âthereâs something in the trees.â bucky barnes and steve rogers.
summary: bucky barnes and steve rogers have hunted every cryptid around the globe except oneâ you, the elusive mothman. now that theyâve found their way to west virginia, theyâll stop at nothing to find you.
pairing: hunter!bucky x cryptid!reader x hunter!steve
insp by: slowed down âfangsâ by dionnysuss as well as my fascination for cryptidsâŚ. especially my beloved mothman⌠although this was very close to being a jackalope!reader but no... i needed this to be as unusual as possible
word count: 12.2k. iâve written one longer but this was horrible
cw: +18 contentâ smut. reader is a cryptid/monster but has female anatomy, mentions of weapons (guns and blades), blood and biting, threesome, pheromones, unprotected p in v, breeding, buckyâs a bit mean i guess, a bit straight forwards⌠itâs monster fucking what more do i have to explain
a/n: this is apart of the bwatober collab. yet another collab. dont even ask guys. this was a joke turned into a fic and it did NOT help that i had people cheering me onâŚ.. anyways this goes out to all of the monster weirdos out there. im sorry the smut is so ass in thisâŚ. i was crashing out so bad over it⌠enjoy though :P
barely proofread. i skimmed. we die like real authors
point pleasant is a small and quaint town on the edge of west virgina, where the fog lingers over where the ohio and kanawha rivers meet and where the streets remember all that have walked along them.
there are stories in these hillsâ ones that the locals don't speak of openly, ones that have you double checking whether your windows and doors are locked at night, ones that have you questioning whether the mountains know more than they're letting on.
the diner that steve and bucky sit in is nothing too fancy. the light filters through the dusty windows and striped awning, and a large jukebox in the corner plays a rendition of an old frank sinatra song that only just drowns out the quiet murmur of the regulars.
steve and bucky sit opposite each other in a small booth.
the newspaper in steve's hand occupies his attention. the headline reads 'reports of winged shadows in the hills: is IT back?' the picture under it is less than normal. it's jagged and poorly printed, but the unmistakeable outline of a figure with wings sits smack dab in the centre.
a waitress walks up to their table, a tray in her hand.
"here you goâ" she sets it down onto the table, "your waffles and two coffees, one black and one with a little bit of milk and sugar."
"thanks." steve nods politely, sliding the dishes towards them.
they expect her to leave, but the lady stands there for a moment with a smile, the tray still tucked under her arm.
"that paper talking about winged shadows?" she asks, shamelessly ogling the paper in steve's hand. she then turns to the men, looking them up and down with a smile, "i'm guessing you boys aren't from around here."
"no ma'am." steve replies, "brooklyn."
"brooklyn, huh?" she grins, expression bordering between amused and curious, "you're not here for the fresh air or the scenery, are you?"
bucky huffs out a small laugh as he takes a sip of his scorching hot coffee, the heat burning his lips, "is it that obvious?"
"mhm. i know your type." she leans her weight onto one foot, a hand on her hip as she looks between steve and bucky. "you youngins roll into town with out-of-state plates, ask the locals too many questions, and then sit in the forest waiting for something to pop out at ya'."
bucky raises a brow. "and what do you think we're waiting for?"
the jukebox in the corner stops before it clicks over to the next song, and for a moment, the diner feels too quietâ still.
"what they all wait forâ the mothman."
there it is.
the name alone has a weight to it that steve and bucky feel in their bones. it's familiar in the way that they could never escape it even if they'd tried. they'd spent a good chunk of their lives staring at red strings on pinboards, living on the road and in sketchy hotels, hunting down these creatures that people think don't existâ creatures that appear at dusk and disappear at dawn, creatures that haunt towns and historyâ that hearing that name on the tongue of a local is almost an achievement.
they'd already caught all of the known cryptids in the world. they'd hiked through the forests of the pacific northwest for bigfoot, climbed mountains in the freezing cold mountains of the himalayas for the yeti, dived into the waters of the river ness for the loch ness monster.
but there was always one name whispered amongst hunters, one that nobody had ever managed to find or capture, one that always seemed two steps aheadâ the mothman.
steve and bucky share a knowing look. no words are neededâ after years of hunting together, they've practically learnt each other's way of thinking, and they both knew that whatever was waiting for them in the hills wasn't going to come easy.
steve clears his throat.
"this mothman guyâ" steve sits up in the booth, eyes narrowing in on the waitress, "how much do you know about him?"
she sucks on her teeth in thought before shaking her head, "only as much as the next person. only appears at night, massive wings, sounds all high-pitched and squeakyâ oh, and you can't forget those glowing red eyes. that's the real show stopper. erm... the first sighting happened a lil bit before i was born and then they never stopped. they actually happen real often."
bucky's brows furrow, "how often are we talking?"
"well, sightings happen year round, but y'start hearing about it in the papers more right around this time. i got a friend who thinks it's because it's mating season, but i ain't never heard of two of those creatures." she sighs, sliding a maple syrup jar towards the plate of waffles, "poor thingâ prolly just' looking for a partner."
the waitress places a shiny new set of cutlery in front of the plate of waffles. bucky wastes no time in diving inâ pouring the syrup on top and splitting it evenly between them.
the waitress sighs, "you just gotta be careful round these parts. the hills around here don't take kindly to stranger's pokin' around."
"poking around's the fun part." bucky smirks.
the waitress laughs like he's just told a hilarious joke, swatting her hand before she turns to walk away before she pauses, pressing a finger to her lips in thought.
"waitâ" she backtracks, pointing a playful accusing finger between the men, "you aren't bounty hunters, are you?"
steve raises his brows as he shakes his head, a charming smile sitting on his face, "of course not, ma'am. we're actually journalists."
the lie slips out of steve's mouth like butter, warm and practiced in the face of the trusting waitress. its a lie he's told hundreds of times in hundreds of different locations to a hundred different faces, and it never seems to let them down.
they arent bounty huntersâ not really. they like to call themselves collectors of the odd and unusual, whether that be the mangy fur from the chupacabra or the tip of a jackalope's horn. and if that item manages to rack up a pretty penny somewhere on the web? well, that's just an added bonus.
"ah, alright then. just makin' sure. i wouldn't wanna be the one who gets point pleasant's only monster slaughtered. that wouldn't be very good for business, now would it?" she grins, all teeth. "alright, i'll leave you boys to enjoy your food now."
"thanks again." steve smiles.
"no problem, sweetheart. holler if y'need me." the waitress grins, wiping her hands on her apron before making her way back to the front counter.
the newspaper sits idly in steve's hands, the edges soft from how long he's been holding onto it. he's not really reading it anymore, more just staring at the grainy picture printed in the middle of the pageâ a blur of wings, a smear of a shadow, something that shouldn't exist.
bucky leans back in the booth, an arm slung lazily over the top. he chews on his bite of waffle as he stares at steve. "you're doing that thing again."
steve glances up, confused. "âŚwhat thing?"
"that thing you do when you stare at something for ages like it'll come to life and tell you all you wanna know." bucky says, gesturing with his fork. "you did it in the car with your notebook and now you're doing it with the newspaper."
"i was just..." steve pauses. he exhales through his nose as he folds the newspaper in half and stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket, brows furrowed in thought, "this is our last catch. after this, we're done. almost doesn't feel real."
"i don't think we'll ever be done." bucky confesses, "it's only a matter of time before another one of these cryptid pops out of the works and we're back behind the wheel."
steve crosses his arms, his gaze distant. "how long do you think it'll be until that happens? how long do we have to sit at home and act like all of this is behind us before it drags us back again?"
the questions sits heavy between them, ones that'd been running rampant in steve's mind ever since they'd left that shitty motel in pennsylvaniaâ hell, even before they left brooklyn all those years ago.
steve flexes his hands. his knuckles are littered with small white scars from claws and rough terrain, his palms hardened and calloused from years of gripping rope, weapons, and whatever else the hunt had demanded of him.
bucky watches him, his hand running over his own jaw where a freshly scabbed-over gash sits. he presses gently on it, the pain bringing him back to the memory of fired guns and nets splayed out over the body of a struggling and clawing creature.
their marks are souvenirs of their hunts, reminders of the forests and the mountains and the desserts and the lakes, the torn and repaired flesh a remind of what they've endured and what they've survived. they're not even sure who they are without it. the idea of quiet mornings and a mundane life feels foreignâ terrifying.
bucky can only sigh. he reaches back over, fork scratching the ceramic plate with an agonising screech. "just eat your waffles, big guy. we'll figure it out when the time comes."
dusk comes fast.
the impala steve drives dips into every pothole and rolls over every swell in the road, headlights barely cutting through the thickening fog. the air hums with the sound of cicadas, an endless chorus that follows them no matter where they go.
steve's hands rest heavy on the wheel, eyes set on the dark stretch of road ahead. every now and then, his eyes flick up from the road to the rear view mirror and scanning as if he half expects something to jump out of it.
one of bucky's legs is propped up on the dashboard, his hand hanging out of the open window, the cold air funnelling down his sleeve. his body practically slams into the car door after steve swerves around a large pothole, the entire vehicle jolting with a THUNK.
"jesus, steveâ" he grumbles, rubbing his ribs wgere they collided with the door, "you tryin' to kill us before mothman gets the chance to?"
"not my fault the road's getting shittier the further in we drive. it means we're close. hereâ theres a map in the glovebox that i've already labeled with the area." steve replies, squinting through the windshield as the impala rolls over another bump.
bucky leans over and pops it open, rummaging through a mess of papers, notepads, and old receipts. "you ever clean this thing out?"
steve doesn't reply and instead does a double-take at bucky's boot that digs into the dashboard, "and get your feet off of the dash. you're gonna get it all dirty."
bucky gives him a look, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards with a half-assed shrug. "this car's older than we are, rogers. think a little dirt's the least of its problems."
but he pulls his boot to the ground and pulls out the map of point pleasant. lo and behold, there was a red circle circling a patch of dense forest just outside of the town. next to it in steve's neat handwriting were notes: tnt area. three sightings here in the last week. extremely dense forest. possible nesting area?
bucky whistles low under his breath as he folds the map back up and places it onto the dash, "you really went all out on this one, huh? i don't remember you doing all this with the jersey devil."
steve shrugs, eyes set on the road, "last job, remember? figured we should do it right this time."
bucky hums in silent agreement. he leans over and pulls steve's notebook from the cup holder. it crinkles in his hand, the cover soft and worn from years of use. loose notes and small trinkets threaten to fall out from the edges, a measly strap holding it all in place. the thing's less of a notebook and more of a museum of their travels.
"so what are we thinkin?" bucky flips through steve's notebook, eyes wandering over the pages bookmarked mothman. he squints at one of steve's sketchesâ an anatomical nightmare of limbs and wings and glowing red eyes. "feathers? hair? whats that thing that moths secrete...? mucus? mucin?"
"meconium?" steve side-eyes bucky. "that usually happens after they've hatched from their cocoons. this thing's been around since the sixtiesâ i doubt we're getting any of that."
bucky raises his brows as an odd idea comes to mind. "well if the name fits, we could make a pretty penny out of his silk."
steve huffs out a short laugh, shaking his head as he shifts gears, "moth silk. right. maybe we could ask him if he can gift wrap it for us as well."
bucky sighs, unbothered, "collectors'll pay through the nose for authentic mothman paraphernalia. slap a fancy label on it, and we're looking at early retirement."
steve glances at bucky with a scoff, "you've been spending too much time talking to the wrong kind of dealers." he mutters, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice.
"yeah, well someone's gotta take care of our financials. don't know how much longer i can live off of burgers."
bucky can't help but run his thumb against the sketch, tracing the curve of its wing and the red of its eyes. the drawing is rough in true steve fashion, done in graphite and smudged by fingerprints, but there's something about it that feels almost aliveâ like if he stared at it for long enough, the thing might blink back.
the asphalt turns into gravel as steve turns the car. the further they drive into the forest, the more the road narrows and the tree branches threaten to scratch up the sides of the car until its headlights are swallows up by the dense brush. fog curls low on the ground, swallowing the tires and any visibility steve once had of the road.
the impala rolls over a tree root and lurches to the side. steve slows the car to a crawl. when he shuts the car off, the silence that follows is almost deafening. the cicadas are gone and so are any signs of civilisation. even the wind seems to have disappeared.
bucky opens his door and steps out, his boots sinking into the ground. the cold fall air rushes into the car, carrying the scent of pine and dirt. steve follows behind, closing the door quietly behind him.
bucky clicks his flashlight on, the beam doing a poor job at illuminating what lies ahead. "doesn't look like much."
steve pops open the trunk. inside is the familiar sight of their tradeâ nets, iron chains, crossbows, blades, silver bullets, and dozens of jars, both empty and full, labeled in steve's meticulous writing.
"it never does." steve murmurs as he slings a pre-packed bag over his shoulder. "you should know that by now."
bucky reaches in and pulls out another bag, along with a net gun.
steve clicks the flashlight on and the beam of light bounces off of something in the distance. the reflection of metal? eyes? who knows. it's gone before either of them can be sure.
the trunk clicks shut. bucky shoulders his back and glances at steve, "you ready?"
"yeah." steve straightens, "let's go find the mothman."
the two of them move through the forest, boots almost silent against the ground. the air is thick with fog that curls around their ankles and the smell of pine, a reminder of how deep in they are. the further in they go, the quieter it gets. steve can hear his own heartbeat against his chest and bucky's own breathing slows, a practiced action that comes from years of training himself not to make a sound when it mattered.
after a while, the terrain changes. the trees clear out and the area opens. there's a slight echo without the trees swallowing up the noise, feet heavy against grass and broken concrete. only a few paces ahead are large concrete domes that rise from the ground like sleeping giants, covered in moss and ivy and teenage graffiti.
it's silent, eerily so.
"well, would you look at that." bucky stops, flashlight flicking up to gaze at a large dome, ignoring the way his voice carries, "i'm guessing this is the mcclintic wildlife management area."
steve hums. "locals call it the tnt area. they used to store explosives and munitions here during the war."
"hell of a place for this thing to hide." bucky cocks his head.
"it doesn't hide in the shelters." steve's gaze lingers on the area ahead, the dense stretch of pine just beyond the clearing where the fog hangs heavy. "it hides in the trees."
the two men stand there a silent moment, simply listening. the winds shifts. somewhere, far off, comes a low humâ soft, almost human, like the sound of something moving through the fog.
"you hear that?" steve's pulse spikes, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. "i don't think we're alone."
"good." bucky says, pulling the gun from around his shoulder and pointing it towards the trees, "would've been a damn shame to have come all this way for nothin'."
there's a loud crack before a large branch plummets to the ground only a foot away from them. bucky jerks back with a curse, hand flying instinctively to the smaller knife strapped to his thigh.
"jesusâ" he hisses, glancing up.
steve flicks his wrist upwards, the light of his flashlight catching faintly on something high aboveâ two pinpricks of red staring straight back at him. then they blink out, swallowed by the dark. somewhere ahead, there's a rustleâ a thudâ something heavy leaping from one tree to another.
they break into a sprint as they follow the noise, ducking under low branches and weaving through the thick of the forest. the fog parts for them and the air is sharp and cold in their lungs.
"it's moving fastâ left side!" steve pants, flashlight jerking wildly in his hand as he attempts to catch up to it.
for a heartbeat, they catch sight of itâ massive wings like tattered leather flapping once before vanishing into shadow of another tree, the sound of talons in wood sharp and piercing as they chase the noise.
bucky spins, "it's to the rightâ no, up thereâ"
another rustle, heavier this time. leaves drift down from above like rain caught in the weak glow of their lights. the creature outruns them as best it can without its wings, darting between trees with a speed that shouldn't belong to something that big.
"why isn't it flying?" steve huffs out, breath coming out in white plumes.
"maybe it's hurt." bucky calls back, narrowly missing a rock in the ground, "maybe it's toying with us!"
something about this isn't right. steve feels it firstâ the unease that travels up the back of his neck, heavier than the fog and the forest that surrounds them. the mothman is one of the least documented creatures of all time. entire search parties have spent months in these woods looking for it. hunters from all over the world have come chasing the rumours, and every single one of them had come back empty handedâ if at all.
if it wanted to escape, it would haveâ so why hasn't it?
steve slows to a stop, chest heaving and eyes adjusting to the light from his flashlight. he clicks it off like the darkness might validate the suspicion that creeps into his veins.
"buck, stop."
bucky skids to a halt not even a second later, his breath ragged. he turns back towards steve, confusion etched on his face. "what?"
steve cuts bucky off by placing his pointer finger against his lips. he turns in a slow circle, the dim moonlight illuminating what he can't seeâ the shape of the trees, the moss that grows along them, the fog that feels thicker now, and the absence of the creature they had just been chasing.
"listen." he whispers.
there's no sound at all. no wind or trees moving, no rustle of animals or the huzz of insects. steve can't hear the crunch of dead leaves under his boots as he takes a step forwards and bucky can't hear the mechanical clinking of the weapon in his hand. they can barely hear their own breaths. there's nothing.
bucky twists on his heel. "nothing." he barely says. his voice sounds wrong in the silenceâ too loud and too sharp, like it doesn't belong there.
there's only that suffocating silenceâ until something cuts through it at first. it's quiet at first, almost too sharp for the normal human ear to pick up. a sound that seems to split the air itself. a high, piercing squeal. it's constant, thin, and higher-pitched than anything naturalc like metal grinding or the shriek of some wounded animalâ inhuman.
it's coming from behind them. not far at all. close enough that they can feel it in the marrow of their bones as it crawls through their bodies, ears peaking with instincts theyve honed from years of tracking the untraceable.
bucky closes his eyes, gun raised and ready. years of hunting, of reading subtle signs in the dark, kick in. he listens to the silenceâ not just for a sound, but for movement, for the faintest shift in the air, for the echo of weight on wood.
then, a faint, almost imperceptible squeal cuts through the stillness, and bucky opens his eyes. the barrel of his gun follows the sound, dissecting it as it chirpsâ quiet, sharp, close.
"right..." bucky whispers, barely moving his lips. "there."
he shifts slightly, body coiled like a spring, and fires the gun in one fluid motion. there's a whistle through the air, and then there's nothing but the fog, the rustle of leaves, the whisper of movement high up in the trees. then a soft thump somewhere ahead makes them both tense, ears straining.
steve flicks his flashlight back on, illuminating where they'd pinpointed the creature to be. he pans the light up, eyes widening at the large scratch marks dug into the bark of a pine branch, large and precise as if something massive had latched onto it.
steve idly traces the marks with his flashlight before turning to bucky. he reaches over to pull out a small knife from around his waist. "you think we got it?"
"you know i never miss." bucky shoulders his gun, glancing at steve before he pulls out his own flashlight, "if that thing's still up, then it's got more fight in it then we thought."
they move carefully through the brush, beams crossing as they scan the forest floor. the air is lighter now, but nothing erases the the tension that still sits heavy in their bones. every crack of a branch and every tread through the dirt feels like a whisper against the back of their necks.
the fog thins just enough for their flashlights to catch on something glistening aheadâ a flicker of silver against the darkness, the faintest shimmer of metal against cold dirt.
steve stops and barely signals to the patch of metal. "there."
they move closer, slow and steady, until a large outline takes formâ a tangled mess of a net draped over a black form on the forest floor, still trembling slightly under the weight that holds it down.
steve's flashlight steadies on the figure trapped under the net. it rises and falls with each ragged breath the creature takes, and the closer they get, the more details takes shapeâ razor sharp talons that peak out of the leaves below, twitching antenna under coarse rope, and massive wings with feathers that catch the light like oil on water.
but just underneath it all, there's a slither of skin, smooth and untouched by the grime and dirt that clings to everything else. soft. smooth. almost human. it hums a high-pitched vibration, a constant wavering note that raises the hair on the back of their necks so faint that they aren't sure if they're hearing it or feeling it.
steve takes a slow step closer. "buck..." he starts, but the word barely leaves his mouth before the creatures stirs.
it's large wings shift, feathers dragging through the dirt with a sound like silk tearing, and the skin that had once peaked out are tucked back under the mess of feathers and grime.
"jesus." bucky mutters half under his breath, "it'sâ"
before he can finish, it moves. a sudden, desperate rustle that cuts through the silence as the creature thrashes, wings flaring wide in a rushed motion. the net tightens around it, rope digging into the delicate place where it's wings connect to its body. it lets out a sharp, keening soundâ part human, part something else.
"shitâ" bucky curses, narrowly dodging the edge of its wing as it sweeps past him.
steve takes a tentative step back, the beam of his flashlight glazing over the heavy metal weights that hold it down. "it's trying to get up."
the creature struggles harder, trying to escape, but every attempt only pulls the rope tighter. its wings beat once and then twice with a force that sends leaves and twigs scattering, and then it falters. the sound that escapes it is broken, almost pained, before it collapses back to the ground.
"did you check whether the net'll hold?" steve asks, eyes darting between the creature and bucky.
"yeah, before we left pennsylvania." bucky briskly shakes his head, "wings are caught. it's not goin' anywhereâ"
but the creature moves again, this time with more forceâ one wing jerks free from the net, feathers flashing iridescent under the light before the chords yank it back down. the rope bites into feather and skin, and the mass lifts into the air.
steve grabs bucky by his jacket and yanks him back just as the creatures thrashes, the tips of it's wings cutting through the air where he had been standing just a moment ago.
the creature soars through the air, wings beating unevenly as it fights against the net, the weighted chords holding it down. it manages to lift a few feet off of the groundâ just enough to send a flurry of debris flying around the huntersâ before it veers sideways.
"buckyâ" steve shouts, ducking as the thing hurtles past them, the air whipping them in their faces.
it thrashes wildly as it tries to stay airborne, but the weight drags it off balance. one wing catches the low branch of a tree with a sickening crack, and the creature slams into the ground beside it the tree with a loud thud.
the next sound it makes is softer, brokenâ something between a gasp and a whisper, almost painedâ before its body gives out completely, collapsing back to the ground. the forest settles again, the stillness pressing in from all sides as the last echoes of the creature's struggle fade into the fog.
for a moment, neither of them move. their eyes scan over the still mass, checking for any signs of movement.
then steve exhales, slow and careful, and steps forwards, flashlight raised. "c'mon." he mutters, voice low but steady.
it's tangled badly now, half-cocooned in rope and torn netting, one wing hanging at an odd angle, the other bent and twitching faintly.
"shit." bucky mutters, crouching down beside it, breath visible in the cold air. "you think it's dead?"
"not sure." steve takes another tentative step closer, eyes scanning every inch of the creature, "be ready just in case."
"right. hold your light still."
steve shifts a little, angling the light down just as bucky reaches forwards and hooks two fingers underneath the net to lift itâ just enough to see.
for a moment, he can't make sense of what he's looking at. the creatures face is crouched and half-hidden in shadow, dirt and grime streaked across skin that looked similar to his own. there's hairâ dark and matted, tangled with leavesâ and then beneath all of it, a pair of eyes.
those eyes. the ones that had captivated theorists and cryptid hunters for decades, ones that had only been seen as ink dots amongst shadow on newspaper articles and web pages, ones that people had circled in big circles and called PROOF, ones that were now real and glowing bright red like burning coals under their gaze.
they glow faintly beneath the net and beneath bundles of hair, catching every breath that bucky takes. he's seen a lot of things in his life, but nothing like thisâ nothing that feels both impossible and yet so real.
only now, up close, bucky sees something else in them. wide, not with malice or anger, but with fear. they flicker beneath the mesh, catching the light of steve's flashlight like bloodied glass, and for the first time, the stories they've heardâ the monster, the omen, the cryptid that's haunted point pleasant for yearsâ doesn't line up with what's staring back at him.
it doesn't exactly share the animalistic facial features of any other creatures they've hunted in the past. no, this looked like a girl. soft human skin and parted human lips, an angled human nose and a sharp human jaw covered in dirt. the only thing that breaks the illusion is are the feathers that stick out from her skin that grow in uneven clusters along her collarbones and down the length of her body, and those burning red eyes that refuse to close.
she blinks back once, slow and uncertain, and bucky's grip on the net goes slack. he shifts closer, reaching out just enough to brush more of the net upwards for a better look.
the creature's head snaps towards him, a sharp noise tearing from its throatâa hiss? a squeak? it's not quite a scream or a growl, but something caught in between, raw and shrill. it echoes through the trees, so loud that it makes bucky freeze.
"easy, girl." he says quietly, voice no louder than a simple whisper, "we arent gonna hurt you."
the creature doesn't blink or move. she only stares, eyes flicking between their faces and the weapons strapped to them. a creature wrapped in its own demise, the fight bleeds out of her until all that's left is exhaustion. she looksâ bucky realises with a strange twist in his gutâ defeated.
she understands. she knows that she's caught and that whatever comes next could kill her. she knows that escape is futile.
every subtle breath pressed the chords of the net into her body. this is probably the first time she's ever felt the weight of humanity on her backâ the weight of fear and greed, of being hunted and stalked, of being wanted. once a whisper, the mothman was now just as real as the men who had managed to capture herâ pressed into the dirt, breathing the same air, and bleeding the same red.
bucky leans impossibly closer, the beam of his flashlight softening as he angles it away from her face. he lets the faint moonlight do what it can, spilling over the curve of her cheekbones, catching the dark strands of her hair and the sheen of the iridescent feathers that spill from her shoulders.
steve leans forward, a brow furrowed. "buckâ"
"s'alright, steve." bucky is quick to cut him off, his tone low. he doesnt look away from her, hand hovering just close enough to feel the trembling of her breath. "she's not gonna hurt us."
the words sound sure, but his heartbeat says otherwiseâ fast, uneven, and thudding against his ribs.
he feels brave enough to dip a finger under the net and swipeâ just onceâ along the curve of her jaw. her skin is warm, impossibly so, almost like she's burning from the inside out.
"you're a pretty little thing, aren't you? warm, too." bucky's hands linger against the softness of her cheek, pressing his fingers a little harder into the bone. "it's a shame you hide in the dark. something like you deserves to be seen by the entire world."
her breath hitches. the sound is smallâ startledâ and the feathers along her body bristle, shivering like they're alive and reacting to a feeling they've never felt before. her eyes burn red as they track his every movement, neck almost craning into his touch.
behind him, steve shifts his weight. "buck." he says again but softer this time, less warning and more out of disbelief.
"you wanna start documenting her?" bucky says over his shoulder, "sweet thing doesn't deserve to be sittin' under all of these chords any longer than she already has."
bucky inches closer, wary of any movement she could make. he readies himself to move the net for steve, fingers brushing the rough rope of the net, almost testing her reaction. when she doesn't react, he exhales softly.
but there isn't any noise other than the soft sound of his own breathing and the shrill chirping that comes from the creature only a few inches away.
steve isn't moving. bucky almost scoffs. they'd wrestled all sorts of cryptids both big and small, aggressive and docile, and suddenly he's freezing up over what's essentially a human with wings and feathers?
"she's not gonna bite, steve." he tosses over his shoulder.
steve exhales, reluctant but already reaching for the cryptid book in the pocket of his jacket. "just don't touch her any more than you have to."
"yeah." bucky mutters, ignoring the faint feeling of breathlessness he suddenly feels. "wasn't plannin' on it."
steve kneels beside them, flipping through the pages of his worn notebook until he reaches a blank sheet.
the first thing he notes is the smell that radiates off of herâ sweet and unusually tartâ unlike anything they've encountered before. it isn't the smell of damp rot of wood or the must of an animal; it's alive, clinging to the air around her like a cloying perfume.
he notes its pungency, the way it curls in the back of his throat and settles heavy in the pit of his chest. it's like honey the way it clings and refuses to fade, thick and golden and sickeningly sweet in a way that feels wrong among the dirt and the fog.
the next things he notes are what he can see. her wings and the junction at which they meet with her torsoâ massive in size and ragged at the ends, catching the moonlight in a way that can only be described as etherealâ the curve of her shoulders and the jagged feathers that grow from them, the soft skin the peeks out from underneath, her talonsâ long nails hardened into an obsidian-like sharpnessâ and he notes her overall form, a strange balance between human fragility and supernatural power.
bucky lifts the net just enough for steve to lean closerâ to get a closer look at the creature he'd been chasing for yearsâ and the eyes that stare back pull him closer.
steve pauses for a moment, eyes dragging from his page to her face, trying to capture the impossible combination of human and otherworldly with a pen and a simple piece of paper. the ink smudges under his heavy hand, his focus splintering as he studies her.
he's seen strange before, monstrous even, but never something that looks back at him with a face that could be mistaken for his own kind.
steve clears his throat, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. "can youâ uhâ pull it back? i need more of a visual on her torso and her face."
"you sure?" bucky glances at steve with a wary look.
"yeah. just... carefully."
bucky nods once. he grabs a hold of the net and tugs it an inch over her shoulder, watching as the rope brushes down her ruffled feathers. the creature tenses under his hands at the weight being liftedâ of the idea of freedomâ but when bucky leans closer to try and lift the net from her torso, a low sound escapes her throat.
but she doesnt lurch or strike. instead, she bares her teeth, sharp incisor fangs that poke out from her mouth like shards of pearl. it's pure primal instinct, a plea for space. the light catches on her teeth, then on the saliva that coats her trembling lips.
bucky's hand stills just over the dip of her collarbone, and for a moment, he swears he can feel the heat of her pulse beating underneath all of her strangeness.
"it's alright." he tells her, "we're not gonna hurt you."
her eyes, still burning bright red, finally blink. it's slow and deliberate, and the men aren't sure whether it's a warning or a sign of trust. her lashes brush against her cheek, teeth retreating as she opens her eyes again, the glow softening enough to make bucky hesitate.
she doesn't flinch when bucky removes more of the net. if anything, she relaxes underneath the tangled ropes, wings flattening out and her body slumping against the forest floor. she lets out a small chirp, and bucky takes it as permission.
he shifts the net lower, pulling it past the bend of her shoulders and down the expanse of her wings, the feathers catching the light and rippling all sorts of violets and blues against the darkness.
"there we go." bucky huffs, mostly to himself. he glances at steve, "you getting a good view?"
"it's perfect." steve breathlessly nods, already sketching and noting down as much as he can see, eyes darting between her and the page. "sheâs perfect."
and god, he means it. she's everything he's ever dreamt off and more. all of those years spent chasing dead ends and scanning through articles, every sleepless night and every failed hunt, all had led him hereâ to the living myth sprawled before himâ to her.
her demeanour changes. she isn't tense anymoreâ the trembling in her wings still and the muscles of her body soften. she almost leans closer, blinking slow with those curious glowing eyes like sheâs studying them now.
they take it as a sign of trust, a quiet surrender.
the scentâ that honeyed sweetnessâ grows heavier. it weaves through the fog, filling the space between them until it's all they can breathe.
steve's pulse hammers in his ears. the tip of his pen scratches awkwardly against the page, letters warbling into half-written illegible scribbles. the muscles in his arms tense unusually tight and the balls of his feet feel numb. he huffs out a breath and he blinks hard, but the fog in his mind doesn't clear.
one of her wing stretches out, still shy and trembling, but it catches the light as if to show them what she is. a faint, almost melodic humâ soft and strange and so beautifulâ buzzes through the air, amplifying when she presses her shoulder into bucky's touch.
steve swallows, throat dry. "you feelin' okay?"
bucky nods although he isn't really listening, and from a single look, steve can tell that bucky is far worse than he is. he's too busy watching the rise and fall of her chest, the way she cranes into his touch like he's warmth and she's been freezing, the way her eyes suck in all of the light and turn it into something else that seems to pulse in time with his own heartbeat.
he isn't sure if the heat blooming his chest is from how close she is or from something else entirelyâ something seeping through his skin and winding through his body like a drug.
he finds himself trailing his knuckles down the side of her face again, skin impossibly smooth and warm under his touch. she doesnt pull away. if anything, she leans closer, the movement small but so so deliberate, almost like she's encouraging him.
it's unnatural and dizzying, but neither of them can find a problem with it. their heads feel like and their limbs heavy, but the fog in their minds keep whispering that everything is fineâ normal, even. the warmth spreading underneath their skin feels good, feels earned after such a long chase.
they brush it off.
bucky slowly pulls the net from her body, unveiling more and more of the feathered creature below it. steve continues to write, his notes slanting with every passing moment.
the sketch on steve's page comes to life with every stroke of his pen. the wings on the page curl just as hers do and her feathers flare out with the same jagged style. it's so detailed, yet so incomplete. there's only so much he can illustrate when she's curled up in on herself, guarded and taut underneath the net.
steve swallows the lump in his throat, his eyes trailing upwards. her glowing eyes stare back at him, focusing all of her attention on him even though she leans into bucky's touch. there's an intelligence in her actions, a perceptiveness that makes her every move feel like a game.
had she always looked like that? so aware? so knowing?
a thought plagues steve's mind; that this is wrong. that maybe they'd been on the road for so long that they'd just forgotten what it felt like to be seen. to be looked at with intent, with a hunger that almost feels like affection. maybe they just hadn't been around anyone who had given them that kind of attention.
"is there any way you couldâ" steve blinks at his page, his eyes heavy. he lifts a hand to his face and wipes away at a droplet of sweat thats formed on his forehead, tongue darting out to swipe over his lips. "make her... open up?"
the question falls upon deaf ears. bucky seems to already be working on his request, the net falling down the side of her body, completely disregarded. they should be concerned that she might fly awayâ that she might take the chance to rid herself of such filthy humansâ but she isn't, and they don't think she will.
"you wanna open up for us, beautiful? wanna let stevey look atcha for a second?" he coos, hands already reaching for her, hands brushing along the curve of her wing where down turns to sinew.
she shifts beneath his touch, every small movement more of an invitation than obeying. her wings twitch open another inch, talons digging into the ground as she stabilises herself.
"that's it." bucky whispers, "good girl."
the scent grows stronger. it sticks to the back of their throats, warm and sticky, and it's getting harder to remember why they're here in the first place. the hunt, the chase, the proofâ all of it starts to blur.
bucky's too close to herâ too transfixedâ fingers still ghosting over her feathers like he can't bring himself to stop, and the glazed look in his eyes brings steve to a bitter realisation.
it's not some random fit of mass hysteria, nor is it just a case of fascination gone a little too far. its chemical. control.
"bucky, i thinkâ i think she's secreting some kind of chemical. a pheromone, maybe. it's..." steve shuts his eyes like it might help. "it's affecting us."
but the way his sentence dissolves at the end makes it sounds less like a warning and more like a shameful confessionâ an admission of defeatâ that whatever she's doing to them has already sunken so deep into their bones and curled around their minds.
for a moment, it almost looks like bucky snaps out of it. his hand recoils and his brows furrow, eyes flickering between her and steve like he's just realised how weird this is.
"that smellâ it's coming from her, isn't it?" bucky starts, voice rough with want, like its crawling its way out of his throat.
steve nods once, "i think so."
