darkly, madly, deeply

evey 🖤Soft heart, big ideals, and a voracious mind, 34, no one under 18, taken🖤

[mcrdvcks]

you're lost and i'm insane

summary: You work at a mental institution filled with some of the most dangerous and deranged people. Your patient Bucky becomes dangerously fixated on you. word count: 18.7k+ pairing: patient!bucky barnes x fem!psychiatrist!reader notes: this is for stan-o-ween! i needed a ~spooky~ fic and wanted to try something a bit different. a tad bit inspired by born, madly & born, darkly by trisha wolfe, a dark romance duet! i even fear that this is like... way too dark and just too much but i wrote it and it's going to be put out so i don't cry about wasting hours/days on this fic so i don't even care if no one reads it this is dub-con/non-con - if you do not like DO NOT READ! i am not responsible for your media consumption. if you send me a message or ask saying it offended you or you were uncomfortable i will tell you that you shouldn't have read this because the warning(s) were made clear. warnings/tags: dub-con/non-con - 18+ only!!!, dark!bucky, inappropriate psychiatrist and patient relationship (or really just bucky being manipulative), dark sexual fantasies, mentions of violence and trauma, mention of reader blushing (as a manipulation tactic, not necessarily as a physical trait), implied stalking, smut, handcuffs, marking, fingering, oral (f&m!receiving), mention of hand in hair, unprotected piv, overstimulation, thigh fucking, slight cum play, breeding kink, very slight aftercare... well, not really more like vague threats, uhhh i didn't know how to end this fic so yeah here it is it's-tober! masterlist | stan-o-ween masterlist

The orderly’s keys rattled against his belt as he unlocked the heavy door to the interview room. The hinges groaned like something out of an old horror film, the kind you’d half-watched on a rainy night as a child, before burrowing under the blankets. The smell of the asylum clung to everything—bleach, old stone, rust, and something faintly sour that never really scrubbed away no matter how much disinfectant the janitorial staff poured into the cracks.

You adjusted the file in your hands, more for something to do than because you needed to. The paper inside had already been read through twice, your pen marks underlining words that were almost clinical in their emptiness: violent outbursts, manipulative tendencies, acute paranoia, possible PTSD, resistant to treatment. Each phrase felt sterile compared to the whispered warnings from colleagues who had looked at you with a mixture of pity and unease when they learned you’d drawn this particular assignment.

He was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.

He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.

You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”

“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”

“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.

That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”

The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”

You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”

His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”

Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”

His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”

You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”

“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”

Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”

For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.

The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.

You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?

Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.

Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.

Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.

You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.

You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”

His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”

It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”

Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.

“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”

The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”

His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”

“Explain.”

“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.

He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”

The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”

You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.

Sweet dreams.

---

The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.

You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.

Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.

You set the file down. “Good morning.”

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”

“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”

The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”

He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”

You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”

A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”

“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.

His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”

The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”

“That’s my job,” you said.

He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”

The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”

His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”

Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”

“Yes,” you said.

His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.

He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”

The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”

But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”

The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.

---

The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.

He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.

You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”

His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”

You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.

Your pen stilled. “Control?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”

“Yes,” you said carefully.

He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”

Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”

You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”

The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”

You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”

His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”

Your heart stopped.

“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”

Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.

“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”

The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”

His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”

The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.

The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”

The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.

---

The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.

When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.

“It’s my job,” you replied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”

“It is now.”

His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”

He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”

Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.

“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”

“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.

“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A piece of yourself.”

The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”

He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”

You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”

Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”

But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”

The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”

He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”

Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.

He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”

The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.

---

The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.

Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“You look tired again.”

You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”

The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”

You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”

His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”

“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”

Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”

You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”

“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.

“What?” you managed.

“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”

The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”

The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.

---

The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.

Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.

“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.

He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”

You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”

“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”

“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.

His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”

“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”

His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”

Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”

“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.

He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”

Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”

He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”

You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”

Your breath caught. “Enough.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”

He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”

The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.

He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”

You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.

He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.

---

The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”

You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”

He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.

“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”

He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”

“A structured session,” you corrected.

“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.

You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.

“Do you want treatment?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

“Do you want to get better?”

“No.”

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”

“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”

You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to control me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about sex with me?”

