.
But somehow he’s found the only other younger family in the area living directly next to him. Parents are a few years his junior, and they’ve got two young kids. He assumes the boy, the older one, is early elementary age- sees you herding him into the car in the morning with a pack lunch and a backpack that’s nearly the same size as he is to and from the house in the morning and afternoon. And the girl, the younger, must be in pre-k, because she’s only out for half the day and doesn’t get the same pack lunch her brother gets.
He’s gotten to know you pretty well. When he’s around, the two of you will chat while you’re tending your garden and he’s working in his garage carrying out some odd project or another. He thinks you’re sweet. Likes the way you wear overalls with a little top when you’re planting flowers in the beds out front. How when you bend over or stand at the right angle he can imagine you’re not wearing a top at all.
He hates your husband. He’s crass and rude and never waves hello to any of the neighbors- odd for such a friendly little community. Leaves for work early and comes home late and leaves you to fend for yourself all day. Doesn’t know how to interact with you or your kids. And Price is almost certain he doesn’t fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked because his bedroom window looks over your living room and he’s caught you on the couch with your hand down your pants more times than could have been coincidence.
He’s known to be the neighborhood handyman. Got a little workshop set up in his garage and a general knowledge about nearly everything, so it’s not uncommon that he gets a knock on the door a few times a week. Usually it’s some of the older neighbors popping over to see if he can fix their TVs or help their grandkids connect to the Wi-Fi, but it’s a pleasant surprise when you turn up on his porch mid-morning.
You’re scrunching the ends of your soaking wet hair in a towel. Apologizing as soon as you hear him turn the deadbolt. Feverishly going on about how you must have blown a circuit in the bathroom trying to dry your hair and you’d usually be able to manage but your husband shoved a bookshelf in front of the breaker and you can’t get through to it.
He’s sweet about it. Always is, but especially for you. Follows you over to your place and promises you no less than ten times that it’s really no trouble. He’s happy to help. It’s a quick fix, but he drags it out as long as he can. Insists on following you up and down the stairs from the basement to the top floor twice to make sure everything’s working properly.
He notices that the bathroom door sticks and that the fire alarm in the hallway is chirping from a low battery. You apologize for the toys in the living room and the clean laundry pile on the couch and the state of your house. Say that your husband is racking up a hefty to-do list with a small laugh that’s just a bit too forced.
He’s thrilled to tell you that he’s got some free time later in the week and says he’ll come over if only to help out your husband. Makes some backhanded remark about how your husband is clearly a busy lad. You refuse- of course- sweet thing that you are, but he turns up the next day after you’ve taken your kids to school anyway.
He tails you up the drive so there’s no way you can shut him out. Shushes you when you try to apologize for one reason or another and takes off to fix not only the sticky bathroom door and the fire alarm batteries, but also the dripping kitchen faucet and the garbage disposal that’s been broken for months.
You try to stay clear of whatever room he’s working in, chirping short responses to whatever nonsense question he asked in an attempt to lure you over. It was only when he was about to head out and he saw you leaning on the dryer to keep it shut that he saw his golden opportunity.
You were clearly trying to hide it, but even with a small load of clothes in, it sounded like you’d thrown a pair of boots into a tin garbage pail and shook it hard as you could. You tried to shoo him off, but he wasn’t having any of it.
There’s enough skirting around the subject to give you chance to turn down his advances, but when he realizes you’re not outright telling him to go fuck himself, he’s essentially taking it as a challenge to see if he can’t push you to that point.
Hoists you up on the still clanging machine and pushes between your legs on the weak pretense of needing you there to keep the door shut while he works. The machine shook the straps of your top down off your shoulders and made him acutely aware of the fact that you hadn’t had the time to put on a bra yet. It made his pants near painfully tight on the crotch.
He’d try and make idle chat. Your kids and plans for the day, but it’s entirely too hard for him to focus on anything other than the way your thighs are pressing together as the dry cycle started to bang the machine around more. He makes a light comment about how he’s not sure how you get anything done around the house with the dryer in this state. Your laugh is breathy.
And when he leans over you to reach to the back of the machine, he can feel the way your soft panting breaths fan his neck. Confirms his suspicions.
“Alright?”
You’re chewing the inside of your lip while you nod. Clearly starved for stimulation if all it takes is a dry cycle to get you off. Poor thing.
It’s stuffy in the laundry room. Adds to the appeal. Makes your shorts ride up and stick to your legs. Your thighs are dewy and glide together when you shift under his gaze.
“You sure, doll?”
The two of you are almost nose-to-nose. You’re leaned back, caged in by his big arms that look even bigger in his almost obscenely tight shirt. He’s smiling. Letting his eyes wander to your collarbones. The way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.
Before you could choke out your answer, the dryer stopped. Chimed the alert and slowly stilled. You took a shaky breath and nodded once more, looking like you couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. He backed off, stretched out his hand to help you down.
You lead him to the kitchen. Ask if you can get him anything. Tea or food. He declines. You say something about stopping to get cash when you’re out picking up your daughter in a couple hours. He declines again.
“John, really, I appreciate your help. You have to let me get you back.”
You’re filling the kettle with water anyway, leaned just slightly over the sink. He knows it’s impolite to stare, but he’s never had very good manners when it came to things like that.
“Bake me a cake or somethin’, then. Sleep with me. Won’t take your money, though.”
You whirl around and end up sloshing some water down your front. Doesn’t seem to phase you. Your eyebrows are damn near at your hairline.
“I don’t know if that’s appropriate, considering…”
He snorts a soft laugh. It’s kind- not at all suggestive. Like he’s playing off a clever joke.
“What? Baking me a cake?”
You purse your lips and set the kettle on the stove.
“Never been a very good baker.”
He about hurdles the kitchen island like he’s running track.
“That right?”
You make a thoughtful sound before clicking on the burner. He can see you biting back a smile. You finally turn to face him. Leaned back on your hands with your head cocked slightly to the side.
“I just don’t know that it would be appropriate given our- my- situation.”
It’s his turn to hum and nod. Take a few steps forward, slow and slinky like a predator stalking toward its prey.
“Sure.”
You chew your bottom lip. Try to find some resolve in fussing with your wedding ring. It’s horrible. Small. He can’t help but think about how he’d be able to get you a much better one. He takes a few more steps forward.
“It’s complicated, John.”
Your voice is mousy now.
“I know.”
A few more steps forward and he’s back nose-to-nose with you. Pinning you against the counter.
“I just-“
“Then tell me to go home.”
The button of his jeans grazes your groin and sends sparks up your spine. You recoil slightly, but he’s got his massive hands on your wrists to keep you in place.
“My husb-“
“Don’t. S’not what I said. Tell me to go home. Tell me to go home, and I’ll leave. S’easy as that.”
The coarse hair of his beard brushes along your jaw. Visible goosebumps rise all the way up your neck and down your arms.
“John, he-“
A throaty growl from him.
“He’s not getting a lick of you.”
And then somehow he’s got you on your back on the couch. Shoved off the pile of laundry and pushed you down. His eyes are near pitch black and hungry. Ravenous. He tears off your shorts. Doesn’t wait for you to hoist your hips, just yanks so hard that you’re a little worried you’ll get thrown off the couch with them.
He is wretched. Planting wet kisses from the inside of your knee all the way up to your sex frustratingly slow. Big hands splayed over your hips to keep you from bucking up into his mouth. He’s got this maddeningly smug smile on his face like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to say I told you so. Like he knew this was going to happen from the start, you were just too stupid to see.
Your underwear is embarrassingly wet from your little go on the dryer. Your pussy puffy and sensitive underneath. You whine when he kisses over the damp spot. Laves his tongue over your folds without pulling them to the side. He makes some comment about the state of you that borders on snarky, but you choose to ignore it.
When he finally does rid you of your panties, there’s a moment of clarity where you realize what you’re doing. You push up on your elbows and try to roll out from under him, but he gives your clit a mean slap that forces you back onto the couch and ends your protest. Sends you to that liminal, clouded headspace where all you can focus on is how desperately you need to come.
It’s clear he’s savoring the moment. Running the point of his tongue through your folds. Teasing at your hole. Artfully swirling around your clit, but never close enough to give you the friction you’re so desperately craving. Planting hot, wet kisses on your inner thighs. Leaves a few love bites in his wake like he’s boasting; so certain your husband wouldn’t get close enough to notice that he had no problem decorating you as he pleased.
You’re a mess. Being taken apart stitch by stitch. Panting and whining and begging for more. Your orgasm is coiling tight under your belly without him having to do much. Any other time you’d have felt a little pathetic, but you were too preoccupied to care now.
He finally brings his hands up and you think he’s about to stuff you full, but he only lets his fingers drag slowly along your sensitive sex. Collects some of your arousal and pulls it up toward your naval. Watches the goosebumps form under his touch.
He rucks your shirt up with his free hand and immediately wraps his lips around your pebbled nipples. Tongues at them. Lets his teeth graze teasingly over them. And whatever one he’s not got currently in his mouth, he’s working his fingers over. Pinching and flicking until you’re teary eyed and squirming under him.
And then finally, fucking finally, he ducks back down and fixes his mouth on your clit. Sucks gently on the swollen bud for just a moment and then companies his mouth with two fingers bullying their way inside you.
The stretch is almost uncomfortable in its suddenness, but you quickly get used to it. The pleasure is blinding. Forces you to throw your head back against the cushion and screw your eyes tightly shut. A string of high, needy moans float through your gaped lips.
He’s sweet, Jesus, is he. Hums and groans with his mouth still on your bundle of nerves. Pulls away just enough to tell you how pretty your pussy is taking him before going back to work on your sensitive clit. You want to scream. You think you may actually come entirely undone on this couch if he doesn’t stop.
And then your orgasm coils so tightly within you that it explodes outward. Tears through you and leaves every square inch of your skin sizzling. He doesn’t let up. Pins you down by the stomach with his forearm and continues down his warpath. The sounds his fingers make when they sink into you are so pornographic that it makes your face hot.
You eventually find it in you to warble out something that sounded like please, too much. And he pulled off, still with that smug grin pulling his lips now surrounded by glistening slick caught in the hair of his beard.
He gives you one last kiss. Lewd and wet and so searing hot you’re worried it will actually blister the sensitive flesh of your cunt. He’ll sit back on his haunches and fuss with the button and zipper of his jeans before saying something horrible and cheeky like
“C’mon, doll. Thought you were set on payin’ me back.”
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gremlingottoosilly · 6 months
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Cleaning services (perv!Konig x fem!cleaner!Reader)
Konig needs help in decluttering and cleaning his house. Unfortunately for you, he takes quite a huge liking in having pretty things like you around. And he isn't very nice about it.
TW: Perverted Konig, age gap, Konig masturbates at you without consent, implied kidnapping, yandere Word count: 3754 This work on AO3
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There is no shame in having a professional cleaner, König tries to tell himself. 
Yes, he is a grown man with a very dangerous job that requires having a lot of responsibility. He holds the lives of his soldiers in his hands and risks his life every day not for the sake of his country, but certainly for the sake of his wallet and the reputation of KorTac. 