"jesus. it's so strong, i can taste it." bucky grimaces, but he can't ignore the way it curls around him like a warm embrace, sweet and cloying and impossible to resist. he shakes his head, "how do weâ" he swallows, "how do we get rid of it?"
steve doesn't answer right away. he can'tâ his throat feels tight and every word that he tries to push out comes out in a soft pant. his pulse thunders in his ears as his eyes trail back to the creature still sitting meekly against the base of the tree.
she's watching themâ really watching themâ the corners of her mouth twitching just slightly and head tilting unnaturally with a kind of amusement at the way they fall apart at the seams.
but she isn't running like the others do. this isn't the normal alarm pheromones or territorial pheromone that drives creatures like her to flee or fight. no, this is something elseâ something heavier and thicker, rolling off of her in waves that cloud their senses and any rational thought, and god, they're falling apart at her feet.
a small chirp falls from her lips with restrained delight when she realises something that neither of them have; theyâre the ones that have been caught. she's no longer prey. no longer afraid. no longer the strange, hunted thing cowering under their net.
steveâs mind scrambles for a solutionâ any research or any field notes, anything that can help the pounding in his chest. he can feel bucky's eyes burning into the side of his head, waiting for an answer, but his mind is a blur full of hazy faces and broken sentences.
he remembers the conversations from this week; in the motel lobby in pennsylvania with the sketchy receptionist, the brief brush with an officer in an overpriced supermarket in maryland, the quaint dinner this morning with the waitressâ
the diner.
the diner.
something clicks. the burning in his stomach, the pounding in his chest, the heat crawling up the back of his neck like a bad fever. the way that the intoxicating scent rolls off of her skin with every heartbeat.
"do you remember back at the diner... when the waitress said something about mating season?" steve exhales a shaky breath, "during mating season, animals usually secreteâ"
"a mating pheromone." bucky cuts him off, head hanging low. "and we've been breathing it in this entire time." he drags a hand down his face, skin igniting under the pressure. "how the hell do we get rid off it?"
steve shakes his head with a sudden heaviness in his body. "we can't exactly outrun it if it's already in the air. if it's affecting us this much, we might be too far gone."
"godâ" bucky lets out a breathy laugh, "first cryptid we catch that doesn't try to tear us apart and she's still gonna end up killin' us."
from where she sits, wings half-spread and eyes glowing bright red, the creatures hums low in her throatâ pleased.
bucky watches steve, vision unfocused and hands struggling to stay put on his legs. "so what, we just wait until it wears off?"
"i don't know." steve's brows furrow, the few working braincells he has left working overtime, "maybe distance would help. water, fresh air, maybe a cold shock to our systems might help slow the reaction. orâ"
the next words catch in his throat. the pen he'd cling onto for some sort of comfort slips from his grip and clatters uselessly into the dirt. there's a flicker of something in his expression, a slow, dawning realisation settling in the blue of his eyes.
"or what?" bucky's voice is low, almost rough.
the blonde's jaw clenches, eyes darting from bucky to the creature, who's still watching them both with that knowing patienceâ wings twitching, lips parted just slightly, and hands inching ever so slightly towards bucky's bootâ like she knows what he's about to say.
"or..." steve's voice drops to a whisper, the shame in it nearly lost between the rasp of his breath. "or we act on our urges."
the urges that tell them to move closer? to touch? to taste? the ones that crawl up from the pits of their stomachs and whisper that it wouldn't be wrong if sheâs the one calling to them, the one they lay their greedy hands upon, the one that opens herself up for them to indulge in.
the silence that follows feels heavier than the forest itself. the solution sounds simple, but it's far from it. acting on their urges would mean defiling herâ the very thing that hundreds of people have debated the existence of. it'd be turning discovery into desecration, turning the pure into something tainted.
but even though the idea should repulse them, it doesn't. it sits between them like something sacred and something holy all at onceâ blasphemy dressed as revelation. is it fair for them to want this? to need this? to give into urges that aren't entirely their own? or does intent stop mattering once desire takes overâ once something chemical rewires the body into believing that want and need are the same thing?
"we can't." bucky grits through his teeth, denial seeping out although every nerve in his body is screaming at him to just get closer. "that's crossing a line we'll never be able to come back from."
"i know. i know, but godâ" steve rasps, his knuckles digging into the ground to try and resist "i dont know how much longer i can do this."
but she movesâ just slightlyâ the tip of her wing reaching out to swipe gently over the curve of his shoulder with a weightless touch that sends a shiver down his spine. the contact is fleeting, but it's enough; enough to remind him how utterly captivated he is, and how there really only seems to be one solution.
bucky watches it happen like a mesmerised fool, hating the fact that he wishes she was touching him like that. "if that waitress was rightâ if this is some kind of mating seasonâ then wouldn't that mean that she feels the same way?"
steve's head turns towards bucky, pupils blown wide and his jaw tight. "what are you saying?"
"i'm sayingâ" bucky swallows hard, voice trembling between reason and need, "if she's the one realeasing the pheromone, then she's feeling it too. she wants this just as bad as we do."
the creature shifts again, slow and deliberate, her pupils dilating as her gaze drifts between them. the faint hum in her throat grows louder, vibrating through the air with a pulse that syncs with theirs.
"bucky..." steve warns, but his voice comes out softer than intended, almost pleading for him to take it back.
bucky leans closer to steve like his friend's warmth might ease the pressure in his chest, and it does for a moment before it only makes it worse, before the heat crawling under his skin sharpens. the smell of sweat and dirt and pine and her tangle together until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"you feel it too, don't you?" bucky murmurs, "she's calling to us. she needs us and we need her."
steve feels a pit of guilt and shame in the pit of his stomach.
this is wrong. she's inhumanâ a monsterâ and yes everything in him refuses to see her that way. she doesn't feel like a monsterâ not with the way her eyes soften when they meet his, or the way she tilts her head in curiosity.
but that makes it worse, doesn't it? because the more human she seems, the harder it is to remember what's rightâ to remember that they're supposed to be studying her, protecting her, not wanting her.
but then he gives in.
it happens slowly, like the final drop of water that tips the overflowing glassâ a tremor in his breath, a slight twitch in his fingers before he's moving towards her. every moral line he's drawn starts to blur, dissolving beneath the weight of that scent, that pull, that face. his hands find hers hegore he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the soft feathers on her wrist.
for a moment, there's no mission, no reason, no right or wrongâ only want and desire, only them alone in the woods, and only the thrum that pulses through them like a living thing.
"let's just think of it as documentation." steve tells bucky, the words shaky and half formed like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "studying the effects up close. observing behavioural responses during the reproductive phaseâ how pheromonal changes in a creature can affect those around it, and how it makes the creature itself feel... how she responds to potential mates."
his voice falters at the end, the scientific facade giving him something to cling toâ a reason that isn't pure, desperate want.
âfor science, right?â bucky mutters though his voice is rough around the edges. it sounds less like a joke and more like a plea for forgivenessâ either from steve, himself, or from her.
âfor science.â steve echoes.
bucky reaches forwards to brush against the feathers of her wing, the sensation causing a chain reaction of flickering feathers down the length of it. he gently pulls it back and reveals her torsoâ sleek with iridescent feathers and glistening under their eyes.
steve mirrors him, his notebook dropping to the floor beside him, hands flicking over her waist and up to the side of her ribcage as if tracing every impossible curve of her body, mapping feather to skin, human to something otherworldly.
every touch is tentative and curious yet drawn by the magnetic pull of her presence. she shifts under their touch, leaning into steveâs palm and buckyâs fingers, talons settling into the dirt as if grounding herself while letting them explore. her wings expand like a canopy, almost sheltering steve and bucky from the rest of the forest and pulling them into their very own bubble of warmth and desire.
bucky follows steveâs lead and runs a hand across her stomach and travels upwards towards her chest. his fingers graze against a the underside of somethingâ her breastâ and a shaky breath leaves him. his hand crawls up, cupping and palming at the soft mounds of flesh that sit hidden under feather and down, her heartbeat a soft flutter against his palms.
the creature lets out a long whine, almost a purr, and it sends the men shuddering.
âfuck.â bucky mutters under his breath, brows creasing with shame even though his hands move with such admiration. âwe should just get it over withâ make it quick and get out of here.â
steve nods, but itâs a hollow movement, almost mechanical. he doesnt want to spend any longer out here defiling one of natures biggest mysteries, but sheâs so warm and willing under his touch that he canât possibly deny it anymore.
he slides a hand down from her waist to the space in between her thigh where the thicker feathers thin out and are replaced by soft down, the place where the sweet scent is the strongest.
she watches with wide unblinking eyes, curiosity glimmering under her unwavering gaze. thereâs no fear or hesitation; only willingness, an acceptance in the way she opens herself up for bucky to palm at her breasts and for steve to explore lower.
steve pulls her legs apart and the sight that meets him is otherworldly. hidden under a bundle of soft black downâ so wet and so slick and so sweetâ sits a pretty pussy clenching around nothing. the sight is enough to make his breath catch, hands spreading her legs apart even more just to watch it glow under the weak moonlight.
"god, sheâs soaked." bucky says breathlessly, his mouth pathetically hung open as he watches steve pull her open, âpretty little thingâs probably never been touched like this before.â
steve hums in agreement. his hand hovers over her cunt as if testing her reaction, and when heâs met with a slight thrust of her hips, he finally give in. his finger slips past the soft heat of her entrance, pushing in until he feels her clench around him with a high pitched whine.
her head falls back against the tree and bucky takes the chance to press an open mouthed kiss against her neck. his tongue presses flat against her throat, lapping the space where her soft skin fades into feathers like he's trying to taste the pheromone's straight from the sourceâ like he's trying to understand why every breath she takes makes his body burn hotter.
one of steve's hands sits firmly on her hip, fingers digging into the flesh underneath the feathers. the other glides in and out of her pussy with a slow rhythm guided by instinct more than rhythm. every chirp that leaves her mouth only fuels him, his fingertips dragging along the sides of her walls like he's trying to find something that'll draw more soft sounds out of her.
bucky nips at her jaw, just barely shifting himself so that he's seated behind her. his hand slinks back to one of her breasts, the other trailing down to her core. he presses the pad of his finger against her swollen clit and relishes in the whine she lets out.
the sensation is too much for her. with steve's fingers pumping into her and bucky's slow movements against
"y'think she likes it?" steve asks bucky, eyes flickering upwards for some sort of reassurance.
his fingers drag against a spongy spot that makes her writhe in bucky's arms, letting out a long, shivering whine. her wings expand and her feathers quiver, every little movement and sound translating her pleasure into a languge they don't need words to understand.
bucky lets out a breathy laugh, but it trails into a moan when she grinds back against him, "i think she needed this more than we did. gorgeous girl's practically melting in my arms."
she responds to it with a chirpâ a low sound that vibrates through all of their bodies.
steve wants to take his time making her feel goodâ wants to drag out all of those pretty whines and chirps that nobody else will ever have the pleasure of hearingâ but god, his pants have gotten so incredibly tight and he can't bear spending another minute anywhere but inside of her.
"i can'tâ" steve pants, fingers already fidgeting with his belt.
he throws his belt to the ground with little care and tugs his jeans down. his cock leaps from the straining fabric and softly smacks against his stomach, the tip already red and leaking and begging for her cunt. he strokes himself once before lining himself up with her entrance.
the head of his cock barely presses into her before she's rocking down onto him with an impatient sound. steve finally presses in, and the stretch is euphoric. he doubles over with his head falling forwards, large arms bracing himself on either side of her as he presses further in with a ragged moan.
she lets out a cry that splits the quiet, loud enough to echo through a forest that swallows every other sound, her body swallowing steve's dick like its all she needs. her hands drag up his back, talons threatening to pierce the fabric.
bucky cups a hand around her mouth to try and stifle the sound, but the sound continues to leak through his fingersâ muffled, shaky, and completely and utterly desperate.
"shhh. i know it feels good but you gotta be quiet. can't let any of those other hunters know where we are." bucky whispers, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. "who knows what'll happen if they see you like this? they might think you want more, and they won't be as forgiving as we are."
her mouth opens against his palmâ not in submission, but something stranger. her tongue flicks out once, gliding against the salty skin. she reaches up and grabs a hold of bucky's arm, pulling it down and sinking her teeth into the side of his hand. he can feel her fangs pierce his skin, feels the warm blood trailing down his wrist, and through it all, she humsâ a low sound that thrums through his bones.
its not out of harm, but out of stability. her teeth press deep enough to anchor herself, to soothe her trembling body, and bucky doesn't mind it. he lets out a soft breath, letting her weight and hold ground him just as much as it does her.
steve pushes in until he bottoms out, the soft down that covers her sweet spot tickling the soft skin of his lower stomach. the tip of his cock brushes against something soft, and he grinds up to try and press against it.
"god, shes so fucking tight." steve shudders as she clenches around him. "so, so, perfect for meâ made for my cock, aren't you, pretty girl?"
steve isnt sure if the pheromones are affecting him or if she really feels this goodâ better than anyone he's ever been with before. his nerves are on fire and every bone in his body trembles under the weight of his want, every inch of her soft body feeling like it's dragging him deeper until he's stripped of everything that makes him a civilised man.
he struggles to hold backâto keep himself from losing himself in the soft rhythm he's set with his hips, from the primal pull that sinks its claws into himâ his hips stuttering before he catches his breath. he pulls out until the head of his cock is kissing her folds and glides back in with an obscene squelching noise, a loud groan ripping from his throat.
"fuckâ i don't think she's ever taken cock before, buck." steve rasps with an dazed, amused smile, "she's squeezing me like a fuckin' vice."
she digs her talons deeper into steve's back, nails stabbing through the leather of his jacket and pressing into muscular flesh underneath. the hand between her teeth pulses with warmth, blood trickling down the sides of her mouth that mixes with the sheen of her feathers.
steve's fingers dig into the plush of her thighs as he drives into her, watching the way his cock dips in and out of her pussy.
from behind her, bucky twitches with impatience. he watches steve fuck her with a vicarious jealousy, eyes glazing over the way she trembles and grinds against his clothed dick. why should he have to wait?
"take her." he says, voice firm as he pulls his bloodied hand from her mouth. he's met with little argument from the creature, her tongue flicking out to lick the blood that seeps down the corners of her mouth.
steve's pace falters for a moment, brows creasing. "what?"
the words barely register in his head before bucky's sitting her up and placing her gently in steve's arms, the creature grabbing and clinging onto him as gravity pushes her further onto his cock. they both let out droning breaths as their chests press against each other, heartbeats syncing.
"just hold onto her for a second." bucky tells steve with a soft grin on his face, already tugging down his own pants. "can't let you have all the fun, can i?"
his jeans puddle to his knees, his length hitting his lower stomach, flushed and already leaking. he wastes no time in wrapping a hand around the base and pumping once, then twice, one hand steadying himself on the feathery flesh of her hip. he presses the tip of his cock against her puckered hole, relishing in the small squeal she lets out when he presses in.
"c'mon, pretty thing. you wanted this, didn't you? you can take it." bucky murmurs from behind her, eyes falling shut with every sloppy movement she makes.
she clings hopelessly to steve as he guides her up and down by her hips. he lifts her with ease, her small frame nothing compared to him. with bucky pressing against her ass, and steve's cock dragging in and out of her, her heavy head collapses onto steve's shoulder.
"you're gonna break her, bucky." steve grits through his teeth.
"she'll be fine." bucky says. his dick pushes into the tight ring of muscle until the head disappears, a groan escaping him. "see? she's already taking me so well."
the fullness pushes her further into steve's chest, nails digging into his back and tearing up his jacket with a rough scratch. she trembles against him, wings fluttering in erratic bursts. she presses her face into steve's neck, her tongue dragging over the skin before she leans in and bites into the flesh. her fangs sink into the muscle beneath with a low, rumbling breath from steve. its grounding, a desperate attempt to find solace while the sensations threaten to tear her apart.
bucky presses further in, watching himself sink further and further into her until he's buried to the hilt. he bottoms out with a breathy moan, head tipping back as he tries to hold himself back from coming undone right thereâ the tightness, the heat, the way she clenches around him almost too much to bear. he can feel steve's dick pressing against his through the thin piece of muscle that seperated them and that certainly doesn't help.
and when bucky slidss out and presses back in, the two start moving in a mirrored rhythm, seamless yet staggeredâ a rhythm that makes the creature melt into a ball of lit nerves. a wrecked chirp leaves her mouth, muffled only by the warmth of steve's neck. she licks at the blood that seeps from his wounds like it's the sweetest nectar she's ever tasted.
the messy arrangement of flesh, feathers and wings much too large for this position is oddly natural in this moment of chaos. their rhythms are born of instinct and primal desire, yet the gentle press of their fingers and the careful guidance of their hands brings a sense of humanity to a moment that should be nothing but selfish, animalistic hunger.
bucky grabs a hold of her torso, allowing steve to shift his weight and angle himself differently, his cock brushes against her walls with a force that feels like it could bruise.
"gonna take something from youâ something priceless. something meant just for us." bucky pants against the skin of her neck, "might even take you home with us. it's be a shame to let a pretty thing like you slip through our fingers."
but even though the words slip from bucky's mouth like a promise, they know they can't. she's a creature of the forest and hills, the sky and the moon. she don't belong where they doâ stuffed in a cramped apartment surrounded by concrete and bad microwaved meals, confined to a world that would never understand her.
"you deserve to be seenâ to be appreciated for what you are." steve says in a breathy voice, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten with every harsh thrust, "not a trophy... or a secret... or something in a cage. god, nobody should try to own youâ not like this. not after us."
but she chirpsâ a soft, high pitched trill that vibrates through their chests. she presses a warm hand against steve's jaw, eyes so wide and full of life, luminous, like she understands every word and every good intention, every promise woven through their voices.
her soft hands brush through the hair of steve's beard, tugging softly like she's testing something, but the sensation of it has steve doubling over, head hanging just shy of her shoulder, his breath catching in his chest.
steve shudders. "fuck, i think im gonnaâ"
"cum in her." bucky quickly cuts him off, feeling his own orgasm creep up on him with every thrust, eyes dark as he watches steve falter.
"this couldâ" steve pauses, his thrusts growing sloppier, chest heaving as he fights the growing pressure in his lower stomach. "throw off her entire biologyâ everything she's evolved to survive could collapse."
bucky wants to roll his eyes, but he catches his lip inbetween his teeth instead, smoothing down the hair on the creature's head.
"that's what this was all for, isn't it? for a swollen belly full of cum and babies. she wants it, stevieâ needs it. you can't deny her now after all of this."
and steve truly can'tâ not after all of this. not after he dropped to his knees and chose to defile one of nature's purest creations. not after pulling her into an act so primal and irreversible. not after the warmth and the surrender in her eyes. not after giving in.
with a final thrust, steve spills into her with a low groan, heat and taut nerves burning through him like electricity. her soft, yielding form clamps down around him, a high vibrating trill escaping into the cold night air.
bucky follows behind not long after, hips trembling with the same desperate rhythm, burying himself to the hilt before he empties inside of her with a ragged moan.
the forest goes silent as she tightens around him, her holes milking the men for all they have; making sure the seed sticks. her body shakes, eyes clenching shut as she grinds herself down on the two men still stuffed inside of her.
"look at her." bucky hums with a fucked-out smile, a hand tracing a line down her spine. "pretty thing's cummin' on our cocks."
steve's mouth falls into a pathetic 'o', the sensation of her fucking herself on his dickâ much too desperate and much too rawâ too much for him to handle. "fuck, fuckâ"
the droning whine that vibrates through the air is almost melodicâ part moan, part songâ something heavenly that makes the hairs on the back of their necks stand, the sound of an orgasm crashing over her. they feel her gush, her slick dripping down and coating their lower bodies with a damp sheen.
and when they finally pull out, something catches their eye. it connects them to her; a slimy, stringy substanceâ silk.
bucky lets out an amused laugh, "well, would you look at that."
steve grins. "i should've expected a moth-like creature to create silk. just didn't think it would be like this."
steve is the first to reach down and collect it. he swipes it off of the side of his softening cock, the string sticking to the wetness of his fingers. it glistens under the moonlight as bucky twirls it around his fingers. he marvels at the way it stretches out of you, tough in the way that only something born of the wild could beâ elastic yet unbreakable, a testament to the strange biology that defines her.
steve glances at bucky, pulling his pants up. "do you have a jar?"
bucky leans over and pulls at his discarded bag, an unlabelled jar slipping past the zipper and into his hands. he passes it to steve, the blonde makes quick work of wrapping it around his forefinger and middle fingers with precision and ease.
they take what they can, making sure not to hurt her; although the creature doesn't seem to mind, leaning back in her dazed state and watching with those wide, unblinking eyes as they take their souvenir.
once the jar is full, steve shuts it with a soft click, holding it with a the reverence of a pirate and his treasure under the sliver of moonlight.
"that's the last one." steve hands the har to bucky, who slides it into the safety of his bag.
steve nods with a small hum. "and it was a good one."
but before they could turn backâ before they can say goodbyeâ she had vanished. in the distance, the sound of wings cutting through the wind echo throughout the thin clearing of the woods, carrying a grace thats almost cruel in its beauty.
the last they see of her are two pin pricks of red against the dark night sky, and with them, the last tangible trace of a creature once uncaptured by man, the last trace of a moment shared between nature and its destroyer, now lingering only in the ache of a memory.
the truck back to the car is quiet, and one the car doors shut, they find that the air feels heavier than beforeâ thick with the aftermath of what had happened and what would become of it. their chests still ache with the pressure of her body and their wounds still weep blood and exudate, the memory of her surrounding them even though she's long gone.
bucky glances towards steve, a moment of clarity seeping into his bones like a slow-burning truth. "are we telling people we fucked mothman?"
steve doesnt even turn to look at bucky before he sticks his keys into the ignition, the car engine humming to life. "no."
 ÝÝâ pairings: Bucky Barnes x MD!reader x Retired!Steve Rogers
 ÝÝâ themes: Love Triangle, Heavy Pining, Romcom, Jealousy, Crude Humor, Friends-To-Lovers, Eventual Smut, Dating Life, Swoon Worthy, Post New Avengers, Includes medical scenes (not graphic), Endearment (Sunshine). No use of y/n. Stucky POVs in 1st Person.
 ÝÝâ summary: After surviving a night being a 7th wheel, you lay in bed and it might've been your lonliness talking but you asked any higher being for a few choices of men to choose from.
Author's Note: No set plot for this one, I write as I go, let the characters do whatever the hell they want lol. Trying hard not to have reader descriptors but if I do, hopefully it's vague enough.
If hell had a table, it would be this one: seven chairs filled, eight plates set, and youâthe only person without someoneâs hand on your thigh.
You were supposed to bring Dean tonight. Keyword: supposed to.
Instead, youâre sitting between three couples, stirring the ice in your gin, while everyone else giggles and feeds each other bites of overpriced pasta.
The restaurant is all amber light and soft jazzâthe kind of place designed for people who still believe in soulmates.Â
You look around and realize youâve somehow wandered into a Noahâs Ark situation. Every living organism came in pairs.
You? Youâre the 7th wheel. A cosmic spare tire at a dinner meant for couples.
Across from you, Lexieâs boyfriend tucks her hair behind her ear like theyâre in a toothpaste commercial. To your left, Matt and Olivia are whispering-laughing into each otherâs shoulders. You wonder if they even remember you exist.
The waiter drops off a bottle of wine.Â
âFor the table,â he says cheerfully. The tableâall seven of you. You resist the urge to tell him you only count as half a person tonight.
You tip your glass back, the gin burning clean through your chest.
Dean broke up with you six hours ago.
He waited until after you ordered to say, âI just think weâre in different places emotionally.â
Translation: You have ambition, and I find that inconvenient.
Youâd blinked at him, fork hovering midair, while he kept talkingâsomething about how he âneeded more easeâ in his life, as if dating you were a form of cardio. Dean always did love the sound of his own victimhood.
You didnât cry. You just finished your meal, paid the bill, and left. Quietly. Dignified. Furious.
And now, here you are, eating tagliatelle with six people who donât know how to stop touching each other.
Lexie leans in, her face glowing with that dangerous ânew relationshipâ softness. âYou okay?â
You stab your pasta. âDefine okay.â
âI mean⌠I know tonight probably isnât ideal.â
âLex,â you interrupt, âIâm at a table where every person has a plus-one except me. I am literally the human version of a loose charger cable.â
She winces. âYou didnât have to come, if yâknow.â
âDidnât I?â you say, sipping your drink. âMaybe I just wanted excuse to drink.â
She laughs weakly. The others donât even look up, âLook Iâm sorry for what happened with Deanâif you bailed we wouldâve understood, yâknow?â
âYeah I know.â You catch sight of your reflection in the restaurant windowâtired eyes, good hair, fake smileâand almost laugh. You look like someone auditioning for composure.
The waiter swings by again. âAnother round?â
You lift your empty glass without hesitation. âPlease. Iâm competing with public displays of affection.â
He laughs, low and warm. You look upâand freeze. Dark hair, pretty eyes, thick brows, that unfairly tall nose. The kind of face that makes you forget what you were complaining about.Â
Yeah you had a type. . .so what?
He tilts his head, smirking just a little. âThen we better keep you armed, huh?â
You blink, slow. âArmed?â
âWith alcohol,â he says easily. âCanât have you losing the fight.â
A laugh escapes before you can stop it. âYou saying I look like Iâm losing?â
He leans slightly closer as he pours into your glass. âNot yet.â
Then he walks away, leaving you staring at the back of his head, thinkingâgreat, even my coping mechanisms are flirting with me now.
By dessert, the couples are deep in the kind of lazy conversation that only comes from comfort. You sit back, feeling like the background character in someone elseâs happy montage.
Dean was supposed to be here. You were supposed to be laughing, too. But instead, youâre swirling your alcohol, pretending not to notice how loud silence feels when youâre the only one without someone to fill it.
You exhale slowly and glance around the tableâlove, laughter, intertwined fingers. You force a smile.
You think, God, I love love.
Then you drain your drink and add silently, Preferably not when itâs happening to someone else.
Ă Ă Ă ĂÂ
The Uber driver told you to âhave a good night,â and you almost laughed in his face. Sure, if face-planting into your own emotional rock bottom counts as a good night, then yeahâten out of ten.
You thank him anyway, step out into the quiet glow of your apartment building, and instantly feel that ache againâthe one that sits somewhere between your ribs and your pride. Everyone else tonight got to go home with someone. You got to go home with your empty penthouse and the faint smell of heartbreak.
The elevator hums. The hallwayâs too still. You fish out your keycard with the reflexes of someone running on caffeine.Â
The moment the door clicks open, your brain switches to autopilot: shoes off, bra off, dignity offâsame routine.
Except tonight, your heel boots have decided to commit murder.
One tug, two, andâwhump.
Face, meet Floor.
You lie there for a second, cheek mashed against the hardwood, one sneaker halfway off.Â
âOw,â you whisper, voice small and pathetic even to your own ears. âFuck.â
You donât move. You justâŚexist in your defeat for a full three seconds, staring at a dust bunny that looks like itâs judging you.
And then, slowly, you start laughingâa quiet, exhausted laughter that makes your chest ache. Because this is so you.Â
Twenties, single, a doctor who literally saves lives for a living, and somehow your biggest injury tonight came from your own footwear.
At least, you think with relief, no oneâs here to witness your tragic downfall.
James isnât home.
Heâs never home when heâs on âmissionsââhe disappears for days at a time, off saving the world and being the kind of hero that makes the rest of humanity look underachieving.Â
But when heâs off, heâs here. All day. All night. Lounging on the couch with his Playstation controllerâbecause apparently 110 year old supersoldiers also enjoy gamesâwearing those gray sweats that should be classified as criminal.
James Buchanan Barnes. Your roommate. Your problem.
Heâs also the reason none of your exes ever lasted longer than an avocado.
Theyâd come over, see six-foot-three of pure supersoldier beef in your kitchen, and immediately start sweating like liars in church.Â
Every single one of them asked, âSo you two ever⌠yâknowâŚfuck?â with that nervous laugh that meant they knew exactly what Bucky looked like and hated it.
Youâd always look horrified. âHeâs my roommate.â
But God, you get it. Because James Barnes is a hot motherfucker. Thereâs just no other way to put it.
Tall, jacked, shoulders like he could lift a burning buildingâand probably has. Dark-chocolate hair thatâs always a little messy in the âI donât care but it worksâ way, a jawline that could cut glass, and those blue eyes that look like someone melted every bad decision youâve ever made and poured it into one man.
And donât even get you started on the stubble. That neatly trimmed, annoyingly perfect stubble. Like, sir, this is a shared living space, not a romance novel cover shoot.
You own this penthouse, technically. There used to be three of youârotation of med-school buddiesâbut theyâve all moved on.Â
James was the last one standing. Somehow, he justâŚstayed. And you didnât complain. He pays you on time, keeps the place clean, and fixes your sink like some kind of domestic demigod.
Still, your motherâs never met him. And thank the Lord for that.
Because if your mother ever laid eyes on James Barnes, sheâd combust. The womanâs been campaigning for grandkids since you turned twenty. She calls your cat âa placeholder.â She once mailed you a baby onesie that said My Mom Works in the ERâMy Dadâs a Mystery.
If she saw James? Itâd be over. Sheâd order wedding invitations before you could even say prenup.
You push yourself up off the floor with a groan, brushing off your jeans, ready to crawl into bed and let the night die in peace. You flick the light switchâ
âand nearly die instead.
Because standing in the kitchen, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the fridge, is Bucky Barnes in all his six-footer glory, barefoot and shirtless, holding a spoon and a jar of peanut butter like itâs the Holy Grail.
You yelp, heart leaping into your throat. âJesusâBucky!â
He jumps too, spoon mid-air. âWhat the hell, doc, you scared me!â
âI scared you?â you hiss, clutching your chest. âI thought you werenât home!â
He blinks, looking genuinely confused. âGot back early. I couldn't sleep. I needed a snack.â
He sets the jar down and you spot itâfaint yellowing at the edge of his ribs, a bruise the color of old violets. Heâs angled like he forgot itâs visible.
âPeanut butter helps with insomnia now?â you ask.
âI donât know,â he says, not looking at the bruise. When he does look at you, he flips the spoon and sets it aside.
You stare at him, still half-bent over from the near-death experience, and mutter, âGreat. Because nothing says bedtime snack like a full-body heart attack.â
He grins. âSorry. You okay?â
You straighten, attempting dignity while your cheek still hurts from your graceful fall. âFine. Totally fine. Justâtesting gravity. Works great.â
âMaking friends with the floor, I see.â He chuckles, low and warm, then scoops another spoonful of peanut butter. âWant some?â
You eye him.Â
âNo,â you say, crossing your arms. âBut thanks for asking, roommate who should really announce his presence like a normal human being.â
âNext time Iâll leave a sweet note on the fridge,â he teases.Â
âUnbelievable,â you mutter under your breath, trudging toward the counter, but your traitor of a body decides it wants to sit instead of storming dramatically to your room. You plop down on one of the barstools, dropping your bag with a thud.
Bucky raises a brow as he leans against the counter. âRough night?â
You squint at him. âWhat gave it away? The tripping or the existential despair radiating off me?â
He smirks. âYouâve been drinking?â
You press a hand to your chest, mock-offended. âAre you accusing me of being drunk, Sergeant Buzzkill?â
âWrong branch, sweetheart. But yeahâmaybe.â His grin widens. âYouâre walking a little bit like an ice skating newbie.â
You glance at your reflection in the microwave. Heâs not wrong. You look like a woman who fought a bathroom mirror and lost.
âFine,â you sigh, dropping onto a stool. âMaybe Iâm a little tipsy. Blame my existential crisis.â You pause, dramatic. âAlso, It was a couplesâ summit. I was the sad keynote speaker.â
Bucky chuckles, low and rough in his chest. âThat bad?â
âOh, it was delightful,â you deadpan. âNothing like being surrounded by people swapping spit over food. I felt like a ghost haunting happy relationships.â
He laughs, licking peanut butter off the spoon. âSounds romantic.â
âYeah, if youâre into emotional masochism.â You groan. âThey were talking mortgages, honeymoon spots, and joint Costco cards, and Iâm sitting there wondering if itâs too early to start hoarding cats.â
âCats, huh?â He drops the spoon in the sink, wiping his hand on a towel. âSoâsingle again?â
You shoot him a glare. âWow. Straight for the jugular.â
He shrugs, unapologetic. âYou brought up cats and complained about couples. Connect the dots.â
You collapse forward onto the counter dramatically. âYes, I am single. Again. Alert the presses. Nation mourns.â
âSorry to hear that,â he says, but his eyes are glinting, not sorry at all.
You peek up at him. âYou donât look that sorry.â
âI meanâŚâ His mouth twitches. âThe guy was a moron anyway.â
You raise a brow. âYou never even met him.â
âDidnât need to,â he says simply. âAnyone dumb enough to dump you should be under medical observation.â
You blink, thrown. âYou flirting or diagnosing?â
He grins. âHm, both?â
You snort, shaking your head. âYouâre full of shit.â
âMaybe. But Iâm also right.â
You hate that your stomach flips at that. You hate even more that he notices.
âAnyway,â you mumble, grabbing the peanut butter like itâs a prop. âI think Iâm done dating for a while. Gonna focus on my career. Maybe adopt a fern. Less maintenance.â
He leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. âYou said that after the last breakup.â
You narrow your eyes. âDonât analyze me, Barnes. Iâm the one with the medical degree here.â
âYeah?â He tilts his head. âSo, Doctorâwhatâs your professional opinion on yourself?â
You pretend to think. âChronic bad taste in men. Probably terminal. Recommend wine and poor decisions as treatment.â
He laughs outrightâfull, genuine, head tipped back. It warms the whole damn room.
âHey,â he says, after a beat, quieter now. âFor what itâs worth, youâll be fine.â
You look at him, and everything slows.
You clear your throat, deflecting before you can drown in it. âYeah, yeah. Iâm indestructible. Now if youâll excuse me, Iâm gonna go pass out before gravity finishes me off.â
He slides the jar toward you with a grin. âNo midnight snack?â
You eye it. âIf I eat peanut butter drunk, Iâll choke and die, and youâll have to call my mom. So no, thanks.â
He smirks. âIâll save you some for breakfast, then.â
âGoodnight, Dracula.â
âNight, Sunshine.â
Ă Ă Ă Ă
You leave the kitchen with a soft and reluctant smile, feeling a little lighter than when you walked in.
Just as you close your bedroom door, you mutter under your breath, âSunshine.â
The word tastes like a secret between you two â a little joke that stuck.
Bucky had given you that nickname months ago because you hate the dark. The man could sleep in total blackout; you, on the other hand, lit up the apartment like it was a runway. Lamps on, fairy lights twinkling, hallway light blazing. You didnât even flinch at the power bill.
It started as a mockery.
Youâd scolded him once for closing all the blinds on a Saturday morning. âThis place looks like a vampireâs cave,â youâd complained, marching around opening them one by one.
âFine,â heâd said, squinting at the sunlight and surrendering with a smirk. âIâll open them up next time, Sunshine.â
Youâd thrown a pillow at him. Heâd caught itâlaughing.
But the next morning, when you stumbled out of your room in mismatched pajamas and messy hair, still half-asleep, heâd greeted you from the kitchen with a mug of coffee in hand.
âMorninâ, Sunshine.â
Youâd squinted at him, bleary and suspicious. âYouâre mocking me.â
You flipped him off and he laughed hard. And for reasons you still couldnât explain, it stuck.
You started calling him Dracula in returnâbecause the man genuinely thrived in pitch-black rooms and disappeared for days on missions like he had a coffin somewhere with his name on it.
He always rolled his eyes, muttering about your horror-movie addiction, but youâd seen the twitch of his mouth when you said it.
You wash off your makeup, swap jeans for your softest T-shirt and those shorts that barely count as clothing. The second your face hits the pillow, youâre ready to sleep for a week.
Exceptâapparently, your brain didnât get the memo.
Why is it that the second you touch the bed, sleep just packs up its bags and leaves? Like, sure, you were five seconds from unconsciousness earlier, but now? Now you're fully alert.