His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”

“Describe it,” you said flatly.

For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”

“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.

He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”

You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”

“I’m not,” you said automatically.

“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”

You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s not an answer,” you said.

“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”

You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”

“Do you imagine me resisting?”

A small pause. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”

Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”

You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”

“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”

You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”

Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”

He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”

The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”

He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.

---

The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.

You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.

Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.

You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said softly.

You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”

“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”

“Yes.”

His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”

You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”

Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”

He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”

“I like you human,” you said simply.

He chuckled low. “You’re good.”

You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”

That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”

The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.

Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”

“Treatment?” you managed.

“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”

You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”

The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”

The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.

The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.

You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.

Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”

“I haven’t—” you started.

He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”

“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”

He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.

You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.

You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.

The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.

In your head, you heard him again.

They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number: Sweet dreams, Doctor.

Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.

You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.

Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.

You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.

---

The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.

You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.

He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”

“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.

“Not you.”

You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”

“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then the session ends.”

He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”

You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”

He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”

“I want to help you.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.

“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.

He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”

“That’s not healthy,” you countered.

He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”

Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”

His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”

“Stop,” you said sharply.

“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”

“That’s a violation.”

“That’s a confession,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.

He smiled faintly. “It already is.”

You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”

“No.”

“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”

“That’s not reality.”

“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.

You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”

The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.

You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”

The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.

---

It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.

Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.

You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.

Nothing.

You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.

You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.

The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.

Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.

He laughed softly. “Is it?”

You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.

The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.

You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”

“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”

You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”

You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”

“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.

He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”

Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.

“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”

He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.

You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.

On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.

---

The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.

You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.

By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.

And froze.

There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.

You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters: You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.

Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.

When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.

The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.

You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”

By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.

Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”

You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”

“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”

“I don’t know,” you said quickly.

He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”

You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”

Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.

That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”

When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers. Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.

---

The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.

But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”

You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”

He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.

At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.

It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before: You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.

By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”

Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”

That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters: I like the way you look when you read in bed.

Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.

Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”

In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note. You’re almost ready.

By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”

You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”

You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit: You were already his case.

---

The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.

The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.

You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.

Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.

Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.

That was when you felt it.

A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.

Too late.

An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.

“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.

You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.

You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”

You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.

Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.

He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”

You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.

He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.

Your heart thundered. “No—”

“Yes.”

He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.

When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”

He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.

You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.

For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.

Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.

“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”

You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”

You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”

“No—”

His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”

He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.

You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.

Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.

He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”

You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.

“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”

You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”

You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.

He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.

“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.

One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.

He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.

His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.

You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”

His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.

He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.

“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”

His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”

He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.

His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.

He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.

Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.

You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.

“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.

“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.

He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”

He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”

And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.

He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.

“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.

You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”

He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.

His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”

The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.

You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.

He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.

You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.

And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.

When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”

Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”

He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”

While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”

You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.

“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”

You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.

He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”

He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.

His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.

He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.

The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”

His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.

Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.

The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”

He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.

Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”

He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”

You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”

His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.

You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”

He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.

You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”

You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.

“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”

He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”

His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”

He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.

“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”

You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”

His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.

“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”

He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”

He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.

He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”

He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.

Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”

Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.

He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.

He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.

His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”

He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.

When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.

“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”

Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”

He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.

Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.

“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”

You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”

But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.

His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”

Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.

And you knew, as you drifted on the edge of exhaustion, that this was both the promise and the threat: he could be so gentle, so soft, until the next time he wanted to break you open all over again.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

It’s been a while since I’ve been rendered completely speechless! But DAMN I couldn’t even move reading this! I stood stock still good to the last drop reading every letter of this bc it was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD!

I am hooked and afraid

[sleepiestoken]

iii orchestrating the crowd in portland - via thesilencebeckoning

[livmoorez]

When I was a kid, my mother would throw card games, and I was good at magic and sleight of hand. So she'd have me deal, and I'd help her cheat.

[evilvvithin]

amy madigan as gladys WEAPONS zach cregger, 2025

[dark-knight020]

Compilation of owls 🦉

[kassy-djomunson]

This came to me in a vision

this is everything

[requiem-on-water]

Mirkos Tsarouchidis

[cutest-silly-nb]

inside me there are two lungs. and one liver. one stomach. a few meters of intestine. there's a lot inside me actually

[cutest-silly-nb]

this is the funniest thing i've read all day

[aquareegia]

📸 by eepystella on twitter

[inadvertently-biblical]

Buffy Summers & Faith Lehane

Buffy the Vampire Slayer - “Bad girls.”