Hiring a professional cleaner for his house shouldn’t make him feel humiliated and embarrassed, and he knows it. Cleaners are basically like soldiers – doing stuff that other people can’t for a certain amount of money, providing services for the clients who can afford it. Besides, it’s a support of his local community – after everything he took from the people around his town, it’s only natural that he would support this growing business of cleaning services. 
There is no shame in having some nice old lady cleaning his house and watching over it while he is too busy trying not to kill himself or drown his head in liquor after a particularly rough mission. When you lose two guys on a run that was supposed to be the quickest task possible when you’re returning home with an injury that isn’t really that serious but brings your whole mental state into a very dark place, and when you’re forced to take 3 weeks of leave in the place you hate, hiring a cleaner to take care of everything really shouldn’t make him so ashamed of himself. 
Even if he can clean his space – the house is just too big for only one of him, and his ribs still have this funny feeling of fantom bullets traveling around his guts. So, he dials up the number of the cleaning services because he is too fucking old to understand their weird website and messenger ordering, even though speaking with a human operator on the other half of the line is somewhat more humiliating that having no idea of how to use a modern interface. 
There is no shame in asking for help, his therapist is trying to shrill it in his head all of the time and yet he is still hesitant when the cleaning professional is knocking on his door, finding this place surprisingly fast. König braces himself, thinking about all the ways he could avoid having a conversation – he drew a quick map of the place, put down the room cleaner shouldn’t be entering – his gun safe, mostly, already repeated in his head how he would greet them and swiftly extract himself from the situation. 
“Guten Tag, please, come in. This is the map of the place, don’t go to the red door on the right, don’t hesitate to ask questions, I will be on the second floor.” He takes a few wide, swift steps to his door and stops. Thinks again, overthinking, thinking too fucking much about everything, anxiously checking on his phone to read the message that yes, his cleaner is here and he should probably open the door or they would burst down the window. “Guten Tag, come in. Map of the place is here, don’t go to the red door to the right, please hesitate to ask questions, I will be somewhere around the house, lurking in the shadows” He braces himself to open the door, ready to see that sweet old lady who would spend the next 8 hours cleaning his house and then turn back another day to rinse and repeat until his house stopped looking like a place where a very, very miserable man lives. (Even if this is true) 
But, there isn’t a nice old lady with a bunch of cleaning supplies and determination to make someone’s life easier. 
But, there isn’t a cold middle-aged woman with a very professional no-nonsense attitude who wouldn’t even talk to him before going straight to work. 
But, there is a young girl. Well, not a girl, of course, if he had to guess you were somewhere around the “Too fucking young, but definitely legal” spectrum. Young enough to not be alive when he was already going to school, young enough to make him sweat, and definitely not old enough to be accepting a job where you’d have to spend so much of your life cleaning and scrubbing and sorting and…
There isn’t anything shameful in ordering a cleaning service when you genuinely need it, but you’re young and you’re pretty and he isn’t even wearing a mask because he is an old dumbass that forgot about it, and you look at him with your shiny eyes and…
Maybe, he should clean on his own – would definitely be less shameful. 
— Sir? H…hello? Good morning? Can you hear me? 
Yes, he can hear you. 
Yes, he would love to hear you every single day of his life, when he wakes up and when he falls asleep. 
— Ja. I apologize, I…thought it was mail. 
It’s a dumb excuse, but he can’t really say that he was just too fucking mesmerized by your shiny eyes and perfect hair and nice figure and basically everything about you. He has this nasty habit of imagining a future with people around him – with people who just fucking want to be left alone, and yet he still stares and looks and it’s probably ultra uncomfortable for them – but he can’t help imagining the life with every cute lady in the grocery shop or elegant lady sitting next to him on a train. 
He has a pattern – people who are not interested in him in the slightest. He has a pattern, a preference, cute girls, smart girls, popular ladies that were never even so much as looking in his direction. He could probably score someone now, having a colonel’s salary and honorably discharged payments, but he gave up on trying to find anyone. He has friends, company, has work where he spent most of his life anyway – he doesn’t need anyone, he wants to think. 
Then you waddle into his life with a bunch of cleaning supplies and a small vacuum, barely able to handle everything in your hands. He rushes to help and envelops your hands with his – you are so much smaller in comparison, he has bear-like arms and horribly big everything. he feels awkward when he gently removes everything from your arms – when he tries to help by simply putting everything on the table of the next room. 
König hated this house – it was big, it was empty, and the only reason he didn’t sell it was because Mother’s things were still locked in her old bedroom and every time he tried to clean it and evaluate the cost of the house, he decided that he will Do It Other Day. Coincidentally, all of those days were also followed by three-month minimum missions, making him utterly unable to do everything about this place anyway. 
This is why you’re here – a hired cleaner, a sorter, you promised to de-hoard everything and see if there is anything of value. Perfect for someone like him, especially since he is paying you double for spending the whole day and a few days more in his house exclusively. 
Now, he looks at how awkward your smile is, how you fidget with the edge of the broom you brought, and how you can’t even start a conversation because he is simply staring at you, staying in the living room of this dead, almost abandoned house. Now, he looks at how cute you are, how perfect, and remembers that he didn’t score with anyone in half a year already – not even in terms of sex, the casual flirting was also forbidden since half of his unit was transferred and the new people weren’t really fun of his tough methods of breaking rookies in. 
When was the last time someone genuinely smiled at him? 
Ah, he is staring again. Scheisse. 
— Where do you want me to start, sir? 
He wonders how much he should pay you to clean him instead. Would you be gentle? Rough? Would you call him a pervert, which he is, and then slap him and yell at him for being such a horrible old dog who is ready to pounce at every pretty girl in his presence? He would do anything that would set his mind free of the thought about Mom. Her bedroom. This whole house that he can’t call home ever since he turned 6 and understood why Father was always so, so angry. 
— The living room. If it’s not too much. 
He barely stops himself from talking more – you look weird, you loom surprised, you look at him like he is fucking stupid and, in fact, he is. Of course, it wouldn’t be too hard for you, you’re his clean, for fucks sake. You come here to clean, you get good money for it, he shouldn’t feel guilty for using your services because, in some way, he actually provides you with a job and a cute thing like you shouldn’t go to other houses, with old perverts that can do unspeakable things with the adorable worker. 
Ah, yes, perverts like him. God, he is hopeless. 
— Alright. Do you want to note something, like if there is anything I shouldn’t touch? 
He would allow you to take your adorable, yellow glow-wearing hands to get into his personal savings and all of his bank accounts, if you’d want to. He curses under his breath, hating how professional you are – hard worker, perfect, simply a fantastic person who deserves more than working for him. You aren’t trying to shy away from the job and he almost resents you for it. 
You’d make a good soldier, he thinks – you’re able to hear the orders and oblige to them, you’re obedient and came even before the discussed time. You’d make such a perfect private for his unit, he observes. 
Ah, right, he was supposed to answer you. Shit. 
— No. Just don’t go to the second room on the left. 
— Alright. Anything else? 
He grumbles under his breath, trying to get into the right headspace to deal with someone like you. König knows it’s rude, to just ignore and leave you like this – but if he were to stay in he same room as you, he would do something horrible, disgusting, and completely dishonorable to you. So, he leaves – escapes – to his office. Father’s office, mostly, the only thing here that belongs to him are some documents and useless papers – and a laptop that he drags to every other room anyway. 
He doesn’t like this room, it reminds him of the worst episodes of his early childhood – yet, this is his only reserve. He doesn’t want to leave the house because the territory is secluded and if something were to happen to you, he would be the only one able to help. He also doesn’t want to leave his gun collection with you – he doesn’t want you to find it and freak out or hurt yourself. 
This is what he tells himself, at least. He wants to be there with you, in the same room preferably, but horrible for his anxiety, because he wants this illusion, phantasm of having a loving relationship. Of having a woman in his life, a lovely housewife who would cook for him, clean for him, and would be absolutely spoiled with gifts and attention. God knows he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body – but he will carve one out of his ribs for you. 
And he only knew you for an hour tops. 
König feels like literally the worst man alive when he spread his legs and starts stroking his hard, glistening cock. He brushes over the swollen, red tip, not allowing himself to have any lube other than spit and oozing pre-cum – he tries not to cum embarrassingly quickly, thinking about your perfect gestures and smiling face. How perfect you look in your cleaning uniform – not like maids from the occasional porn he was watching, but still beautiful. Your body is perfect even with all of those ugly layers and grey fabric – and he can’t stop thinking about the sway of your hips or glimpses of your legs under your dress.
He thinks about you, bent over his couch, trying to clean the especially dirty spot on the furniture – how the material of your dress would be tight around your ass. The image makes him grunt quietly, stroking his barely wet dick even more – the pain from the dry sensation only makes the pleasure all the sweeter. He is hard, was hard for the past 10 minutes as you were introducing yourself and whatever your deal is. He is dirty, perverted, knowing only your name and your face – and he is still stroking himself, thinking about paying you extra just so you’d get on your pretty knees and suck him. Would you be sloppy, messy, get his cum all over your face so you’d have to wash it off? Would you be experienced, eager, trying to get as much seed as possible with that pretty tongue of yours? 
He is a lost cause because he hears the sounds of vacuum – you’re only a few rooms away from him, trying so hard to clean his house for him, to work through every bit of furniture and everything he acquired for the past twenty years or so – and he moans loudly, knowing that you don’t hear anything. You’re probably listening to music or some silly girl’s podcast about planets and gardens and maybe some university lectures. He’d pay for your courses, he would get you any book you want – having his salary and barely spending it made him softer in the saving habits. 
He can afford to splurge on a pretty girl who just needs a rich Austrian mercenary to sweep her off her feet. But, he is old – but, he is a monster who preys on someone helpless, using her pretty face to jerk himself off, and he doesn’t even deserve your number, although he has had it since accepting the service. 
His cock is big, angry red in his hand as he runs his finger over the bulging vein, teasing the sensitive flesh – always loud in bed, with grunts and moans of pleasure, he can barely contain himself now, only forcing his mouth shut when he doesn’t hear the sound of vacuum anymore. He strokes his dick fast, angry, and slams it into his fist, trying to make the pain last longer, so he won’t cum after a minute or two. He has the stamina to last longer – but it’s also the first time he was so horny since…he can’t even remember. 
König thinks about putting you in his bed – like a perfect housewife, you would hug his waist with your legs, would allow him to lick and grope at your tits, and won’t scream too much when he’d force his tongue inside of your precious pussy, taking every last drop of your pleasure. He wouldn’t want to be forceful, angry, you’re too precious for this and too weak for his strength – but he can imagine slamming into you in a matting press, cumming inside and not even pulling out, warming his cock in the heat of your body. 
Father would kill him for doing something so dirty in his office – but he is long dead, devil save his soul, and it’s König’s office now. Even when he barely uses it, even if he doesn’t really need this. It came in handy when he had to jerk off to the pretty cleaning girl who cleaned up after him – so, somehow, his father managed to improve his mood 15 years after he died. 
He cums with a low groan, whispering your name – he doesn’t understand how a pretty thing like you still works here and wasn’t taken by someone else already, but he would take what he can get. Never the one to get the first dibs, never being someone’s first choice – he feels terrible for thinking about you in such a low way, but his pleasure sticks to his fingers and, at this point, it’s too late to feel bad. 