You groan, flip onto your back, grab your phone, and do what any reasonable adult would at this hour: doom scroll.
Your feedâs an unholy mix of medical memes and cringe content to torture yourself with. Someoneâs pretending to code a patient using ketchup packets; another clip shows a guy in scrubs dancing beside an IV pole. You snort so hard you almost drop the phone to your face.
Then comes the thirst traps. Thereâs always a guy in tactical gear, mask up, eyes down, fitted shirts, veins doing unspeakable things.
You roll your eyesâmostly at yourself. âYeah, sure, post-op thirst trap for morale,â you mumble, double-tapping anyway.
Someoneâs comment reads, Men are statistically hotter with their faces covered.
You laugh out loud. âPreach.â
Then another videoâblack tactical gear, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing, veins popping.
You pause, grin slipping into a sigh. If anyone ever saw your âlikesâ tab, youâd have to flee the country. You toss the phone onto your stomach and stare at the ceiling until the screen light fades. The room softens. So does the day.
Your eyelids get heavy, the quiet wrapping around you like a blanket.
And just before sleep drags you under, your last half-awake thought floats upâlazy, a little pathetic, a little hopeful.
Please, you think, send me a decent man. Hell, send me a few so I can pick. Iâm tired of dating audition rejects and third-wheeling through life. Throw me a bone, Universe.
You yawn, roll onto your side, and pass out mid-grumble.
ElsewhereâBeyond the Veil of Mortals
In the vast, shimmering expanse between galaxies, the One Above All looks up from a stack of glowing cosmic paperwork.
âHmm,â the being murmurs, tilting their head. âShe wants a man.â
A second figure drifts closerâancient, radiant, eternally unimpressed. âAre you sure about that? The last time you granted a love request, it caused a nine-planet entanglement.â
The One Above All waves a hand dismissively, a ripple of light rolling through the void.Â
âShe wants a man,â they repeat, eyes gleaming with mischief. âA man she gets.â
They pause, then grin faintly.
ââŚwait no, correction, men.â
Ă Ă Ă Ă
Your least favorite corner of the ER was Fast Track Care.
Three doctors. A handful of nurses. An entire waiting room full of people who think âurgentâ means âI sneezed twice.â
Itâs loud. Itâs cramped. Itâs endless.
Youâre halfway through your third energy drink, the kind that probably shortens your lifespan by a week per sip, and currently bent over a stretcher with a high school student whose leg looks like it lost a fight with a fence.
Heâs pale, sweating, and staring wide-eyed at the deep gash as you clean it with sterile gauze.
âDude,â you say, glancing up at him. âStop looking if you find it gross. Just lay your head down.â
âIâm fine,â he says bravely, voice cracking like pubertyâs encore performance.
âSure you are.â You give him a quick grin, voice dry as the desert. âBlink twice if youâre about to faint, okay?â
He blinks twice.
You sigh, âI knew it.â and tilted the bed back to get blood rushing back to his head.
The nurse beside you stifles a laugh as you work quickly and efficiently. The kid flinches, and you tilt your head, calm but firm. âHey, breathe. Youâve had worse, right?â
He shakes his head vigorously. âNo!â
You smile. âThen congrats, this is your new âworse.ââ
He groans. You keep working, the motions automatic after years of muscle memory â cleaning, stitching, wrapping. Your brain floats somewhere between exhaustion and autopilot, half-listening to the distant sound of another patient arguing about wait times.
This is the part of the job you hate the most â not because itâs hard, but because itâs constant. Endless wounds. Endless chatter. Endless pressure. You miss the adrenaline of the trauma bay, where everything is sharp and urgent.Â
Here, itâs just a conveyor belt of scrapes and sprains and people who Google their symptoms.
You finish securing the last strip of gauze and step back, flexing your stiff fingers. âAlright, champ. The worst partâs over.â
The boy peeks down at his leg like heâs surprised itâs still attached. âThatâs⌠thatâs it?â
âAlmost,â you say, stripping off your gloves and reaching for the chart at the end of the bed. âYou still get to take a field trip. X-ray needs to make sure thereâs no leftover foreign objects hiding in there.â
His face drains again. âYou think thereâs something still in it?â
You lift a brow. âIâm not saying there is. Iâm saying Iâd rather find out now than have you setting off metal detectors at the airport later.â
The nurse snorts behind her mask.
The boy blinks, pale and earnest. âSo⌠Iâm not done?â
âOh, youâre done with me for now.â You scribble a quick note on his chart, then glance back up. âBut I want radiology to take a closer look. And after that, youâre getting a tetanus shot.â
He groans like youâve just told him finals were rescheduled for tomorrow. âA shot? Seriously?â
You arch an eyebrow. âYou climbed a rusty fence. Congratulations, youâve unlocked bonus medical content.â
The nurse wheezes trying not to laugh. You tuck the chart under your arm, handing the kid a clean paper towel to hold over the bandage.
âHang tight,â you say, voice softening a little. âRadiologyâs backed up, so it might take a bit. Try not to pass out before then, yeah?â
He nods, still looking faint, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, âDoctors are mean.â
You grin, pushing your stool back with a squeak. âAnd yet, here we are keeping your leg attached. Youâre welcome.â
The kid manages a weak smile before the nurse wheels him toward X-ray, leaving you a blessed moment of silence to breathe and take another sip of your energy drink.
You can already hear someone in the waiting room complaining about the vending machine being out of Diet Coke.
âFast Track,â you mutter to yourself, grabbing a few fresh charts. âRidiculous.â
You scan the list â a woman who hasnât opened her bowels in three weeks (fun), and a guy who just came back from X-ray with a confirmed shoulder dislocation (less fun, but quicker).
You sigh. âDislocation it is.â
You peel off your gloves. Antiseptic burns in the cracks of your knuckles; your watch is seven minutes fast because chaos respects confidence. The shoulder dislocation chart is waiting behind Bay 3.
âHey there, Iâm Doctorââ
The man on the gurney sits very straight for someone in pain, jaw flexing as if he can will bone to behave. Heâs pale under the fluorescent light, but his eyes are calm. Heâs also holding his sling like heâs trying not to make it worse.
ââCaptainâSteve,â you corrected, heartbeat miscounting. âWhat are you doing hereâwait no, don't answer that.â
God, why do I become dumb in front of attractive men?
Steve lets out a quiet laughâmore exhale than sound, like it surprised him too. It softens the edges of the small curtained space.
He ducks his head slightly. âGuess I donât need to introduce myself, then.â
You shake your head quickly, hiding your fluster behind the chart. âNope. Got that covered. What happened to your shoulder?â
âTraining accident,â he says, light, almost casual. His gaze follows your hands more than your faceâhow you pull the stool closer, the ease of movement that comes from muscle memory. âBucky told me you were on shift tonight.â
You glance up at that. âOh, he did, did he?â
âYeah.â He smiles faintly. âSaid youâd probably be the one patching me up. He was right.â
You roll your eyes, grabbing a pair of gloves. âOf course he said that. You two have a weird sixth sense for finding trouble at the worst possible times.â
He gives a quiet chuckle. âOnly way we know how to make an entrance.â
âNext time, try the front desk instead of the fast track,â you mutter, snapping on your gloves.
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile again, but he looks down at the floor instead, jaw working once before settling.
âYouâre good at this,â he says, voice lower now, careful.
You blink, caught off guard. âAt what, insulting my patients?â
He huffs out something that might be a laugh. âThat too.â
You pretend not to hear that part and start examining his shoulder. The joint is swollen, skin flushed. He doesnât flinch when you press gently along the deltoidâjust tightens his hand into a loose fist against the gurney.
âHurts?â
âOnly when I breathe,â he says, tone teasing, though a bead of sweat breaks along his temple.
You grab a syringe of lidocaine. âThatâs gonna sting.â
âBeen through worse.â
You give him a look. âYou men always say that right before you pass out.â
He exhales through his noseâamused, steady. âThen Iâll try not to ruin your statistics.â
You inject the local anesthetic, focused on the motion. He stays still, breathing even, gaze flicking briefly to the clock, the chart, anywhere that isnât you. But every now and then, his eyes drift back.
After popping his bone right back, you reach for the bandage tray. He adjusts his good arm slightly, subtle, as if resisting the instinct to help when you lean close.
âYou okay?â you ask without looking up.
âYeah,â he says, voice quiet but even. âJust thinking Bucky was right about one more thing.â
Your brows knit. âWhatâs that?â
He hesitates, thumb brushing against the edge of the gurney. âYou work too hard.â
You scoff. âYou sound like my mother.â
âBet sheâs right too.â
You tape the last of the bandage, keeping your tone neutral even as you feel his eyes flicker toward you again. Whateverâs behind them, heâs keeping it containedâdisciplined, like everything else about him.
You nod toward the sling still folded on the tray. âAlright, Captain Overachiever, letâs get you set up before you decide to test-drive that shoulder again.â
Steve gives a low chuckle but obediently shifts forward so you can loop the fabric under his arm.
âI heal fast, you know,â he says. âSuper soldier perks.â
âYeah, yeah,â you mutter, tightening the strap behind his neck. âUntil you sneeze and pop the joint right back out. Humor me.â
He breathes out through his noseâsomewhere between a sigh and a laughâand lets you fuss. His shoulder is solid under your touch, his posture straight but relaxed now.
You adjust the sling, check the alignment. âKeep it immobilized for at least forty-eight hours,â you tell him, tone professional but softer. âNo lifting, no training, no playing hero. Ice for twenty minutes at a time if it aches. Got it?â
He hums, polite and focused. âGot it, doc.â
âAnd if the pain gets worseââ
âIâll come back,â he promises, voice even.
You glance up, skeptical. âYouâre a terrible liar.â
He lets the smile form this timeâsmall, boyish, a little helpless. âThen I guess Iâll have to make sure I donât need to.â
You roll your eyes, tug the sling one last time, and step back. âAlright, soldier. Youâre officially patched.â
âThanks, Sunshine,â he says quietly, almost reflexive.
You blink. âWhat?â
He shakes his head quickly, brushing it off. âNothing. Just⌠thanks.â
You shrug, scribbling the last note on his chart. âDonât make me regret fixing you.â
He gets off the gurney carefully, testing the shoulder once, controlled. âWouldnât dream of it.â
You donât see the brief pause before he turnsâthe split second where his expression softens, then resetsâbefore he heads toward the door, leaving the faint scent of antiseptic and aftershave behind.
Ă Ă Ă Ă
Itâs almost midnight by the time you pull into the underground parking lot. Youâre dead on your feet â brain fried, eyes burning, heart still occasionally screaming âWHY DID I BECOME A DOCTOR!?!" into the void.
You slide into your usual spot, killing the engine, and start gathering your stuff. Purse, keys, emotional baggage â the usual.
Thatâs when you hear it.
The kind of sound that vibrates straight through the ribcage. Itâs followed by the echoing growl of a motorbike pulling in fast and smooth. The noise bounces around the garage, and you grip your steering wheel.
Great. Midnight, underground parking lot, and some mysterious biker dude decides to show up. Love that for me.
The bike comes to a stop right beside your car â your driverâs side door, naturally â and parks with obnoxious precision. You squint through the window, half terrified, half curious.
What you see makes your pulse spike for entirely inappropriate reasons.
Black helmet. Black fitted shirt. Broad shoulders, solid chest, veins down his forearms. Tattoos wrapping around his biceps, peeking out from under the sleeves.
Oh. My. God.
Your brain: Heâs hot.
Your heart: Heâs dangerous.
Your soul: Oh no heâs both.
âUgh, biker guy,â you mutter under your breath. âWhy does the universe hate me enough to send one in real life?â
You try to discreetly look away, fumbling for your bag.
And then â knock knock knock.
You nearly jump out of your skin.
The biker leans down, tapping on your window with a gloved knuckle, gesturing for you to roll it down.
Your heart thunders. Oh my God, this is it. This is how I die. In the hands of an unfairly attractive man with tattoos and a motorcycle.
You roll the window down a sliver, clutching your pepper spray like itâs holy water.
He reaches up, twists the helmet loose, andâ
âBucky?!â
You deflate like a balloon at a kidâs party.Â
âYouâholyâshit.â You blink at him, heart still racing. âWhat the hell?â
He carries his helmet under his arm, smirking like he knows exactly what heâs doing.Â
âYou look like shit.â
You let out a breathless laugh, half from relief, half from sheer absurdity. âThanks for the reminder!â
You roll your window up the rest of the way, grab your stuff, and climb out of the car, pointing at his bike. âI didnât know you ride a motorcycle.â
Bucky chuckles, shaking his head, his hair falling into his eyes. âSeriously? I thought it was obvious.â
âObvious?â you echo, gesturing at the machine. âThat thing looks like a jet.â
He grins, glancing back at it with the pride of a man who definitely treats his bike better than most people treat their houseplants. âThatâs the Harley PanAm. Sheâs a beast.â
âUh-huh,â you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âAnd does she come with a volume control, or are you compensating for something?â
Bucky laughs, low and genuine, the sound echoing through the garage until he turns it off. âYouâre in a mood tonight.â
âLong shift,â you say, rubbing your temples. âLots of bullshit. Minimal dignity.â
âSounds like a full moon,â he says with a shrug, stepping closer, the faint scent of smoke and motor oil clinging to him.
You try to ignore the way your heart skips. âYou couldâve texted to say youâd be home at the same time. I almost sprayed you with pepper spray.â
He smirks, eyes glinting. âWouldâve made a great story. âLocal Avenger blinded by roommate.ââ
You roll your eyes, walking toward the elevator. âKeep talking, Dracula.â
âSunshine,â he calls after you, voice warm and teasing.
You donât turn around, but your smile gives you away.
You jab the elevator button impatiently. The door slides open with that soul-sucking fluorescent light that makes everyone look like they havenât slept since 2008.
Bucky follows you in, still carrying his helmet, the faint jingle of his bike keys filling the silence.Â
You pretend to be very interested in the floor numbers.
He leans casually against the wall, glancing over at you. âYou sure youâre okay?â
âWhat even is âokay,ââ you say flatly. âBecause physically? Iâm vertical. Emotionally? I could probably cry if someone hands me the wrong flavor of chips.â
Bucky chuckles â that deep, easy sound that does terrible things to your insides.
God, when did his voice get that low? Has it always been that low?Â
You glance at him â big mistake. Heâs leaning with his good arm braced against the railing, forearm flexed, tattoos in his right arm catching the light, his shirt stretched across his chest in a way that should be illegal in shared living spaces.
You blink and look away so fast you probably gave yourself whiplash.
Nope. Nope. Nope. You are not doing this. You do not find your roommate attractive. You are a professional adult. You deal with blood and trauma daily. You are immune to muscles.
Liar.
The silence stretches, thick with exhaustion and tension well, to you mostly.
âSo,â you say, desperate to fill it, âhow long have you been riding that thing?â
He raises an eyebrow. âWhat, the bike?â
âNo, Bucky. The emotional roller coaster that is your personality. Yes, the bike.â
He laughs, the sound low and rough, like gravel and honey. âI dunno, a long time?â
You finally risk a glance his way â and yeah, of course he did.Â
You clear your throat. âYou ever consider, I donât know, a quieter hobby? Knitting? Gardening? Anything that doesnât make my car shake from the sound?â
He smirks. âYouâre welcome for the free massage, Sunshine.â
There it is again â the nickname. He says it like itâs just a word, but it slides under your skin like it belongs there.
You scoff, trying to shake it off.Â
The elevator dings, and you step out a little too quickly, muttering something about showering before bed. Anything to escape the weird static in the air.
Because hereâs the problem:
Youâve lived with Bucky a while now. Youâve seen him in sweatpants, no shirt on, half-asleep on the couch but heâs never been this.
And now you canât unsee it.
You unlock the apartment door, stepping inside and flicking on the light. âDonât make a mess,â you toss over your shoulder, trying to sound normal.
But as you kick off your shoes, something strange happens.
You start to notice things â little things about Bucky youâve somehow never really paid attention to before.
The way he fills a space without trying to. How his shoulders brush the doorframe when he walks in. How the faint scent of spice and cedar clings to him â not overpowering, but distinct.
He drops his keys onto the counter and stretches, arms above his head, shirt lifting just enough to reveal a hint of a hard stomach. You snap your eyes away so fast your neck cracks.
âMan,â he says, voice lazy, still half-laughing from the elevator. âFeels good to be home.â
âYeah, yeah,â you say, walking toward the kitchen. âJust donât track in your biker dirt, Fast & Furious.â
He chuckles. âIâll keep my vices on my side of the apartment, Sunshine.â
You glance back at him â big mistake number two â because now youâre noticing even more.
The tattoos. You've seen it but didn't pay it enough attention.
Not a full sleeve, just scattered designs that somehow make him look even more criminally cool. A compass inked along the inside of his forearm. A wolf on his bicep, mid-snarl. A few smaller pieces in between â script you canât read from here, symbols you donât recognize.
You clear your throat, hanging up your coat like you didnât just mentally zoom in on his hands. âSo, you're making it a habit to almost give your roommate a heart attack nowadaysâ
He grins, turning slightly toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting. âWhat can I say? I like making an entrance.â
âYou made an explosion, Barnes. That thing could wake the dead.â
He laughs, low and gravelly, rubbing the back of his neck. âYouâre just jealous.â
âOf what, exactly?â you challenge, crossing your arms.
He nods toward your car keys in your hand. âThat the tincan you drive doesnât purr like my bike.â
You blink, unamused. âYour bike doesnât purr. It screams in human agony.â
Bucky chuckles, stepping into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. You follow, because you hate that you canât seem to stop watching him move.
And your eyes â traitorous little shits â land back on that barbed wire tattoo. Thin lines of black ink circling the strong flex of his wrist, the strands twisting over the tendons of his hand. It looks good â too good â against his skin. Masculine and a little dangerous.
You tilt your head before you can stop yourself. I wonder what that means.
And then, because your brain is wired by chaos and caffeine, the words tumble out before you can shove them back in.
âWhatâs up with the barbed wire tattoo?â
The second itâs out of your mouth, you regret it. The question hangs there, naked and nosy. You mentally slap yourself. Why are you like this?
Bucky looks down at his wrist, examining it with mild curiosity, like heâd almost forgotten it was there. Then, he casually goes, âOh, this?â
You, meanwhile, twist the cap off a bottle of water, trying to look casualâhydrated, normal, not catastrophically flustered.
He lifts his hand, turning it over, studying it under the kitchen light. âYou know,â he says casually, voice deadpan, âwhen I choke someone, it looks like this.â
He makes a C-shape with his hand, fingers flexing in the air like heâs demonstrating â like itâs nothing.
You take a sip at the exact wrong time. The words hit you mid-gulp.
For half a second â an intrusive, horrifying second â you picture him doing exactly that. His tattooed wrist pressing against your throat, that lazy smirk still there, voice low as sin. Your body writhing while heâ
You choke. Spectacularly.
Water goes down the wrong pipe, your lungs panic, and you start coughing like a Victorian orphan.
Buckyâs eyes widen. âJesusâare you okay?â
He moves closer, hand half-raised to pat your back, but you throw an arm out like a traffic cop mid-disaster.
âDonâtâtouchâme,â you wheeze between coughs, still bent over the sink.
He bites back a laugh, trying and failing to look concerned. âHey, you asked.â
âThatâs notâ I didnâtâ you canât justâ!â You point accusingly at him, still coughing, voice shredded. âYou knew what you were doing when you said that.â
âDid I?â he asks, all innocence, but his smirk gives him away, "I was saying choking an enemy. What were you thinking?â
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. âI hate you so much.â
âSure you do.â
âUn-fucking-believable,â you mutter.
Youâre a doctor. Youâve literally seen peopleâs dicks, balls and coochies everyday. You should not be this flustered by a tattoo story that may or may not double as foreplay.
You risk another glance at him â mistake number three.
Heâs leaning against the counter, still smirking, eyes glinting in that teasing way that says he knows exactly what that did to you.
Fucking hell.
You grab a paper towel, dab at the water you splattered across the counter, and force your lungs to remember how breathing works. Then, with the driest voice you can muster, you clear your throat.Â
âAn-y-way.â Cough. âSoâSteve was my patient today.â
Bucky twists the cap back onto his own bottle, eyebrow arching. âYeah, I know.â
You blink.Â
He nods, he continues. âI sent him there. Thought Iâd give you more patients.â
You stare at him, jaw dropping. âOh my God, how thoughtful of you!â
He smirks. âIâm a giver.â
âRight,â you mutter, rolling your eyes. âA real humanitarian. Next time, maybe just send flowers instead of injured men.â
He chuckles, low and satisfied. âWhereâs the fun in that? Think of it as me sending you a distraction from that moron youâre still sulking for.â
You straighten, eyes narrowing. âI am not sulking.â
Bucky raises a brow, utterly unconvinced. âYou sure? âCause youâve had that I-hate-men playlist on repeat all week.â
âThatâs called processing,â you shoot back, grabbing your water bottle again. âSome of us use music instead of motorcycle rides to deal with emotions.â
He grins. âYeah? Howâs that working out for you?â
You glare at him over the rim of your bottle. âBetter than dating you would, I bet.â
He laughs, soft and smug. âDonât sound too confident, Sunshine. You might jinx it.â
You shake your head, fighting a smile you absolutely refuse to let him see.
âGo to bed, Dracula.â
Bucky pushes off the counter, still grinning, and grabs his helmet from where itâs sitting by the door. âWas just about to.â
He pauses, tilting his head toward you, that infuriating smirk still there. âGood night, Sunshine.â
You open your mouth for a comeback, but heâs already walking down the hall, boots soft against the floor.
When his door clicks shut, youâre left standing in the kitchen, staring at the spot he was just in, muttering under your breath, âIâm not sulking.â
Then quieterâbecause admitting it out loud would be a crimeââ...maybe a little.â
Ă Ă Ă ĂÂ
BUCKY
The door clicks shut behind me with a soft thud, and I canât help the laugh that slips outâlow, amused, half under my breath. Sunshine. Acting like sheâd seen a ghost.
Weirder than usual.
First, the way she froze when I came inâeyes wide, mouth half-open, like Iâd caught her doing something illegal.
Then the tattoo thing. Sheâs never asked about them before. Weâve lived together long enough that sheâs seen me shirtless more times than I can countâsweatpants, bad days, bruises, soot, the works. Not once has she even blinked at the ink.
Tonight? One look and she damn near combusted.
I grin to myself, dragging a hand through my hair as another laugh slips out.Â
Peeling off my shirt as I go, the air cools against my skin. The tattoos shift with the movementâeach one a piece of my story. The compass for my old man. The wolf for King Tâchalla. The coordinates of home on my ribs.
The barbed wire? Yeah, that oneâs just because it looked good.
And the look on her face when I told her why I got it? Worth every damn needle prick.
I hadnât exactly meant to say it like thatâwell, maybe a littleâbut the words just came out. The way she went haywire after, eyes darting anywhere but my hand? Adorable. Cute, actually. Too damn cute.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, smirk still hanging around. Iâve never seen her flustered like that before. Sheâs always this mix of confidence and chaosâsharp-tongued, brilliant, unfiltered. The kind of person who walks into a room and shifts the air without meaning to.
And yet tonight? One stupid joke and she looked at me like she was aware of me.
The thought curls low in my gut, dark and warm.
âSheâs just tired,â I tell myself.
I lean back, stretch out on the mattress, stare up at the ceiling fan turning slow and lazy. My mind driftsâto her laugh earlier, that sarcastic How thoughtful of you she threw at me, pretending she wasnât smiling. The slight curve in her lips when she tried to look annoyed.
Iâve always known she was funny. Quick. Brave. The kind of woman who says what everyone else is too scared to. But not everyone gets to see the rest of her.
The messy bun at midnight. The way she hums under her breath when sheâs cooking. The dumb animal videos she sends me at 2 a.m. with the caption this is you.
And yeah, it pisses me off sometimesâhow those guys she dates never last long enough to actually get her. They see the surfaceâthe pretty, smart, slightly unhinged ER doctorâand tap out the minute they realize she doesnât orbit around them.
Their loss. Thatâs what I tell myself, anyway.
Iâve got three days off before Iâm back to the towerâlong nights, long hours, the usual grind. I should be thinking about that. Should be thinking about sleep, about maybe taking the bike out.
But all I can think about is her walking home late, head down, phone in hand. The looks she gets sometimes. The way she never seems to notice.
I donât like that at all.
Why do I care? Because Iâm a good friend. Thatâs all.
A good friend who heard her laugh tonight and felt it settle somewhere under his ribs, steady as a heartbeat.
I roll onto my side, grin tugging at my mouth again despite myself.
âď¸ warnings: nsfw, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: âsweets, sugar, little dollâ
âď¸ word count: 11.4k
âď¸ a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist! đ¨ art's moodboard event
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
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Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ânatural adventurers.â In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns againstâand that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You werenât alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for helpâor better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on topâpresumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
âHey! Who the hell are you?â
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
âU-um,â you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. âI mean no harm, sir. Iâm just here toââ
âGet the fuck off my property,â he growled.
He dropped the logsâbut kept a firm grip on the axeâas he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought youâd finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
âSir, please!â you winced, trying to stand your ground. âIâm lost. I⌠I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and Iââ
âI donât believe you,â he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of armâs reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. âTake it off.â
â⌠Excuse me?â
âRemove your backpack,â the man clarified harshly. âIf you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goinâ through your stuff.â
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldnât help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency suppliesâa flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuffâ a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
âSee?â you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. âI told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lostââ
âHands up,â he instructed, stepping toward you. âIâm goinâ to pat you down.â
You blinked. âPat me down?â you repeated in disbelief. âFor whatâ!â
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didnât stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
ââŚWhatâs yours?â you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further downâto your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you werenât a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
âBucky.â
âBucky,â you repeated softly. âGreat. Well, now that weâve got all thisâŚâ you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, âsorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?â
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
âW-wait, okayâno phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?â
âNo ride,â was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldnât tell if this man was telling the truthâor if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didnât have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
âIâm sorry, you donât have a functioning phone and you donât own a vehicle?â you questioned in disbelief. âThen how do you get around?â
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
âEverythinâ I need is right here,â he grumbled. âCatch my own food. Build my own house. Donât need to rely on anybody else.â
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
âDo you know where the nearest town is?â you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. âMaybe I can get there before sundownââ
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
âNot a good idea,â he mumbled. âLooks like a storm is cominâ.â
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny dayâbut with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasnât low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
âCan you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster Iâll get out of your hair.â You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
âTo the south,â he pointed behind you. âGo straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, youâll get caught up in the storm âfore you even make it to the street.â
You looked in the direction he was pointingâall you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
âThank you, sir,â you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
âIâm tellinâ you, lady, sânot a good idea to leave now,â he warned. âThere are some dangerous animals out thereâand the storm ainât goinâ to do you any favors.â
You didnât listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The âlight trickleâ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldnât see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind youâand that sure as hell didnât come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasnât a coyoteâno, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
âOh⌠my god,â you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldnât hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And thatâs exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolfâs head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
âYou idiot!â he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. âWhat did I tell you!?â
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Buckyâs leg.
He let out a pained yell. âAh, fuck!â
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Buckyâs grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolfâs neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolfâs neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolfâsâangry and grim.
âI told you, stupid girl,â he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. âI fuckinâ told you.â
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Buckyâs cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Buckyâs hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
âHey!â you gasped, your voice cracking. âWhat are you doingâ?â
âI donât need you to remove my jacket for me,â you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Buckyâs brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabinâwater dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
âListen, girl,â he hissed impatiently. âI just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettinâ you into my home, about to offer you my damn showerâand this is what you say to me?â
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. âYouâre bleeding,â you pointed out. âYou need to take care of that wound, or itâll get infected.â
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
âBathroomâs down the hall, make a left,â he gruffed, already turning his back on you. âAnd donât take too longâI need to use it after you.â
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personalâno photos, no decorâaside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small roomâcertainly big enough to fit another person.
âYou found it?â Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
âYeahâI did. Thanks!â you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
âJesus!â you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. âKnock much?â
Bucky didnât enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabricâ a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
âNot used to company,â he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. ââSides, Iâm not interestinâ in lookinâ.â
He didnât wait for a âthank youâ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didnât smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabinâ pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
âThanks for letting me use your shower,â you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
âDo you need help?â you offered again. âI can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.â
Bucky didnât look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
âNo need,â he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. âAre you sureââ
âI told you and Iâll keep tellinâ you,â he grunted through the pain, âI donât need your help, girl.â
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jumpâan involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Buckyâs throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
âBucky?â you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. âAre you okay?â
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admitâand standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
âBucky, Iâm coming in,â you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tubânaked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didnât wanderâyou didnât care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolfâs claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
âJesus,â you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. âBucky, this looks like itâs already getting infected.â
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning upâthe heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolfâs claws.
âYouâre overheating!â
Buckyâs eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
â...Tired,â he croaked.
Your frown deepened. âStay right there. Donât move,â you commanded, though it was obvious he wasnât going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Buckyâs vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm brokeâand he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. âThis is going to sting. Just try to breathe.â
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Buckyâs body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasnât used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadnât felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Buckyâs breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
âThere,â you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didnât come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like thisâbut as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didnât really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. âIâll let you be. When the storm clears up, Iâll be out of your hairâfor real this time.â
Just as you turned for the door, Buckyâs hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
âTake the bed tonight,â he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. âIâll sleep on the couch.â
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
âSorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,â you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. âBesides, you need proper rest to heal up. Iâll take the couch.â
Buckyâs hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
âFine,â he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasnât burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind⌠that maybe he shouldâve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadnât felt in years and didnât care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the waterâs edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basketâ likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berriesâand he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadnât realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
âThought you said you were leavinâ,â he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were brightâclear of the panic from the night before.
âOh!â you smiled at the sight of him. âYouâre still alive!â You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. âI caught you some fishâyou eat fish, right?â
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. âMore of a red meat kind of guy.â
âWell... fish is good for you,â you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. âAnd Iâm going to fix you up some breakfast.â
Buckyâs brow furrowed as you reached him. âDonât waste your effort,â he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. âI like my breakfast done a certain way.â
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. âYou should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.â
âI donât need you playing house,â Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. âIâve been feedinâ myself since before you were born. Put those down, Iâll do it.â
You didnât even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. âSit. Down. Bucky.â
He opened his mouth to snap backâto tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in chargeâbut the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldnât survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsingâ a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldnât have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
âNot only can I catch fish,â you said, getting to work, âbut I can also cook it well.â
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more⌠domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his spaceâwearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fedâhit him harder than he expected.
âChrist,â he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing thisâa beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasnât just for the fish.
âYouâre gonna burn âem,â he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. âPan needs more grease.â
âIâve got it, Bucky,â you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. âStop worrying that old head of yours.â
âOld?â Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
âYou know,â you began, tone light and teasing, âin my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.â
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
âCrapâ!â
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
âCareful, sweets,â he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but carefulâthe touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
âBuckyâŚâ you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. âAre⌠are you okay?â
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
âI⌠just donât want you hurtinâ yourself,â he said slowly, his voice thick and low. âThatâs all.â
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thickâand you werenât entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
âWhereâs the cutlery?â you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
âYour hands are the cutlery,â he said flatly.
You didnât think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didnât even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didnât look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But itâll do.
âI suppose I should take my leave after this,â you announced mid chew. âThank you for everythingââ
âYou shouldnât,â Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. âThere might be another storm tonight.â
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
âWell, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the betterââ
âGood luck with that,â he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. âThe mud and the terrain from yesterdayâs mess will only slow you down. Youâll be lucky to make it a mile before youâre stuck again.â
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. âBest you wait âtil tomorrow.â
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrainâif you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldnât be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Buckyâs eyes traced your body. You didnât notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roofâpermanently in his sights.
âI⌠I guess youâre right,â you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. âI donât think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, Iâd just be a liability.â
Bucky didnât smileâthat would have been too obviousâbut the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
âSmart girl,â he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. âNo sense in chancing it. The woods donât give second chances twice in a row.â
âIâll just⌠stay out of your way, then,â you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. âI can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?â
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
âIâll take care of the heavy liftinâ,â he explained. âYou can help me clean the place a bitâor catch some more fish for dinner.â
âYou liked my fish?â you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. âGuess you were right,â he gruffed. âYou can cook, sugar.â
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
âOkay,â you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. âAnything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really donât know how to repay you.â
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
Noâhe loved this.
âLook at you, doinâ the dishes,â he noted with a nod toward the sink. âThatâs already doinâ more than enough.â
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something moreâto press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
âIâll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,â he said, already turning toward the door. âJust stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Donât want you gettinâ hurt or lost again, little doll.â
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you werenât going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the laborâ but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
âCareful, sweets.â
âMind your step. Canât concentrate on my own work if youâre stumblinâ all over the place, little doll.â
âI saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit downâlet me check your leg.â
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didnât want to call him suffocatingâhe was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterdayâbut the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasnât a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
âHey, Bucky?â you called out.
He didnât look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didnât answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
âBucky. Thereâs no storm like you said there would be.â
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. âI guess not.â
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
âItâs good that you stayed,â he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. âItâs better beinâ safe than sorry. You should know that by nowââspecially after yesterday, sugar.â
Your frown only deepened, and Buckyâs jaw tightened. He clearly wasnât pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
âI know,â you sighed, looking toward the dark window. âItâs just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.â
âIf you had left earlier, you wouldnât have made me that delicious breakfast for savinâ your life,â Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. âYou should sleep in the bed tonight.â
âWhat?â You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. âNo. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for youââ
âNo one takes the couch,â he cut you off like a command. âWe both share the bed tonight. Thereâs plenty of space.â
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with himâthis hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â you pointed out softly. âIâm perfectly fine on the couch, really.â
âIf youâre gonna trek tomorrow morning, youâll need all the sleep you can get.â
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
âCome on,â he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. âIâve got a set of clothes you can change into.â
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
âHere.â
âAnd the pants?â you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
âAll Iâve got are sweatpants thatâd be way too damn big for you,â he said, shoving the drawer shut. âUnless you want to sleep in jeans?â
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all dayâstained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
âIâll just wear these again,â you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
âNo. Those are dirty,â he gruffed. âThe shirtâs big enough to be a night dress. Youâll be fine.â
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasnât a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasnât sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
âIâm sorry you couldnât leave today,â he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. âI was just lookinâ out for you.â
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Buckyâs heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
âItâs okay,â you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. âBetter safe than sorry, right?â
âExactly right, sugar.â
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadnât taken long to notice just how⌠blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. âHowâs your leg?â
âStill hurts,â he mumbled lowly. âBut Iâm feelinâ a lot better lyinâ next to a pretty girl.â
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadnât pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldnât tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
âY-youâre ridiculous,â you stammered, breathless.
Buckyâs large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
âFor tellinâ the truth?â he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldnât move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
âPretty,â he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than beforeâpupils blown wide.
âSo goddamn pretty.â
âIâŚâ you started, not quite sure what to say, ât-thank you.â
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Buckyâs hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
âYou know, beinâ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,â Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. âThings a man like me thought heâd never have.â
âLike what?â you breathed.
âA family,â he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. âIâve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectinâ their cubs, birds tendinâ to their nests. Itâs the most natural, beautiful thing there isâthat kind of connection. I just know havinâ somethinâ special like that... itâd finally bring me peace.â
You werenât entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
âI hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.â
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
âFeels like I already have, little doll.â
Bucky didnât give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like himâstarved and isolated for decadesâcould possess.