[cheaphalloweencostume]

“be gay do crime! but sex is yucky and crime is wrong!” ass website

[cheaphalloweencostume]

okay, we managed to get through the “you can be gay and not have sex” part, and im feeling charitable and i wanna talk about the “do crime” part

so many responses of “its nice that you’re privileged enough to be able to steal from Target willy nilly!” and that’s not at all what this is about. like, yeah, shoplifting and loitering and graffiti and breaking the rules is, obviously, part of “do crime”. but they’re not parts you have to do.

would you help someone get an abortion where it was illegal?

would you help a trans friend get healthcare that had been criminalized?

would you shelter someone fleeing persecution, even if the law said not to?

would you help a gay couple stay together when the state decided their relationship was unlawful?

instead, would you report someone else for breaking the law? will you snitch on your hungry neighbors for stealing food? on your homeless neighbors for sleeping where they’re able?

would you break laws to protect someone you love? a community you love? yourself?

[dungeonmastersdiary]

[changes]

Deleted accounts can now be recovered up to 30 days later

We’re making a big change to how account deletion works on Tumblr, and we’re really excited about it, because this is something that some of you have been requesting for… well… a literal decade.

Before today, when you deleted your Tumblr account, it was immediate and permanent. Occasionally, this resulted in Very Sad Times. Even though we’ve tried to make it super difficult to accidentally delete your account, this is something that still happens a lot. Like, a lot. There’s also plenty of folks who delete their account on purpose, but then regret it shortly afterward. Worst of all, if your account was hacked, and then deleted by the hacker, there was no way to get it back. 

All of these problems are *poof* no more. As of today, when you delete your account, we will keep your data for 30 days. Your account will remain recoverable during that time, and you can contact us within that 30 day window if you’d like us to restore your account.

Eventually, we hope to make this process a bit easier, and allow you to restore your account with a single click of a button. For right now, though, you’ll need to contact us via tumblr.com/support and choose the category “Account Access” > “I have deleted my account or blog by accident”. 

FAQs

How do I delete my account? Does that process look different now?

You can follow the steps here to delete your account on the web or through the mobile app, which works pretty much the same way as before. You’ll notice we’ve updated the confirmation screen to reflect the new process, though.

Does a deleted account still appear on Tumblr during this 30 day window?

Nope. As soon as you submit the request to delete your account, all of your blogs will no longer be accessible (they’ll 404), no one will be able to message you, your posts will no longer appear in search results, and you won’t be able to log in anymore. This happens right away, not 30 days later. Deleted accounts still behave exactly as they always have.

What about my email address and username? Will those become available again immediately after account deletion, like they did before?

Notably, no, they will not. In order to make it possible for the account to be restored during the 30 day window, the username and email address must remain associated with the account during that time. So they won’t be available to register again until 30 days after you’ve deleted your account.

If you’re deleting your account, and you already know that you’d like to use the same username or email address on a new account immediately afterward, we recommend that you change your username and email address before deleting the account. That way, they will become available right away, instead of being on hold for 30 days. 

What if I’ve accidentally deleted one of my sideblogs, but not my entire account?

If you delete a sideblog, it will be deleted right away, and cannot be restored. We can only restore an entire account (which will restore all of its blogs along with it). 

Is this feature retroactive? Can you restore the account I deleted two years ago?

As much as we would like this to be possible, the answer is no. We still haven’t perfected the art of time travel, so all accounts deleted before today are still deleted for good. This new change will only apply to accounts which are deleted after this announcement is posted.

Where can I learn more about the account deletion process?

You can check out our support documentation and Privacy Policy. Both have been updated to reflect these changes.

[fuckyeahmrleonardcohen]

“I dreamed about you, baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah, but some of you was light.”

— Leonard Cohen, “Waiting for the Miracle”

[kaddyssammlung]

I am giggling so much rn

[kassy-djomunson]

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD

[kassy-djomunson]

how dare you?