Drying the tip of his dick with a tissue, he spends a good few minutes with spread legs, his soft cock laying on the chair, with cum still oozing out – such a waste, honestly, would be much better to stuff you full of his cock or even take your pretty ass, spread you slowly. Keep only the tip in, not pressuring you into anything more until you’d start moving yourself, like a good slut you will be. 
So perfect under him – the images and sounds of your voice are running through his mind, making him breathe heavily. If he was younger and had as much sex drive as before, he would already be hard – but he needs some time to relax, thinking about your pretty legs and adorable face. 
It takes him a few minutes of listening to your sweet voice to understand that you were not, in fact, a hallucination or a mystical fairy coming to make him come. You were standing outside of the office door, looking embarrassed and clearly hearing at least some of his horny mumblings – you avoid looking at him, and your fingers are trembling when you tug at the sides of your dress. Guilt immediately rushes to him again, he looks at you like a perfect treasure you are – and he is a horrible monster trying to hoard all of it to himself. 
— What is it, liebling? 
Petname goes smoothly from his tongue and he can only hope that you don’t know German – he is too embarrassed to talk to you, too anxious, his newfound shyness is a result of both your beauty and the post-nut clarity that already made him feel like a monster. He contemplates just giving you money and sending you off, paying double for the false call, and leaving you a 5-star review so you won’t get in trouble with your boss. 
You look so meek from his angle of view – he has to fight the urge to pinch your face, squeeze your cheeks, grab your waist in his firm hands, and just lift you in his arms, holding you to his bed. Maybe getting a nice set of cuffs to ensure you would never escape from him. 
— I finished with the living room and…well, I just wanted to ask if you want the decluttering work to be done today or tomorrow. 
He remembers how he basically paid you for a few days worth of work – and he smiles at exactly how perfect this decision was. Of course, you are a smart girl, a modest girl, you aren’t staying the night and would rather waste time on the road, much to his dismay, but at least he would see you for a few days already. 
He might not even let you go after. 
— Ach. Today, if it’s not too…
He stops himself again – of course, it’s not too much, you are a professional, not just a friend that comes to clean his place for a pack of beer and maybe some pizza. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, anxiety eats him whole, and he has to just avoid looking at you to avoid further embarrassment. 
— Alright. I will do it right away then. 
You smile awkwardly, your lips are twitching and he already knows that you could hear him moaning your name and sweet little praises while stroking his cock. You aren’t biting the hand that feeds you, not running away screaming at how perverted he is – poor girl, you probably need money more than you need personal safety if you’re fine with him heaving like this. If you were his, he would never allow you to be so careless. 
He moves behind you in the most dreaded room of the house. Mother’s bedroom, a room that she only used for sewing and only allowed him in when he was extra whiny after another failed fight with his bullies. All of her thighs are here – ever since she passed away, he just moved everything to one room and locked it, barely bothering to keep a key. He hates being here, almost as much as being in Father’s office — this room smells like death and old paper and you scrunch your nose in an adorable expression when you take a step inside. 
— I will divide everything into categories, alright? 
— Gut.
You look at him nervously, clearly scared that he is watching over you now. It might feel like a logical decision – after all, it was his mother’s vintage things, who knows what kind of jewelry she kept here, something that he won’t even notice gone until it’s too late. You and him both know, however, that this isn’t the reason he is looming over you. A perfect obedient thing, you deserve something better than his affection, but he still locks his gaze with yours, looking at your hands and going through various furniture pieces. 
You work like a fairy, not an ounce of laziness or exhaustion in your actions – even after you already spent a few hours cleaning his living room, you act like a Cinderella that got a bunch of magic mice up her rags. He licks his lips, looking at your perfect ass you as sit on your knees, starting with decluttering every little box there is. 
— Can I just put it back in boxes or…
You look the the contents – vintage makeup, some jewelry, head pieces that don’t look particularly expensive but were definitely well-loved. You wonder who they belong to – probably a wife, or, maybe, some of his relatives who lived here. He doesn’t seem like a married or divorced man – he does, however, look insanely lonely. 
It takes him a good few seconds to respond, too mesmerized by the little song you were humming a minute before. He imagines you in that old, chunky jewelry, some necklaces that cost more than your salary – and the thought makes him salivate. 
He smiles, leaning closer to you – hot breath on your face, you shift immediately, scared. He is so fast for someone so big, his movements are perfect and his eyes are cold – you feel the chill deep in your bones when he moves even closer, his lips almost brushing against yours. 
Suddenly, you are very aware of the fact that he locked the door to this tiny room when you both moved in. 
3K notes · View notes
jeonsalibi · 7 days
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begging for mercy
characters: tattoo artist!jungkook x client!female reader
summary: you hated everything. you hated his face, his hands, his everything. in particular, you hated the effect he had on you.
genre/rating: pwp. smut (minors dni). 18+.
word count: 4.6k
warnings: needles, jungkook being a lil shit, hands <3, reader hating her life decisions. smut warnings (18+): so much tension, consent, dirty talk galore, pet names, semi-public sex, pain kink, cumming untouched :0, slight cnc?, dom/sub dynamics, slightly mean dom!jk, bratty reader, slapping/spanking, orgasm denial, choking, tad bit of degradation, cum play/eating, finger sucking, unprotected sex (do better), standing sex, hitting it from behind :P, bitting/marking, overstimulation, creampie, jungkook is a cutie lmao (bless him).
a/n: after you read this, you will realise i have no idea what getting a tattoo entails lmao. this is just smut with a sprinkle of more smut. hands are my weakness. sorry :) also, thank you so much for over a hundred followers <3 this whole thing is crazy. feedback is always appreciated so please let me know what you think! what other tropes would you like? disclaimer: i needed to get this out of my system. this was suppose to be short fic, got carried away.
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Maybe this situation wasn’t ideal. Scrape that, it was definitely not ideal. But there were a few variables that contributed to your current state of helplessness.
Firstly, the room was freezing as if they wanted to torture your exposed skin. You swore you had frostbite. Now that problem was partially your fault. They had asked you before they began if the temperature was okay, and because you refused to be a bother, you didn’t dare ask them to turn the heating up.
Oh and then there was the pain of the needle being darted into your skin. The other times you sat in this chair, you had no issues with discomfort. But what did you expect, the needle was digging into your ribcage. Oh, yeah, and the worst part, you liked it. A little bit too much.
But the killer were his hands. Now this, was definitely not your fault.
The parlor you had booked was one of the best in the city. And it took months to get in. Unfortunately, the lovely lady you had met for your consultation was out due to a sudden illness. Which left you with two options. Either wait for another three months, or allow Jungkook to do it today. You were mentally prepared for today to be the day, so fuck it, Jungkook it was.
But that was a grave mistake.
It was a big mistake, and in hindsight, you should have waited three months. His gloved hands were everywhere. They touched every inch.
They had touched your back when they guided you into his office. Grazed your thigh when he leaned over to grab a sterile wipe. The back of your neck when they helped you find a comfortable position on the bed. Wrapped around your wrist to lift your arm across your body to give them the necessary access. And now, they were all over your abdomen, pushing and pulling to ensure the accuracy of the needle.
Want to know what pissed you off the most. The consent. ‘Is it okay if I touch this?’ or the ‘can I place my hand here?’. You could’ve said no. Could’ve made his life a living hell. But you genuinely never thought you would ever be this turned on by just hands.
Although you could not see the skin that decorated their stature, you could make out all the pretty features from under the thin black latex. A large palm attached to the longest fingers you have ever seen, joined by sharp knuckles. The digits were thick but incredibly agile.
Let’s not get started on those arms. The coloured ink that ran along its length, your eyes couldn’t stop tracing the outlines. You thanked the higher powers that his biceps were covered by his oversized shirt. But due to his hard grip on the machine, you could see the veins that protruded through his skin.
On top of all that, he had a ridiculously sculpted face. So fucking pretentious. How could someone be so handsome? The strong jawline, the perfect nose, those siren eyes. Even his hair, slicked back, allowing you to admire every detail. It was like he wanted you to know you were in the presence of a fucking god.
And you would be selling your soul to that religion. You swore to worship him until death. No hesitation. Okay, you were done for.
Afraid you were staining the chair below you, you crossed your legs, throwing one thigh over the other.
That stupid eyebrow piercing mocked you, perking up at the action. His tongue poked at his cheek. “You good?”
You hummed, knowing if you let your lips relax, a very inappropriate sound would escape. “Use your words gorgeous. If you are uncomfortable we can take a break.”
The compliment shot straight to your core. The sensation forcing you to shut your eyes. This was utterly embarrassing. You felt pathetic. You just wanted to get out of the place. “No. Keep going.” You gritted.
“Are you sure pretty? It’s okay, I know it hurts. The area is very sensitive—“ “Shut up. Please. Get it over with.”
He was taken aback by your sudden attitude, already missing the good girl that lay before him moments ago. “Hm, okay big girl. Only a few more lines.”
“Those nicknames need to stop.” You pleaded quietly and he just smirked. The audacity.
“Okay, I’ll stop sorry. Just a habit.” He promised, placing a hand on your stomach as he leaned forward to proceed. “I’ll work quickly. Just breathe for me.”
Inhaling, you tried to focus. The pen touched your skin, vibrating against your bones. You whimpered. “Shush, it’s okay. Nearly there.” He encouraged, pressing down on your stomach to distract you from it.
The thoughts immediately flooded your mind. Of him, above you, hand on your lower tummy as he moved his hips against you. “Doing so good.” He continued to praise.
Toes curling, fingernails digging into your palms, you genuinely didn’t think you were going to survive. Nose scrunched as you battled the images but it was no use. The pain, the man, your imagination. Your orgasm prevailed. A miniature wave crashed through your body.
Your bottom lip was attacked by your teeth, thighs tightened, and breath shaky. This was humiliating. Although you tried your best to hide it, you knew Jungkook knew.
He let out a dry cough, pink tongue slipping between his thin lips to wet the surface before playing with the silver metal in the corner of his mouth. It was obvious that he was concealing a laugh.
Eyes began to water. Something like this never happened to you before. You didn’t know how to respond. The last thing you needed to hear was his smug voice. “All done. Look so pretty.”
Unable to look at the man, you kept your eyes closed, sitting up, hands frantically moving to try and pull down your shirt. “Wait, wait! You need aftercare. It could get infected.”
His voice was stern, his hands grabbing yours. They stopped your panicked motions. Wanting to turn into ashes, you turned your head away from him as your cheeks heated. Your skin was burning at the contact. You felt so small.
“Hey, I promise it is natural. You don’t need to be embarrassed, it happens to more people than you think. I promise pretty.”
“I am so sorry. I couldn’t, uh, stop it.”
You sounded so tiny, Jungkook had to ground himself. Wanting to pounce. He was doing well until your little slip-up. The minute he saw you at the reception desk in that short pleated olive skirt, and white tank, he wanted you. It was a sin. Sinful how beautiful you looked. “It’s okay, let me take care of you now. Let me wrap it.”
Nodding, you kept your elbow raised signalling for him to continue. Grabbing a tub from the stainless steel table, he popped the lid, fingers dipping into the substance. “This is going to be cold. Okay?”
Gulping, you braced yourself. He delicately presssd his hand across your freshly inked skin, the coolness of the vaseline made you whimper. Jungkook, leaned closer, breathing hot air on the area to help balance the temperature. “Better?”