It wasnât gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadnât shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetimeâlike a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
âBucky,â you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. âWe... we shouldnât. This is... Iâm supposed to be leaving tomorrow.â
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
âTomorrowâs a long way off, sugar,â he buzzed against your skin.
âBucky, pleaseââ
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. âFuck, baby,â he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. âMâso hard. It hurts.â
Bucky began to rock himselfâslow and shallowâagainst the soft heat of your leg. You couldnât help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
âJust... we can fuck tonightâand you can forget all âbout me tomorrow,â he pleaded, his voice wrecked. âYou can leave as early as you wantâbut please, darlinâ. I need this.â He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. âItâs been so long.â
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
â⌠No panties?â
Your face burned with embarrassment. âI⌠didnât want to re-wear the ones I had on,â you explained, your voice small. âTheyâre dirty.â
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of himâripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Buckyâs eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull backâmostly out of shynessâbut his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
âBucky, waitâ!â
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your earsâvulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a manâs mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
âOh god,â you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
âTaste sâfucking good,â he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. âOnly makinâ it harder for me to let you go.â
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest movedâ every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his handâwhich you already thought was massiveâcould barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Buckyâs jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell himâthe salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
âYouâre drippinâ all over my sheets, sugar,â Bucky grunted. âMakinâ a reaaal mess.â
âBucky,â you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. âI donât think you⌠I donât think itâll fitââ
âNo?â he cut you off.
He didnât let you finishâhe didnât need toâbut he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
âI donât care,â he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. âMâgonna make it fit.â
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Buckyâs cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldnât be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
âOpen âem up, sugar,â he rumbled the command. âI want you lookinâ at me for this.â
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
âOhâfuck, Bucky!â you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Buckyâs balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
âWhere the hell do you think youâre goinâ?â he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. âYou arenât goinâ anywhere. I told you, darlinââIâm makinâ it fit.â
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
âHaaahâ!â you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. âB-Buckââ
Buckyâs entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadnât felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cockâthe one you claimed was too large to fitâwas sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
âChrist,â he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. âYouâre takinâ me so well, little dollâŚâ
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
âGod⌠feels sâmuch better than my hand,â he grumbled to himself.
âBuckyâŚâ you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. âFeels good, donât stop.â
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harderâright through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
âBuckyâitâs too much, ah!â you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didnât help him at all.
âOhâfuck, sweets!â he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. âFuckâyouâre askinâ for it now.â
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearlyâyou, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
âMine,â he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. BreedâŚ
âYouâre stayinâ right here, sugar. Mâgonna fill you up so full, you wonât even remember how to walk out that door.â
His words were purely possessive. If you didnât know any better, you would think it was just dirty talkâand god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
âFuuck, Bucky,â you whined, âd-donât stopâŚ! Iâm gonna cumââ
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didnât just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woodsâhe wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Buckyâs cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulseâand at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
âIâm gonna breed you,â he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. âGonna give you everythinâ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.â
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
âH-huhâŚ?â you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. âW-what was thatâ?â
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeperâmaking the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
âOh my godâ!â
âDonât you worry your pretty head âbout it,â he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. âMâjust tellinâ you how itâs gonna be. Iâm gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you wonât ever remember what itâs like to be without it.â
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
âYouâre gonna stay right here,â he reminded you darkly. âNothinâ but my shirts on your back so I donât have to waste time undressinâ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, Iâm gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and Iâm gonna remind you who you belong to.â
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
âIâm gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,â he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. âUntil youâre waddlinâ around this cabin carryinâ my name... carryinâ my blood. Youâre never leavinâ, understand? Youâre mine to breed.â
When you didnât answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
âUnderstand, sweets?â
âY-yes,â was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. âNever leaving⌠fill meâŚâ
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
âYeah?â he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right hereâright beneath him. âYou gonna make me a daddy?â
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfectâa pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Buckyâs entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinchâit sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
âFuckâbabyâ!â he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didnât pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
âThere⌠fuck,â he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. âPuttinâ a baby in there right nowâyou feel it, donât you? You feel how much I'm givinâ you?â
You couldnât bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
âThereâs the storm, baby,â he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
âI told you. You arenât goinâ anywhere.â
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me đĽ once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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LOVE, B
librarian!bucky barnes x professor!reader [19.5k]
â ⢠SUMMARY: bucky barnes falls in love with you, his gorgeous literature professor, on his first day of college. four years and a degree later, heâs one of the librarians at the very same college he attended, and now thereâs nothing stopping him from asking you out⌠if not for one tiny detail: his spectacularly clumsy and painfully shy nature. thatâs when his colleague, several romance books and a pen come to his aid.
â ⢠WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; college au; pov switch; unspecified age gap (bucky is younger than reader and started college in his early 20s, so now he should be around 25); original characters; secret admirer!bucky; shy & clumsy!bucky; confident!reader; reader wears skirts and a dress; angst; insecurity & anxiety; mild jealousy; heavy yearning; unrequited love (according to bucky); fluff; mutual pining; smut; masturbation (m) & sexual fantasies (nipple play; riding; oral); mention of edging; public indecency.
A/N: hi barbies đ this is my first ever collaboration and I'm so glad I could do it alongside the amazing, sweet people that are the stantastic members! and of course, thank you @miraclediviner for putting so much love into planning the bucky's dream house collab, and @metal-armed-muse for your feedback 𼚠hope you'll enjoy đŤśđť
ps: read end notes if you'd like to know which books I quoted.
Back when Bucky was a student, the library had felt like a refuge, a place where every worry could be neatly pressed between the pages of a book and shelved away for later. Between the sound of pages turning somewhere in the distance and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead that no one ever really notices until they stop working, expectations lower their voices and time stretches just enough for him to breathe.
Four years later, standing behind the front desk with a stack of returns balanced precariously in his hands, it feels⌠well, not so different, except that now heâs the one expected to know where everything goes.
Which, in theory, he does.
In practice, howeverâŚ
âBarnes?â
Bucky blinks, the sharp sound of his name pulling him out of the slow drift of his thoughts, and as he looks up a little too quickly, the top book in his stack shifts just enough to send a brief flicker of panic through him before he tightens his grip.
âYeah, yes,â he corrects himself mid-breath, stepping closer to the computer. âSorry. I was justâuhâthinking.â
The blonde girl on the other side of the desk watches him mildly unimpressed, fingers drumming lightly against the wood.
âThatâs usually how that works.â She replies dryly, nudging three books toward him. âCan you check these out?â
âRight. Yeah, of course.â
Bucky sets his stack down with exaggerated care, as if the pages would turn into ashes at the slightest bump, and begins scanning the books one by one, his movements just a fraction too aware of themselves. He knows how to do this, heâs done it hundreds of times. There is absolutely no reason for his hands to feel like they belong to someone else.
âOkay, so these are all set,â he hums, sliding them back across the desk with what he hopes resembles confidence. âYouâre good.â
âThanks.â
âYeah, anytime. I mean, during open hours. Not, like, anytime anytime.â
The student pauses as she is putting her university badge back in her wallet just to send him a glare that reeks of poorly concealed judgment.
â⌠Right.â
She takes the books in silence and Bucky watches her go for longer than necessary before letting out a slow sigh, tipping his head back to the ceiling as his lips press together.
âGood recovery.â He murmurs under his breath.
âBuck.â
He doesnât need to look to know who it is, there arenât many people who call him that, but his head turns anyway. Steve is leaning casually against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, expression already bordering on amused in a way that makes Bucky immediately defensive.
âYou just told her not to come back.â Steve grins.
âI did not,â he huffs, words coming out a little too quickly. âI just clarified the hours.â
âI clarified.â He insists in response to his raised eyebrows, less animatedly this time, because arguing with Steve is like trying to hold water in his handsâpointless and inevitably messy.
His best friendâs grin only grows as he follows Bucky to the shelf he was previously organizing, but whatever heâs about to say next never makes it out, because at that exact moment the heavy front doors open with a quiet creak that still somehow cuts through everything else.
Bucky doesnât think, nor decides. His body just knows, gaze lifting instinctively, like pulled by an invisible thread, and then, you walk in.
You move unhurriedly without being slow, composed without being rigid, the soft rhythm of your heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as you cross the entrance. Thereâs nothing ostentatious about you, nothing that demands attention in the obvious way. And yet, it gathers around you anyway, inevitable, drawn in by the quiet confidence you carry so naturally.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a moment.
He has known you for years, but heâs never quite prepared for the way his chest seems to tighten and soften all at once, a reflex he has no control over.
âOh,â Steve snickers beside him. âThere she is.â
Bucky doesnât respond, not when his entire focus has narrowed on you making your way to the front desk, already smiling in that easy, familiar way that feels like it belongs in this space just as much as the books do.
Darcy spots you at once, straightening with visible delight.
âYouâre late.â She announces, though the accusation is entirely undermined by the grin tugging at her mouth.
âIâm fashionably late,â you set your bag down with a soft thud, your tone teasing. âThereâs a difference.â
âThere isnât. You just enjoy making an entrance.â
âI enjoy making you wait.â
At that point, Darcy laughs, bright and unrestrained, and you follow a second later, the sound softer, but no less captivating.
And BuckyâŚ
Bucky sighs.
It slips out of him before he can stop it, quiet but unmistakably there, the kind of sound that belongs more to a fairytale than to real life.
Without realizing it, his body shifts, leaning slightly to the side as if captured by your melody, and the way your expression changes as you speak: the subtle lift of your brows, the absent gesture of your manicured hand as you emphasize a point, the wayâ
The cart.
There is a cart behind him. A very real, very solid cart, stacked with books that are waiting to be sorted.
His elbow does not meet empty air so much as it fails to meet anything at all.
His balance tilts, center of gravity rearranging in a way that is both slow and horribly inevitable, and for one suspended, dreadful moment, Bucky is aware of what is about to happen, completely incapable of stopping it.
âOhââ
The impact is catastrophic.
The cart slams into the nearest shelf with a jarring metallic crash that reverberates through the silent open space, books jolting and tipping, one slipping free entirely to hit the floor with a heavy, echoing thud that seems to stretch far longer than it should.
When the commotion dies, a religious silence settles back in its place, thick and absolute. And Bucky is on the floor, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him an escape route.
â⌠I meant to do that.â He strains out to no one in particular.
Somewhere nearby there is a snort that is quickly hidden by a cough. On the contrary, Darcy doesnât even try: her laughter breaks through the quiet, too loud.
Bucky refuses to look at you. He likes to believe he still has some dignity left and he intends to preserve it for at least another three seconds.
Footsteps approach, quick and entirely unsurprising.
âJesus, Buck.â Steve frets, already crouching beside him, one hand braced on his shoulder as he looks him over. âYou good?â
âYeah,â he mutters, dragging himself up with Steveâs help, hands brushing at his clothes in a futile attempt to appear unbothered. âYeah, Iâm great. That wasâgreat.â
âMm-hm.â
âI just⌠misjudged the space.â
âYou mean you forgot about the heavy cart behind you because you were too busy daydreaming?â
Blushing, Bucky bends down at once, grabbing the nearest fallen book if only to have something to do with his hands.
âI knew it was there,â he insists under his breath, suddenly feeling too warm.
Steve leans in slightly, voice close to a whisper. âShe saw everything, you know?â
If a stare could kill, he would already be at his funeral.
âIâm aware.â
âYou sighed.â
Bucky freezes for half a second.
His head snaps towards his friend. âI did not.â
âYou totally did.â
âI breathed, Steve. Just like any other human being.â
âThat was not breathing, man, that was you yearning like a damsel in distress.â
His eyes close in dejection, as if that might erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
âI hate you.â Thereâs no real weight behind it.
âNo, you donât.â
â⌠No, I donât.â
With a satisfied grin, Steve straightens up while Bucky gathers a precariously balanced book, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.
âCâmon,â Steve adds, nudging him lightly. âLetâs clean this up before you take out a whole shelf trying to impress her.â
âIâm not trying to impress her.â Bucky mutters.
âCouldâve fooled me.â
Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Bucky decides to glance up. Just for a fleeting peak.
Youâre still by the desk half-turned toward Darcy, but your attention has shifted, your frown flickering in his direction with a kind of faint curiosity that sends electricity straight through his veins. And for one ephemeral moment, it feels like youâre looking directly at him.
His grip loosens enough for the book to slip from his hands and hit the floor.
Again.
At least Steve has the decency to press his lips together to hide his laughter. âAre you going to offer her your handkerchief now that she looked at you?â
Bucky has spent a considerable amount of timeâfar more than he would ever willingly admitâtrying to convince himself that what he feels for you can be contained within the boundaries of his own mind, that can exist without demanding anything from him other than the occasional, carefully controlled glances when heâs absolutely certain no one is paying attention. Because it would be easier to carry it if it remained small and undefined and safely unspoken. A feeling that could be tucked away between routine and responsibility like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, preserved but ultimately harmless.
The problem, unfortunately, is that it has never been harmless.
Not even at the beginning. And that is something his mind recalls with a kind of stubborn clarity that refuses to fade.
It had been his first day of college, a morning that should have easily blurred into all the others, marked only by nerves and unfamiliarity and the low thrum of anticipation that comes with stepping into an entirely new world. He had been running just slightly behind schedule, not enough to cause a scene, but the lecture hall was already filling when he slipped through the back doors, shoulders drawn in just a little as if that might make him less noticeable. His bag shifted awkwardly against his side as he scanned the room for somewhere that felt sufficiently out of the way.
The space itself had been warm with early sunlight, long beams of gold stretching through tall windows illuminated the rows of seats that were already occupied by students who seemed, at least from where he stood, far more composed and certain of themselves and their place there. And Bucky, who had never been particularly skilled at navigating spaces that required that kind of confidence, had done what he always did best in these situations: move swiftly and quietly out of the way like a scared little mouse, choosing a seat that allowed him to exist without the pressure of being perceived.
The room had smelled faintly of old wood and chalk, filled with the soft murmur of conversations that wove together into a low, indistinct hum. His notebook was rigid beneath his trembling fingers, the nervous energy still alive under his skin.
And then you walked in.
There wasnât any dramatic shift or unnecessary urgency, yet your effortless composure altered the rhythm of the room all the same.
Bucky had looked up without thinking, his attention drawn by instinct, expecting nothing more than another ordinary face to catalogue and then promptly file away as part of the background of his new routine.
He didnât look away. Couldnât.Â
There had been something in the way you carried yourself: assured without feeling unapproachable, and that inexplicably held him captive.
Bucky had found himself marveling at you doing something as simple as carefully setting your things down. You then turned to face the room, your eyes sweeping briefly across the rows of students, almost pleased.
âGood morning, everyone.â You had started, voice clear and even.
At the time, he had dismissed the gentle pressure behind his ribs without much thought, attributing it to the unfamiliarity of the environment. This was a completely new experience and therefore bound to feel odd at first, so Bucky had resolutely turned his attention to his notebook, pen moving a little too frantically across the page as he attempted to anchor himself to a practical and tangible task.
However, as you spokeânot just about the material, but around it, through it, as if literature was not a bunch of static concepts to be memorized, but a universe to be exploredâhis attention kept shifting not to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it. To the way your hands moved when you explained a particularly important paragraph, to the small pauses you allowed yourself when choosing your words, because precision mattered more to you than simply filling the silence.
You were the professor. The kind that doesnât just teach students concepts and ideas, but changes something fundamental in the way they see the world. You taught nineteenth and twentieth-century literatureâBritish mostly, with the occasional American detourâand spoke about it in a way that made it feel alive and still unfolding.Â
You could recite passages without looking at the pages, entire lines of Pride and Prejudice slipping easily into conversation as if they had always belonged there, as if they were simply another language you spoke fluently. And you quoted your favorite poets with the same certainty. Never showy, never exaggerated.Â
You carried that knowledge with that poised, quietly seductive composure of someone who knowsâknows that she knowsâand because of that, never needs to raise her voice to be listened to.
Watching you interact with students was fascinating. You truly listened, fully immersing yourself in their words to the point that even hesitant responses felt worth being heard. But most importantly, Bucky noticed the way your glossy lips curled around a smile each time someone was brave enough to participateâa genuine and unguarded curve that seemed to belong more to you than to the role you were occupying.
At first, he told himself it was normal. Students notice things about their professors all the time; admirationâacademic or otherwiseâis not unusual, it doesnât mean anything beyond a simple appreciation for someone who is good at their job.
He held onto that explanation for longer than he probably should have.
Through the first few weeks of returning to that lecture hall, he always chose the same general area in the back that allowed him to exist without drawing attention to himself.
Except distance, Bucky would eventually realize, did very little to lessen the effect you had on him.
Somewhere along the way, his thoughts of you had become more constant and less easily dismissed. Bucky began to notice not just the obvious aspects, but the smaller, more specific details that had no real reason to matter to a student, and yet traitorously lingered in his mind before falling asleep.
Your fingers played with the corner of the page whenever you were concentrating on a passage. Your head moved in a small, curious tilt to an unexpected answer, because as you always said, âthere is no correct, absolute way to interpret literature.â Your handwriting curved just slightly to the right across the board, neat but not rigid, structured but still distinctly yours. Your voice softened when reading aloud, as if you were stepping into the text rather than simply reciting it.
And Bucky found himself anticipating those moments.
It was a gradual, subtle change that sinked rather than struck, growing steadily in the background of everything else until one day, without any clear warning, Bucky became aware of it in a way that could not be easily undone.
Sitting in that same lecture hall, long after most of the other students had left, his notebook opened in front of him though he had long since stopped writing, and listening as you gathered your things at the front of the room, he realized that what he felt had extended far beyond anything that could be reasonably categorized as harmless or temporary.
Yet, he had not said anything. Because even allowing the words to take shape in his mind had felt like crossing a line he had no right to approach, let alone step over.
So Bucky had done what he deemed best at the time.
Keep it contained.
He finished the course, handing in his assignments and accepting your feedback with reverent attention, all while maintaining that same distance he had cultivated from the beginning.
He had graduated.
He had left.
He had told himself, at some point, that it would fade. That time would do what itâs supposed to do.
Except it failed.
Because now, standing in the same building years after his first day of collegeâthe same quiet hum surrounding him, the same soft rays filtering through the windowsâand watching you laugh across the room as if no time has passed at all⌠his heart still tilts toward you, inevitably drawn to your light.
It was a root that burrowed deeper instead of retreating, patiently lying dormant until it became, without his permission, far too ingrained to pull free. And the truth is, he did not just develop a passing affection, or carry a fleeting admiration that lingered longer than expected.
Bucky fell in love with you.
Silently.
Completely.
And he never really found a way to fall out of it.
By the time the library begins to empty, the building itself seems to settle back after holding its breath for the entire day. Chairs sit askew where students have left them in a hurry, some pens lie abandoned on the desks, and the overhead lights seem just a fraction too bright now that there are fewer people around.
Bucky has always liked this part of the day. There is something comforting in the slow winding down and the small, predictable tasks that come with closing. It gives him something to focus on that doesnât involve thinking too much about the way your smile lingers behind his eyelids each time they flutter close, or how his own reaction to your sole presence was⌠deeply unfortunate.
You had left not long after his embarrassing fall.
He had not watched you go. Not obviously, at least. But Bucky had been aware of the subtle shift in the air when you moved toward the door, your voice lowering as you said something he couldnât quite hear from where he stood, that made Darcy smile in a knowing, almost conspiratorial way.
He had pretended not to notice.
Bucky likes to think he is very good at pretending. Which is exactly why he doesnât immediately react when he hears footsteps approaching the desk, lighter than Steveâs, accompanied by the casual sound of hands dragging across a surface, before coming to a stop right in front of him.
âLong day?â Darcy asks, her tone light to the point that it immediately raises suspicion.
Bucky firmly keeps his eyes on the screen.
âNot really different from the others.â He shrugs. The safest answer he can give without committing to anything.
She simply hums, leisurely leaning her elbows against the desk as she studies him with open curiosity.
âYou fell over today.â
Buckyâs eyes flutter close for a moment.
âI tripped.â He corrects.
âYou collapsed,â she counters deadpan. âThere was a whole sound effect and everything.â
Muttering, he blinks at the screen to focus back on his task. âIt was an accident.â
âRight,â Darcy draws the word out. âAnd the sigh?â
His fingers stop over the keyboard.
âWhat sigh?â
âYou sighed.â
âI didnât.âÂ
âYes, you did.â She grins, far too pleased with herself. âIt was, likeâso romantic, yet a little tragic. Honestly, if I didnât know better I wouldâve thought you were rehearsing for one of those Netflix romantic movies.â
His lips part indignantly, but nothing comes out, because arguing will only make this worse. âI was just tired.â
âFrom sitting at the front desk all day?â
He squints at her, nodding once. âYes.â
Tilting her head, Darcy considers him in a way that feels dangerously teasing.
âYou know,â her fingers tap lightly on the wooden surface. âItâs kind of fascinating.â
Bucky doesnât like that word.
âWhat?âÂ
âThe way you look at her.â
There it is.
He blinks, going for his best deadpan face.
âWho?â
âHer,â she repeats, saying your name. âMy friend. The professor who shouldâve gotten the Teaching Excellence Award last year instead of that jerk Mr. Campbell.â She rolls her eyes. âThe one you definitely did not sigh at earlier.â
Bucky lets out a short, incredulous breath, a nervous scoff slipping out before he can stop it. âWhat? No! Why would I even do that?â
The words come out too fast and high, tripping over each other in their urgency. His head shakes just a little too quickly as he leans back slightly, like physical distance might somehow reinforce the denial.
âWe barely speak to each other.â
Darcy observes him in silence for exactly three seconds. Then her lips gradually twist into a smug smirk. Not unkind, but still, it suggests she has already decided how this conversation is going to end.
âBucky,â she starts with a raised eyebrow, regarding him almost fondly. âYou look at her like she invented happiness.â
A pathetic sound claws out of his throat, caught between a laugh and a choked whimper that does absolutely nothing to help his case.
âWhat are you even rambling about?â He insists with an exaggerated chuckle, though the conviction is⌠lacking.
âHey, itâs actually kind of impressive. I didnât think people did that in real life.â
âLook, Darcy, I donâtââ He starts again, then his shoulders fall. There is no version of this where he wins. âIâm just⌠looking. People look all the time, we have eyes for a reason. Itâs not that serious.â
âDidnât know ânot that seriousâ meant staring at someone like theyâre the best part of your day.â
Heat violently creeps up the back of his neck, cruelly manifesting across his face with a red blush. He turns back to the computer screen in a poor attempt to hide it.
âYouâre seeing things that arenât there.â He mutters.
She shakes her head, and her blue eyes seem to soften, but it could be a trick of the light. âBucky, Iâve known her for years, and Iâve known you for what, a few months? And even I can tell.â
Thatâunfortunatelyâlands like a punch to his stomach.
Swallowing, his gaze drops to the way his fingers curl weakly against the edge of the keyboard.
âI donâtâŚâ He tries again, fainter this time, because the denial thinned precariously under the weight of being seen. âItâs notâitâs nothing like that.â
Darcy doesnât interrupt him and that somehow makes it worse.
âSheâsââ He sighs. âShe was my professor. Sheâs older, and so⌠amazing. Andâand pretty, and sheâs got her whole life together, while Iâm...âÂ
He gestures vaguely to himself, to the desk, to the library. As if that explains everything. âThis.â
Thereâs a brief pause.
âYouâre âthis.ââ Darcy repeats, her tone pensive rather than dismissive. âAnd what exactly is âthisâ supposed to mean?â
Bucky huffs a small, humorless laugh.
âTemporary,â he swallows. âUnimpressive. A guy who falls over carts in the middle of the day because he canâtââ He cuts himself off abruptly, pressing his lips together.
âBecause he canât what?â
Bucky shakes his head again, eyes hardening. âIt doesnât matter.â With his back straightening a little, he mentally retreats back into that safe cocoon made of denial and insecurity that has protected him since middle school.Â
She is quiet for a moment longer, studying him far less amusedly now.
âItâs been years, hasnât it?â
His whole body stills and that says more to her than words ever could.
Sighing, she pushes herself off the desk. âYou know,â her tone is casual as she adjusts her glasses. âShe likes books because they say what people canât bring themselves to say out loud.â
Bucky glances up at that, caught slightly off guard.
His colleague simply offers him a knowing smile.
âJust⌠something to think about.â She adds with a light tap of her knuckles on the desk, before turning, already stepping away as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.Â
âDarcy.â Bucky protests tiredly, but the words donât quite form anything coherent. Sheâs already waving him off without turning back.
âLock up, Barnes.â She calls lightly over her shoulder. âAnd try not to fall over anything on the way.â
The door closes behind her with a final click, plunging the library back into a deafening silence.
Bucky stands there for a moment longer than necessary, his hands resting against the edge of the desk and his gaze unfocused as her words echo in his mind in a way he doesnât particularly appreciate.
She likes books because they say what people canât bring themselves to say out loud.
Exhaling and with a hand dragging down his face before letting it drop, his shoulders tighten as a sense of discomfort begins to surface in his chest.
Because it would be easy, in theory.
To do something.
To say something.
Huffing a quiet breath, Bucky shakes his head with a sad smile. âDonât be ridiculous.â He mutters.Â
The idea alone is absurd, so dangerous that he doesnât have the courage to examine it too closely.
Because what would he even say? How would he say it?
The image forms anyway, uninvited and entirely unhelpful: him standing in front of you, words tangling somewhere between his brain and his mouth, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly and unnecessarily because they never know where to go, his voice catching on something as simple as your nameâ
He grimaces.
âYeah,â he murmurs dryly, reaching for the stack of keys as he steps out from behind the desk. âThat would go so well.â
He moves through the library methodically, switching off lights one section at a time, the space dimming in stages as shadows stretch across the shelves. By the time he finishes, the only light left is the soft, warm glow on the desk.
He pauses there, keys still jingling in hand, his tired reflection faintly visible on the black computer screen. With a tired sigh, Bucky reaches forward and turns the lamp off.
The click of the lock echoes faintly in the empty space, and just like that, another day is over.
Morning, in theory, is supposed to fix things.
Itâs a universally accepted fact: sleep settles thoughts. Tangled and overwhelming woes will loosen with rest, and even a few hours of unconsciousness create order and resolution where there was none. A reset that doesnât require effort.
Unfortunately, this morning proves, with irritating efficiency, that theory and reality have very little interest in aligning. Because when Bucky wakes up, there is only a dull, persistent pressure behind his eyes that comes from thinking too much and sleeping too little, and the immediate awareness that nothing has been resolved overnight. In fact, if anything, as soon as his eyes snap open, his stomach starts somersaulting in ways that make focusing on anything else significantly harder.
His first conscious thought is, inevitably, you.
His second is the memory of yesterday.
He exhales slowly into his pillow, pressing his face against it like that might physically muffle his thoughts.
âShit.â He mutters, voice still rough from hours of disuse.
He lies there for a moment longer, staring at nothing and fully aware that going back to sleep is not an option. Lingering in bed will only allow his mind to spiral harder.
So he gets up and carries it with him anyway.
By the time he reaches the library, the day has already begun without him. Once he pushes the door open, itâs the echo of familiar voices easily threading together that hits him first, suggesting an unspoken complicity built over shared breakfast and coffee breaks lasting more than they should.
Steve is leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand and posture relaxed in that effortless way that means he has been awake and productive for hours. Sam is right beside him, mid-sentence, gesturing lightly with a half-eaten pastry, while Darcy stands across from them behind the desk, her own cup balanced precariously in one hand as she guffaws at something Sam has just said.
Itâs⌠too lively. Especially for someone whose brain is still trying to catch up with the rest of his body.
âIâm telling you,â Sam warns jokingly. âIf he falls again today, Iâm not helping him.â
âMind to remind us exactly when you ever helped?â Darcy asks, incredulous. âFrom where I was standing, you looked like you were choking on your own laughter.â
âHey, I offered emotional support. And donât act like you werenât cackling on this same desk.âÂ
âSam, you almost fell from your chair. You had tears in your eyes.â
He side-eyes Steve offended. âBecause I was thinking about his wellbeing, man.â
Bucky seriously considers turning around. Ultimately, he decides against it, because that would be suspicious and he is already operating at a disadvantage.
When he steps fully inside, all three heads turn toward him almost automatically.
There is a brief, collective pause, before chaos descends upon him.
âWell, look who survived the big, bad cart.â Sam smirks with entirely too much energy.
Bucky simply sighs, regretting getting up from his bed.
âGood morning to you too.â He mutters, walking toward them and hoping they will drop the topic if he doesnât engage too much.
âGood morning.â Steve echoes, his tone noticeably lighter than usual, which is never a good sign.
Darcy, on the other hand, narrows her eyes at him.
âYou look terrible.âÂ
âThanks.â Bucky replies flatly.
âYouâre welcome.â
Sam leans forward on the wooden surface, arms crossed and eyes studying him with a barely concealed grin. âDid you sleep at all, or did you just lie there thinking about your life choices?â
Bucky doesnât answer, which does nothing to stop him.Â
âMan,â Sam continues, shaking his head. âYou really committed to the tortured lover bit.â
âItâs not a bit.â Bucky sighs, dropping his bag on a chair.
Steve simply watches him, quieter and more observant, his gaze flicking briefly over the tension in Buckyâs shoulders and the slight heaviness in his movements.
âYou okay?âÂ
Bucky simply shrugs. âFine.â
His friend hums doubtful but doesnât push. Sam, however, is desperately waiting for a reaction.
âSo,â he claps his hands once. âAbout yesterdayââ
âNo.â Buckyâs head snaps toward him.Â
Darcy beams. âOh, weâre absolutely talking about yesterday.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about.â Bucky insists, already bracing himself.
âYou fell.â Sam counts on one finger.
âFor fuckâs sakeâI tripped.âÂ
âYou sighed.â Steve adds.
âI breathed.â
âYou were in absolute awe.â Darcy counters with a beam.
âI was just curious.â
âI thought you were about to fall to your knees and ask her to marry you in the quad.â Sam smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
âWhatââ He sputters, his cheeks quickly turning red at the slight implication of you... marrying him. âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
âIt means,â Darcy cuts in, her tone taking a more serious note. âThat you need to do something about it, Barnes. Now.â
Bucky looks at her like she grew a second head, then tucks his chin down, fidgeting with a stack of random papers lying close to the computer.
âCan we not do this right now? I slept like shit, my head is throbbing and Iâm only running on a cup of coffee because I didnât have any cereal left. Just⌠please.âÂ
Sam exchanges a fleeting, subtle look with Steve, before his lips part, eliciting a stressed groan out of Bucky.
âWhat if,â he hums, like the thought has just occurred to him, nothing more than a passing idea with no real weight behind it. âYou just⌠didnât talk to her.â
Bucky frowns.
âIs this a joke? I already donât.â
âNo, I mean on purpose.â He clarifies, eyebrows raising knowingly. âLike, instead of overthinking every conversation into oblivion.â
With a tired exhale, his eyes close momentarily as if the action alone could give him the strength to deal with his nosy friends. âSam, that doesnât make any sense.â
âIt does,â his friend insists, straightening up. âOkay, listen. Youâre bad at talkingâor whatever it is that you do with herâweâve already established that.â
âThank you.â He replies sarcastically.
âSo stop trying to talk!â
Bucky stares at him deadpan, mouth opening and closing as his brain elaborates.
âThat is the worst advice youâve ever given me!â
âNot talking is not the same as saying nothing.â Steve corrects quietly.
Buckyâs eyes land on him, more suspicious than confused. âWhat are you getting at?â
Darcy sets her coffee down with an air of finality. âSamâs trying to suggest an alternative method.â
âWhich is?â
Said man gestures vaguely. âAnything that isnât you standing there and short-circuiting in real time.â
All three look at him with different degrees of amusement, to which he can only sigh, tension leaving his shoulders at once.
â⌠Okay, I guess sometimes I kind of short-circuit.â
âSometimes, he says⌠â Sam coughs. âAnyway, just donât put yourself in a position where you have to speak.â
âSo what should I do?â Bucky asks sincerely curious for the first time that morning.
At his friendâs shrug, his head falls back dejected.
âThis is going nowhere.â
At that point Darcy crosses her arms, leaning forward on the desk, eyes solemn and fixed on Buckyâs.
âBarnes, you donât have to tell her⌠everything. No oneâs expecting you to stand in front of her and confess your feelings like a fucking Hallmark movie.â
âGood,â Bucky mutters. âBecause Iâm not doing that.â
âBut you could communicate something.â She continues.
âItâs not like I never talk to her.â
âI mean, you say âhiâ.â Steve shrugs, grimacing at the memory of his friend nearly tripping over his own feet the time they ran into you in the hallway last monthâone of the rare times theyâd managed to pry him away from the library for more than five minutes.
Bucky points at him, pleased. âSee?â
âBarnes, thatâs barely a syllable.â
He frowns. âOkay, so what do you want me to do then?â
Thereâs a brief pause, the silence too heavy for Bucky to sustain and heâs ready to put an end once and for all to this useless discussion, but then Darcy shrugs nonchalantly.Â
âWrite it down.â
He freezes.
âWhat?â
âWrite it down,â she repeats, like itâs obvious. âYouâre better when you have time to think, not to mention the effect her mere presence has on you. Right? So think. Then write.â
âThatâsâno,â Bucky frowns. âNo, that sounds so much worse! Thatâs permanent.â
âItâd be on a piece of paper.â Sam quips up. âItâs literally the least permanent thing. One wrong gust of wind and puff, itâs gone.â
âYou donât even have to sign it.â Steve adds.
Hesitation glints in his blue eyes as they silently jump between their hopeful faces.
âYouâre asking me,â he says slowly. âTo write her a note.â
âNo,â Sam corrects. âWeâre asking you to write her a love note.â
âThere is a difference.â Steveâs eyebrows wiggle teasingly.
âA very important one.â Darcy nods.
Sighing, Buckyâs gaze drops briefly to nothing in particular, his thoughts already starting to move faster than he can keep up with.
Itâs a bad idea. It tastes like something heâs going to definitely regret a few months from now, like taking on a hobby you were so certain it was going to be funny and stimulating, but now it only steals your patience and money.
And then whatâs he going to do when you are going to eventually find out the notes came from him? Resign and move to another state? How is he going to face you?
But what scares him the most, is the fact that the idea of confessing doesnât feel as impossibly pathetic as it did yesterday night.Â
âHeâs thinking about it.â Sam sings songs into his cup of coffee.Â
âIâm notââ Bucky starts, then shakes his head. âI wouldnât even know what to say.â
Darcy takes a sip of his coffee. âI think you do, but you donât have to come up with something from scratch. You already know the kind of books she likes.â
Buckyâs chest tightens faintly.
âYeah.â He sighs, eyes timidly meeting the floor. âThat I do.â
âBorrow something,â she continues. âThen make it yours. Oh! If it helps,â she perks up. âSheâs coming by later for The End of the Affair. Weâve got this weird tradition going on every springâI randomly pick one book for her every week and she treats it like rewatching a comfort show, except itâs all different love stories on pages instead of seasons on a screen.â
Bucky lets out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, not exactly in defeat but in something closer to reluctant consideration. His lips press together, before resolutely looking his friends in the eyes.
âOne.â His voice breaks embarrassingly, like it costs him everything to say it out loud. âJust one and⌠we see how it goes.â
Samâs grin lights up the entire room.
âAll we need is for you to try.â Steve gives him a pat of encouragement, though Bucky could use a lot more than that right now.