You immediately shrunk, body fell into his words. Hypnotising you. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Intoxicated by his presence, you didn’t even realised he finished up, placing a bandage over your rib. His words were drowned out, you were spaced out. Head on a cloud. A sudden hand on your knee grabbed your attention. “You good?
You snapped your eyes towards him, begging for mercy. The contact on your knee was warm but rough. You immediately noticed the difference from the previous touches, the smooth latex barrier was gone.
Slowly, your gaze drifted, body stiffened when you saw the anticipated honey-glazed hand. Black marks littered it, small tattoos randomly spaced amongst the vast surface. So much prettier than you imagined. Veins galore. Your throat was dry, chest pounding.
“I need you to listen. It is important.” His deep voice emphasised. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” You were sick of it. All of the innuendos. The not-so-innocent comments. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes.” You replied as your eyes slowly, seductively, met his. And then it just slipped out.
“Sir.”
The grip tightened, cheeks hollowed as he sucked his tongue. His memorising gaze traced your body, shamelessly stopping at your chest. You knew your nipples were hard and very visible through your white tee. They had been since you entered into the cold room.
His hand crawled higher, fingers tracing your exposed mid thigh. “Where did that come from pretty girl?”
Your head dropped down to your lap, looking down avoiding his piercing stare. Your fingers tingled, begging to reach out for his. “I don’t know.”
“Look at me.”
His harsh voice caused you to wince. But you didn’t want to disobey. “I need you to look at me when you answer me. If you want this, you need to keep your gorgeous eyes on me. Understood?”
“Yes” you nodded.
Clearing his throat, he leaned down, lips grazed your ear. “Are you forgetting a word?”
Feeling like you were about to faint, head dizzy, your hand flung to his shirt. It grabbed the material around his bicep, clutching it to hold you steady. “Sir.”
“Good girl.” He growled against your earlobe. His tongue slipped along the outline, teeth scraped the surface. “Now baby, let me tell you how this is going to happen.”
You whimpered, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. He cradled your head, his fingers spread wide along your scalp. His grip on the roots was intense as he pulled, snapping your neck back, giving you nowhere to hide. He smirked, admiring how pliant you looked in his grace.
“The minute you came to me today, you had me so hard. All I could think about was what I wanted to do to you. Fuck you look so gorgeous. Then you decided to torture me by making me tattoo your ribs.”
Straightening his posture, lip tucked between his teeth, he removed the hand from your hair, trailing it along the tank's strap. “Lifting this flimsy top to give me access. Barely covering your tits. Could see your underboob the entire time. Such a tease. Was that nice of you?”
Your knees bent, needing some friction. His harsh grip still present on your thigh. “No sir.”
He growled. You looked so pathetically beautiful. A lustful gaze in your eyes, body radiating warmth, and breath uneven. Unraveling below him.
“That’s right, it wasn’t nice. So I want you on all fours now.”
Fuck his lower register. It resonated deep within you, forcing you to comply to his order. Your body just reacted. Scrambling, you quickly rushed to place your knees and palms on the leather bed.
Jungkook placed a gentle hand on your lower back, steadying you. “Woah, be careful.” He reminded you as he brought his lips to his covered tattoo, kissing the fresh bandage.
This can’t be fucking real. How is he so sweet yet so demanding.
Your knees buckled, back collapsed to cause your elbows to fall. He immediately grasped your hips to help you regain some balance. “So excited baby. Barely touched you.” He huffed. The tone was mocking you.
“You touched me plenty.” You sassed between gritted teeth.
The hands slid down to the back of your thighs. His wide palms teasing your ass. “Is that right? So you don’t want me to touch you anymore?”
Pushing your hips back against his touch, you whined. “Oh you do? So desperate.”
You heard him move behind you. Hands fidgeting with your skirt as he positioned himself. Your breath hitched, knowing he had a perfect view of your sticky panties between your thighs. The skirt did nothing to help hide them. He hummed in appreciation.
“So fucking gorgeous.” His digits hovering your heat. “We don’t have much time okay? I am going to touch you now. You gotta keep that pretty voice down for me.”
You huffed in frustration. “Got to make me raise my voice first.”
Jungkook growled at your brattiness. In one swift movement, a hand smacked against the exposed skin. Gasping, your chest fell to press against the warm leather. “Let’s get one thing clear doll, you don’t talk back to me like that. I don’t want to punish you. Not today anyways. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl. The best girl. Let me have some fun now. Let me get a taste. If you don’t like anything, tell me to stop okay?”
Whimpering, your heat was pulsing. You needed him, his hands, his tongue, his cock. “Please sir, want it. Want you.”
He sensed your desperation, your neediness. Not denying you any longer, his hands flipped your skirt over your hips. Lips gravitated to your covered core. Tongue poking out to get a taste.
Needing friction, you pushed your hips back against his face. Wincing, you prepared yourself for a spank, but he reacted, pushing back. Hands hooked around your thighs, a strong grip keeping you in place.
He was eating you through your panties. Tongue messy as it explored your folds. You were whimpering and whining, as he continued to tease. He knew that you needed skin-on-skin contact, practically begging for it with your quaking thighs. You could feel him smile against your core. This was cruel. And he knew it.
“I know baby.” He purred, the vibration strong against you. “But you couldn’t be patient could you?”
“I’m sorry, please.” You begged, voice cracking.
Jungkook began to leave a trail of sloppy kisses from your core to the waistband of your panties. He delicately scraped his teeth against your skin, gathering the fabric in his mouth. You moaned, anticipating what he was going to do next.
The material was trailed down your skin, his lips glazing your skin as he finally exposed your wet folds to the cold air. Jungkook took a step back to groan at the sight. Wet, glossy lips, panties bunched around your knees, your ass exposed and perky. His cock throbbed under his jeans. “So delicious. Need a proper taste.”
He dived back in, tongue divulging between your lips. Licking and slurping your juices. His lips slipped down to your clit, sucking the sensitive, neglected bud. His tongue worked relentlessly against you, devouring your essence. Hands caressed the meaty flesh on your ass, playfully squeezing and grabbing.
You were creeping towards the edge, stomach tightening and fists curling into a ball. Your sounds were getting louder, your voice becoming horse. He gave your cheek a harsh slap, warning you to quieten down.
“More.” You cried, right at the peak.
Giving a wide lick up your slit, he stood up straight. “Would love you to come on my tongue, but I have another appointment in 15 minutes.”
His hold pulled you to the end of the bed, manhandling you. “Put your feet on the ground.” He grumbled, unbuckling his jeans.
Climbing down onto the ground, you placed your two feet firmly against the concrete. Wiggling your hips as you peeked over your shoulder, trying to find his touch. He chuckled, loving how needy you were. He threw a hand onto your hip, giving you a bit of attention as he pulled his pants down.
“God you are so pathetic doll.” He muttered. His cock was hard against his boxers. Pleading to be freed.
“Was so close, want to cum.”
“What about me baby? You are so cockdrunk, so desperate, you can’t even think about me? About my pleasure baby.” He spanked your red skin. “Don’t be selfish. If I wasn’t in such a rush, I would edge you until you cried for it to stop.”
A pathetic, tiny sound slipped through your lips. “Oh, you’d like that?” He asked, colliding his body into yours. A hand wrapped around your throat, causing your body to crash against his chest. Hips started to rotate into you, grinding his crotch. “You dirty little pain slut.”
His breath was warm against your ear causing you to shiver. “Play with that little clit for me baby, make sure you are nice and ready for me.” He softly whispered, grip rough against your neck.
Your fingertips began to rub harsh circles on your raw clit. His hips were rutting against you. His throbbing cock pushed into you, pulsating against your ass. Legs were weak as you felt his length. It felt so thick, so firm. You wanted to feel it inside you. Now.
“So wet for you. Please just give it to me.”
Voice was shaky, praying that he would give into your pleas. He bit your earlobe, grunting. The sounds were so enticing, so thrilling. You automatically started to rub faster, harder. Closer to edge.
“Give you what baby?” He teased, slipping his free into his briefs, pulling his member free. He traced the member along your ass, you could feel a wet trail form on the skin.
“Cock. Your cock.” You cried out, borderline screamed.
He squeezed your throat, not satisfied with your little outburst. “Baby, what did I tell you about keeping that voice of yours down?”
“Please, I can’t. Need it.”
“Fuck, I love how pathetic you are. Begging me to fuck you in my workplace. Such a perfect girl.” His hand left your throat, going south, to join yours. His fingers slipped through your drenched core. “Baby you weren’t lying. You are so wet. So ready.”
Your head relaxed against his shoulder, enjoying his touch. Memorised by the moment, his digits poked at your lips taking you by surprise. “Why don’t you go ahead and suck on them baby. I saw you looking at them all afternoon. Bet you were fantasing about them. Wouldn’t you just love to suck on them as I fuck you?”
Head dizzy, you couldn’t process his words. All you could do was part your lips and submit. His digits slipped in, and you gracefully and willingly wrapped your mouth around them. Hollowing your cheeks as you sucked, tasting yourself. So dirty, so erotic.
In a blissful daze, you barely noticed his hard tip poke at your entrance, sliding up and down your folds. Covering himself in you. “Baby, fuck, can I take you raw?”
You hummed, circling your tongue around his long thick digits. Fuck it, deal with the consequences later right?
Using his foot, he kicked your ankle, spreading your legs wide. Easy access. Positioning himself, he lined himself up with your aching core. If someone were to walk in, which was a real possibility, they would lay their eyes upon the most sinful image.
A girl, helplessly rubbing her clit, spit running down her chin as she mindlessly sucked on a beautiful tattooed hand. Ruined panties resting on her knees, legs trembling. Eyes shut tight with anticipation and nerves. Hopeless and vulnerable. It was messy, but beautiful.
Jungkook’s hips pushed forward, penetrating your awaiting walls. Load moans escaped you, thankfully, being muffled by his fingers. Each inch dug deeper and deeper. Filling you up,
You felt so full as his abdomen met your ass. His teeth sunk into your shoulder, trying to conceal his own pleasure. “So tight and warm.” He growled, nibbling and licking at the fresh bite mark.
The hand on your clit froze, brain trying to process the new feeling. He held his position, giving you time to adjust. But you were getting impatient. Needing to feel him penetrate you again.
You flung a hand behind you, fisting his shirt, pulling it towards you. Begging him to move. He complied, wanting to feel your walls convulse around him. “I know pretty thing, I’ll give it to you.”
And with that, the merciless pounding began. His hips snapped against you with an extreme forward, making you jump as he slammed against you. You were panting, brain malfunctioning.
The hand that was on your clit transferred to his wrist, scrapping the inked skin. He hissed at the sensation, giving you a particular hard thrust. “Did I tell you to stop touching yourself.”
You shook your head, releasing your hold on his shirt, bringing it to your front. “Good girl. Best fucking girl. Shit, you love praise don’t you. Sucking me in, barely able to fucking move.”
Tears were building up, the pleasure becoming overwhelming. The pace he set did not waver, abusing your silky walls continuously, endlessly. Your clit was overstimulated from all the rubbing. But it felt so good.
Your back arched, head fell back over his shoulder, as if you were being raised up to heaven. The knot in your stomach growing and growing, until it broke. Eyes rolled to the back of your head, teeth grazing his digits as you tried to silence yourself. “So tight. Clenching me. Are you cumming for me sweetie? What a good girl.”
His words caused you to levitate. You ripped yourself from his grasp collapsing onto the bed in front of you. He slowed his pace, concerned.
But you wanted more. “No one more, please. I want you to cum. Keep going. Kook, please.”
Your whines sent shivers down his spine. But if that’s what you want, that is what you get. A proper brat. “You asked for it. Dumb little girl.”
Palms pressed firmly into your lower back, his hips snapped again and again and again. Balls slapping against your thighs due to the sheer force. Your body sliding against the leather, the friction focused on your clit causing you to lose your mind.
You couldn’t function, no words could leave your mouth, only heavy pants. Your hands reached back, pressing against his lower stomach, feeling the hardness hidden under his shirt. Fuck. He was an actual god.
Jungkook let out a deep moan, throwing his head back as he cursed under his breath. “So good baby, so wet. So messy. Fucking perfect cunt for me. All mine.”
“Yours.”
He howled at your submission, grasping your wrist. “Mine. Chant it, baby, as you cum for me. As you milk me.”
Allowing your forehead to rest against the black chair, you cried as you did as he said. Chanting over and over again that you are his. The words travelled straight to his cock, ruthlessly throbbing against your suffocating walls.
Your body was floating, the pleasure flowing through your blood vessels. Your vision was blurring, knees buckling. “Cum.” It was the only word your vocabulary possesed.
Jungkook saw how your body shook, like a ticking time bomb. Knowing the explosion was going to be loud, he caged you in, hand clasping around your mouth. “That’s it cum for me.”
Everything hit you at once, completely consuming you. You squirmed and screamed as the feeling of an overwhelming peace washed over you. It was as if you left this planet. Everything felt so light, so quiet. You could hear your heart pound and ears ringing.
Jungkook held you tight, lips tucked into the crevice of your neck. Hushing and guiding you through your extreme high. His balls drummed, ready to release the pressure that had built up within.
He couldn’t breathe, your wet walls clamped around him. He winced trying to remove himself, his own cock overstimulated. Angry and begging for relief. “No in me, please. Want you to cum in me. Fill me.” You slurred.
His cock didn’t even give him the chance to confirm your request, combusting at your words. Sucking at the raw skin on your neck, ensuring he left a deep mark, he emptied himself. Overcome with pleasure himself.
Spurts of warm cum covered your walls, his moans vibrated against your skin. His cock pumped and dumped every last drop into you until all you could feel was him. All you could think about was him.
Both of you were in heaven. All you could do was cherish the moment. The feeling of being full and contempt.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing heavily against one another. He was crushing you with his body. Finally gaining some strength, he started to pry his body away.
The feeling of his cum running down your thighs was evident, making you cringe. “This is a treat.” He muttered, licking his lips as his hands pulled your lips apart, giving him a front row view of the mess that leaked out.
“Messy, dirty.” You whined.
“Exactly what I like baby.”
Thighs clenched together at his words. The high beginning to crash away. He kissed your lower back, massaging your thighs and ass. “Come on, let’s clean up. My client will be here in a few minutes.”
Pouting, you rose from your position and faced him, legs shaking as you tried to find balance. He laughed, poking your cheek. “Cute.”
He walked over to his sterilised table to grab a towel. Realising that the whole studio heard you getting your brains blown out, you wanted to escape as fast as possible.
Using the last of your energy, you pulled up your panties, fixed your top, and wiped the remnants from your face with your palm. By the time Jungkook turned around, you were all fixed up. Apart from your hair. Which made him chuckle, it screamed ‘I just had sex’.
You stood there uncomfortable, feeling the stickiness between your thighs. You looked at him awkwardly, not knowing what you should say, should do. “Um, thanks. I should get going.”
His eyes bulged, wide like bambi. Before you could grab your bag, he reached out for your forearm. Stopping you. “Hey, um you sure you okay?”
His voice was completely different, soft and gentle. You gulped, nodding your head. “Yeah positive. Don’t want to hold you up any longer.” You smiled to reassure him.
“Oh, um one second.” His hands thread through your hair, fixing the rustled and knotted locks. Tucking pieces behind your ear. “Sorry, it was um a little messy.” He admitted, before he started to fix up his own appearance.
Fuck, he was so enchanting.
Once he sorted himself, he cleared his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want, um, a towel or anything?” He offered with a small smile.
“It’s fine, it’s not that bad.” You shrugged, flattening your skirt.
“Maybe you just like it.” He smirked, trailing his eyes down your body. The comment made your cheeks heat up.
Maybe he wasn’t wrong.
“Yeah okay, I’ll, um, go.” You announced, turning on your heels, ready to make your great escape.
“Wait!”
Jungkook ran to his desk. He grabbed some paper, using a pen to scribble down something. You stood patiently, twiddling your thumbs. “Here, these are some guidelines to help you with the healing process for the new ink.”
Frantically nodding, you thanked him, offering a gentle bow of your head. He bit his lip at your action, finding it endearing. He flipped the booklet before handing it to you.
“Oh, and that’s my number. I finish work at 5. If you text me before then, I can come over to, um, make sure you get some proper aftercare. You know, for the tattoo.”
Pursing your lips together, you tried to hide the smile. “Yeah, for the tattoo.”
2K notes · View notes
gutsby · 1 month
Text
Trigger Tease
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Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader
Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.
Descriptions of violence throughout
Part of the Wedded Bliss series
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Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.
Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.
‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.
You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.
It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.
All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.
After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.
72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.
The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.
In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.
“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.
You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.
“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”
This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.
The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.
“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.
After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.
Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.
“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”
You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?
“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.
“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.
In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.
Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.
You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.
“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”
“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.
“Everything OK?”
“Uh-huh.”
More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.
“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.
Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.
He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.
“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”
“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”
Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.
“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”
You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.
“Another,” you choked, not thinking.
Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.
Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.
“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.
“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”
Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.
“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.
You opted to pull at his hair instead.
Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.
“I said how many?” he pressed again.
“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.
Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.
“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”
“Bucky—”
“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”
Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.
He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.
Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.
“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”
But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.
Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.
“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”
You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,
“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”
“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”
“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”
Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.
Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.
You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.
“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”
You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.
That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.
He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.
“I need to fuck you now.”
Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.
At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.
Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.
“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.
“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.
Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—
Thump, thump, thump.
Three knocks in quick succession.
You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.
Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,
“What the fuck do you want?”
“Need you downstairs. Now.”
It was Sam.
“Can it wait?”
“No.”
Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.
“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:
“Yeah. Legal’s here.”
‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.
Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.
Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.
“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.
You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.
He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.
In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.
“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.
Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.
“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.
You shot him a look.
“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”
Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.
Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.
You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.
Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.
Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.
Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.
Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.
“Baby—”
“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”
You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.
You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.
“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”
You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.
“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.
You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.
You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.
Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.
Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.
You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.
A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.
“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,
“C’mere.”
You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.
Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.
“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.
But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.
You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.
The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.
“BUCKY!”
Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.
“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.
You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.
You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.
“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.
He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.
“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”
“Give you a baby right now?”
“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.
One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,
“Barnes.”
He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.
Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.
Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.
“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.
The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.
Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.
The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.
You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.
“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”
Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.
For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.
You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.
“Momma.”
“Now is not the time.”
Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.
You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.
No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.
You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.
“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.
You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.
Then, when your eyes wandered left again,
“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”
He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.
“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.
Steve blinked a little harder.
“What do y—”
“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.
Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.
“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.
You figured as much.
In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.
You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.
“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”
Every head nodded.
“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”
You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.
That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.
Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.
Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.
The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.
You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.
“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.
It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.
“And now?” he cut in.
“I’m getting there, James.”
Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.
“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.
Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.
“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.
“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”
That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.
“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”
Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.
“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”
Bucky rolled his eyes.
“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.
So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.
It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,
“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”
“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.
You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.
“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”
“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.
If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.
Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.
“I am not going back to that shithole.”
The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.
“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.
“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”
She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.
“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”
“So?” Bucky snapped.
His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.
“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”
“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.
“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.
Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.
“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.
“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.
“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."
This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.
"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."
Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.
Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,
"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."
It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.
"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"
Sharon nodded that she did.
A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.
"Bucky," she said.
Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.
"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.
Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."
Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:
"Look. Over there."
She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.
Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.
"What's this?" he murmured.
"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."
Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.
He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.
"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.
Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.
Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.
"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."
"What?"
Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.
Then the eyes stopped in one spot.
Bucky stood.
Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.
"This is a joke, isn't it?"
All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,
"We can make it work. We can keep you—"
"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"
"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."
"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"
You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.
Your father averted his gaze.
He knew.
You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.
Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.
Something clicked in Bucky's brain.
He knew.
Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.
Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:
“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”
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Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.
Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.
‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.
You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.
It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.
Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.
You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.
Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.
“Zip me up?”
The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.
You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.
The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.
Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.
“Wanna—?”
“Bucky!”
One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.
“Are you serious?” you bit.
“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.
To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.
He had thought wrong.
You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:
Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.
You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.
And you planned to. Eventually.
For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.
You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.
He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.
Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?
You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.
“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.
Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.
“We can talk,” you said, measured.
You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.
“Okay. What about?”
Where the hell could you even begin?
“Sit first,” you urged him.
It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.
You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.
Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.
Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.
To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.
“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.
“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”
“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”
Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.
“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”
Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.
“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.
“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”
Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.
“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”
“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”
“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”
“You never bothered to ask!”
This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.
So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.
You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.
“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.
“No,” you answered simply.
“No?”
“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”
Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.
“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”
“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”
“That wasn’t—”
“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”
“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”
“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”
In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.
“What? Like the deal you made with him?”
Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.
“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”
“But you didn’t, and you got me.”
“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”
The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.
“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”
To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.
��Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.
That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.
As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.
“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.
Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.
“Leave it,” he murmured.
His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.
You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.
“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.
When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.
“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.
He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.
Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.
“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.
“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.
You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.
“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.
“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”
Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.
You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.
The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.
“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.
You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.
“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”
Bucky frowned.
“Yes murder,” he retorted.
You sighed.
This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.
Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.
“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.
“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.
“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.
“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.
Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.
“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”
You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.
“Bucky.”
“Bunny.”
Damn, that name.
“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”
“Baby—”
“Promise.”
His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.
He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.
With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.
“I— I promise,” he stammered.
That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.
Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—
STOP.
You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Maybe even two—
FUCK YOU.
The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.
You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.
Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.
“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.
“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”
“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.
Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.
“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.
“Don’t start with this shit.”
“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”
“I’ll kill you.”
Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.
The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.
“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.
“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”
From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.
“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.
“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”
“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.
Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.
“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”
The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.
He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.
And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.
“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.
“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”
“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.
“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”
Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.
“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”
‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.
“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.
“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”
Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.
“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”
Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.
“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”
“Bucky.”
“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”
Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.
“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.
“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.
“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”
“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”
When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,
“Right?”
There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.
“I’ll go.”
It was stupid.
Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.
But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.
“She could,” he said, shortly.
“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.
“Sure, why not?”
“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.
‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.
“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”
He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.
But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.
“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.
Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.
“No,” he said, again.
“Yes.”
“Baby—”
“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”
If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.
“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.
“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”
“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.
“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”
“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”
But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.
“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”
You wouldn’t bow that easily.
“Why not?”
Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:
“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”
What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.
He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.
“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”
Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.
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Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.
“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”
“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.