Just a note and theyâll finally leave him alone.
You arrive later in the day, the end of your teaching hours bleeding into the tranquil part of the afternoon, when the library becomes more about the familiar rhythm of study sessions and exchanging small pieces of conversation that never feel particularly rushed.
When you walk in, Bucky is at the front desk, pretending to be busy with some books he has already sorted twice.
âHello, James.â You greet him easily, his name warmly rolling on your tongue like this is just another part of your day and not a personal attack to his soul that makes his entire nervous system briefly forget how to function.
Bucky looks up and immediately regrets it when he meets your eyes.
âHi.â He answers, too quickly, too quietly, and then clears his throat as if that might fix the way it came out. âHi.â
It doesnât fix it at all. His ears go slightly red but you donât seem to notice. Or if you do, you are kind enough to not comment.
âLong day?â You set your bag down and lean into the deskâs edge, one hand closing softly as your temple rests against it.
âUh, kinda. Well, itâs nothing compared to that of a professor.â His fingers fidget nervously.
You smile faintly at that, like you understand more than you let on. âDonât underestimate your job, James. Youâre surrounded by voices that refused to disappear. And you take care of them. That counts for more than you think.â
His lips part slightly, failing to find any words that could rival your beautiful mind. He isnât used to hearing his job described like it holds weight, more meaningful than a temporary position and a set of tasks he performs without thinking too much about them.Â
Before he can think about anything worthy enough, your eyes glance sideways as Darcy appears from the back.
âThere you are,â she bubbles. âI was starting to think youâd abandoned me.â
âI would never skip our afternoon gossip session.â
Bucky watches as the conversation flows without effort, leaving him standing just slightly outside of a bubble he doesnât quite know how to enter. Itâs actually adorable how his eyes try to stick to the books in front of him, yet still end up on you.
Darcy disappears again almost as quickly as she appeared, muttering something about âperfect placementâ and leaving you and Bucky in a quieter space that immediately becomes more noticeable.
âI swear she gets more dramatic every week.âÂ
Bucky huffs something that might be a laugh if it were louder.
âSeems⌠consistent characterization.â He manages, regretting it the second it leaves his mouth.
Thereâs a pause in which Bucky considers walking into the nearest shelf and staying there, but then you smile. At him. Because of him. Itâs a shy curve, amused and fleeting, that makes his heartbeat accelerate just enough to hope you wonât hear it.
His eyes are already flying away from your beautiful face, hands reaching for the nearest thing like it might save him from the way his blood is pumping wildly in his veins.
His fingers close around a stapler. A fucking stapler.
Your eyes follow his movements, until they are distracted by a book lying nearby with a yellow post-it stuck to the cover, your name elegantly written on it.
âOh,â you perk up. âShe picked it already?â
âYeah.â Bucky nods once, your fingers lingering over the cover as if touching an old friend. The shift in your expression is immediate: the tiredness doesnât disappear so much as it gives way, naturally bringing you back to life. He watches it happen with quiet wonder, struck by how easily something simple as a book can reach the very core of your soul.
âMmh,â you turn it in your hands. âGood one to start my yearly re-reading.â
âYeah,â he agrees softly. âThought so too.â
You glance up at that, curious, but before the moment can stretch too far, Darcy reappears again to insert herself between you both with suspicious efficiency, and the conversation drifts easily into lighter territory, from complaints about deadlines to a sarcastic comment about your best friendâs enthusiasm for emotionally ruining you with the book she picked.
Bucky listens more than he speaksâas usualâuntil eventually, you gather your things, saying your goodbyes with the same lovely smile, and then you are gone again, slipping back out into the world beyond the library. One where Bucky canât follow you.
So he stays behind, his stomach churning as your perfume invades his nostrils, and his cheeks warm, the same color of a strawberry.
The parking lot is less busier than expected as you settle into your car with ease, dropping your bag onto the passenger seat. A soft exhale claws out of your throat, your shoulders finally loosening and your head momentarily resting back against the headrest.
Itâs only when you reach for your bag to adjust it properly that something about the book feels slightly off.
The edge of a white paper is sticking out from between the pages, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. You pause, frowning at it as you pick it up carefully. For a moment, you assume it must be nothing: maybe a forgotten bookmark, or a note Darcy accidentally left there. It wouldnât be the first time it happens. She often leaves her things at your apartment, later in the week complaining about having lost them.
Still, there is something about the way itâs folded that makes curiosity swirl in your stomach as you open it with caution.
âI couldnât have thought of her more. Even vacancy was crowded with her.â
Of course you would recognize it immediately given how many times you have already read it. Itâs a passage from the book itself, written in careful handwriting. Deliberately selected. And itâs⌠beautiful in its simplicity; romantic in a way that makes your breath slow without you meaning it to.
You read it once again, smiling softly at the gentle words.
And then you finally notice the second part.
âI hope your day was kind to you.
Love, Bâ
The shift in your expression is immediate. Because that is something personal, directed not toward a character, but toward you.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the edges as your heart gives a small, unexpected lurch, catching you off guard to the point you bring your palm to your chest just to make sure your body is still functioning. Sitting still, your mind tries to make sense of what you are seeing, and the thought of the note being a mistake crosses your mind pretty quickly.Â
A misunderstanding, right.
Maybe this B left the note for someone else.
Maybe itâs a joke.
But the words are too intentional. A quiet, sincere message that doesnât feel performative yet is entirely too thoughtful, causing your cheeks to heat up. It seems to be directed at you but you donât link the signature to anyone in particular.
Your stomach twists in a strange, fluttering sensation as you read it one last time. Then, you finally lower the paper and stare at the parking lot in front of you for a moment longer, before carefully folding the note back up with trembling fingers, your pulse still uneven and your thoughts scattered in a way you donât fully trust yet.
It could be nothing. But it doesnât feel like nothing.
Once the note is safely placed back inside the same pages, almost reverently, you slip the book into your bag, out of your sight.Â
The sky is gradually darkening with soft hues of orange and pink and you still need to stop by the store to buy some produce, yet you allow yourself to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel and gaze lost somewhere far away. And when you finally decide to start your car, the radio blasting some latest pop song, your thoughts canât help but circle back to the words you just read.
You
say⌠do you know anything about a certain piece of paper inside the book you gave me?
DarcyÂ
a piece of paper?Â
oh shit is it the receipt for that blue shirt Iâm supposed to return tomorrow? bc if I miss it again Iâm gonna lose those 60 dollars for good đ
You
I thought you returned that yesterday? btw I donât know what it is, looks like a love note I think? is this your umpteenth âsubtleâ way to tell me I have to start dating?
Darcy
no you said you were coming with me tomorrow
oh? I have no clue what you mean đÂ
maybe the books took pity on your nonexistent love life and are finally starting to write back to you? wouldnât that be something?
You
fuck off đÂ
Darcy
love you too <3
âHe could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the world. There was only one creature in the world who could concentrate for him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she.â
You donât notice it, but your smile lights up every corner of my world.
Love, B
The following week, the book comes home with you without attention, just another familiar weight in your bag that you donât think twice about once class starts.
Itâs only later in your apartment, when you are finally allowed to exist without answering to anything or anyone, that you reach for it again almost absently. Now comfortable on your couch, you are already halfway into the thrilling anticipation of losing yourself in yet another story that has nothing to demand from you, except attention.
Once you open it, something small slips out before you even register the change in weight. The folded piece of paper lands on your knees with no sound, yet you flinch anyway. For a long moment you just stare at it with wide eyes, because this canât be an accident, not anymore.Â
The first note could have been an oversight, something forgotten, or probably meant for someone else. Thatâs why it had been easy, then, to push it into the background of your thoughts and let it become a harmless detail in an otherwise ordinary week.
Your fingers move before your brain fully agrees to it, the paper already familiar in its structure now: the same placement of a line from the book first, and beneath it, a simple, personal addition, almost disarming in how unremarkable it tries to appear.
Your eyes trace the words slowly, as if savoring every letter.
There is a particular kind of attention in it that doesnât feel casual. Not in the way people are ordinarily kind, or polite. This feels like someone has been observing without announcing it, leaving behind traces of themselves instead of explanations.
When was the last time anything in your life felt like it was aimed at you specifically, rather than at the role you occupy, the version of you that is expected to respond in proper, predictable ways? And who would do something like this? Not in the dramatic sense of confessions, but in this understated, quiet way of slipping fragments of themself into pages, trusting that you would find them when you were meant to.
It feels almost intimate in its restraint.
And as your mind tries to analyze that, it naturally reaches for an old memoryâan unconscious comparison. A place where youâve been before, back when everything at work still felt new and open.
At some point in the last months of your previous relationship, your ex was part of your life like those people who exist just close enough to feel superficially involved. There were evenings youâd come home carrying the day still alive in you: students who had sparked a debate with their brilliant answers; stimulating discussions that had shifted something in your thinking; all the small, unremarkable moments that shaped your job into something more than a simple obligation.
He listened as if you were talking about the weather.
And over time, you learned how to adjust yourself around that. To smooth out the edges of your enthusiasm before offering it.
Your jaw tightens at how miserable you were.
After you broke up, you didnât stop loving love. You just stopped expecting it to arrive in a form that chose you back. Books filled that space more easily than people ever did, love stories especiallyâthose could be held at a distance, experienced without consequence. You could allow yourself to feel everything without needing to risk what came after.Â
Until now.
The note in your hand doesnât feel like it was ever meant to remain tucked away between the pages of a book. But you have to remind yourself to keep your feet on the ground. Itâs too easy to misread things like this, assigning meaning where none is intended.
You should stop here. You almost fold it back and place it on the coffee table like an afterthought, ready to jump straight into the first page. But then, uninvited, a face appears at the edge of your memory.
The person you have seen behind the desk more than once. The way he looks up too quickly when you approach, as if he can sense your presence the moment you cross the threshold. The carefulness of his voice when he speaks to you. The way he seems to take up less space when you are near.
James.
You exhale sharply, as if that alone can dismiss the thought.
Sweet, kind and clumsy in a way that makes him easy to underestimate and difficult not to notice. But also younger, and most importantly, your student once, even if those years have settled behind you both by now.
There are boundaries that people like you donât cross. And yet, the thought refuses to leave.
Sighing, you fold the note with precision, as if returning it to order might also restore the sense of control you are gradually losing track of. You tell yourself, as you set it aside, that there is probably a logical explanation behind this. Many things sound unreasonable when analyzed under the microscope between the walls of your own mind. But even as you try to convince yourself of that, you are aware that something in the air between you and that possibility has shifted. This is starting to become a pattern, and patterns begin to ask for interpretation whether you want them to or not.
The thought of someone seeing you as a creature that could hold that kind of light is enough to make your lips curl into a serene smile for the rest of the night.
âDo I love you? My god, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.â
You seemed a little tired today. I hope youâre being gentle with yourself.
Love, B
Sam is the reason Bucky is outside at all.
âMan, if I have to watch you reorganize the same shelf one more time, Iâm reporting you.â He had said an hour earlier, already halfway to the front door before Bucky could argue. âYou need air. Sunlight. Human interaction that isnât whispering.â
âI talk to people.â Bucky had protested under his breath, grabbing his jacket anyway.
âYeah,â Sam shot back, holding the door open. âAt a volume only ghosts can hear.â
Now theyâre crossing the quad on their way back to lunch, the faint bitterness of coffee still lingering on his tongue as the campus feels alive but not too overwhelming. Students are scattered across the grass, their smiles tired and their bags dropped carelessly by their side.
Sam is talking about something Bucky isnât entirely following, gesturing with what remains of his drink, when it happens.
The collision is light, but the consequence is deadly for his poor heart.
Youâre walking toward them from the opposite path, a heavy tote bag slipping slightly from your shoulder, completely focused on something youâre pulling out of it.
Bucky sees you before you see him but he doesnât move out of the way fast enough. The impact of your arms bumping is barely more than a firm brush, but itâs enough to knock the balance out of what youâre holding.
âOh shit, Iâm so sorry!â Bucky startles, already reaching forward as the books in your arm tilt dangerously. You manage to catch most of them, but a few slip free anyway, hitting the concrete with a dull thud.
âNo no, itâs okay, that was me.â You apologize quickly, crouching down to pick them up, though youâre a fraction slower than usual, like your body is lagging behind your intention.
He is already on the ground, hands closing around your books before you can reach them, then arranging them in a neat stack.
âSorry.â He mutters again, offering them back to you, though he doesnât let go right away, not when you look this tired. Your fingers brush against each other for an ephemeral moment, causing a shiver to run down his spine, and when you straighten up, your eyes finally land on him.
âOh, James!â Your eyebrows lift in surprise, voice warming almost instantly. âHi.â
âHi.â Bucky parrots back, a little breath caught in the word.
Up close, itâs easier to notice the heaviness under your eyes and the lazy curve of your smileâit takes a bit more effort to reach your face. Yet itâs the sparkle heâs used to see in your movements that worries him the most. The energy is still there but buried a little deeper than usual.
âYou okay?â The question slips out before he can filter it, his eyebrows furrowing.
You blink, caught off guard not by the question itself but by how swiftly and directly he gets there.
âYeah.â You nod at first. A small, polite answer that is meant to close the subject rather than invite more questions.
Although Bucky doesnât say anything, something in his expression must give him away, because you let out a small breath that turns into a self-deprecating chuckle.
âIs it that obvious?â
He shrugs, a little awkward now that he realizes he crossed a line.
âOnly if youâre paying attention.â He mumbles, then promptly looks down, like heâs said too much.
âOkay, Iâm a little tired.â You admit, shifting the books against your chest. âItâs been a long week, nothing to worry about.â
Bucky hums pensively, like heâs been expecting that answer. âYeah, you lookââ He stops himself, frowning. âNot bad. Justâtired.â
You beam properly for the first time that day, a hint of amusement breaking through the lack of sleep.
âWow. You really know how to cheer a woman up.â
âI didnât meanââ His eyes go comically wide. âI justââ
The words trip over themselves before he can stop them.
âYou are always beautiful.â He blurts out, too fast, too honest.
You still, eyebrows raised in shock. But as Bucky feels his stomach drop somewhere near his shoes, your expression brightens in a way that he almost feels like he has died and gone to his own personal heaven.
âOh, thank you.â You momentarily glance down, a coy smile taking over your lips. Your voice is a low, breathy thing, but it lands heavier than anything else in the conversation so far.
His brain scrambles uselessly for damage control, for something to say that might undo the moment, but everything just sounds worse before it even forms completely.
Behind him, Sam lets out a quiet, poorly concealed snort, but Bucky ignores it.
âIââ He starts again, yet youâre still smiling at him. Which, somehow, makes it infinitely worse.
âYou should get some rest,â he swallows, in a last, desperate attempt to direct the conversation. âIf you can.â
Itâs simple, a bit clumsy even with the way he canât seem to meet your eyes as you study him like youâre not used to people saying that and meaning it.
âI will,â you nod. âThank you, James.â
His hands twitch at his sides, wishing he could offer to carry your books, your bag, or say something useful, something that might actually help and not further push him to hide foreverâbut words fail him, dying in his throat.
You shift your weight slightly, lips parting as if you are about to say something else, when your gaze flicks past Buckyâs shoulder and lands on the man watching the scene like his favorite reality show.
âOhâSam?â You greet him, a little surprised.
His friend straightens immediately, stepping forward with a grin thatâs just a little too knowing.
âMissââ He starts, out of instinct more than anything else.
You groan softly, already shaking your head. âOh God, no. Please donât. We are not doing that.â You chuckle. âWe are almost colleagues at this point. Or close enough, Doctor Wilson.â
Sam lifts his hands in surrender. âForce of habit.â
âIt makes me feel ancient.â You add jokingly.
âYou look far from ancient, professor.â Sam shoots back easily with a friendly wink.
Bucky glances between the two of you laughing like two old friends, a knot forming in his throat at how naturally the conversation unfolds, how easily Sam fits into it.
âHow are you doing?â You ask him, genuine interest threading through your tone.
âGood,â Sam crosses his arms to his chest. âA lot more busy. Theyâve got me running around a lot, but I guess thatâs part of the deal.â
âYouâll be great at it.â You state without hesitation.
Sam grins. âYeah, I know.â
You laugh at that, shaking your head.
âIâm serious,â you add a tad more serious. âYouâve got the right instinct for helping people.â
Sam briefly glances down at that, not used to compliments. âI appreciate that.â
Thereâs nothing wrongânothing Bucky can point to and say this is whyâand maybe thatâs what makes it worse. Your interaction with his friend isnât forced, not tentative in the way it always seems to be with him. It flows, not leaving room for hesitation, and hesitation is the only language Buckyâs ever been fluent in.
His hands keep hovering uselessly at his sides before one of them comes up to rub the back of his neck, an old habit he falls into when he feels disquieted. For a moment, he considers stepping in, adding somethingâanythingâbut he wouldnât even know where to begin. He would rather leave in silence than try inserting himself into a rhythm that would carry on just fine without him, and probably end up being ignored. Even if he knows rationally that neither of you would do that to him.
So he stays where he is, half a step behind, listening. As usual.
You nod once, satisfied, then glance back at Bucky.
âWell,â you give him a little smile, drained but real, adjusting your grip on the books again. âI should let you both get back to it.â
âYeah,â It comes out as an involuntary whisper, so Bucky quickly clears his throat. âSee you.â
âSee you around, James.â
You give Sam a small wave, then turn, walking across the quad until you gradually blend back into the movement of the campus.
Thereâs a beat of silence in which Bucky is still looking longingly in your direction, when Sam exhales.
âWow.â
âI mean, wow.â He repeats at the lack of response, dragging the word out this time. âYou just stand there and do that with no warning?â
âDo what?â Bucky mutters, already starting to move again.
His friend falls into step beside him, shaking his head. âYou ever notice you stop blinking around her or is that just me?â
Bucky shoots him a look. âShut up.â
âIâm serious,â he continues, completely undeterred. âYou were gone. I couldâve run around naked and you wouldnât have even noticed.â
âI wasnât that distracted.â Bucky replies flatly.
âLiar,â Sam counters. âYou didnât even know I was still there until she spotted me.â
Bucky canât argue, because for once heâs right, but Sam doesnât need to know that.
His friend shoots him a sidelong glance, lips already twisting into a small smirk. âYouâre in trouble.â
He sighs tiredly, yet doesnât even try to deny it.
âYou pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope... I have loved none but you.â
I get the feeling Iâm already in deeper than I have any right to be.
Love, B
Darcy called it a âfairâ exchange, half-sprawled against the front desk earlier that afternoon while Bucky pretended to log the latest entry of the day, hopeful she would eventually forget the whole thing if he looked busy enough.
âI helped you with the note thing,â she stated, like it was a perfectly reasonable transaction. âI require my payment now.â
He had eventually agreed, which in hindsight felt like the first mistake of the day.
Itâs simple, really. In and out. Pick a pastry, hand the money and run back to the library where words are predictable and the space knows his name.
But the cafeteria is loud, exposed. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, too many conversations overlapping so nothing can be separated cleanly. And too many people existing too close together without thinking about it.
Bucky moves through it like heâs slightly out of sync with the floor beneath him. Heâs been here before throughout these past few years, of course. With Sam, Steve⌠even Darcy recently, when she drags him out on their breaks, talking the entire time so he doesnât have to. But being here alone makes such an ordinary task sound impossible. He is suddenly aware of his damp hands and how he shouldnât let them hover uselessly at his sides. Of his posture, too straight or not straight enough. Of the fact that no one is guiding him through the space with casual familiarity, splitting the crowd ahead of him with easy conversation that makes him feel less like an intruder.
Bucky eventually reaches the display case feeling like heâs halfway through a side-quest that tastes more and more like an ambush. Pastries sit behind the glass in neat rows, almost judgmental in their little safe corner, yet he doesnât really see them. His focus keeps slipping, attention unable to find anything to attach itself to for more than a second.
Two options blur together in his mind.
He should just pick one. It doesnât matter, itâs just pastries.Â
But he hesitates too long. A couple behind him shifts closer. Someone laughs too loudly nearby and it hits his ears too suddenly, his shoulders tightening instinctively, like his body is trying to make itself smaller.
He should choose. He should leave. He should do anything that involves not standing still like an idiot.
And then, without his permission, his eyes dart away mindlessly, stopping right to the far end of the room, on a face he knows too well. And the chaos is entirely forgotten.
You are hereâalways somewhere inside the rhythm of the building. But Mr. Fowler is here too, seated across from you like itâs the most natural arrangement in the world.
Professor Fowler is a math genius. He is always composed, always too comfortable in spaces that arenât entirely his, sporting that cunning smile as if he were the sole keeper of the secret to having the last word in every conversation.
You are leaning forward, hands moving animatedly as you talk about something that matters more than anything else in the room. Maybe a studentâs absurd answer in one of your quizzes. Or maybe is it something more personal? It doesnât really matter, because Fowler is laughing and thereâs nothing polite about that. He genuinely finds it funny. There is no hesitation, no carefulness.
And you answer that at once, smiling at him so easily.
Thatâs the first word that comes to mind, uninvited and unhelpful. Ease, Bucky realizes with unpleasant clarity, has a shape, and you and Fowler fit inside it without effort.
He has heard things before. Even if they came from voices that donât matter, they start to form patterns when they repeat often enough in passing corridors, in the kind of giggles that bubble when something is slyly assumed.
Your names are linked together too lightly, followed by a glance that suggests there is nothing to confirm and nothing to deny, just the ultimate assumption everyone makes when two well-matched people keep ending up in the same orbit: both of them good-looking, established, sharp in their own fields. The sort of pairing that doesnât need to be announced to feel plausible, which somehow makes it worse than a confirmation would have.
Bucky realizes he has stopped breathing properly at some point during that realization. His hands still hold nothing useful, and the counter is now farther than he remembers, his body having gradually drifted away without noticing.Â
Across the room, Fowler says something, and this time you laughâproperly, head tipping back and eyes squeezing shut. And there is nothing performative in it, only familiarity unfolding candidly between you like it has always been there.
It feels real.
And it doesnât include him.
He should have left the moment this stopped feeling like speculation and started looking like certainty.Â
There are people who move through the world as if it already recognizes them, and people who donât quite manage to step into that recognition without friction. So Bucky turns away and doesnât look back.
There is no point in that, not when your smiles are for another man.
When he finally reaches the library, Darcyâs voice catches him before he can fully disappear into the stacks.
âBarnes,â she calls, far too bright for the way his day has just fractured. âWhere is my muffin?â
âThey ran out of pastries.â The shock at the way his own mind promptly provides him with a convincing lie doesnât manifest on his face.
Darcy squints at his back like she is trying to decide whether something happened or itâs just one of his days. âYou okay?â
With a non-committal hum, Bucky keeps walking until heâs standing in his usual dark corner, no memory of the steps in between and the people he brushed past along the way. The books are already there, waiting in the same order, and for a moment he simply stands in front of them.
Then, almost mechanically, he begins to rearrange them. Not because they need it.
âShe did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it.â
Sometimes I think standing too close to you would be enough to undo me. I find myself stopping thoughts before they become something I canât easily take back.
Love, B
A single touch of his shoulder was enough for his cock to stir. Well no, it wasnât just that.
Bucky was talking with Steve in front of the library when he spotted you and Darcy making your way back after your break.
He didnât realize he stopped speaking mid-response until Steve glanced at you and then back at him with understanding.
The effortless grace in your movements made it impossible for him to look away, a mixture of admiration and longing dancing in his own blue eyes... until they landed on your outfit. The skirt you were wearing moved differently than the ones he was used to, shorter and tight enough to sinfully cling onto the flesh of your thighs covered by sheer, light fabric that made his breath hitch embarrassingly loud.
And then you had come closer, and his knees almost buckled when he noticed how much skin your shirt was revealing. Itâs pretty hot today and you were here for a conference organized by the Department of Literature. Itâs only normal for you to put a little more effort in your outfits when you are not in class; you could be a little bit bolder.
The open collar was covering almost all of your breasts, still, the curve of your tits was completely visible for his eyes to feast upon.
The final blow was you touching him. Youâre mid-sentence, when your foot caught on the uneven pavement, and his body just had to react before thinking. His hand was already around your waist, your fingers going for the nearest thing for support: his shoulder. You ground yourself for a moment as you corrected your step, thanking him with a sweet smile that will haunt him for weeks.
It was barely contact. An instinctive touch and nothing more.
Still, now he canât stop the phantom brush of your digits on his covered skin from giving him goosebumps. Or the tingling sensation on his palm as it closes uselessly around nothing, trying to remember what the curve of your waist felt like.
It wasnât long before Bucky had to excuse himself, conveniently holding his jacket in his arms because of the hot weather and low enough to hide his big bulge.
The walk to the restroom was nothing short of humiliating. He felt like every single pair of eyes was burning through his skin, judging him for popping a boner in the middle of a conversation with the prettiest woman in the world wrapped in tight silk and nylon.
Itâs not the first time Bucky comes with your name on his lips, and images of you moaning and crying out under him rolling in his mind like the lewdest of movies. Still, it never happened in a public place.
As soon as he locks the door behind him, Buckyâs slacks are so unbearably tight he clumsily unhooks his belt, lowering them enough to relieve the growing pressure on his erection. He wishes to indulge in one of his perverted fantasies so bad, but it doesnât feel right. Not here.
In a desperate attempt to calm down, he presses his back against the wall, sweat causing his hair to cling to his forehead and eyes squeezing shut. Until the image of the swell of your breasts comes back traitorously behind his closed eyelids, and that soon transforms into your naked tits bouncing in front of his face, nipples hard and glistening with his spit after he thoroughly kissed and sucked and pinched the sensitive nubs.
Yes, in his mind you are a sensitive little thing that needs her breasts worshipped. If he had a little more experience, Bucky is certain he could make you come just by toying with your nipples.
And then he thinks about that damn skirt. His fingers would lightly trace your soft skin covered by the pantyhose, ripping the fabric apart just to hear you gasp, and then taking his time in covering your pretty thighs with his mark.
Bucky always starts with the best intentions: slow, light touches, trying to make the pleasure last as long as possible. But he is far too eager to wait. He could learn to be patient for you, though. Edge you and himself for hours until you canât take it anymore, indulge in your shaky thighs squeezing his head as his tongue teases your clit to bring you so close... and then pull away just to hear you beg and whimper for him to fuck you until you pass out, until the only thing your mind can remember is his name, and your pussy the shape of his cock.
A whimper claws out of his throat when his fingers instinctively reach down, wrapping around his length. Bucky is both long and thick, his palm sliding up and down, following the upward curve so easily. A shiver runs down his spine when he focuses on the tip, smooth and rounded, his hips jerking forward as his thumb smears precum across the crown.
He is sure you wouldnât have any problems taking him. You are a determined, strong woman, and even if the stretches would burn at the beginning and your cheeks would be wet with fat tears of overstimulation, youâd still look down at him like a goddess with her favorite devotee, stubbornness burning in your eyes as youâd ride him with the little strength left.
Brows furrowed in concentration and head thrown back against the white wall, Bucky strokes his cock at a steady pace, lips parted around muffled breaths and low groans that fall into the palm pressed firmly against his mouth. At some point his eyes snap open, traveling down to the space between his legs, and his brain must really hate him, because it offers the image of you knelt there, shirt unbuttoned and skirt bunched at your hips, enough to expose your wet core. Your hand plays with his balls while your glossy lips stretch around his cock.
âJust like that, babyâfuckââ
His hips twitch in wild, frantic thrusts, the sloppy, wet sounds of his fingers picking up their pace echoing in the empty restroom. He is throbbing at the phantom feeling of your tongue tracing the veins and your lips closing around his tip to suckle on it like a damn lollipop.
He isnât prepared for the violent, abrupt wave of pleasure that hits him only a few seconds later. Ropes of cum steadily paint his palm, a few, thin stripes spurting on the floor as his choked groans die behind pressed lips.
When the room finally stops spinning, Bucky tiredly slumps back against the wall, eyes accidentally falling on the mirror right in front of him. His chest heaves with rugged breaths and his hands are now dirty with his own cum. The sight makes his already red cheeks look like two tomatoes.
His cock is still out and half-hardâit makes such a crude picture next to his creased pants and underwear.
Only then shame curls hot in his belly.
âI have for the first time found what I can truly loveâI have found you. You are my sympathyâmy better selfâmy good angel.â
There are people you admire, and then there are people who quietly become part of how you think about everything else. I didnât expect the difference to feel this irreversible.
Love, B
Classes have just let out, so the hallway is still quite full but thinning at the edges, students spilling out in clusters to move toward exits; some linger just a little longer than they need to. Bucky is standing off to the side, a folder tucked under his arm for the administrative office, waiting for the flow to clear before he moves.
You come out of one of the classrooms a few steps ahead of him, mid-sentence, turning slightly as you finish saying something over your shoulder to a student who stands by the door.
âThatâs actually a really good pointâjust donât stop there, okay? Push it a bit further and youâll see where it goes. Actually, you know what? I have some articles about the psychological function of the Gothic in nineteenth-century literature, and I believe they could be very helpful for your essay. Just send me an e-mail to remind me, okay?â
The student nods, half-confident, half-lost, and you give her an encouraging smile before she heads off. You fully step into the hallway while adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and only then your distracted gaze lands upon him.
You shift the thick stack of papers in your arms, catching Buckyâs attention.
âMonthly assignments?â He guesses.
You glance down at the stack, then back at him, lips already curling knowingly.
âUnfortunately, yes.â Your shoulders move with a deep sigh. âAnd they all seem to have been written at three in the morning, which makes them⌠pretty creative.â
He huffs a quiet chuckle, a mix of sympathy and amusement.
âYeah, canât blame them.â
âI donât even mind the lack of sleep,â you continue. âItâs the confidence. Theyâll write something completely unhinged and still conclude it like itâs the most solid argument ever made.â
That pulls a real smile out of him.
âHonestly, I respect that.â He says before thinking too hard about it. Then, almost immediately, âNotâthe unhinged part. Just... the confidence.â
Something about your laugh shakes the butterflies in his stomach.
âNo, I get it. Thereâs something admirable about committing to a bad take.â
He nods along, then hesitates like heâs deciding whether to say the next part.
âAre they actually bad? Or just⌠not what you were expecting?â
Your head tilts a little, considering him for a moment.
âSome of them are bad,â you admit quietly. âBut some are... uh, unfinished thoughts, yes. Like theyâre almost there, but they stop right before it gets interesting.â
âYeah,â he murmurs. âThatâs worse, I think.â
Your eyebrows shoot up curiously.
âBecause they couldâve been good... if theyâd dared to go further.â He quickly explains, then immediately wonders if that sounds stupid. Too obvious. Tooâ
âYes, exactly. Dare is the right word.â You sound elated to be finally understood. âThey get scared.â
Thereâs a small pause in which you hurriedly look for one paper in particular, pulling it out from the middle of the stack.
âThis one actually had a really good point,â you mumble to yourself as you frown at it, eyes smoothly skimming the text. âAbout how emotional restraint in early twentieth-century fiction isnât absence, but displacement.â
Bucky looks up at that, interest showing on his features.
âLikeâredirected?â
âExactly,â you nod, a little more animated now. âBut then they just didnât follow it through.â
âThey couldâve tied it to narrative voice,â he muses. âHow whatâs left unsaid actually shapes the way the story is told.â
âYes!â You smile. âThatâs what I thought.â
Thereâs a flicker of something in your expressionâapproval, maybe, or just satisfactionâthat gives Bucky enough confidence to continue.
âDo you everâŚâ He clears his throat. âI meanâdo you ever feel like they just donât trust their own ideas enough?â
Your smile turns a little gloomy.
âAll the time.â You shake your head. âThey think thereâs a âcorrectâ answer theyâre supposed to land on, so they donât follow their real thoughts on the matter.â
He nods, more certain now that the conversation is finding its rhythm.
âYeah,â he agrees. âLike theyâre writing for approval instead of⌠figuring something out.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer than before.
âYou read my mind.â
The words settle between you with finality, your gaze meeting his, surprised at first, like youâre still turning the conversation over in your mind. And Bucky doesnât lower his eyes like he usually would.
He holds it, because stepping away first would mean breaking this rare moment he gets to enjoy just existing with you. Because thereâs a soft attentiveness in your expression that makes it hard to pull back from.
Like heâs worth listening to.
The moment stretches for a second too long. Then another, until it no longer feels like a mere pause in a conversation, and giving away even the slightest of hints about his feelings for you is enough to scare Bucky into talking again.
He clears his throat first, the sound cutting abruptly through the quiet hallway as he looks down at the papers like theyâve suddenly become very important.
âUhââ He has no idea how to finish that.
You blink like youâve just been pulled out of a dream, your posture adjusting slightly as you look away as well, fingers tightening just a little around the stack in your arms.
A small, almost embarrassed breath leaves you.
âYesââ You murmur, then shake your head faintly, as if resetting yourself. âSorry.â
âNo, itâsââ He mentions at the same time, then cuts himself off, heat uncomfortably creeping up the back of his neck.
The brief, clumsy overlap of words goes nowhere, but then you shift your weight, grounding yourself back into something familiar, something safe.
âActually,â you take a small step closer, a little more composed now. âWhile I have youââ
His head snaps up a bit too fast at your wording.
âI wanted to ask you something about one of the students whoâs been coming to the library a lotâtall, always looks like he hasnât slept in three days? His nameâs Peter. Peter Olson.â
Bucky blinks, searching his memory.
â⌠That doesnât narrow it down much.â He admits hesitantly.
An embarrassed chuckle falls from your lips. âFair. Mmh, well he usually sits by the back tables. Keeps switching books every couple of hours like heâs looking for something and not finding it.â
âOh,â Bucky perks up. âYeah. I know who you mean. The one who wears the same grey hoodie every day?â
âYes, thatâs him!â You snap your fingers. âI was just wondering if you knew him, since he spends so much time there. Has he ever said anything to you?â Your brows furrow. âOr anyone you know? Heâs been struggling in class, and I canât tell if itâs the material or something personal.â
Itâs not the question per se that catches him off guard, but the way you ask it. Not like itâs your job, like youâre obligated to care.
âHe doesnât talk much,â Bucky starts slowly. âBut he stays late. Sometimes he just plays games on his phone until we close.â
You nod pensively, like that confirms something.
âYeah, thatâs what I thought. I might check in with him,â you mutter, more to yourself than to him. âJust... in general.â
You glance back at Bucky then, a soft smile already brightening your features.
âThank you so much.â
He shrugs, hoping to come across as nonchalant as Sam. âYeah, of course. Anytime.â
You shift your grip on the papers again, but you donât move away immediately. Instead, you squint at him.
âHey, are you doing okay?â
The question lands unexpectedly.
He blinks. âYeah.â
You tilt your head slightly. âJust yeah?â
He chuckles at that. âI swear,â he repeats, a little more honest this time. âIâm good.â
You hold his gaze for a second longer, like youâre deciding whether to believe him or not. Despite your initial doubts, you nod anyway.
âOkay.â
No lecture, no attempt to force him to speak.
âWell,â you announce ruefully, taking a step back. âI really need to go and start grading these now. Thank you again, James.â
âNo problem,â he gives you a thin-lipped smile. âSee you around, and good luck with those.â
Bucky stays there minutes after the shape of your body has disappeared behind a corner, the folder meant for the administrative office still waiting in his hands.
Nothing big just happened. It was just a normal conversation, honestly. You didnât say anything extraordinary, nor did anything that should linger in his chest like this. You talked about literature and essays. You exchanged ideas. You asked about a student. You asked about him... And then you let it be enough.