“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”
You did. Or would, eventually.
After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.
And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.
Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.
As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.
While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.
Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.
“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.
“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.
Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:
“Honey? You there?”
At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”
“I love you.”
This fucker.
“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.
“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”
If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.
“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.
You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.
All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.
The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.
The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.
“Hi. Zemo sent me.”
You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.
You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.
The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.
There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?
Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.
But you already knew that. You stepped inside.
The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.
But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.
“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”
You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.
“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.
And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.
But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.
“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.
Then a beat.
“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”
How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.
“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”
The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.
You chipped away at the ice even faster.
Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.
Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.
“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”
Mr. Who?
“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”
It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.
“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”
That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.
So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.
When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.
Until the dipshit hit you again.
This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.
“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.
Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.
You turned.
“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.
Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.
“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.
You swallowed.
“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.
The man’s grin stretched even wider.
“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”
For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.
“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.
No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.
“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.
“Take it easy now, he’s just—”
“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”
The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.
In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.
You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.
In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.
It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.
But if they had, they didn’t show it.
No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.
“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.
A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.
“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.
Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.
Then he grabbed you by the waist.
“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.
Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:
“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”
“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”
“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”
The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.
Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.
“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”
You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.
But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:
“Whatever you want, sir.”
You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.
It wasn’t real.
It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.
Roleplay.
You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—
“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.
You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.
“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.
You froze in fear.
“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.
You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.
“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”
Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.
Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.
Then another. And another. And another.
Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.
Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.
You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.
“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.
Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.
A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.
You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.
The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.
You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.
“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.
Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.
“What happened?! Where’d he go?”
Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.
“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.
“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”
Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.
“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.
“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.
Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.
“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.
You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.
He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.
So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.
He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.
For you—where the fuck had you gone?!
Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.
He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.
In his periphery, he saw two forms.
He stopped fully and turned to the side.
If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.
“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.
Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.
Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.
He fired without a second thought.
The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.
Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.
Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.
Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.
Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.
Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.
Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.
He saw you crawl over the body.
He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.
He watched you lift the mask.
From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.
That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.
Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:
“DAD!”
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Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader
‘Cause it's not just a figure of speech - you got me down on my knees.
It's gettin' harder to b r e a t h e .
Summary:
You hate it when Morgan teases Reid. So when Morgan says that you are Reid's 'Mommy' - you verbally fire back without even thinking about it.
Reid vastly overthinks it.
So much so that he ends up calling you Mommy by mistake. And you definitely don't hate the sound of that word coming off his lips.
Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season One.
Word Count: 6,300
Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link
Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.
Warnings: general smut fic - porn with some plot; dom/sub dynamics (but this isn't a pre-discussed dom/sub relationship, the characters just fall into these roles naturally), Spencer is submissive and the reader is dominant; the main theme is Mommy kink - Spencer discovers that he has a Mommy kink after a joke that Morgan makes, referring to the reader character as Spencer's Mommy; Spencer calls the reader 'Mommy' and the reader also refers to herself with that title; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina (and breasts); it could be interpreted that the reader has larger breasts/is plus sized (but I think anyone of any size could enjoy this fic); the reader is part of the BAU; this is meant to take place during season one (baby Spence my beloved) but there are no other major canon events mentioned and the case being discussed is one that I have made up; some very background typical elements of Criminal Minds - murder, killing, systemic vicimization of women/violence from men towards women (passing mention of bodies being consumed by wild animals); the reader and Spencer fuck while on a case (but they aren't endangering anyone's lives from lack of their attention, so it's fine); mentions of potential injuries from a car accident (theoretical - doesn't actually happen during the fic); very slight threads of Morgan x Reader (mentions of Morgan being attracted to the reader - it could be one-sided); very passing mention of Reid having breeding kink (doesn't take place during the fic, just one of his thoughts); for the actual smut section: this could be interpreted as virgin!Spencer but that's not explicitly stated here (at most, this is just inexperienced!Spencer) (the reader is definitely way more sexually experienced than him); praise kink (we all known Spencer is so eager to be praised); mentions of breastfeeding - Morgan makes a joke about the reader breastfeeding Reid, which later turns into faux breastfeeding kink (the reader doesn't actually lactate, but she lets Spencer suck on her tits and calls it breastfeeding); the reader calls Spencer: 'baby', 'good boy',; descriptions of subspace - but it's not specifically called 'subspace' in the text; thigh humping - Spencer humps the reader's thigh; cumming in pants (Spencer); multiple orgasms/overstimulation (Spencer receiving); handjob - the reader jacks Spencer off while he is sensitive after his first orgasm; using lube as cum; dumbification kink - the reader calls Spencer 'dumb baby' and generally enjoys seeing his intellect drop the more turned on he becomes (Spencer also likes being called this); technically the reader doesn't get to cum, but she gets turned on from treating Spencer like the good boy that he is (and this is more about him). I think that's everything.
A/N: This was directly inspired by the scene from Reid's birthday party, where Morgan says 'Mommy to the rescue!' (talking about JJ) and then Spencer says '...Mommy?' and it seems like he is discovering his Mommy kink in real time. Especially because he is then trapped between Elle and JJ and he makes direct eye contact with their boobs, and he just has such a look of scared kink realization in his eyes. I considered copying that moment exactly and just replacing JJ with the reader character, but this seemed like more fun lmao. I had so much fun writing this and I think this is one of my best fics in a while. I hope you guys enjoy it!!
...
Generally, you hated being stuck with grunt work. 
You knew that it was all part of the job - an important part of it. Paperwork, side interviews, background checks. Sifting through someone’s apartment looking for aspects of what kind of person they were based on their everyday life. 
But you thrived more on being right in the middle of things. You preferred interacting with suspects, chasing people down, harsh confrontation. 
Gideon said that you were overly controlling, impatient, brutally honest - that you had an ‘abrasive personality’ that put most men off. But that was why he often brought you into interrogations with male suspects. Many of the people you caught - men with superiority complexes who targeted the weak to make themselves feel powerful - they hated that you weren’t intimidated by them. That aspect of abrasion between you and the suspects often brought out a lot of information - things they spewed out trying to intimidate you. 
But you weren’t needed on that front today. 
No - instead, you were doing grunt work. The kind of work that made you impatient and generally aggravated. 
The only upside was that you got to do it with Spencer. 
He was one of the only men that voluntarily worked so closely with you so often, because he wasn’t intimidated by you. He took orders from you very well and naturally fell under your authority, bringing a natural chemistry to your partnership when you worked with him. Plus - his seemingly endless stream of ‘fun facts’ was like listening to the radio, which did help to soothe your boredom during these kinds of mindless tasks. 
You were on a case in Texas. Five women raped and tortured before having their bodies hung from a tree and consumed by cotoyes that the UnSub knew lived in the area. Since police had closed in on him, he had gone on the run. He had killed three more women since fleeing, while leaving no clues as to what his ultimate endgame would be or where he would be going next. 
Hotch sent you and Reid to find that out while the rest of the team worked victimology and profiled the scenes of the most recent murders, following the trail he was leaving. 
After spending hours sifting through the suspect’s house, looking for any small clue about where he might be going - you came up empty. When you touched base with Hotch, he told you that you and Reid would be going to visit the suspect’s ex-wife - who lived four hours away. You needed to interview her to see if she could give you any further insight to the man, and perhaps - beat him to the house if she was the ultimate target. 
(A lot of the victims looked like her, and it couldn’t really be a coincidence.) 
You knew that lives were at risk, and it was juvenile of you, but all you heard was: long, boring drive. Boring day. You hoped that Reid would be good company through it. 
Now, you were waiting outside of the police station in the bureau-issued SUV, waiting for Morgan to come and give you the file with the ex-wife’s address and contact information. 
“Did you know that over forty-six percent of Texans own a gun? Texas is second only to Montana in registered gun ownership, where over sixty-six percent of citizens proudly tote their right to bear arms.” Reid told you, continuing to look over the case files that were sitting in his lap. 
When you looked over toward him to reply to this odd factoid, your mind got caught up on something else. 
“Reid, come on, take your feet off the dashboard!” You told him, reaching over to gently smack his knee, trying to encourage his legs down from the awkward position. 
It bothered you for several reasons - the idea that he would leave shoe prints on the dashboard, which was minor and cosmetic, but still annoying. And the fact that if the car did happen to get hit head-on, the air-bag would explode out and push his knees into his chest, causing his shattered leg bones to pierce his organs and possibly kill him. (At the very least, he would never walk again.) 
Speaking of which: 
“And put your seatbelt on!” You barked, now noticing that he wasn’t wearing it past all of the files he had piled into his lap. “You of all people should know how many deaths are caused by not wearing a seatbelt.” 
Spencer opened his mouth to spout out this exact statistic, but before he could get the words out, another voice entered the conversation. 
“Aw, Reid, listen to your Mommy.” 
You were almost startled by Morgan’s voice coming from the open driver’s side window so suddenly. His appearance there as if out of nowhere was so jarring that you couldn’t get caught up on the way he had called you Reid’s Mommy. Your head whipped toward Morgan so quickly that you didn’t notice the flash across Spencer’s features - worry, dawning. You didn’t take note of the way he rushed to comply with putting on his seatbelt. As if he was rushing to please you, even unconsciously. 
“I bet if you’re a good boy, she might even breastfeed you when you get there.” 
Morgan then pursed his lips and made loudly suckling noises, clearly imitating breastfeeding in what he thought was a comedic way. 
Again - glaring at the muscled man through the open window, you didn’t see Spencer’s reaction. You didn’t see the way his large, glassy eyes flickered to your breasts (only emphasized by your own seatbelt crossed over the center of your chest) before he forced himself to focus on the files in front of him so that he wouldn’t feel so caught.
“Shut up.” You told Morgan, your voice so commanding and firm that his simple order was enough to get him to stop his antics. 
“And give me the address already.” You held out your hand expectantly, and Morgan handed you the file, which you placed onto the center console. 
Then, you turned back to him for one last point, determined to have the final word in the conversation. 
“Besides, we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts, anyway. Just because you stare while wearing sunglasses, doesn’t mean I don’t notice. My eyes are up here, pal.” You told him sharply. 
He let out a scoff at this, and rolled his eyes behind his dark frames - but he made no clever comeback. 
You had successfully bested him. And with that knowledge, you rolled up the window and left him standing dumbly in the parking lot as you sped off. 
… 
You pulled over later to put the address into the GPS system, and you let out a long-winded groan when you found that it was more than four hours away. Four hours and twenty five minutes. 
So you pulled over again to get gas and stocked up on snacks, and you were surprised that Reid wasn’t giving you some lesson about the colloquial use of ‘soda’ and ‘pop’ (thinking that you hadn’t listened the other ten times when he had gone on the same rambling point about linguistics and how language evolves). 
He was being far too quiet for your liking. 
But he was keeping his eyes glued to the files, and you guessed that he was churning over something in that big brain of his, like he usually was. 
You were entirely surprised when the next time he spoke - it wasn’t about the case at all. 
“How - how do you know that Morgan likes your breasts?” He asked, his voice low and mousy, looking straight ahead as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap. 
“What?” You gaped, the word flying out of your mouth as your brain was utterly slow to process what he had just said. 
Hearing Spencer use the word ‘breasts’ was jarring, but somehow utterly adorable. You found it stirring a slight heat within you. Especially because he was still so shy. The whole thing made you want to pin him down and force the shyness out of him. 