Later, when heâs alone, it comes back to him in piecesâthe subtle pride burning in his chest at being on the receiving end of that kind of attention, like he exists in the same category as everything else you choose to care about.
âHer presence altered the flow of time itself, making the hours feel lighter when she was near and heavier when she was gone.â
Iâve started measuring time around the moments you are by my side. I didnât realize how much that would change things until I started noticing the difference when you are not there. Something in me refuses to settle properly without you in my day. Am I going mad, or does that happen more easily than people like to admit?
Love, B
Irritation curls hot in his chest as Bucky focuses on his phone, on the message from Steve warning him heâs running late. Waiting alone like this has never sat well with him, not when the constant sense of not belonging thrums high in his veins.
He steps forward in line anywayâthey discovered this quaint cafĂŠ years ago while looking for a place to study for the days they actually didnât feel like opening a book at allâbarely paying attention to what heâs ordering, until a familiar voice cuts through the jazz melody coming from the speakers.
âJames?â
He turns around in surprise, because there you are, sitting at one of the tables by the window, one hand wrapped around a cup, the other lifting in a small, happy wave when you catch his eye.
His body stiffens at once.
Thereâs no distance of a desk between you, no quiet formality shaping the interaction, like a college hallway. You look⌠softer, somehow. Draped in light fabric that catches the faintest movement of your body even when youâre still. Itâs a dress that falls more naturally than the usual careful lines of trousers and shirts he associates with you.
Why does Bucky feel like heâs committing the sweetest kind of sin, seeing this version of you that belongs entirely to yourself?
His phone is still in his hand, screen gone dark, but he doesnât even register the weight of it, because in that moment, there is just you in a pretty dress and afternoon light, smiling up at him like you are an angel genuinely delighted to see him.
Only then does he remember he is supposed to respond.
âOhâhi.â
âHi,â you echo, your smile growingâeasy and relaxed, fitting perfectly into a sunny Saturday morning. âWhat are you doing here?â
âUhâwaiting. For Steve.â He gestures vaguely with his phone. âHeâs late.â
You laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. âAlways the last one to arrive and the first to go away. I see nothing has changed.â
Your hand points at the empty chair in front of you. âYou can come sit, if you want. Iâm waiting for my friends too.â
Itâs said so casually, like it doesnât require consideration.
Bucky hesitates anyway.
âAre you sure?â He is immediately aware of how unnecessary the question is.
âOf course! We can keep each other company.â You bubble. âI donât bite.â
That gets a small, startled huff out of himâhalf laugh, half whimperâbefore he steps closer to you than heâs ever been.
The first few minutes are clunky.
Bucky sits a little too straight, hands not quite knowing where to go, fingers brushing the edge of his cup like he needs something to keep him anchored to reality. His answers are short at first, slightly off-beat, but you donât let the conversation stall.
âHowâs work been?â You rest your chin on your closed hand.
âUhâgood. Quiet. Mostly just⌠books.â He winces a little at his lame answer.
âThatâs literally my favorite category of things!â
A quiet chuckle escapes him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders thanks to your cheerfulness.
âYeah, I figured.â
âYou get to spend your whole day around them,â you continue. âThat sounds like a dream to me.â
He shrugs, a reflex more than a response. âItâs just⌠temporary. You know, nothing serious.â
You donât answer that right away.
âTemporary doesnât mean meaningless,â you explain calmly. âAnd being around something you love every day isnât small, James. Most people donât even get close to that.â
He opens his mouth to respondâout of habit more than anythingâbut doesnât have anything ready for that, in fact. And you donât push it, opting to take a sip of your drink.
Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Somewhere along the conversation, things shift.
Maybe when you start telling him about one of your classes and how a student arguing with you over an interpretation somehow made you rethink your own reading of the text. Maybe when he finally finds himself asking a question without rehearsing it first. Maybe when you laugh again, and this time he doesnât freeze around it.
âYou let them argue about Joyce with you?â His eyebrows shoot up, a hint of disbelief slipping through.
âOf course!â Your eyes widen, like itâs obvious. âThatâs the fun part. Otherwise itâs just me talking to a bunch of nodding heads for two hours.â
The corners of his mouth lift properly this time, not the small, careful version he usually allows in public.
âYeah, I guess that makes sense.â
You agree with a shake of your head, taking a sip of your second cup of latte. âYouâd be good at it, actually.â
That catches him off guard.
âAt⌠teaching?â He tentatively asks.
âYeah. You pay attention. Thatâs half the job.â
He doesnât know what to do with that either. So he just nods, a little slower this time.
âHave you ever considered that?â
His brows furrow in surprise. âActually... no.â
You donât react immediately, and for a moment he thinks the conversation might just drift away on its own, like so many of the others have, but instead you tilt your head slightly, studying him with that same quiet attentiveness that never fails to bring a blush to his cheeks.
âIâm serious,â you add, softer now. âYou make people feel like what theyâre saying matters. Thatâs rarer than knowing things, honestly. You can always study content, but some people never learn how to make someone want to keep talking.â
No one has ever framed him like that before, as if it were something worthy of praise rather than just a byproduct of him being timid, or quieter than most people.
His distant eyes drop briefly to the table as if the surface might offer him something solid to hold onto while his thoughts rearrange themselves around the idea, his fast heartbeat almost drowning any other sound at how beautifully you keep describing him and his job.
âI never thought about it like that.â He murmurs, not sure if it was meant for himself only.
You donât push it further, just lean back into your chair with a serene smile.
âIâm telling you, there is a difference,â a voice behind you abruptly ripples through the quietness. âYou canât just say a flat white and a latte are the same thing.â
You flinch at the rising volume of the statement.
âThey are basically the same thing,â another voice argues back, annoyed. âItâs milk and coffee. Thatâs it.â
âThatâs like saying all literature is just words on paper. Donât be ignorant, Joe.â
Buckyâs gaze flick up to you at once, a sparkle of amusement dancing in his eyes, like heâs silently asking if youâre hearing this too.
You are, clearly, because youâre biting your lips so hard to avoid laughing and draw their attention.
âThereâs a texture, thereâs a ratioâthereâs an actual difference if you pay attention.â
âI am paying attention,â Joe replies, sharper now. âI just donât think itâs worth pretending itâs deeper than it is, Mary.â
âThatâs not pretending,â she counters quickly, almost cutting over him. âThatâs just⌠caring about things.â
He lets out a short, disbelieving snicker. âNo, thatâs overcomplicating things that donât need it.â
âRight, because you hate when things get too complicated.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou know very well what I mean, Joe.â
âItâs coffee, Mary.â The guy insists exasperated, but thereâs something defensive in his voice now, less certain. âYouâre acting like itâs a personality trait.â
âMaybe it is,â she snaps back. âMaybe the way people choose things does say something about them.â
âOr maybe you just want it to.â
âOr maybe you just donât notice anything.â
And just like that you watch Mary stomp out of the coffee shop with a sighing Joe right on her heels.
There is a brief, silent pause in which you and Bucky just stare at each other, before you both burst out laughing.
âTheyâre not wrong, you know?â You breathe out, still smiling. âPeople get very attached to their preferences to the point it becomes a personality trait.â
Bucky leans back a fraction in his chair now, more at ease than he had been at the start.
âI think itâs less about the coffee,â he crosses his arms to his chest. âAnd more about wanting to be right about something.â
You hum around a sip of your drink. âOr wanting something small to feel important.â You argue back. âItâs easier to defend a preference than to admit it doesnât really matter.â
âDo you think people actually taste the difference,â he asks after a moment. âOr they just decide they do?â
A grin takes over your lips.
âI think sometimes they decide first,â you rest your chin back against your hand. âAnd then convince themselves their senses agree with them.â
It feels like that explanation applies to more than just coffee, to more than just the harmless debate that unfolded right behind you between two strangers who you will probably never meet again.
His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary before he looks down again, almost unconsciously.
âWell, I think Iâm in trouble.â His grin is poorly concealed.
That makes you smile. âWhy?â
âBecause I donât think Iâve ever made a defining coffee decision in my life.â
âThatâs fine,â you gesture with your hand. âNot everyone needs to be a person of conviction.â
He squints his eyes at you. âI feel like thatâs not a compliment.â
âIt wasnât.â
He huffs out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head at your serious expression.
âMovies are like that too.â
That catches his attention a little more.
âWhat do you mean?â
âEveryone has one classic opinion they feel morally obligated to defend.â
âThatâs⌠accurate, unfortunately.â He rolls his eyes, suddenly reminded of his sister and her obsession with Casablanca.
You lean back a little in your chair. âLike people who act like you personally attacked their family if your favorite movie is not some... I donât knowââ You gesture loosely with one hand. âFrench, silent short film from the twenties.â
Bucky closes his eyes tiredly, head falling back. âGod, I hate those people.â
âI kinda am those people.â You eventually admit with a smirk.
That earns you a look.
âIâm joking!â Your giggle is so contagious his own lips twist into a small smile. âWell, maybe sometimes...â Your index finger rhythmically taps your chin as you think for a few seconds.
âI just love classics.â
âI donât... actually like most classics.â He scrunches his nose.
You blink, slightly taken aback. âThat sounded like a confession.â
âIt felt like one. Iâve never told anyone.â
You lean forward in interest, whispering conspirationally. âOkay, so which ones donât you like?â
He hesitates for a moment, like he knows this is about to become a problem. âGrease.â
Your expression falls at once, humor slipping away just as quickly as it came.
âWhat?â
âI didnât say I hated it.â
âThatâs worse.â Your eyebrows shoot up.
âHow is that worse?â He frowns.
âBecause it means you watched it and still chose neutrality.â
He stumbles over his words, hands raising in defeat. âWait, wait. I didnât choose anything. I just didnât... connect with it.â
You straighten up slightly. âThatâs not allowed.â
His lips press together, trying to hide a smile. âWhy not?â
âWhy?â You balk. âBecause itâs Grease, James!â
âThatâs not really an argument.â He squints his eyes at you.
âIt is culturally! Itâs been around forever for a reason.â
That makes him laugh properly this time.
âWell, now I feel like Joe.â You chuckle at that, shaking your head in fake disappointment.
âThis is exactly what I meant about people having strong opinions about things they donât care about.â
You tilt your head at that, mildly affronted. âExcuse me, I care deeply.â
âItâs a musical.â
âItâs one of the musicals.â
At that point Bucky leans back on his chair with a glint of delight dancing in his eyes. âSo Iâm not allowed to just⌠not like it?â
âNo.â You shrug, lips already twisting into a grin.
It makes him smile again, his ears burning a little at the fleeting realization that he just had a funny banter with you without making a fool of himself.
âOkay.â He sighs resignedly. âThen what do I get to dislike without being judged?â
You think about it seriously, arms crossing to your chest as you look out of the window.
âAh!â Your face lights up. âModern remakes of classics.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âThatâs safe?â
âThatâs universally safe.â
âI feel like youâre setting me up.â He squints at you.
âI swear Iâm not,â you lift a hand in sincerity. âThatâs just objective truth.â
Buckyâs blue eyes study you for a moment with something you canât fully decipher, ultimately opting for a thin-lipped smile. âYouâre impossible.â
His gaze inevitably falls on your lips, so lost in his own thoughts that he doesnât notice the way your own lies on his.
However, your phone lights up, the strong vibration of an incoming text breaking the spell. Bucky suddenly straightens up, expression sobering now that he has been pulled out of whatever quiet complicity had settled between you. Meanwhile, you throw the screen a quick glance, then your eyes fall back on him.
âMy friends are here.â
Bucky moves quickly, pushing his chair back with too much strength, the scrape of it against the floor making a few heads turn.
âSteve isnât here yet, right?â You ask, and then, more tentative. âStay.â
As if surprised by your own request, you correct yourself frantically. âI mean, if you want to, of course. I just⌠Iâd really like it if you stayed. I can introduce you to my friends.â
Thatâs when Bucky stops entirely.
Your eyes are so hopeful and devastatingly pretty, your expression open at how uncomplicated the request is even if it clearly costs you something to make it.Â
He almost says yes.
Itâs there, immediate, unfiltered, so close on his tongue. Because thereâs no calculation, no expectation dressed up as politeness. Just the simple, disarming fact that you want him there.
Then the door opens. Voices spill in. Energy, movement, a kind of ease he hasnât been part of in a long time.
And thenâ
Fowler.
Of course heâs here. Of course he belongs to this part of your life too.
Bucky bites his tongue and shakes his head before you can say anything else.
âNo, itâsâI should go, really.â He is already stepping back. âSteve just texted. He canât make it. Iâve got⌠stuff to do. Groceries.â
He knows you can see through his lie, but he doesnât really care to fix it right now. Still, that small shift in your expressionâdisappointment flickering in your eyes before you smooth it over with a polite smileâshatters his heart to pieces.
âOh. Okay,â you nod. âWell⌠Iâll see you on Monday, then?â
âYeah,â his voice dims. âYes. Monday.â
He doesnât trust himself to stay longer than that.
Outside, the air suddenly feels colder than it should for a morning of late spring.
His feet donât stop moving until heâs across the street. Then he turns back, even if he knows whatâs going to see will make him lie awake all night.
Through the window, he can still spot youâonly now youâre not across from him, not contained in that small, manageable space of a shared table.
Youâre part of an organized mess, alive and warm. Inside jokes repeated over the years and questions that require only a knowing look.
Your friends lean in, talking over each other, laughter overlapping easily, and youâre right there in the middle of itâthe center of it allâresponding without hesitation, without that small pause heâs come to recognize when you speak to him.
Fowler is closer than that day in the cafeteria, seamless in the way he occupies the space beside you. You laugh at something he says, and itâs probably the same laugh he has heard just a few minutes ago. It shouldnât matter but Bucky stands there longer than he means to. Long enough for the pit in his stomach to return and set him a few steps back in your blooming friendship.
Could he even call it that, what you had? Talking about literature, stopping for a meaningless chat in the hallways, and randomly bumping into each other on a Saturday morning?
He is just an acquaintance. Those are your friends. They fit in a way that doesnât require adjustment, that doesnât need to be questioned.
And Bucky thinks about how long it took him to stop tripping over his own words, how even at his best, it had taken effort to reach something that, for Fowler, seems to exist without trying.
He thinks about his job. Replaceable. A placeholder more than a direction.
He thinks about the way his life still feels like itâs waiting to start.
Your life looks full, complete in a way his isnât. And the people in it... they belong there. Theyâve already figured out what heâs still trying to understand.
He exhales slowly, the sound barely leaving his chest.
Whatever existed in that small space between the two of you inside that cafĂŠ, itâs meant to stay there. It doesnât extend here and it never will.
This time, when he turns away, he doesnât stop again.
By the time Bucky reaches the end of the street, the decision has already been made, agonizing but certain.
Tomorrow will be his last note.
âThe human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it's been broken into a million pieces.â
I didnât know how to write these notes in a way that didnât sound like I was still your student trying to impress you. I think Iâve been confusing proximity with possibility, standing too close to something I was never meant to touch. Iâm still a temporary version of myself, still borrowing space. Time. Confidence. And I donât think Iâm the kind of man you would ever choose. You⌠youâre not temporary. You come into peopleâs lives to brighten them with your presence, and I donât believe I am worthy enough to deserve that kind of warmth.
So I think this is the right thing to do.
I am going to let you go.
Not because I want to, but because I donât know how to keep loving you without shattering into pieces, until thereâs nothing left to recognize.
Always yours, B
You donât make it home today. The thought of this small, unexpected thing finding its place in your life without asking permission, like it has belonged there all this time, always returns persistently in the back of your mind. It has translated into pure anticipation of what youâll find next inside your books, and today it has been impossible to ignore since the moment your eyes opened. You catch yourself thinking about it between lessons, tasks, in the small pauses where it blends with the image of a certain person, already fantasizing about whatâs going to happen the next time youâll see him again.
By the time you step into the library, youâre already smiling to yourself. Itâs ridiculous, you know that. Nothing about a person anonymously writing you love notes should matter this much, it shouldnât feel this addictive.
Despite the fact that the initial on the notes had been easy to dismiss at first, something vague enough to ignore, it gradually became impossible not to imagine a certain someone behind those words. You told yourself youâre being irrational, but as much as your brain tries to keep you grounded, it canât stop your pulse from picking up every time that possibility takes hold in your thoughts.
You donât rush, not outwardly. But thereâs a lightness to your steps, a quiet impatience that shows in the way your fingers tighten slightly around the cover, in how quickly your gaze moves past Darcy. The world feels just a little less interesting compared to what youâre about to read.
Itâs been a long time since anything has made you feel like this. Or, anyone.
You slip away from the main aisle, drawn toward a quieter corner where shelves grow narrower and the sun doesnât quite reach that far in. Your fingers are already finding the page before youâve fully stopped walking, a warm sensation blooming in your chest in a way that feels embarrassingly close to a suffocating excitement. And when the folded paper finally reveals itself, tucked exactly in the middle of the book, your smile grows, unguarded and bright.
For a brief, suspended moment, everything feels exactly as it should.
You finally stop between two rows of thick books, hands closing around the edges of the note with a familiarity that shouldnât feel so natural. For a second, your thumb presses along the crease, tracing it onceâenough for you to take a deep breath and calm down your wild heartbeat.
The quote registers firstâyour mind catching its tone before its meaning fully settlesâand then your eyes move down, desperately looking for the rest. For an explanation.
Each line feels like a stab to your heart, those words completely stripped of the gentleness that had softened them until now. Thereâs no careful distance here, no hesitation disguised as sweet restraint. Whatever has been building silently inside your secret admirer has become an uncontrollable, raging sea, inevitably crashing your heart against the cliffs.
By the time you reach the last line, your breathing has changed.
Your palm rests on your mouth in an instinctive attempt to contain a sob. Your eyes sting without permission, blurring the edges of the words still lingering in your mind.
You read it over and over again.
Itâs a goodbye.
And it doesnât make any sense.
Nothing in the notes before had prepared you for this abrupt ending, for the certainty that your fate has already been decided without you. You try to trace it back, to find the moment where it might have shifted, something you might have missedâa look, a conversation, anything that could explain how it reached this point.
But thereâs nothing.
Only the unsettling realization that someone has been feeling this deeply, this painfully, somewhere just outside your awareness. And now theyâve chosen to step away.
Your grip tightens around the paper.
The ache that follows in your chest surprises you more than anything else. These notes had become a small but constant reminder that someone out there saw you as something more than your role and a polite smile. You hadnât fully realized how much of them you carried with you every day until now.
It had become a possibility you never allowed yourself to name. And now itâs being ripped away from you before youâve even had the chance to decide if you wanted it.
A wet breath leaves your lips, the paper trembling faintly between your fingers as you lean back against the sturdy shelf, hands stiff on your thighs as you clench your jaw, trying to stop your chin from wobbling so embarrassingly fast in a public space.
Thatâs why you donât hear him at first.
Bucky lethargically turns into the aisle with a few books in his arms, already half-thinking about where they belong. He slows when he notices someone ahead, instinctively preparing to move past without disturbing them.
Then he recognizes you, and his body locks into place.
Youâre standing too still, your posture drawn inward in a way that doesnât belong to you. Your bag has slipped from your shoulder, probably without you noticing, because it hangs awkwardly in the bend of your elbow. The fabric of your shirt was dragged with it, the collar now slipping just enough to expose the slope of your shoulder and your collarbones, the seam no longer primly sitting where it should.
You look⌠undone, in the most mortifying of ways.
And then his gaze drops. In your other hand, a book barely held, your fingers curled around it without intention, like you forgot it was there.
Realization hits fast enough to make his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.
His note.
The air leaves his chest in a shallow breath.
He had imagined you finding out, vaguely, distantlyâbut not like this. Not with you standing in one of the darkest corners of the library, alone and crying for the very thing he had convinced himself would never affect you so much.
A soft, shaky sniff pulls him sharply out of his thoughts, so Bucky decides that this is enough.
He steps forward, careful like approaching a wild, injured animal.
Your name comes out of his lips more hesitantly than he wants to admit.
Your chin lifts, a flicker of surprise, brief and disoriented, crosses your features, before you realize who is standing before you. At that point you straighten abruptly, instinctively composing yourself, though the traces of what you were feeling canât disappear with a single swipe of your fingers.
âJames.â You greet him with a slight bow of your head, your voice fainter than he has ever witnessed.
His heart hurts at the sight.
âAre you okay?â He whispers.
You nod too quickly. âYes!â You exclaim, nodding eagerly. âYes, of course. Iâm fine, itâs justââ The sentence falters, dissolving before it can take shape. You shake your head then, swallowing. âIt doesnât matter.â
Bucky should leave. He set the decision in stone last night as he crafted his last note, deliberately, with the kind of resolve he doesnât usually manage to hold onto for long. And even if right now you are shakenâholding onto that piece of paper that clearly matters to you more than he ever intendedâBucky should step back, let it end cleanly, before it could turn into something more complicated, more humiliating.
Youâll move on. In a few days, maybe a week at most, the notes will blur into a simple memory. Youâll return to your life, to the steady rhythm of it, to things that are real and lasting and meant for you. And eventuallyâmonths from now, years, it doesnât matterâyou might remember this with amusement. A strange, fleeting experience. A story to tell with a soft smile to your kids, about that shy, awkward student who hid behind borrowed words because he never quite had the courage to stand in front of you and speak them himself.
Itâs exactly what he wanted.
But youâre still holding that damn piece of paper, and he knows every word written there.
âYou donât have to pretend.â He mumbles.
Your eyes lift to his again, searching now, something in his tone catching where everything else might have passed unnoticed.
â⌠James?â Uncertainty threads through your voice.
Thereâs a moment where he almost steps back, almost lets this dissolve into something safer.
âI didnât think youâd read it here,â he blurts out, his voice strained at the edges. âI thought youâd take it home, or⌠later.â
Your back slowly straightens to face him as realization dawns on your face.
âYou wrote this.â
Bucky nods, just once.
âIâm sorry.â
The apology comes quickly, choked, like it has been waiting all along in his throat.
âI shouldnât haveâI didnât mean for it to end up like this.â
âLike what?â You ask, voice steadier despite tears still blurring your vision.
âLike you having to deal with it.â
You shake your head, a small, almost disbelieving movement.
âThatâs notââ Your eyelids flutter shut momentarily, chest raising and lowering with a deep breath as you try to find the right way to say something that suddenly feels more complicated than it should be.
âWhy would you think this is something I have to deal with?â
He lets out a short, humorless breath.
âBecause it is,â he says with too much certainty. âItâs not something you asked for.â
âAnd you decided that for me?â
He hesitates. âNo. I just⌠didnât want to make it harder for you.â
âHarder how?â You press, stepping closer without fully realizing it.
Bucky takes his time to look at you, properly, and whatever he sees in your expression seems to unsettle him more than the fear of being rejected.
âBecause Iâm notââ His jaw clenches as he searches for words that donât sound as inadequate as he feels. âIâm not someone you would choose.â
You stare at him with furrowed brows, because of how easily he says it, how certain it sounds, like he has already accepted it as an absolute, indisputable fact.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â
âIâm not deciding anything,â he replies, though his voice breaks. âIâm just being realistic.â
âYouâre not,â you say, taking another step closer. âYouâre assuming.â
âIâve seen enough to know,â he sighs, and thereâs something in the way his voice tightens that suggests he hadnât meant to say even that much. âItâs notâthis isnât about whether I feel something. That part was neverââ He stops, swallows back an embarrassing sob that dissolves his words into a whisper. âItâs about where I fit beside you. And I donât.â
You silently study how heâs holding himself tightly, slightly leaning back, like heâs already preparing to flee.
âThatâs not your decision to make.â You shake your head, stepping closer again. âYouâre being afraid.â
He canât deny that.
And thatâs when you close the distance.
Your lips meet in a tender kiss. It isnât rushed, but it isnât hesitant either. Itâs a decision made without overthinking, without giving him space to retreat behind that safe prison of insecurity he built to protect himself from being hurt.
Initially, Bucky doesnât move, eyes wide and arms rigid at his sides.
This doesnât make sense. Your lips on his.
Itâs only when one of your hands touches his cheek, warm and hesitant, the other settling over the uneven rhythm of his heart, that his palms lift, almost cautiously, like heâs afraid youâre going to disappear with a single brush of his fingers. Just a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, sweet lie.
He cradles your cheeks, the touch so fragile, like a breath caught between speaking and silence. And your lips part gracefully against his, his tongue gaining more confidence the more you tease it with yours.
Buckyâs a mess by the time you pull back, his ears ringing and his breath shaky. You donât leave him completely, the tips of your noses still brushing as his eyes desperately search yours for the slightest hint of regret. But he finds none.
âI donât understand,â he breathes out. âWhy would youââ
âBecause I want you, James.â You answer simply.
âThatâs notâThatâs not supposed to go like this.â
Your eyes close with a sigh, and when they flutter open again, Bucky has to swallow back another apology as a set fresh of tears makes them glow so prettily under the dim-light.
âWhat if I donât see you the way you see yourself?â Your head tilts. âIf I donât think youâre temporary. If I donât think youâre out of place in my life.â
Thereâs a long moment where he just observes you in awe, the certainty of being unwanted he held onto for so long unraveling piece by piece, replaced by something far more delicate yet warm. So warm his chest feels full.
âThen why didnât youââ His voice breaks, the question catching in his throat.
âBecause you never gave me the chance.â
This time, Bucky doesnât look away. His shoulders loosen, gradually, finally allowing himself to live in the moment. One of his hands shakily moves from your face, like heâs still not entirely sure you are real, and settles lightly against your waist. His eyes follow the movement, grounding himself in your body to convince himself this no longer feels like a ridiculous dream.
âCan Iââ His lips press together at your grin.
He doesnât finish the question. Instead, he simply leans in.
This time, the kiss is his.
â ⢠END NOTES: thank you so much for reading đ
my masterlist â winteryn's masterlist + collab masterlist
books quoted:
1. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
3. The Princess Bride by William Goldman
4. Persuasion by Jane Austen
5. Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence
6. Jane Eyre by Charlotte BrontĂŤ
7. Il barone rampante by Italo Calvino
8. The Bridges of Madison County by Robert James Waller
time to expose myself: I've never read some of these books. yes I suck, I'm a terrible person, I'm illiterate, whatever you want đŠ some I just studied; others I discovered thanks to this story. all the quotes come from a long, thorough and agonizing research on different websites about romantic quotes (đ) and reddit (I swear I always find some interesting info every time I look up a topic I have no knowledge about). I tried to make sure each quote comes from a book with love/romantic relationships as one of the themes, but again, I had never even heard about some of them until a few weeks ago, so my knowledge entirely comes from google. I apologize if the english translation of some quotes is not 100% correct, I had to translate those myself because I could only find them in their original language.
âŚBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŚ
âŚsummary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrongâŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŚ
âŚwc: 11.1kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollenâŚ
It doesnât bother you. If you tell yourself enough, youâre really going to believe that it doesnât bother you.
But heâs everywhere.Â
There isnât a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and heâs there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks youâre going to bite him. In the gym heâs at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think heâs doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but heâs spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because itâs not just Buckyâs eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. Itâs that you like it.
That when youâre next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your bodyâs connect. Heâs warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts itâs like youâre being shot up with a drug.
âYouâre squirmy.â He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. âNo one ever teach you to sit still?â
You stick your tongue out. âNo one ever teach you to mind your own business?â
âHard to mind my business when youâre movinâ all the cushions, doll-â
âThen go sit somewhere else, robot man.â
Buckyâs jaw twitches. âIâm not a robot.â
âUh huh.â
âIâm not-â
âYou act like one.â You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like heâs fucking praying.
âI was here first.â He mutters. You donât balk.
âCongratulations.â
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
âThereâs a chair over there.â You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. âGo sit in it, if Iâm so squirmy.â
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab heâs got for you, you donât want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movieâprobably another one of Samâs this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because thereâs no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himselfâand fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. Youâre going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesnât bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Buckyâs fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like heâs thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
âEverything okay?â You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
Thatâs all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
Youâll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, youâll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. Youâll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesnât get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. Itâs all he spares you. And youâre not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didnât notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
âYou skipped the mission briefing.â Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
âI was busy.â
âToo busy for your job?â
âItâs not my job-â
âYour name was on the roster.â Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
âHave you been carrying that around all day?â
âThat doesnât matter-â
âYes, it really does-â
Bucky hisses your name. Thereâs a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesnât say anything.
âYou need to be there, Steve was talkinâ about safety shit, and if you donât know it you could get killed-â
âI know how mission briefing work, Iâve been here longer than you have-â
âReally? âCause you donât act like it-â
âI donât act like it?â You snort. âLast I checked Iâm ranked higher than you, Sargent.â You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. âWhich is why Iâm allowed to defer missions, and youâre not.â
âIâm skipping.â You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. âAnd if Iâm skipping, I donât need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.â
Buckyâs eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
âWhyâre you skipping.â
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isnât actually going to care about.
âI have a date.â
âA what.â Itâs not a full reaction. Heâs mostly staring at you like he didnât understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
âA date?â You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. Itâs incredibly annoying.
âYou know.â You push mockingly. âWhere you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.â
âRobots flirt.â Bucky grunts, and you snort.
âYeah, but they donât have sex-â
The counter cracks. Itâs loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like heâs just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
âWhatâs-â
âSteveâs callinâ me.â He mutters, and you blink.
âNo, heâs not-â
âHave fun.â Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. âOn your human date.â
Then heâs gone.
And youâre left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where heâd vanished through the door. You donât care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
Thereâs a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. Sheâd picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Buckyâbecause youâve never told her your secret, but you didnât need to, sheâs Natashaâbut it wasnât enough.
He didnât have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didnât spar. He didnât push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all nightâwrong smile, tooâand then didnât pay. Bucky wouldâve paid.
You have no evidence of that. Itâs just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when youâre at each otherâs throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And thereâs not a single point during the night, where youâre not thinking about him.
âWe should do this again.â The Dateâyouâve forgotten his name, and itâs certainly not a good time to askâsays at the end of the night.
Youâre shivering. Bucky wouldâve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks heâs getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
âSure.â You smile, because even with superstrength, itâs easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. âHave a good night.â
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But youâve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. Itâs mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. Youâd skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasnât anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe heâd thought theyâd need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But theyâre back early.
And if someoneâs hurt, you couldâve stopped it. You couldâve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and thatâs incredibly annoying. Heâs going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and youâll have earned it which isnât going to help anything at all.Â
You get back to the compound, and itâs not in lockdown. There arenât med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that itâs already been cleared out. The jet isnât being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just⌠Finish early.
Youâre heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
âYou need to go, Buck-â
âIâm fine-â
âNo, youâre not. You can lie to the docs, donât lie to me-â
âI ainât lyinâ, Iâm fine-â
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what theyâre saying. You barrel straight into Buckyâs back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hotâalthough itâs also thatâbut literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
Heâs flushed. Thereâs sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out theyâre almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
âHi.â You whisper.
His throat bobs. âYouâre back.â
âI- I got the alert.â You glance over to Steve, whoâs gone oddly pale. âDid the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasnât there, right-â
âYep!â Steve almost shouts, and you blink. âI mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?â Steve grabs Buckyâs shoulder. âWe were all good.â
Bucky doesnât look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
âLet go.â Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
âI was gonna.â He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
âI know, but-â You get a weary look. Like Steve doesnât want you to hear their conversation. âI think- You know what I think-â
âSteve-â Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasnât looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
âIâm fine.â He says, low and under his breath. Youâre rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. âItâs- Iâm fine.â
Steveâs lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like heâs dragging himself away.
âHow was your date?â He grunts.
âBucky-â
âIâm just askinâ a question.â He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and itâs making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope heâd catch you, then fuck you until your canât even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
âBad.â You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. âHe sucked.â
And thatâs the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
âWe have debriefing!â Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Buckyâs suit. âBye!â
Before you can even register it, Steveâs dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Buckyâs only been acting stranger. Youâd pretend it didnât bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and heâs somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while youâre going through the mission files.
âWhatâre you doinâ.â He grunts, and you sigh.
Youâre not surprised heâs there. Itâs the fifth time today that heâs snuck up on you.
âIâm going through the reports on the mission.â You drawl. âDonât you have better things to do than follow me around?â
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. Itâs hard to pretend that you canât feel his presence behind you. Thereâs heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent thatâs filling the room. Itâs making you a little dizzy. Itâs all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like youâd thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. Heâs wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and theyâre clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget youâre annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehowâjust barelyâfight it.
âWhy canât I access these files.â
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. Itâs hard to maintain your glare.
âBarnes-â
âYou werenât on the mission.â He mutters. âNot your files to see.â
You scowl. âI can access the files of every other mission I was on-â
âSteve should change that.â
God, you wish he wasnât so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
âI know something happened out there.â You hiss, sitting up a little taller. âYou canât hide it from me. Iâll figure it out.â
Bucky chuckles. Itâs a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
âSure, doll. Have fun with that.â
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think heâs going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and heâs gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but itâs barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesnât do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like heâs supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.Â
Heâs drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. Youâre too tired to fight him.
âCanât sleep?â You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
âYou want hot chocolate?â
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe itâs just that youâre really starting to worry, but you donât bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like heâs spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. Heâs still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you donât dare to push it.
Not when heâs looking at you like this. The way youâd always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
âIâm watching Star Wars.â You mumble. âYou wannaâŚâ
You trail off, and Buckyâs throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. Heâs breathing awfully shallow, but youâre a selfish coward that wants him close, so you donât mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesnât even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. Heâs not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasnât said a word. Youâre afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You donât move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than youâve ever seen. His fever isnât breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
Itâs almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You donât know whatâs going on with him, but this canât be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. Thatâs not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When youâre free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You canât really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he canât think you wouldnât care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. Youâre not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. Itâs hard to hide your undying care for him, when heâs in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that heâs hurting. â
But it is Bucky.
And heâs never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and heâs right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like heâs trying to bite his own tongue off.
âHi.â You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. âYou- Youâre-â
âBucky, are you-â
ââM fine.â He says it mostly to himself again. Thereâs sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
Youâre not going to tell him, but youâre getting worried. This is the third morning in a row youâve found him here. The first night you asked if heâd slept there, and heâd scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you donât think heâs been sleeping at all.
âDo you need something?â You ask. You sound soft, but you canât help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. âI can call Steve-â
âDonât get Steve.â He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. Itâs the only way heâs been moving around you, lately. âIâm fine.â
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like youâve got a polarity field around you. Like he canât even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet heâs here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
âBucky-â
âDonât.â He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. âJust- Donât.â
You swallow, and donât give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks youâre going to catch him and drag him back. You wonât.
But you do go right to Steve.
âWhat happened on the mission.â
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. Youâre glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isnât going to work on you here. That doesnât seem to stop him from trying anyway.
âHey, um- Do you want a cookie-â
âSteven.â You hiss, and he swallows. âWhat happened.â
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. âIâm not supposed to tell you.ââ
âWhat do you mean youâre not supposed to tell me-â
âI mean I- I can.â He mutters. âBut then Bucky will kill me. And I donât want Bucky to kill me.â
You scowl. âTough shit, because guess whoâs going to kill you if you donât tell me?â
Steve sighs. âIs it you?â
âYep.â
He stares at his sandwich, like itâs somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it wonât. You have plenty of time.
âIâm really not supposed to tell you-â
âI really donât care.â
âWell- You will.â Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You donât have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. Heâs basically asking for it right now.
âSteven, I swear to fucking God-â
âI canât tell you.â He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
âNo, you just wonât tell me-â
âThatâs not- I canât, okay? Please stop asking me to-â
âWhy, because Bucky doesnât want you to?â You leer. âBecause last I checked, youâre the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates heâs in danger so they can help-â
âThatâs the problem!â Steve shouts, and you blink. âYou- Look, youâre going to want to help, and I canât let you.â
âYou canât let me help?â You echo, and Steve winces.
âI know how it sounds-â
âDo you? Because what Iâm fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you wonât let me fucking help-â
âWhy do you even want to help?â Steve fixes you with a pointed look. âAll you ever do is complain about Bucky and how heâs annoying you. I wouldâve thought you didnât care.â
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what heâs doing. Smug fucking asshole.Â
âThat wonât work on me.â You grunt, and he shrugs.
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âSteve-â
âBut,â he says causally. âIf I did, Iâd say thatâs why I canât tell you. And you know that.â
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like youâre just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
âI- I donât-â You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. Itâs annoying. âItâs not- Iâm just- Please.â
Your voice cracks suddenly. Youâve been losing more sleep over this than youâre ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with itâlike the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick upâbut that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. Itâs making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
âBucky.â You say slowly. âIs- Heâs not okay. I know heâs not okay.â You force yourself to meet Steveâs gaze. âJust- Lie to me and say heâs fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I canât just-â
You donât even know how to finish the sentence. Thereâs a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. Youâre so worried. Worried this is something thatâs going to kill him, and youâre going to lose him forever.
And thereâs pity, in Steveâs gaze. Itâs enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
âAlright.â He murmurs. âBut- You canât tell him I told you.â
You nod quickly. âIâll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.â
Steve sighs. âOkay. Okay.â He shakes his head. âIt was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasnât being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think itâs the serum, or just⌠Bucky. But heâs been controlling it better.â Steve grimaces. âBut that doesnât mean heâs not still knocked up with stuff.â
You nod slowly. Thatâs not that bad.
But Steve didnât want you to know for a reason.
âWhat are the symptoms?â
Steve wonât meet your gaze. âFever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased⌠libido.â
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. âWhat.â
âHydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We donât know why they were developing it, but- Thereâs no other name.â Steveâs nose wrinkles. âThe agent- His cell is disgusting.â
âBut- Bucky-â
âI told you, he says heâs got it under control.â Steve shrugs, but doesnât really sound like heâs convinced himself. âThe agent has been, ah⌠begging for anyone. Bucky doesnât have the same liberty with what will help. He says itâs going to pass, and heâll be fine.â
âAnd will it?â You breathe. âPass?â
Steve shrugs. âIt did for the agent.â
âBefore or after the mating?â
Steveâs silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
âWhy wouldnât you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-â
âI know that!â Steve snaps. âI know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.â He shakes his head. âHe wonât take anyone. Heâll only- Well- You know.â
âI know? I donât fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-â
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
âWhat-â
âNothing. Just- Why do you think heâs been lingering around you?â
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
âSteve-â
âI didnât say anything-â
âYes, you did-â
âNope.â
You press your lips in a tight line. He canât mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. âBucky- He doesnât- Thatâs not how he feels about me.â
Please donât say it is. Itâs not fair if youâre lying.
âFunny.â Steve shrugs. âHe says the same thing about you.â
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasnât left his room in a day. Youâd spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didnât mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What youâd always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didnât matter how you turned or picked at Steveâs words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you canât even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you couldâve been actually kissing him. If Steveâs right, youâre going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, youâre going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesnât turn you downâŚ
You steel yourself and knock on Buckyâs door. Itâs worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
âFuck off, Stevie-â
âIâm not Steve!â You call, and for a second thereâs no response.Â
Then thereâs a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. Heâs breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you canât tell if itâs supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
âYou shouldnât be here-â
âSteve said you need me.â
You stare at each other. Buckyâs tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, youâll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. Youâve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and youâre sure youâll be able to fit right in over time, and if you donât at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because itâs been almost two full minutes and he hasnât said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
âSteve shouldnât have told you anything.â Bucky growls, and you swallow.
âI- I made him.â
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. âOf course you did.â
âI was worried about you-â
âYou donât have to be, doll. Iâm-â
âIf you say Iâm fine, Iâm going to fucking punch you.â
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
âYouâre sick.â You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
âMaybe. But itâs not the kinda sick you can help with-â
âSteve says itâs the kind of sick only I can help with.â
Heâs silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. Itâs a warning. A plea.
âDonât do this.â He mutters, fists balled at his side. âNot outta pity, not for me-â
âItâs not pity.â You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. âI want to help, Bucky. Let me help.â
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. âNo, you- You just- You donât feel like that for me-â
âYou donât feel like that for me.â You breathe, and Buckyâs body locks up.
âWho says?â
âYouâre an ass to me-â
âYouâre an ass to me.â
âI donât mean to be.â You whisper. âI- I donât- Iâm not good at⌠You know.â
Buckyâs throat bobs. He still doesnât move.
âMe neither.â
You nod. âButâŚâ
âYeah.â He swallows. âYeah. I do.â
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
âPlease ask me to help.â You donât bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. âI- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-â
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
Itâs not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. Itâs rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way heâs almost eating your kisses. Youâre standing nowhere near a wall, but heâs caged you all the same. Thereâs nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and itâs a little addictive. Even after youâre light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesnât seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
âYou gotta be sure.â He murmurs against your skin. âTell me youâre sure, doll, âcause- I donât think I can go easy.â
And oh God, isnât that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But heâs asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. Heâs keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didnât know you could want him more.
âI- Oh-â Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. âIâm sure, Bucky, I- I donât want you to go easy.â
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
âYou- You got no idea, do you?â
Your face falls to a pout. âI have a lot of ideas-â
âNo, you donât.â He drops his brow over yours. âYou got no fuckinâ clue, what you do to me.â
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. Youâre already on unsteady legs. You never thought heâd catch you if you fell, but with the way Buckyâs looking at you right now, you think heâd dive off a cliff to be at your side.
âBuckyâŚâ You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
âYou smell so good.â He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. âTaste better than I imagined.â
âYou-â You almost whimper, when he pulls away. âYou imagined?â
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. Youâre already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesnât stop kissing you so softly.
âDidnât you?â
You nod, and Buckyâs lips twitch.
âBet I imagined more.â
And you doubt that, but Buckyâs kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that youâd never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug youâd never even taken.
Youâre certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than youâd let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way heâs holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like heâs trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
âGot no idea what Iâm gonna do to, either.â He rasps against your lips. âIf you let me, doll⌠You shouldnât- But-â He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. âFuck, I want you to.â
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. Heâd be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that youâve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But youâre not sure if heâs going to believe them.
âTell me.â You whisper. âTell me what youâve dreamed about doing to me.â
Bucky pulls back, and you worry youâve stepped on an invisible landmine. That youâre going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room youâve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until youâre squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
âI wanted you just like this.â He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and youâre not even kissing anymore. âWanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetinâ and think about bending you over the table. Youâd get under me on the training mats and Iâd wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.â
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and itâs almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
âWould sit next to you on the plane and think about gettinâ on my knees.â He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. âWorshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makinâ you- Fuck- Call my name-â
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You donât think he can help it.
âWanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.â He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. âYouâd get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttinâ you over my knee or gettinâ you lying in my bed. Iâd- Iâd fuck you so nice, doll, I swear Iâd be good, but- Fuuuck-â
Heâs rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story heâs supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop himânever to stop himâbut to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. Heâs almost shaking. You think heâs trying not to fuck your hand.
You canât have that.
âItâs okay.â You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. âI- Iâve thought about it too.â
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
âWanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.â
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Buckyâs thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers donât even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
âWasnât as big.â You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. âYouâre so big, Bucky, I donât think itâs gonna fit.â
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. âGonna- Fuck-â
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. Heâs almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
âGonna make it fit.â He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
âHow?â
âOpen you up.â He mutters, words slurred like heâs drunk. âGet you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-â
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. Heâs working himself up.
âYou think this is funny?â He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. âA little. You wanna make me cum but you wonât even touch me.â
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
âYou- Youâre a fuckinâ brat-â
âIâm helping you, Barnes.â You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. âHelpinâ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-â
Buckyâs whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
Thereâs so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. Youâve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didnât already wear him out.
âYou okay?â You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever heâd been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You canât stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
Heâs bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and itâs barely been a minute, but heâs already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chestâall flushed skin and muscleâand realize he hasnât stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
âIt wonât fit.â You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Buckyâs smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. Youâve gotten exactly what you wanted.
âGonna make it fit.â He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You donât even slam into his chest before heâs lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. Itâs a distraction. You know that. You donât really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like youâre a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second youâre fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
âSo soft.â He mutters. âAll that bite, doll, but I knew youâd be so fuckinâ soft for me.â
Youâd like to protest, and say that youâre not soft. But Buckyâs kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
âYou like that?â He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. âYou like beinâ my sweet girl?â
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You donât know how heâs the one with a sound mind right now. Youâre not under a sex drug.
Youâre just under Bucky. Where itâs very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
âSay it and I give you more.â He rasps. âSay you like it.â
And itâs a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But heâs poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
âLook at you.â He mocks. âBegginâ for me and then canât even admit she likes it.â
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
âYou like gettinâ tossed around, too?â He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. âIâll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.â
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
âAlready listen so well.â He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. âJust can admit you fuckinâ love it, do you? Canât be a good girl and tell the truth.â
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. Itâs not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
âAlright, babydoll.â He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. âHave it your way.â
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like itâs paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before heâs grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesnât remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Buckyâs tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
âOh my-â Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. âOh my God-â
âSensitive fuckinâ pussy.â Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. âBarely even touching it. Wonder if I-â
 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You canât see him. Canât know if youâre doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
âLook at you.â His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. âBet I donât even need to fuckinâ prep you. Youâre so wet, youâd justâŚâ
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
âSweet.â Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. âSo fuckinâ sweet.â
âBu- Bucky-â
âShhh.â He kisses right over your pussy. âWanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckinâ-â He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. âGotta taste-â
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isnât human.
Heâs good at this. So good at this. Itâs a little unfair. Your mouth canât do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like heâs starved for it. Like heâs a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. Itâs a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. Youâre so wet itâs almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum heâd gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
âThatâs right.â He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. âThatâs it, baby, youâre already lettinâ go, arenât you.â
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
âArenât you?â
âYe- Yes.â You mumble. ââS good, Bucky- So good-â
âI know.â He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. âFuck, baby, I know.â
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. Heâs lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
âI- Iâm gonna- Fuck- Bucky-â You scratch at the sheets. âIâm gonna- Oh God-â
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesnât stop. Youâre making a mess all over his face, and heâs rising up, but itâs just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesnât even come up for air.
âShit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-â
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure thatâs just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
Heâs jerking off while he eats you out. Heâs fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. Heâs eating you out the same way heâs kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor thatâs almost animalistic. Youâre boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, heâs gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
âSmells good.â He rasps. âGonna- Fuck-â
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. Thereâs always just more of it, until youâre so marked up with him youâre sure youâll never be able to wash it off.
You donât want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you donât think he does either.
âShit.â He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. âGotta- Flip for me, câmon-â
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasnât faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
âGood girl.â He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you mightâve failed.
âStrangling my fingers, doll.â He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. Youâre too wet and ready not to take something. Itâs really not fair to make you wait.
âI know.â He kisses your brow, voice rough. âTrust me, I fuckinâ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-â His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. âAll yours.â
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But youâre at an advantage.
Buckyâs hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like itâs an effort to speak. Heâs still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and thereâs no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and itâs not a loving kiss. Itâs rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
âWanna be a brat.â He grunts. âGonna get fucked like a brat.â
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesnât waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. Youâre so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesnât mean your eyes donât roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. Heâd prepared you too well. Youâre more than ready within seconds.
âBu- Bucky-â You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. âMove.â
If heâd told you to wait, you wouldnât have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
âThe- There-â You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. âFuck, baby, right there-â
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep youâre worried heâs going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
Heâs not even fucking you like a brat. Heâs fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like youâre just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now youâre just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
âOh- Oooooh-â You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. âBuuuucky-â
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasnât slowed or relented, but thereâs a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
Thatâs what heâd said heâd do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
âGood girl.â He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
âYou fuckinâ like it, donât you-â
âLove it.â You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. âLove you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-â
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like youâre going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. Youâve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And heâs not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Buckyâs ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before youâre being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
Youâre dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. Youâre all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasnât just ruined you. Heâs pulled you apart a million times over, until youâre just a puddle that sings his name.
You donât even fully realize heâs done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and itâs slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but itâs lost the strained quality. Heâs fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
âSo soft.â He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
âJesus, doll. Youâd think you were the one that got sex drugged.â
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
Theyâre blue again.
âYouâre back?â You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
âIâm back.â
 Youâre ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You donât think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. Youâd never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think youâre some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, heâs so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now youâre never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
âLove you too.â He says against your lips. âJust- Uh- While weâre saying it.â
Oh.
Or that. Thatâs nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
âYouâre stayinâ the night, right?â
You almost snort. Thereâs no getting rid of you now. Youâre going to stay forever, and as long as heâll allow after that.
âYeah. Iâm staying.â
âŚEnd note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.âŚ
âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŚ
âŚBuy me a coffee!âď¸ (and get early access!)âŚ
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know heâs back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. Heâs not shirtless like he sometimes is - heâs in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.Â
Heâs waving before you realise youâve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You canât keep doing this to yourself.Â
Or, rather, he canât keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, itâs so much worse when theyâre not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbourâs house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ânoâ, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still wonât.Â
Youâre not really sure what is up with Buckyâs family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Buckyâs room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your momâs overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they donât know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one youâre experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - theyâre blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of Whatâs-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.Â
Itâs not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.Â
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. Youâre sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. Youâre back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. Itâs remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.Â
And youâve tried everything there is to try. Youâve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wandaâs recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know itâs a stupid idea. It wonât work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasnât ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Buckyâs strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that youâre lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.Â
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. Youâre just a little floating head above the window sill. He canât make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
Youâre back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesnât need to be here, if heâs being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and thereâs not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isnât exactly a paradise, but itâs not bad either.Â
You wonât be here forever, though. Heâll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.Â
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.Â
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions havenât. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. Itâs much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to âstop being such a pain in my assâ, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
Heâs sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether itâs yours or his, he canât remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.Â
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what youâre doing right now. He wonders if youâre on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if youâre wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He canât picture a face - just some obscure blur - but heâs probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He canât see you going for someone without good grades.Â
Buckyâs grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. Itâs probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. Heâs probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.Â
But thatâs a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now heâs thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?Â
Obviously not. But itâs a nice thought.
You probably donât do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. Youâre too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesnât even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. Youâre arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but heâs also just a man.)Â
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isnât strictly sexual - in fact, itâs mostly something else - but heâs not sure how to define it. He likes you, except âlikeâ doesnât seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So itâs easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself itâs all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still havenât come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you donât hear his footsteps and think heâs eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesnât.
He canât remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.Â
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesnât.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didnât want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. Itâs not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. Iâm just glad itâs over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I donât. Iâm just relieved and feeling awkward. I donât think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky canât help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. Theyâre all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I wonât be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, itâs kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesnât quite believe them when they say itâs not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I canât stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said heâs going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while theyâre gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think Iâll die if I have to see him do something like that again.Â
Buckyâs grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that heâs done everything else - he had forgotten about that.Â
He wasnât aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word âpornoâ, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldnât have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think itâs a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers arenât big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Buckyâs fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didnât black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isnât doing shit. Itâs making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Buckyâs stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until Iâm an inch from passing out. Maybe thatâs all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think thatâs why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending heâs my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guyâs name too.Â
Bucky hasnât forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I havenât gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
âFuck,â he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. Heâs not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isnât so prissy after all. Heâs a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like heâs won some game that he didnât even know he was playing. Heâs dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.Â
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he canât help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasnât finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. Itâs getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. Iâm so fucking wet. Iâm going to have a long, cold shower and tonight Iâll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that wonât be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. Heâs probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except itâs not there.Â
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure theyâre not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didnât carry it in with you. Itâs not there. Itâs not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except thatâs not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your motherâs hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, donât let him find it. Please donât let him find it.Â
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didnât touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parentsâ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isnât there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadnât even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, youâre absolutely certain of. But youâre running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Buckyâs bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and itâs untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
Heâs lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesnât move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. Youâre distracted by it momentarily. You didnât think this would be his sort of thing.
âWhatâs up?â he asks you, still not looking your way. He didnât shower. Heâs still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
âJust saying hi,â you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. âJust saying hi.â
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but itâs not altogether a nice one. âWell, hi,â he says.
âHi,â you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
âWhatâs got you all buggy?â he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. Heâs not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didnât.Â
âIâm not buggy.â
âYeah yâare. You got bugs.â
âYou got bugs,â you snap. âIâm perfectly fine.â
He laughs. âAlright, you donât got bugs. I have bugs âcause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?â
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. âMaybe I just wanna talk to you.â
âOh yeah?â He doesnât seem convinced. You nod.
âYeah,â you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. âSo what have you been up to?â
âSweetheart, whatâs goinâ on?â he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. âYou know what Iâve been up to. You saw me out there.â
âDuh,â you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
âDuuuhhh,â he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. âWhyâd you ask then, smartass?â
âI meant, like, after that.â
âAfter I finished the lawn?â
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
âNot much. Watched this,â he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. âDid a bit of light reading. What about you?â
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. âIâve been in the shower,â you say casually. âWhat are you reading?â
âLong shower,â he says.
âWell it was an everything-shower,â you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
âThe hell is an everything shower?â
âDonât be dense. Itâs literally in the name. Itâs called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.â
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
âA-as in,â you stammer. âYou do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.â
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. âRight. That kind of everything.â
Your face heats up. Thereâs a brief pause.Â
âSo what are you reading at the mo-â
âYâknow I think youâd like this,â he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You canât help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
âWhy is that?â you ask.
âThereâs this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. Sheâs been working there five years and she still cries every time. Sheâs like you.â
âIâm not like that.â
âYes you are,â he laughs and the sound travels through you. âRemember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?â
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.Â
âI was sixteen-â
âAnd if youâre tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say youâre full of shit.â
You look at him resentfully. âLike youâre any tougher. Youâre the one who saved him.â
âWell you know I canât help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. Youâre a pretty crier, sweetheart.â
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and youâre forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though itâs at your expense. You know instinctively that youâll be failing at your new resolution tonight.Â
âShut up. Donât be weird,â you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and thereâs something in his expression that you donât like.
âSo you said you were reading something?â you say. Youâre aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
âMhm,â he says, nodding once. The programme canât be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
âI didnât think you liked reading.â
âI have a newfound appreciation for it.â He smiles at the screen and maybe youâre feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.Â
âWhat are you reading?â
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
âDonât worry about it. âSâtoo dirty for you, sweetheart.â
You really fucking hope that doesnât mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, donât let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. âAre you⌠reading smut?â
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. âThat what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.â
âBucky,â you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. Thereâs a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. âWhat are you reading? Please.â
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then youâre rolling forward, hardly aware of what youâre doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually youâre played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. Youâre not even sure what youâre saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didnât mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.Â
You suppose itâs better that heâs laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
âDonât be such a baby,â Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.Â
âWhere did you get that?â you bark.
âYour room,â he says, as if it should be obvious. âInteresting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?â
âFuck you!â you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. âYou had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!â
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.Â
âLike I said,â he says sternly. âDonât be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until youâre an inch from passing out?â
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
âFuck you,â you say again with considerably less vitriol.
âI will,â he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. Youâre not sure if heâs messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
âGot nothing to say now? Thatâs ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Letâs look.â
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
âI came home from college today,â he starts to read, voice low. âEveryone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I donât know how itâs possible but heâs so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what heâs like in bed. I donât think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.â
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
âYouâre goddamn right I do,â he says, smiling as if heâs talking about something totally innocent. âYou want me to show you, sweetheart?â
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. Youâre still suspicious. It wouldnât be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. âDonât go dumb on me already, silly girl.â
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
âWhy donât you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.â
Youâre not sure what youâre doing, but at this point itâs easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
âI want him so bad. I think Iâll die if I donât have him. The orgasms Iâm giving myself arenât enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. Iâll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. Iâm going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.âÂ
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
âFuck it,â he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
Youâre in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.Â
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. Youâre already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. Youâre high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
âYou ready to admit it yet? That you want me?â
âI want you,â you breathe. Itâs almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. âI know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Donât worry, Iâll take good care of you.â
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesnât fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once youâre bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So thatâs what that should feel like.
âWanna know a secret?â he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.Â
âWant you too. Wanted you since we were kids.â
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
âSince when?â
âJust fuckinâ told you,â he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. Itâs a distraction tactic.
âNo but when? What age?â Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. Youâre soaked through.
âDoesnât matter,â he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
âYes it does. Tell me,â you say. Because youâre muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - youâre stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. Youâre not.
âWas sweet on you when I was ten,â he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
âIsnât that when we first-â
âYes.â
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still havenât lost your head completely.
âYouâve liked me since we first met as little kids?â
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so youâre on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
âCan you shut the hell up for two seconds?â he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until youâre completely bare underneath him. âTryna do something here.â
You laugh at him, but it doesnât last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - youâre struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. âYou see how fucking desperate you are?â he asks. âBarely touched you and look how youâre reacting. Nobodyâs ever touched you right, have they?â
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. Itâs almost predatory.
âPoor thing,â he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. âI can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait âtill I get my cock in you.â
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didnât quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
âYâfeel so fucking tight,â he grunts, eyes on your lips. âThis what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?â
You nod, but itâs not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
âYes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.â
âFor how long?â he demands.
âI- what?â you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
âHow long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?â
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you donât answer him, he will stop again. And thatâs a lousy deal.Â
âA long time,â you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
âFuck, sweetheart. Shouldâve told me. Wouldnât have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Wouldâve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldnât have had the time to write in that silly little book. Wouldâve put you in your place.â
âPut me in my place?â you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you canât concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure heâs giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasnât so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
âYeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well Iâll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when theyâre home.â
Thereâs something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. Youâre not sure if youâve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesnât even make a show of it - heâs not even trying to make you watch him. Heâs just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but youâre not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
Youâre still a little mad at him over that boorish âputting you in your placeâ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
Heâs the biggest youâve ever seen and itâs not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didnât think it would be this pretty. You didnât even know a cock could be pretty.
Itâs huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. Itâs very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
âWhatâs wrong, sweetheart?â he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. âFeelinâ shy?âÂ
Your mouth opens and closes. âI donât know how muchâŚâ you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. Youâve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
âYâdonât know if itâll fit?â he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
âDonât worry, angel, weâll take it slow. Donât want to break you. Not this time, anyway.â
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
âWhat the hell, Bucky? Donât-â
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. âI know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. Iâll let you play with it as much as you want. But Iâve waited long enough and Iâm not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?â
Youâre back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
âGood girl,â he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. âMy good girl Youâre so sweet when youâre doing what I tell you to. Wish Iâd known I could shut you up like this.â
Youâre trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, itâs just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. âCondom,â you gasp. âIn my room.â
Bucky laughs against your neck. âYou think Iâm wearinâ a rubber with you?â
âWha- yes?âÂ
âDonât fuck with me, sweetheart, I know youâre on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.â
âWhat were you doing in my-â
âIâm clean, just got checked. And Iâm willing to bet youâve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.â
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but heâs a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldnât lie to you about this. Youâre sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and youâre squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You donât say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
âYeah?â he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. âYou gonna let me skip the rubber?â
âYeah,â you breathe. âJust stop fucking around Bucky. Please.â
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. Itâs leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
âSuch a good girl,â he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. Heâs thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if heâs trying to comfort you, but itâs still coming across slightly patronising. âLetting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.â
Youâre loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. Itâs starting to feel good - more than good. But heâs still not in all the way. You have no idea how youâre going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
âThis what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?â he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.Â
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. âAnswer.â
âYes,â you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You canât wrap your head around whatâs happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. âPictured you every time.â
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. Youâre filled to the brim with him. âI know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.â
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. Itâs creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. Itâs all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you canât help but love.
âItâs okay, angel. Iâm no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.â
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where youâre taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
âOh, sweetheart,â he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. âAlways been such a crybaby. Youâre so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.â
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
âI know, baby. Itâs so much, isnât it? I know,â he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. Itâs not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You canât work out exactly what youâre feeling, and you know that now isnât the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You canât stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when heâs still pretending he hasnât lost an ounce of control.Â
âStop with those fuckinâ eyes,â he grunts, catching your gaze. Youâre still teary-eyed and pouty. âGonna make me lose it early.â
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
âTurn around,â he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You donât disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you donât feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, itâs his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
âWhat you whining for now?â he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
âPut it back in,â you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. Youâre no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. Youâre too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. âYou need it that bad?â
âDonât be a dick.â
He laughs low. âStill so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?â
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
âThatâs it,â he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. âKnew youâd take my cock like this. Knew youâd feel this good, just didnât think youâd be this fucking dirty.â
âFuck, Bucky, I need you,â you moan. Youâre obscurely aware of the fact that youâll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. âNeeded you so bad.â
âYeah?â he grunts. âWhy donât you tell me what you needed so bad?â
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. âI- no, Bucky, I canât-â
âLet me help you out.â
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. Youâre still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
âRead.â
Your head spins back, even though you canât see him from this angle. He canât be serious.Â
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
âMatt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!â-
Buckyâs hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
â- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until Iâm dripping with hisâŚâ
You canât go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and youâre already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
âJesus, you have a thing for this shit? Thatâs real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. Youâre the only one who is gonna take it from now on.â
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. Heâs panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you canât do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
âAw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Canât help but give you what you want. You want my cum?â
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
âFuck, yeah you do,â he growls. âSuch a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.â
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. Itâs either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but youâre sure youâre likely giving as good as youâre getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what youâre saying.
Bucky wasnât lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. Youâre sensitive and sore, but thereâs something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises itâs making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
âYou still with me, sweetheart?â he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
âUh huhâ you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
âThought you said you werenât gonna break me,â you say sardonically.Â
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. âMight have gotten carried away.â
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesnât work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
âYou really meant that?â you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. âAbout wanting me since we were kids?â
âHell yeah,â he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. âI was so crazy about you when we were kids. Canât believe you didnât know.â
âHow could I know? You were always so mean to me.â
âDonât tell me you donât know what that means in kid-language.â
âYou still are. Sometimes.â
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. âOld habits.â
You nod, but youâre still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.Â
âIâm sorry for reading your diary,â he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. âIt was a shitty thing to do. I donât regret it, because I donât know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.â
Itâs so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. Heâs looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe itâs the two orgasms.
You still donât want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
âIâll make it up to you,â he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. âJust wait âtill I get my tongue on you.â
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. âDonât look at me like that. Iâll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.â
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
Hello! Do you perhaps have recommendations for Alpha!bucky?
Alpha!Bucky
masterlist | req masterlist
ONESHOT
Crave by @harrylovex
you realise that you canât survive your heat without bucky.
intensional by @noctumbra
alpha!bucky sends you a shirtless pic and then offers to spend your heat with him. feelings ensue.
scent by @noctumbra
âyouâre one eager and hungry kitten,â bucky whispered in your ear as he licked over your scent gland, where his bite situated perfectly.
vanilla by @noctumbra
his scent was the other thing that made you go stupid other than his eyes: leather, a bit of vanilla, oranges and wet wood.
wet by @noctumbra
your mating sessions are always intense with bucky.
butterfly by @idy-ll-ique
bucky's going into rut. y/n volunteers to help him. feelings come out.
Let Me Love You by @slothspaghettiwrites
When an Omega is feeling very anxious or nervous their Alpha will hold them close while gently crooning and scenting them until they calm down.
Dating apps are stupid by @buckylattes
You decide to download this dating app, wellâŚ.Natasha persuades you into it. You make a profile and agree to just have it for a week. If nothing becomes of it then you can delete it. ButâŚ.you swipe right on this handsome man whoâs description shows him out to be a gentleman like youâre looking for. SoâŚwhat happens when he matches with you???
make you mine by @bonky-n-steeb
Bucky keeps his distance from you thinking you can do better than him. but he loses all his restraints when he sees you with another alpha.
to love is to burn by @bonky-n-steeb
You go into heat at the worst moment in the history of time, maybe ever.
took one hit and I was gone by @bonky-n-steeb
after the rise of hydra, your entire life turned into a living nightmare. you lost everything you held precious, your job, your house, your degree, even hope. but then youâre assigned as a mate to him, your enemy and your only ray of hope, James Buchanan Barnes.
little red riding hood by @bonky-n-steeb
your big bad alpha chases you across the woods.
Break Lights by @boxofbonesfic
his omega by @bucksfucks
bucky helps you through an expected heat.
ever since by @syntheticavenger
Bucky Barnes finds his center in a late night subway ride.
By Chance by @green-eyeddragonfanfiction
Female!Reader is an Omega. Alphas and Omegas are rare, and Readerâs been able to avoid alphas through sheer force of will and luck in equal parts.
Feral by @bucknastysbabe
And Youâre Mine by @winterarmyy
In which Bucky, the big, scary, 'undesired alpha' was tricked into a blind date where he met his precious little omega.
Protector by @rookthorne
After an eternity of being held against your will, and just as long having been forced to watch your alpha suffer at the hands of the wicked, an opportunity arose. An opportunity so rare, so unique, that it would never be offered again. It was time to escape, and it was time to bathe the halls in their blood â never again would you be held by the bars of a cell, not if he could stop it.
SERIES
Heart and Soul by @all1e23
Alphas only brought trouble. The only thing they are good for is bringing their Omegaâs pain and forced submission. They were dangerous, reckless and cruel. There wasnât an ounce of kindness in any of them. Â She didnât need an Alpha, and she certainly didnât believe in that True Mates fairytale. That was just some fabricated fable Alphas made up to trick innocent doe-eyed Omegas. She wasnât going to fall for that. Â Not again.No Alpha would ever get her to believe that love truly exists. And then, James Buchanan Barnes walked into her life.
Better Like This by @simsadventures
You are the newest addition to New Yorkâs elite team of Detectives concentrating on domestic violence and rape, which everyone calls the Avengers. You are an Omega, very bubbly and open to everyone around you, and everyone is super sweet to you, except one person- Bucky, your true mate. Will you be able to destroy the walls he has been building around his heart for years, or will he reject you and break your heart forever?Â
Some Alpha by @ofstarsandvibranium
Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, whoâs as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.
Heal by @chucksfavouriteprophet
For months you managed to distance yourself from Bucky Barnes, the alpha you long for. But one night you have no choice but to comfort him, something which brings out emotions in both of you. Except it also brings out emotions in the Winter Solider, which results in a devastating turn of events that neither of you might be able to come back from.
All The Kingâs Men by @nastybuckybarnes
Your father always said that if it werenât for your presentation, heâd think you were an Alpha. Thereâs a reason for that. Growing up in a world where Omegas are treated like garbage, youâve fought for the respect that you have. Until youâre sold off to an old King desperate for a bride. But you will not lay down and present for your new husband. No, you will fight back.
Mr. Grumpy by @holylulusworld
Bucky hates omegas. You change his mind.
knife play by @helvonasche
They're on the run and Bucky goes into rut.
Knight In Rusty Armor by @revengingbarnes
For the sake of politics and to get rid of you, their omega daughter, the King and Queen of England marry you off to the King of France. Settling into an unfamiliar monarchy is a tedious process all by itself, but a new problem arises soon after your arrival at your new home.One of the Knights turns out to be your true mate. Your Alpha. The one you are meant to be with. But youâre mated to someone else. And that someone else is the King of France.
a/n: what's up you freaks? ⥠guess who finally found the time to write for this unhinged au :)
summary:Â he couldnât risk spooking you in the spirit of the possessive greediness that rumbled inside of him. He would have to find a way to get close to you, become a part of your life, ensure that you were the one before he could steadily begin to corrupt and mould you into his perfect little diamond.
warnings: mob boss!stepdad!bucky barnes x innocent!reader, doctor!reed richards, smut, dark content, dubcon/noncon, stalking, manipulation, mob au, mob called the avengers, tattooed!bucky, age gap, forbidden romance, possessiveness, corruption kink, love at first sight (for bucky), drugging, intox kink, dirty talk, medical kink, daddy kink, size kink (you guys are to blame for that one lol), somno, oral, pussy inspection, masturbation, cumplay
word count: 4891
âź gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here â˝
bubblegum & bullets au masterlist | 101, guide to the au
masterlist | join my taglist
Mind still foggy from the nap you accidentally slipped into on the train ride back to the city, Grand Central Station rumbled around you with easter break buzz. You had meant to change out of your uniform on the journey, but your slumber had stolen that chance, rendering you to flash to everyone you passed the preppy box you had been tossed into since you had barely been old enough to join, the embroidered logo on your cardigan flaunted the crest of Lichfield Boarding School for Girls. A few shoulders brushed against your own as your groggy eyes darted between the large clock above and the phone screen in your palm, still with the lacking response from your mother, causing the knots within your belly to tighten even further.
Although you and your mom had moved into a small apartment in the city back in December, you hadnât been back even once since Christmas break, so the chaos of New York still made you uneasy. It wasnât unusual for your mom, Vivienne, to uproot her life and move around, just like in the career sheâd chosen not long after having you as a teen, her job on a cruise ship kept her constantly moving and with always something new and exciting on her horizon. Â
But as you pushed your way through the crowd to reach the exit, your anxious eyes were glued to your phone, so you didnât see as you then walked straight into a tall dark figure that stood, alongside a handful of other suit-clad individuals, in the middle of the station, like the eye of the hurricane.
Your bag sprung off your shoulder and crashed to the floor, a couple of books even spilling out as well. Apologising to the stranger profusely as you dipped down to pick it up, your flickering eyes barely landed on the intimidating manâs features before you darted off again, your phone finally chiming with a message from your mother.
Though, as you bumped into the man and your world kept on spinning, Buckyâs froze entirely.
Not often was the feared boss of New Yorkâs notorious mob, The Avengers, rendered speechless. Although when his cold eyes fell upon your visage for the first time, he fully thought you were an angel, sent to him from above.
His mind had been gearing up to the meeting he had planned with the rival gang, Hydra, here in this neutral spot where hopefully no mobster would dare to open fire, not for his whole world to be suddenly turned upside down in a single second.
Even his right-hand man, Steve, ever glued to his side, noticed the look on his face as his eyes kept on trailing you as your visage disappeared back into the crowd.
And though his feet threatened to shift with the initial thought of coping with such feelings in a gruff manner, Bucky swiftly snuffed out thoughts of kidnapping a sweet little thing such as yourself.
If he was gonna do this, if he was gonna have you, then heâd have to do it right in order to be certain heâd succeedâŚ
He couldnât risk spooking you in the spirit of the possessive greediness that rumbled inside of him. He would have to find a way to get close to you, become a part of your life, ensure that you were the one before he could steadily begin to corrupt and mould you into his perfect little diamond.
THREE MONTHS LATER
âWhen did you get a new car?â your squinting eyes darted around the sleek space of the mint condition vintage car that your mother had picked you up in, âand how did you even afford a model like this one? Did you win the lottery and not tell me?â
âIn a way, I kinda did,â Vivienne cocked her head behind the wheel, âa friend gifted it to me.â
âA friend gave you this? Wow⌠what kind of people are you meeting out at sea?â
âOh, I didnât meet him on the cruise, honey,â she smirked, though kept the rest of the story at bay as her teeth then sank into her bottom lip.