Spencer felt the need to further explain himself. 
“When - when you were talking to him, you said: ‘we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts.’” He said, repeating back what you had said, word for word, using that perfect memory of his. 
You wondered if that’s what he had been doing, sitting there in his seat so silently for the past hour of the car ride - going over the conversation again and again in his head, trying to make sense of it. And because he couldn’t make any sense of it by himself, now he was consulting you. 
Again, you found it so utterly adorable. 
“Morgan didn’t deny it. So - was it a hypothesis based on something, or did you just call him out hoping that you weren’t wrong?” Reid continued, sparing only a singular glance in your direction, a look that you caught out of the corner of your eye with your gaze still mostly focused ahead on the road. 
You found it intensely cute that he was using the word ‘hypothesis’ in this situation. You wondered if he ever turned it off - the textbook big words and the intellect that he always carried himself with. You wondered if you could make him turn it off. You wondered if there was any situation where Spencer Reid could be as stupid as any other man - chasing a bone, desperate to get his nut off. 
For the first time ever - you imagined Spencer Reid underneath you, blabbering nonsense, begging for release with your hand around his cock as you pumped him, red and aching, so slick in your palm. Desperate, empty-headed, beautifully stupid. 
(See, this was what happened when you were forced to do grunt work. You got bored. And when you got bored - you had to entertain yourself somehow.) 
“It was a pretty well-informed hypothesis.” You replied. Now that Spencer had brought the topic up, you certainly weren’t going to shy away from the discussion. “Morgan often brings up my sex life, and wants to engage in detailed discussions about my sexual encounters with me. So I assume that he spends a fair amount of time thinking about me in a sexual way.” 
Reid let out a choked-off noise at this. 
You continued. 
“Plus, he’s always staring down my top. He’s not exactly subtle.” 
“You - you actually notice that kind of thing?” He chirped, his voice becoming a few octaves higher as worry flooded him. 
You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. 
Of course, you had noticed the times that Spencer stared at your breasts as well. He was even less subtle about it than Morgan was. You didn’t mind it when he did it, because you knew that Spencer wasn’t exactly casanova. He didn’t have a different girl every other week like Morgan did, so taking a glance down your shirt when he passed you a morning coffee was probably about as much action as he got. 
Secretly, letting him get away with it was your gift to him. 
“Don’t worry about it, baby.” You told him, the pet name slipping out mindlessly as you reached over and gently patted his knee as a form of reassurance. 
This movement unintentionally drew his eyes toward your chest, especially in his desperation to look anywhere but your face, not wanting to make eye contact with you. But he found his eyes glued to the swell of your breasts once again - hating how perfect they looked, even through the simple cotton shirt and plain bra that you wore. 
“Sorry, Mommy.” The word slipped out before he could even consciously process it. “Sorry!” 
Spencer raised a hand to smack his own face at lightning speed, and slumped down into his seat in embarrassment. 
You bit your lip to suppress a grin. It stirred a filthy heat in your belly. But you knew that Spencer likely needed a while to sit with this and wouldn’t want to talk about it - not yet. So you reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the space so that the silence wasn’t so awkward and gutting. 
Spencer didn’t talk for the entirety of the rest of the car ride, which didn’t surprise you. 
When you finally arrived at the ex-wife’s house, his hands were shaking with nerves as he tried to unlatch his seatbelt. You probably should have just left him alone to struggle, but an evil spark, likely fueled by the boredom of the day, flared up inside of you. You couldn’t resist the urge to lean over the console, very purposefully showing off your breasts as you gently pushed his hands away and undid the belt for him. 
“Here, let Mommy get that for you.” You said, distinct teasing on your breath as you mumbled the words into his ear. 
Spencer huffed out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his seat, and pushed his hair out of his face in frustration. But he didn’t say anything more as you gathered the files in preparation for the interview. 
He only spoke when you moved to get out of the car. 
“Look, I-” He began a half assed explanation, and you easily cut him off. 
“You let Morgan get in your head too much.” You told him with a chuckle, opening your door and getting out. 
But as he forced himself to follow you with numb limbs - he knew that this definitely wasn’t all Morgan’s fault. 
… 
The ex-wife didn’t know much. 
She described the marriage as hell - the suspect exhibited all the typical behaviors as a husband that they would have expected. He hated women, and he wanted full control over his wife at the time, which eventually led down the path of divorce. They had to sell the house they had bought together, but neither of them had moved out of Texas since. But he hadn’t contacted her in years. 
She had two young kids from a new relationship, and when the woman stepped out to take a call, you picked one of them up to soothe his cries, hushing him gently while you rubbed his back. 
Because of this, Spencer found himself even more dizzy and confused. 
He knew that it was Frueadian - some deep, misguided part of his psychology - something broken and missing inside of him because of his own fractured childhood. 
But seeing you being so sweet with a kid, especially after the day he’d had - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be your baby, or if he wanted to shoot his cum so deep inside you that it would ensure he could give you one. 
(Ultimately, he knew that it was likely both - and that didn’t answer any questions for him. It just gave him far more questions.) 
… 
Even though the ex-wife couldn’t give you guys much more than you already knew, Hotch wanted you and Spencer to stay close by in case the suspect decided to make his ex-wife the end game. The two of you would be able to make it to her first if she called for help. 
So you and Spencer had dinner at a random local barbeque place off the highway and Spencer still didn’t talk much through it, other than posing some theories about the case. Even though he was a bit more talkative, he still refused to look at you - he stared down at his plate the whole time. Though whenever he did look up, you noticed that his eyes lingered on your chest - and he still wouldn’t look you in the eye. 
By the time the bill came around and the two of you were ready to leave, you knew exactly what you had to do. 
… 
Spencer waited by the car with his bag while you checked in and got a motel room (needing to stay in town, you got a room for the night). When you came back, you handed him the room key and then moved to get your bag out of the car. 
“Do… you already have yours?” He asked quietly. 
“Hmm?” You hummed in reply, slinging the strap of your go-bag over your shoulder before you closed the back door and used the remote to lock up the car. 
“Your room key?” 
You suppressed another grin. 
“I only got one room.” You told him. “You don’t mind sharing with me, right?” 
You gave him a purposeful look - looked at him through your lashes, bit your lip slightly, and subtly squeezed your breasts together with your upper arms, emphasizing them. You knew exactly what you were doing to him, but hopefully it seemed subtle. 
“I - uh - no.” Spencer stuttered. “It’s fine. We can share.” He gave a grin, not wanting to appear upset, even though his entire body was racked with nerves. 
Spencer followed you to the room and he fumbled with the key with shaking hands for a moment before he sighed and then handed it to you. 
His insides quaked when he saw that there was only one bed. 
He wasn’t sure if he should say anything about it. The two of you had slept in the same room before, but you had never shared a bed before. Sure, you had slept near each other before. He had accidentally fallen asleep on your shoulder on the plane or vice versa. But you had never crawled into bed together with the intention of sleeping together. 
And yes, just the entendre behind it made Reid’s head spin. 
He had a heavy knot in his gut, and hatefully - a distinct stirring in his crotch. He could only imagine how embarrassing it would be for you to wake up and see him compromised in some way. Or god forbid, if you caught him moaning in his sleep because of unconscious dreams that he couldn’t stop - for you to think that he was some kind of dirty sex pervert because of it. 
He felt an overwhelming need to clear the air overtake him. He had no clue how to broach the subject, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night like this. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with this anxiety hanging over his head. 
He studied you carefully as you sat down on the edge of the bed, ditching your bag off to the side and heaving out a tired sigh as you began taking off your shoes. 
Spencer put down his own bag and then stood there, fidgeting nervously as he searched for words. 
“I - uh - I am sorry about earlier.” He mumbled out the beginnings of an apology. “What Morgan said was stupid, and I-” 
“I don’t think it was stupid.” 
You let out a chuckle, and reached up the back of your shirt. Spencer found himself frozen, his eyes tracing your every moment as you unhooked your bra underneath your shirt and then moved to maneuver the straps out from your short sleeves while you kept talking. 
“I think he had a point.” You added on. “Good boys should get a reward. And I think you were fairly good today. You didn’t eat all your veggies at dinner, but you kept your feet off the dashboard and you were quiet during the car ride. You definitely get points for being patient during such a long trip, baby.” 
Your voice smoothed into a soothing tone, that word - baby - melting like butter over your tongue in a way that made Spencer’s knees wobble. He hadn’t known it until right now, but you calling him a ‘good boy’ and listing off such mundane things he had done that made him worthy of a reward fired off sparks inside of his brain. 
A breath choked off inside of his throat as you stood up off the bed and peeled your bra completely out from under your shirt. Somehow it was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen, revealing the hard peaks of your nipples and the beautiful natural teardrop shape of your breasts to him through the cotton fabric. 
Spencer wanted to speak, but his tongue felt so heavy and dry inside of his mouth. He knew that he was staring at your chest so blatantly now, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. He couldn’t even feel ashamed anymore. 
That dull tingle in his crotch had turned into a full on stinging interest, and he unconsciously pulled at the fabric of his pants, trying to loosen some of the tension that was growing, not even considering how it might look to you - him dumbly reaching for his crotch to make it look looser when his hardening bulge was becoming more obvious by the second. 
It was one of the most ‘caveman’ things he had ever done in front of you - standing there with his mouth hanging slightly agape, pulling at his crotch without caring how it looked. You definitely wanted more, wanted to see how dumb he could get. How far you could make him devolve. 
“So what do you say, baby boy?” You hummed, stepping close into his personal space now, causing him to get a whiff of your perfume - something that was only a dull trace after such a long day, but still smelled so good. “Do you want Mommy to breastfeed you? Do you wanna suck on my tits as your reward?” 
You gently ran a thumb across his cheek, and paired with the words, Spencer’s brain short-circuited. 
He knew realistically that you weren’t actually offering to breastfeed him. There was no evidence in your life to say that your body could actually support the production of milk currently - but you were offering to let him play pretend. To suck on your tits with a very sexual air, to call you Mommy without the teasing humiliation behind it that Morgan had hinted at (or maybe Spencer liked that humiliation, he wasn’t even sure). (He hadn’t even known before this morning that he liked the idea of calling you Mommy, but here he was). 
All he could conjure in response was the dumbest, non-human sound. 
“Nngh.” 
It was a grunt from the back of his throat - too much blood swelling to his cock all at once and too much direct attention from you making him dizzy. 
You giggled quietly. 
“Come on, baby. Just say the word. And Mommy will give you everything you need.” 
Spencer inhaled sharply. At this point, he was desperate to get some oxygen to his brain. 
His mind was racing, chanting out: 
‘Yes! God, yes! I want it so badly, Mommy! I want anything you’ll give me. I need you. I need you so badly.’ 
But all his lips could form in the wake of such dizzying lust was: 
“Please.” 
“Good boy.” You sighed. 
You used a hand on his chin to tilt his face up to meet yours, and you consumed him in a kiss - he was hungry and eager to meet your touch, moaning loudly into your mouth, his hands racing to touch you now, rushing up to grip on your hips in the most utterly needy way. He balled the fabric of your shirt in his fists, like he couldn’t get enough of you - like he was afraid you would dissolve away if he let go of you for even a second. 
It was cute, to say the least. 
You only let the kiss last for a moment, though. You pulled away to a disappointed whine from Spencer, which you quietly hushed. 
“Hey, it’s okay baby.” You soothed him. “Come here. Mommy’s gonna take good care of you.” 
You lead him toward the bed, getting rid of his tie in the process, and Spencer stepped out of his shoes along the way. You slid onto the bed and laid up on the pillows on your back, Spencer clumsily following you, crawling on all fours. The two of you had barely started, but he was full-on panting now, racing to catch his breath while his blood hammered through his veins. 
He watched on with eager curiosity while you got comfortable, fluffing the pillow under your head before you then reached down and pulled up your shirt. You pulled the fabric to sit up under your chin, finally revealing your gorgeous breasts to him. 
If he was lost for words before, then he had receded back to a total neanderthal now. 
His mouth fell open and his salivary glands started working overtime as his eyes raked hungrily over your chest - enjoying the pure beauty of the fatty mounds, striped with zig-zagging stretch marks and completed by your hard peaked nipples. 
“Here, come on, baby.” 
You had to remind Spencer what the goal was, guiding him into place with a hand on the back of his head. You helped ease his body to lay on top of yours as he relaxed into you - and his mouth finally found its rightful place on your breast. He became greedy, suctioning hard on your nipple as though he might actually get something out of it. 
Truthfully, he did get something out of this. 
It definitely wasn’t any form of nutrition, but it was something that drove him lustfully insane and made his head fuzzy and warm in the best way. This was the only time in his entire life that he didn’t have ten thousand thoughts running through his mind like the news blasting on television in the background. This was the only time since his first conscious memory that he had actually known his mind to be quiet. 
He felt intensely thankful for it. Intensely thankful toward you for giving him this feeling. 
In that moment, without all the noise, all he knew was the comforting feeling of your fat tit under his mouth, the heat of your body under his own as you cradled him. The soothing firmness of your hands through his hair and down his back - and the distant, sweet purring of your voice in his ears. 
“Good boy.” You hummed, loving the feeling of him moaning around your nipple - so constant and so greedy now that you were sure he didn’t even know that he was doing it. “Such a good boy for me. Such a good boy for Mommy.” 
Your cunt was humming between your thighs, aching so hard at seeing Spencer like this. The usually composed, intelligent, practically robotic Doctor Reid reduced down to a blubbering, moaning, needy mess just because he wanted to suck on your tits. 
Just because you had called yourself Mommy a few times in his presence. 
It was so utterly beautiful, and you wanted more. 
(You didn’t think that you could ever let him go after this. You probably wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of another woman touching him after this. But you would have to think on that more later.) 
You noticed Spencer canting his hips, unconsciously seeking friction against his hard cock while he continued to suck on your breast. With his eyes closed blissfully, drool gathering around his lips where they met your skin in the most utterly adorable way. You couldn’t help yourself - you scooted your knee between his thighs. You then used a hand to help his hips into place, adjusting him so that he was getting good friction against your denim-clad thigh. 
“There you go. There you go, sweet boy.” You hummed, feeling another jolt through your body when he let out a sharper moan against your tit, and began humping your leg in earnest. 
You were quick to encourage him, putting both hands on his hips and helping him along while he greedily hung onto you. He had on your hip, the other hand slipping up to cup fingers around the bottom of your breast, making sure you didn’t escape him while he moved his body against you so frantically. 
“That’s just what you needed, isn’t it, baby?” You moaned out, your voice wavering slightly as the pleasure of it all thrummed through you. “Just a dumb little baby who needed Mommy’s tit.” 
The term ‘dumb little baby’ came flying out of your mouth before you could stop it. Though you knew exactly why it happened. Seeing such a brilliant genius reduced down to this truly did something to your ego. And apparently hearing those words from you did something to him, too. 
He whined sharply against your skin and his hips stuttered abruptly. You knew it wouldn’t be long before he came in his pants, his cock throbbing against the friction of your thigh. And this thought alone caused your mouth to run off without restraint. 
“Such a needy little thing.” You sighed. “You love being Mommy’s dumb baby, don’t you? Not a single fucking thought between your ears, just sucking on Mommy’s tit without a care in the world.” 
Spencer moaned and it sent another jolt through your body - another harsh pang through your cunt. You loved how much he needed you. You loved how much he was clearly eating this up. 
You didn’t even care if you got to cum tonight; you just wanted to exhaust him for all he was worth. Because he was so fucking pretty like this. 
“You gonna cum for me, baby boy? You gonna cum for Mommy? Come on, baby. Cum for me.” 
These words were what ultimately sent him over the edge. Well that along with your strong hands on his hips, encouraging him along while he was mindless and busy mouthing on your breast.
His jaw dropped open, finally loosening that desperate suction on your now slightly sore nipple as he began to pant frantically over your now spit-soaked skin. He moaned hotly while he humped you in an entirely adorable, almost distraught manner - absolutely desperate to have the most friction on his cock while his orgasm overtook him. 
You could feel his needy cock throbbing against you, trapped inside of his pants, shooting off hot ropes of cum that quickly soaked into his underwear and even then, seeped into the fabric of his slacks. You grinned and bit your lip as you felt that wetness even beginning to soak into your jeans, knowing he must have set off quite a big load. 
Spencer soon collapsed on top of you, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath. 
Any normal person would have taken pity on him (seeing as he was clearly nervous and inexperienced) and wound things down to end the night here. Anyone else would have likely let him rest. 
But again, you felt devilish temptation overtake you. (It was a feeling that seemed to be much more ripe around Spencer Reid.) 
You just felt thankful that your temptation and inclination toward chaos came in the form of lust, rather than something more violent, like the people you studied every single day. Everyone around you should be thankful for that. 
You used your leverage (and the fact that you weren’t nearly as exhausted from the experience) to flip him over onto his back. He let out a surprised sound as his back made contact with the mattress - blinking up at you with shocked, glassy eyes as you moved down his body slightly. 
“Wha-?” He mumbled out the question, only getting out part of the word before you reached for the zipper on the front of his now wet pants. 
“Hey, shh, baby. I just wanna see you.” You told him quietly, causing him to stare down the length of his own body at your hands as you worked. 
You got the button and zipper undone quickly and you let out a quiet ‘fuck’ as you peeled back the wet fabric of his grey slacks to reveal the sight of his simplistic (very Reid) white cotton underwear slightly transparent and stuck tight to his cock, coated in wet, sticky cum. 
“So pretty baby.” 
He only whined in response. 
You couldn’t help yourself - you reached up and pulled down the waistband of his underwear, feeling more lust pricking through you as he was truly revealed to your eyes. He was perfect. Glossy and wet with his own release, his cock pinky red from the exertion and friction, still half hard. You pulled the clothes down over his hips and he lifted his body to help you, clearly glad to be rid of the mess, and the second you untangled the fabric from his ankles and ditched everything aside, you were back on him. 
You skimmed the tips of your fingers oh-so-lightly up his shaft where it was sprawled across his pelvis, and his hips jolted. He let out a bitter gasp - as though cold water had been splashed across him. 
“You said-” He choked on the words as you ran your thumb right underneath the crown, gently pressing into the head, causing him to choke on a moan while his knees quaked. 
You sat on his knees to keep him still and his head became so fuzzy once again. 
‘You said that you only wanted to look.’ 
The sentence died off in his lungs somewhere, and truthfully - he didn’t want to protest. He didn’t want you to stop. 
“Sens-sensitive.” He whined. “Too much.” 
“But you’re so pretty, baby.” You replied, your voice turning smooth and warm like butter again, melting over his whole body, causing all of his muscles to go soft and pliant for you. “Your cock is so pretty. I need to touch you.” 
He let out another strangled noise when you cupped your hand and took him fully in your grip this time, giving one good tug across his cock from root to tip. When you did this again, faster this time, his lungs seized inside his chest - trying to take in oxygen so quickly, as though he were drowning on dry land. 
“You gonna be good for me, baby?” 
“Yes.” He gargled back in response. “Yes, Mommy.” 
He was already so wet from cumming in his pants, and he let out a pathetic dribble of precum as you continued to move your hand - so it was an easy, slick slide. One that sent harsh shockwaves through him from overstimulation. Against his own will, he soon ballooned back to full hardness - becoming painfully swollen in your hand while you sped up your touch and closed your fist tighter around him. It caused the most wonderful hurt between his legs, and made a downright filthy wet sound as you pumped your grip faster along his needy cock. 
Spencer heard wailing and felt the soreness against his throat before he realized that he was the one making those desperate sounds. He distantly wondered what it might sound like to someone else, if the rooms on either side were occupied, if the motel would receive a noise complaint about some frail woman getting fucked to death by her husband next door - because that’s what he sounded like in his own ears. 
But any of those half-thoughts were chased out of his brain the second you flicked your thumb up over the head of his cock and your dirty mouth filled his ears once again. 
“Gonna milk this pretty cock, baby.” You told him, your voice firm. “You gonna show Mommy how much you can cum for me? Gonna show me what a good boy you are?” 
Spencer let out another pathetic sound, his body singing with pleasure at his pure need to prove to you that - yes, he was a good boy. 
He felt tears wet on the side of his face before he realized that he was crying, but it was all too good to ask you to stop. 
You used your other hand to cradle his balls and you swooped down to capture his gasping mouth in another kiss (a very messy, open mouthed kiss that Spencer could barely pay attention to). Spencer screamed into your mouth while he painted his stomach with cum once again.
You only stopped jerking his cock once you had truly milked every last drop from him, his hips seizing up off the bed and your hand almost slipping off him completely from how sloppily wet it was with more of his cum added to the mix. 
He was purely exhausted then. His eyes blinked heavily, struggling to stay open. He vaguely remembered you cleaning him off and tucking him into bed - but he definitely enjoyed falling asleep curled up next to your warmth. 
The next morning, Spencer felt hungover. 
He wondered if that’s what good sex always felt like - the combination of endorphins rushing through your body and physical exertion tackling you over. His legs were sore, as though he had run several miles. (Which wasn’t even something he could make a bold comparison to anyway, because he didn’t exercise nearly as much as he should for someone with this job). He woke up starving, grateful when you drove to a diner down the road after checking out of the motel and planted him in one of the booths before going outside to call Hotch in order to touch base with the rest of the team. 
You came back with a small grin on your face. 
“Turns out that tip the ex-wife gave us about their first house in Arlington was pretty solid.” You told Reid. “They caught the guy on his way there. He had another girl in the trunk. They got her back mostly unarmed, and took him into custody.” 
Spencer nodded. “That’s good.” 
When he moved to grab another sugar packet out of the caddy on the side of the table, three of them already open and empty beside his cup of coffee, you grabbed him by the wrist. 
“That’s enough, baby.” You told him. 
His stomach curled, that distinct feeling running through him again. And against his will, that word slipped out - again. 
“Yes, Mommy.”
...
A/N: This is a standalone oneshot. There won't be a sequel or a continuation, so please do not ask for one. If you liked the fic, please comment about the body of work that has been written, or consider reblogging to show your appreciation. If you want to see more Spencer Reid fics that I have written, you can check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or you can check out my Masterlists for other fandoms to see if anything catches your eye. Thank you for reading!
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