Taking the hint, your eyes drifted out of the window, though as you watched the city zoom by outside, your weary gaze failed to notice how the car wasnât rolling in the direction of your cramped little apartment downtown, but instead out of New York entirely.
Letting your head slope down against the glass, a solemn sigh eventually left your lungs as a whisper parted your lips, ââŚI still canât believe you didnât come to my graduationâŚâ you didnât dare to glance over at your mother. You knew that you should have been grateful for even just a rare gift such as this, her actually picking you up now that you had returned for summer break, but it still didnât fill the void within your soul.
âWell, I had to work,â she sighed.
âYou always have to workâŚâ you felt yourself sink further into the car seat.
âOh, relax,â Vivienne didnât even hide the way her eyes rolled, âitâs only high school. My mom didnât come to my graduation, and I turned out just fine.â
âYeah, well, you were pregnant,â you pointed out.
âWould you quit your whining?â she then suddenly snapped, âitâs not like Iâve disowned you like she did with me. So what, I didnât carve time out in my schedule to go see you in a cap and gown? Iâm sorry that I was busy working my ass off to pay for that fancy school of yours. How about you instead show me a little gratitude for sending you away to a place like that?â she demanded, as if getting you out of her hair hadnât been entirely for her own benefit, âhuh? Go on.â
Sucking in a shaky breath, you still didnât meet her glare as you found the words she fished for, ââŚthank youâŚâ
âThatâs more like it.â
And when you suddenly found yourself an hour out of the city, with trees all around the road standing as tall as skyscrapers, Vivienne suddenly turned down a long and curvy road.
Tilting the rear-view mirror, she reapplied her fiery lipstick as the car rolled down the private lane.
âUhmâŚâ you shifted in your seat as an old manor began to appear at the bottom of the path, âmom, are you sure youâre going the right way?â the intimidating gate that shielded your view suddenly swung open for your vehicle to enter.
âMhm,â she simply hummed as she remained more invested in her own reflection than her own flesh and blood beside her.
âCanât you just tell me where weâre going?â
âAnd ruin the surprise? I think not.â
âBut I hate surprisesâŚâ you sighed heavily, âcome on, mom⌠Iâm tired, I just wanna go homeâŚâ
But instead of relieving your stress, she just smirked till the car rolled to a stop on the pebbled and prim entrance that flourished into the grand house before you.
âWell, youâre gonna love this surprise,â she leapt out of the vehicle before coaxing you out as well, âcome on!â she snatched up your hand as you cautiously stepped out, your wide eyes cresting up to the home in front of you.
It looked like something out of a fairytale⌠or a horror movieâŚ
Dragging you along, Vivienne pushed the heavy front door open and tugged you inside.
The echoing entryway was embraced by intricate dark wood panelling, and with the grand staircase that curved in the room, you wouldnât be surprised if you stumbled upon a literal suit of armour decorating some dim corner in the manor.
âThis is our new home!â your mother announced with glee, though your expression remained muddled.
Squinting back at her, you panted, âwhat are you talking about?â before a figure appeared off to the left.
âAh, Mrs. Barnes, youâve returned,â the man, though formal, had the rough palms of someone who could snap your frame like a twig.
âFrankie, why hello, I didnât know youâd be here,â your mother winked at the gruff figure.
âWell, there was just some, uh, paperwork for the boss to look over,â Frank replied.
âOh, so heâs in his office then?â she asked, her heels already clacking across the floor and bringing you along with her. Â
âUh, I donât know if you should disturb him right now, heâs pretty busyâ,â he tried to stop her, though didnât manage to slow down the tornado that was your mother.
As you were dragged through lavish sitting rooms and parlours, you let out a hushed squeak, âmom? What is going on? Why did that man call you that? Barnes? Thatâs not your name.â
âWell, actually, it is,â she cocked her head before she reached a pair of dark double doors and raised up her manicured hand to tap against it, âhello,â she sang as she swiftly creaked the door to the study open.
Sitting behind a large mahogany desk, a man tore his ocean gaze away from the papers spread out on the table before him. Perhaps in his mid-forties, judging by the wisdom that crinkled in the corners of his eyes and dusted his beard, a rebellious youth still lived on in the tattoos that peeked out from underneath his dark suit, tailored to perfection around his burly frame.
âViv!â he turned over the paperwork before he rose from the leather chair, âhey,â he uttered to your mom, though his stare lingered on you as you shadowed behind her.
Letting go of you, Vivienne crossed the room and nestled herself close to the apparent man of the house, pressing a brief peck to his cheek before she interlaced her fingers with his own calloused and inked ones.
âHoney?â your mom drew in a breath through her bright smile, âthis is Bucky Barnes,â she then casually dropped a bomb that rocked your entire world, âyour stepfather.â
Blinking hard back at them, your lungs struggled to expand with air, âI-Iâm sorry, what?â
âWeâre married,â she went on, and you finally noticed the giant rock on her finger.
âSince when?â you felt dizzy as your eyes narrowed to a squint to try and comprehend the whiplash. The last time you saw her, only a few months ago, there had even in the slightest been anyone in the picture,âIâ, u-uh, whoâ, what?â
Sucking in a breath, Bucky released himself from your motherâs grasp before slipping out from behind the desk to lean his frame against the other side of it, âuhm, well,â he folded his hands together as he began to explain, âyour mother and I met just after easter. I know that this is all very sudden with us already being married, but⌠when you know, you knowâŚâ he uttered as he blinked back at you, âand I am sorry that you didnât know sooner. The both of us did really want you to be there at the wedding, but it all just happened so fast, and we didnât want to drag you away from school in the middle of your exams.â
âIââŚâ your head kept on spinning, ââŚsirâ, Iâm sorry, what did you say your name was?â
âBucky Barnes,â he extended a rough palm for you to timidly shake, âbut you can call me sir too,â he smiled at how sweet the formality had sounded on your lips, âsir, Bucky, Mr. Barnes, you can even call me daddy if thatâs what youâd likeâŚâ
âHey,â a deep rumble suddenly emanated from behind you as you carefully poked your head into one of the many rooms in the home, that one in particular housing a large pool table and a tufted leather couch.
âOh!â you jumped at the voice and snapped the door back closed, âIâm sorry. I was just exploring a bitâŚâ
âWere you now?â Bucky slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants.
âYour home is so big,â you glanced around, partially to avoid the older manâs intense stare, âand beautiful.â
âWell, itâs your home now too, so youâre welcome to explore all you like. Any rooms that are off limits are locked, so as long as you donât break down any of those doors, then there shouldnât be a problem,â he spoke of some of the many corners of the manor that youâd already sniffed around, befuddled by the locks, as you were about so many thing about the mysterious wealthy man that your mother had gotten married to. You barely knew anything about him, not why so many scary men lurked around the grounds, or even what exactly it was that he did for a living that paid enough for him to call a palace such as this his home, âhow are you liking your room?â
âItâs nice, yeah,â you nodded, your tongue swirling around the hard candy in your mouth, making it click gently against your teeth, âthank you so much. Iâve never had one that size before. Usually itâs a struggle to fit more than just a twin bed in thereâŚâ
Glance flickering to your lips, your new stepdad then suddenly murmured, âwhat have you got there?â
âOh, itâs just this piece of candy,â you sucked down on it, the citrusy flavour melting against your tongue, âthere was this little store near school, and I bought a mixed bag before I went back home.â
âDo you mind if I have a taste?â he suddenly asked.
âUhm, alright,â you timidly shrugged, âlet me just go grab the rest up in my roomââ
âOh, no need. I donât mind sharing,â he then simply held out his palm in the space between you. Taken aback for a second, it took you a moment before you hesitantly plucked it out from where it was resting in your cheek, and placed it in his outstretched hand, âthank you,â he popped it into his mouth before his face lit up in recognition of the classic flavour, âah, now thatâs not just any candy. Itâs one of those sour lemon ones where when you get to the centre,â a loud crunch then suddenly echoed from between his teeth, âitâs sweet.â
Your lips promptly fell open as you stared at his chomping smirk, âyouâre not supposed to chew it!â
âNo?â the faint smile continued to soften his stern features, âwell then how else am I gonna get to the sweet bit?â
âBy being patient,â a slight chuckle caught in your throat as you blinked up at him. Fishing out the cracked half that was still left in his mouth, he then slipped it back into your palm.
âNahâŚâ the mob boss crinkled his nose playfully, âbeing patient doesnât get you what you wantâŚâ
Though when your mother had time off from work, it was usually for several weeks, if not months, when she went back out to sea, it often stretched at least twice as long. But till now, you had always been away at boarding school when she would go chasing her next big adventure, so it never felt the way that it did now that she was leaving you alone in a place that still didnât feel like home.
You were used to leading a lonely life, in fact, you didnât really know any different.
But as she packed up her suitcase with all of her new designer clothes, a chilling sternness had washed over her as she fiddled with her glinting ring and gave you explicit instructions to be at your very best behaviour and not screw up the best thing that had ever happened to her.
As you stepped out of the bathroom that sprouted off of your own bedroom, the few water droplets still clung to your skin under your terrycloth robe casketed further down your flesh as you suddenly jumped at the unexpected figure that stood on the other side of the door.
âWow!â you promptly clutched a hand over your chest in an attempt at calming your spiking pulse, âMr. Barnes! You gave me a fright!â
âIâm sorry,â he uttered, then began to feed you a lie, âI tried to call out your name, but I guess you didnât hear me over the running water,â when in reality, your stepdad had crept into your room while you showered and peeped through the ajar bathroom door, his palm tight over the tent in his trousers as he spied on your nude form behind the foggy glass, soap suds hugging your innocent curves the way his own touch yearned for.
âUhm, did you want something?â you shifted past him to get to the dresser and pick out something to sleep in.
âNot really, I just thought Iâd bring you this,â he extended the glass in his hand, âI know that Iâm new to this whole parental responsibility thing, but I just noticed that you didnât drink a lot of water today, so I thought Iâd make you chug some before bed. Canât have you turn into a freaking mummy on me, what would Viv say if she got home and found you all dehydrated like that?â he joked to try and coax you.
âThank you,â you chuckled softly as you grasped the glass and tipped it up to your lips for a small sip.
âAh, you can do better than that,â Bucky tilted his head at the few drops you swallowed, âcome on, kiddo.â
And as he watched you expectantly, you slowly raised the glass back up to your mouth, the tips of his fingers finding the bottom of it to hold it up till youâd chugged it all.
âGood girl,â he took the empty glass back from you as you wiped the drop of water that had escaped the corner of your lips, âyou sleep tight, yeah?â
âGoodnight, sir,â you yawned as he shifted to exit your room, drowsiness suddenly settling over you like a heavy blanket.
But little did you know what the mob boss had actually dissolved into the glass of water⌠and youâd never find out, as that little pill would keep you far away in your dreams no matter what.
Creeping back into your room, Bucky saw that youâd barely gotten the soft pink covers over your frame before youâd passed out.
The mattress dipped from his weight as he sank down on the edge of it. Gently brushing a few strands of hair out of your face, his fingers then caught the top of the duvet and began to peel it down, revealing the remainder of your slumbering figure.
âGodâŚâ Bucky groaned as he gazed down at the way your chest rose and fell calmly with each slumbering breath, âI canât believe Iâve only known of your existence for a couple of months⌠feels like Iâve waited an eternity to do thisâŚâ he uttered before he finally let one of his palms begin to explore you.
His inked hand looked so wide against you as it slid over your soft nightgown. Greedily discovering the shape of your young body, his touch soon grew impatient as he tugged down your neckline to fully reveal your tits.
A hot breath escaped his lips as he let himself palm them, his fingers capturing your nipples in a pinch before he bowed down to plant a peck to the soft skin. Soon, the peaks were smothered with his kisses, his devilish tongue even flicking out for a taste as he let himself suck on your cute nipples.
But when the throbbing in his pants strained hard enough against the zipper to ache, his lips let go of the little pebble with a pop as his palms found your thighs, splitting them even further.
A soft moan parted his lips when he then pushed your nightgown up far over your hips to unveil the tiny, soaked patch that had already stained the cute cotton of your panties, merely from his light teasing.
Offering his cock a squeeze through his pants, he had never been harder in his entire life as the fucking rock his length turned into as he dipped down to place a kiss over the covered mound of your pure and untouched little pussy. Inhaling deeply against you, his eyes rolled in his skull at your intoxicating scent, and his fingers gave out and finally tore at the zipper of his trousers, freeing his big dick for his fingers to envelope.
As he jerked his fat girth, his other hand slowly peeled your panties to the side, âoh, angelâŚâ his mouth watered as his eyes finally got to see your virgin cunt, âyouâre even more beautiful than I imaginedâŚâ
He kept his fingers feathery and light as he began to touch you, though not out of fear that heâd wake you up, he had taken care of that problem, but instead it came from a place of pure astonishment, trying to savour the yearned-for moment.
Running his touch slowly through your petals, he gathered up your slick before letting that glistening hand switch out with the one around his cock, instead using your juices as lube to stroke himself with, making each pass echo in heavenly wet slick sounds.
And when he then began to eat you out, he didnât merely grant himself a taste of your innocence, but instead, the criminal licked at your pussy like he was on death row and this was the last thing heâd ever get to devour. From sucking down on the little pearl of your clit to lapping furiously at your virginal entrance, his ravenous tongue even strayed all of the way down to savour your tight little ass like it was a seven-course meal, all the while his fist twisting up and down the fat length of his cock. He lapped you up like he was dying of thirst and the only thing that could quench the desert inside of him was the sweet nectar that leaked from that pinprick of a hole that was your innocent opening.
Though when he felt himself near the edge, with a groan, he tore himself away and raised himself up to his knees. Scooting closer, he rooted himself so near that as he lavishly stroked himself, the bulbous tip of him hovered right above your glistening cunt.
âFucking hell,â he tapped the hefty weight of himself against your puffy petals, his glossy precum smearing against your softness with each wet smack, âI am going to destroy you when I finally find a way to fit inside of you, kiddoâŚâ he groaned, as even for the most extreme nympho he had slept with, the third leg he got to call his cock was a challenge to cram inside, âdonât worry, sweetheart,â he dragged his hardness through your slick folds, âIâll find a wayâŚâ he panted with a sly smirk on his lips, âyou were made for me, so of course youâll take all of itâŚâ
And when he finally decorated your pussy with hot ropes of his cum, his broad thumb briefly rubbed it into your puffy clit, before he finally covered you back up with your panties, the cotton immediately becoming completely sheer as his load soaked them.
Tugging your nightgown back down into place, the toasty duvet too returned over your form before he lowered himself down over you to press his lips to your forehead, âsee you again tomorrow night, angelâŚâ Â
The white and fluffy form of Alpine, the cat that roamed the halls of the Barnes Estate, nuzzled against your leg as you hovered on the other side of your stepfatherâs study. It took you at least a minute of gathering up your nerves to finally force your fist to collide timidly against the door, and by then, the feline had strayed in pursuit of the odd mouse lurking downstairs in the wine cellar.
âYes?â Buckyâs voice emanated from inside.
Cracking it open, you still only peeked your head in, âare you busy?â
Lifting his gaze to meet your own, âno, Iâve got time for you, Come on in, sweetheart,â he waved a hand to usher you all of the way inside, âwhat do you need?â
âWell,â you averted your gaze, your heart hammering behind your ribcage as you pushed the door shut behind you, âI justâ⌠I would have gone to my mom about this, but sheâs obviously not here right now, and I really donât wanna try and have this conversation over the phone, soâŚâ
âWhat is it?â the high-backed leather chair that he sat in creaked as he shifted slightly, but when you only let out a sigh and continued to refuse to meet his gaze, his voice filled up the room once more, âcome on, whatever it is, you can tell me.â
Digging the nail of your thumb into your opposing palm, your voice was almost a whisper when you then uttered, âI think there might be something wrong with meâŚâ
âWhat do you mean?â you heard him slowly get up from his seat.
âWell, I justâ⌠I have this weird feelingâŚâ you shared tensely.
âWhere?â
âUhmâŚâ still avoiding his stare, you cast your glance up towards the ceiling, ââŚdown thereâŚâ your tone trembled slightly as your cheeks went ablaze, ââŚIâm not on my period, thatâs not what it is, but Iâve just been so sore the past few weeks, so much so that underwear has even bothered it⌠I donât know what it isâŚâ your eyes finally met his own, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks, âam I dying?â
âOh, kid,â Buckyâs burly arms then suddenly drew you into a tight embrace, âyouâre not dying.â
Your innocent mind didnât notice the hardness in his pants that poked you as he held you close, though his cock couldnât help but throb at the reasoning behind your agony, as the mobster hadnât been able to stop himself from subduing and then visiting you every single night, rubbing your poor cunt raw as he played with you in your sleep.
âWell, you donât know that!â your bottom lip quivered as you tried to heatedly push him away, âyouâre not a doctorâ, wait, are you?â you asked in a hazy tone as you still werenât sure of what his occupation was.
âNo, Iâm not.â
âThen you canât know! Maybe Iâm sickâŚâ you finally managed to shrivel away from his embrace, ââŚitâs all tingly, hurts, and thereâ⌠Iâve started waking up with this sticky stuff down thereâŚâ
âItâs okay, itâs all gonna be okay,â he gazed down at you and let his palm coast down your upper arm, âI know a guy,â he uttered, âcan get you an appointment with him today if you want.â
Though the corrupt Doctor Reed Richards wasnât a member of The Avengers Mob, he had still been affiliated with the gang for years, being at their beck and call, whether it was to discreetly patch someone up after a violent shootout or even fake certain documents for them, there werenât any unsavoury lines he wasnât willing to cross.
So naturally, a faux little meeting with the feared mob boss and his new stepdaughter was also on the table.
When you arrived, the doctor had suggested Bucky should come along inside of the office just to grant you some comfort since you were so nervous out in the waiting room that you were on the verge of tears. Â
He began by asking you a slew of questions, the majority of them not only mortifying, but also exceptionally confusing to you, as virtually all of them were sexual in nature.
Perhaps it was a byproduct of your absent mother fearing youâd follow in her footsteps and get knocked up as a teenager as well, or maybe it was because of the conservative nature of the boarding school that moulded you, but to say that you were clueless on the subject would be the understatement of the century.
When Reed stated that a little examination would be in order for him to properly diagnose you, fresh tears began to well up in your eyes. But hesitantly, you did slip off your underwear and crawled up onto the exam table, the doctor swiftly guiding you to rest your feet in the stirrups and spread your trembling legs as he snapped a pair of black gloves onto his hands.
Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you failed to notice how Bucky hovered directly behind Doctor Richards, staring as well as he checked and confirmed that your hymen was still intact.
Though when the fake diagnosis finally came, the doctor assured you that it would all be okay as long as you kept up with a very specific treatment regimen. He also stated that it wasnât something that would be safe for you to handle on your own, as you could really hurt yourself in the process, so if you werenât willing to go to the hospital multiple times a day, then perhaps having your generous stepfather give you a hand was a good idea.
He then explained how Bucky would have to inspect and even massage you daily. Apparently, sometimes, if the symptoms persisted, youâd need to be massaged several times in a row.
It was all very odd to you, but then again, you werenât a medical professional, so who were you to question any of it.
đđđđđđ'đ đđđđ: welcome to the abyss, please enjoy.
đ đđđđđđđ: INCEST, this dove is extremely dead, noncon, dubcon, manipulating, gaslighting, stockholm syndrome, drugging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex
15.8k | summary |
there'd always been something a little off about your uncle. you didn't know just how off until the year your parents hosted christmas. but it didn't stop there.
You had never taken it upon yourself to get to know your uncle well.
James, or as everyone called him, Bucky, had always been sort of strange, or at least that was the feeling you were left with every time you encountered him. He was all at once shy and loud, huddling in corners or sitting quietly at the dinner table, and then suddenly sharing an anecdote and being the only one who found it funny. You got the impression that nobody cared to be the one stuck beside him at family events. He just didn't seem to get the social cues that the rest of you had learned to navigate.
He laughed too hard at things you said that weren't meant to be jokes. Sometimes, you'd feel like you were being watched, that pinprick of awareness, and he would be openly staring at you, his eyes not flickering away with the shame of being caught gawking. Once when he'd stayed over for a few weeks in the summer, you'd woken up and found that he was just standing in your doorway. His company was off-putting, to say the least, though no one had mentioned it, at least not to you. It was just a privately known fact.
You remembered Thanksgiving a few weeks ago. You hadn't been listening to him when he talked, because he was at the other end of the table. You'd been more focused on your cousins trying to snatch food from your plate. But every time he finished saying something, he would call your name and say, "You agree, don't you?" and you would furrow your brow and nod, though you had no idea what you were supposedly agreeing with or to.
There was a family photo you had taken last year, all of you clustered together around your grandmother's tartan couch. No one had noticed immediately, not when observing to just make sure that everyone's eyes were open and no one was sneezing or yawning, but your uncle had definitely been leering at you. Looking at you with a secret smile, his head tilted just so, rather than looking directly into the camera like everyone else.
Every time you got tagged in something on social media, he would be in the comments, leaving messages like, "My niece grew up to be such a gorgeous young lady!" or, "She's my favourite! What a darling girl!"
Maybe your uncle, a man who had been single ever since you could remember, was just one of those guys. He couldn't speak or interact with the fairer sex without giving off a particular vibe, even when it came to family. There was just something about him that missed the mark of charming completely, and landed somewhere further afield. He was family, so you would never outwardly say there was something wrong with him, but you couldn't exactly say that there was something right, either.
Your parents wanted to be the ones to host Christmas and New Year's this time around. It was a rotating responsibility, and this time it had fallen on your immediate family's shoulders. You were home from college for a few weeks, and with no siblings to share the burden with and an extra room at the house, Bucky was to be staying with you and helping out.
You'd had to be the one to pick him up at the airport, your parents still working right up until the holidays started. It was your beat up old Suburban, a car you'd had since you were seventeen, but he'd insisted on driving back because you'd "come all this way just for me!"
He'd hugged you at the airport, before you'd ushered him back to the parking lot. You hadn't intended on the gesture, but suddenly he'd been in your space, and your arms had been stuck limply at your sides. The hinge of his Tortoiseshell glasses had scraped the side of your temple as he'd brought his face close to yours. Though you'd gone rigid at the proximity, you'd noticed he smelled good, at least, something earthy and rugged, though looking at him, you didn't get the impression that he went on fishing trips or cut firewood as much as some of your other uncles did. At least, he didn't go on any of their yearly excursions.
You'd done your best to forget the awkwardness of the interaction once you'd made it to the car, but that memory had been almost immediately replaced by a more uncomfortable one, his hand finding your knee as he drove. It was weirdâthere was no other way to explain it. But he'd looked over and smiled during the first red light, murmuring, "I'm so glad to be spending the holidays with you, sweetie."
"You mean our whole family, right�"
He didn't answer your quiet inquiry, but you knew he'd heard you because he'd still been wearing a faint half-smile on his face as he'd turned back to the road ahead.
Your uncle was staying in the room next to yours. Your mother had considered turning it into a crafting room, but she'd never gotten around to it. Your own room was still sort of childish, since no redecorating had taken place and probably wouldn't until you moved out for good. Your bed still had frilly, lace bed skirts. Your coverlet and pillows were a patchwork of florals, your curtains gauzy and light.
The bathroom across the hall was all yours, unless there were guests. You hated that fact. You were used to not having to share, and suddenly having to double check that the door was locked or that you weren't about to barge in was one of the cons of having a tight-knit family.
The morning after your uncle had arrived, you'd all had a hasty breakfast together, him, you, and your parents, before they sped off to work. He'd announced that he'd be taking a shower, but you hadn't heard the water in a while, no shudder of the pipes or whisper of the overhead fan. It must be unoccupied by now, right?
When you twisted the handle, to confirm your suspicion that the room was empty⌠or so you thought. Upon opening the door, your uncle was just standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist. His glasses sat on the sink's counter top, the lenses fogged with steam. The silver in his hair was muted by its dampness. You'd never noticed before, how blue his eyes were, obscured as they were by his glasses. And you'd certainly never known that he wasn't as lanky as you'd previously assumed. His bare, muscled abdomen was highlighted by the stray droplets of water trailing from his shoulders. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry!" You said, backing out meekly and darting to your room, closing the door behind you and leaning heavily against it.
You felt embarrassed, plain and simple. You'd always been very careful to not walk in on anyone. It was mortifying on both sides. But he hadn't said a word at your apology. He hadn't even blinked an eye. He'd just smiled at you, that strange, private smile that seemed to have become one held in reserve for you and you alone.
You stayed in your room for the rest of the day, unnerved.
Your parents still had some last minute shopping to do. Your other relatives were supposed to be flying in, and since they were going to be out and about already, your parents would be picking them up as they arrived. You cursed the fact that you'd done all of your own shopping weeks ago.
That morning at the breakfast table, it had been mostly quiet aside from the scraping of forks and clink of glasses and cups. Your mother had been absorbed in her phone, your father reading through news articles on his tablet. Only you had heard your uncle say, "Looks like it's just you and me today, huh?"
You hadn't replied.
When your parents left in a flurry of mittens and coats and hats, you were unsure as to what you should do. You couldn't just up and leave, not really. That was rude, and you'd already done it yesterday. There was also nowhere for you to go. A storm would be rolling in at some point, and none of your friends lived close by. Lingering in the foyer with him was awkward, the both of you having been there to usher your parents out the door. He looked at you curiously. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"
Begrudgingly, you mentioned that you still had gifts to wrap, and the offer of help wasn't one you could refuse without making it obvious that you wanted to be away from him. Every time he passed you the tape, his hand kept lingering on yours, your fingertips brushing. He kept getting in your space when it wasn't strictly necessary. At one point, you thought he'd done it to sniff your hair or something equally insane, but why would he do that? Sure, he was a little bit creepy, but he wasn't that kind of creepy⌠right?
You spent much of the time after that arranging things under the tree and cleaning, trying to make sure the house was up to your mother's standards. You knew she'd be too tired to straighten up when she returned later. Your thoughts were interrupted, a tea towel half folded in your hands, by your uncle's voice. "Hey, do you want some hot chocolate? It just started snowing. It'll be so festive!"
You were glad you weren't facing himâyou couldn't stop the quirk of your brow and the incredulous expression you wore. He sounded so⌠excited. Childishly so, the statement having ended with a peculiar little guffaw. But, what was the harm in saying yes to something as simple as some cocoa?
It turned out that he didn't appear to make it very often. The powder was still grainy, lingering at the bottom of your cup and coating your tongue, but the whipped cream and marshmallows made up for it, you supposed. You'd both stood by the big window at the front of the house and watched the driveway slowly get covered with snowflakes as the street lights came on. It was perhaps the most normal occurrence you'd ever had with him.
Something about the warmth from your drink, the lights of the Christmas tree, and the soft build up of snow had your eyelids drooping, sleepiness taking hold. It was late afternoon, the sun gone and the world outside taking on hues of blue. A hand rubbed at your back, a comfort. "Do you want to go and take a nap? You look like you're going to drop at any minute, sweetie."
With a tired nod, you agreed, your feet dragging as you handed him your empty mug and moved down the hall to your room. You all but face planted into the pillow. You didn't even remember the seconds between wakefulness and rest.
You were in dreamland, you were certain.
The lights were dim in your room, the faintest of holiday glows. It was snowing outside, you briefly remembered. Everything seemed quiet and suspended, like you were living in your own little snowglobe. You felt incredibly warm, as if you'd sunk into a bath or buried yourself in furs.
You didn't remember taking your jeans off. You would have thought you'd be shivering without your flannel pajama pants on, the ones with polar bears all over them. Your comforter wasn't that thickâit was one of those all-year ones, and you usually had to grab a couple of spare blankets from the hall closet. But you were about a degree away from feeling like you were burning up. For the moment, you still settled in the territory of pleasantly warm, caught between just right and too hot. You honestly felt a little floaty. You settled deeper into the mattress.
Your brain felt like it was walking uphill in a storm, struggling to clear a path into rational thought. Maybe you shouldn't fight the sleepiness that still clung to you. Your consciousness shuffled around a moment longer, before something, some sort of recognition, clicked into place. You were warm, yes, but the heat was concentrated on your back. It felt like you were laying against a radiator.
Oh. There was a body behind yours. There were arms around your waist. You could feel breath on the back of your neck, soft moans in your ear. You frowned, puzzled. You didn't have a boyfriend that could have snuck in for a sweet snuggle. So who was in your bed?
Who was rutting up against you like that?
Why was it making you feel so lightheaded, all these sensations warring with your mind's want to sleep?
You were muddled, your mind a swirling current, each thought a silver fish darting out of your grasp. If you couldn't feel the softness of your sheets, your pillow, you might have thought you were at sea, the gentle rock of the bed much like the low, rolling waves of the water.
You didn't have the wherewithal to go stiff, your body still loose and relaxed. Something was off, but you couldn't summon the fear; it wouldn't, or couldn't come to you. "So perfect. Little angel. Always knew you were special. Just for me."
The words were groaned against your neck, and with the faintest hint of startled surprise, you realized who it was.
You tried to turn around, mumbling, "What are youâ" but a hand snaked it's way up your body and clamped loosely over your mouth, stifling the question.
"Shhh. Shhh, angel. It's okay, it's just me. Don't worry. I was having such a good time with you earlier, I didn't want it to end. Let's just stay like this, okay?"
But what did 'stay like this' mean, exactly?
Oh.
It meant that you knew what had happened to your jeans. They'd been tugged off of you while you'd slept, and your panties were now hooked to the side. Your uncle was rubbing his cock against your folds and bumping against your clit every time he moved.
You knew that you should be fighting him off, using every ounce of strength you still had to get away. He was you uncle, for God's sake. The one that would send you birthday cards with fifty dollars in them. The one that always made your dad give you the phone when he called, so that he could say hello and ask how you were. But now he was making your toes curl involuntarily, and he was pressing kisses to your shoulder, and his hand was still over your mouth, the skin of his palm hot, a burning touch.
"It's good for you, yeah? Just want to spend time with you. Want us to have a nice day together. This is nice, right? Tell me you like it." He had been rambling, but now he moved his hand away from your mouth to wait for the words he wanted to hear.
You couldn't speak. You were too stunned and caught between the wrongness of it all, coupled with the bizarre rightness of the feeling.
"Hey." His voice was sharp all of a sudden. His hand moved to your throat, pressing hard, feeling you swallow. "Tell me you like it."
It was a demand. He sounded scary. But he also sounded desperate.
"Y-yeah. It's niceâŚ" The words were slurred, but you felt him smile against your skin.
"I knew you were special. I knew we had a connection, you and me."
All you heard for a few long seconds was his laboured breathing, and then your own, the air rushing back to you in a dizzying rush as he stopped gripping your throat so tightly. "You'll give me a little more, won't you? You'll let me in. Come on, I've always been kind to you. Give me a little something back?"
What does that even mean, you thought. You were just trying to deny what you already knew. He was still squeezing your throat, a tiny bit, but you didn't think it was on purpose. It was a reflexâhe was excited. He couldn't help it, you didn't think. He might just cum on the spot.
Your silence was frustrating. His other hand was tight on your hip. "Tell me. Say yes. I don't want to be angry with you. I don't want to tell your parents you've done something bad. Let me."
And so you found yourself nodding. His switch between pleading, almost sweet, and controlling, bitter, was too much for you to process. You panties were so wet that they felt sticky.
It was just the tip at first. You thought that he'd intended for it to stay that way. But it made you gasp, and the way you'd clenched had him groaning into the back of your neck. He mumbled something you thought translated to, "I can't help it," and before you knew it, he was all the way in.
You didn't even register it happening, your reaction delayed by a few slow seconds. You sucked in a sharp breath. Oh. How was it possible to feel so full? He was squeezing at your throat again and muttering into your hair.
You only got a small warning, a graze of teeth against your skin, before he was biting at the side of your neck. He wasn't even moving all that much, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pin you down and go at you relentlessly, or to keep it shallow, just to focus on the way your body was responding. "I knew you liked me, honey. You always acted like you didn't, playing hard to get. But you liked me the whole time, didn't you? Bet you used to dream about this."
He was wrong. You definitely never had. Ever. But he sounded delighted, like it was some great revelation, his voice all breathy as he stroked his hand up and down your hip. He'd created a whole narrative in his head, mistaking your politeness for interest.
When you came, you were shocked.
Maybe you were more turned on than you'd ever felt in your life⌠But that was surely just biology, no? You were getting fucked; this was just your body responding. That was all. You were also half-loopy, still fighting for full consciousness. But he was nuzzling against your neck and sucking hickeys into your skin. "My little angel. There you go." He was cooing in your ear. He sounded so proud of you for understanding just how much you needed this. "You love me, don't you? If you love me, you'll let me cum inside. That's what people do when they love each other. Tell me you love me, sweet girl. I wanna hear you say it."
You were coming down from the high, still sluggish, still slow on the uptake. Too slow for his liking. He was getting a little mean, a little more desperate, with every second that passed. He was groping at your chest, pinning you closer to him. Grinding into you like an animal, and you began to register the sensitivity you felt. "Say it." He practically spat the words at you. "Say it!"
"I, um, ohâ"
The second orgasm hit in a wave, and you felt distinctly that he was angry about this. It was his turn now. Not yours. Why were you being so greedy when he was trying to make love to you? He'd been so chivalrous. "Say it."
"I love you." You managed to gasp the words out.
You couldn't tell if you meant them or not. Family said that sort of thing automatically, didn't they? But he sighed as soon as he heard it, like it had triggered him to cum on command. He was suddenly filling you up even though you already felt too full for words.
He didn't leave your body even after he'd emptied himself out inside you. He stayed there. He was panting and scattering wet, messy kisses against your neck, your jaw, your shoulder. "I knew you loved me. I knew you did. I love you too, princess. My perfect girl. You can rest now, go to sleep. I'm gonna stay right here and keep you safe from any nightmares."
You couldn't decidedly say whether you wanted him to stay or not, but he kept talking. "Remember when you were little and I put stars up on the ceiling for you to keep the bad dreams away? You don't need those anymore. You have me."
Oh, noâŚ
You'd just let a devil in through the gate, it seemed, signed on the dotted line to get out of a bind, not realizing you'd just sold your soul.
"No one else will understand our love, sweetpea, so we've gotta keep it between us, okay? You don't tell anyone. Our love is special. It's just for us."
The words sent a shiver down your spine. His voice was so soft and gentle, but his grip on you was utterly possessive. He was holding you so tightly that you felt claustrophobic. "Next time we make love, you're gonna face me so that I can see it in your eyes. Doesn't that sound nice?" He nipped at your earlobe. "It sure does." He answered his own question.
He didn't notice that you hadn't said a word. "And one day, you'll come and live with me. And we won't have to hide anymore."
Between Christmas and New Year's, your uncle was trying his best to be nonchalant after that day you'd shared together.
He'd had to lie through his teeth when your parents had come home and asked where you were. "She's just taking a nap. I'm sure she's fine," he'd said.
But all through that week, he couldn't stop looking at you in complete adoration. Every time you made eye contact, you were quick to look away, because God, what the hell had you done that day? You were disgusted with yourself.
And he was so⌠careful. His hand on the back of your chair, but only when no one was looking. His palm would slide up to the back of your neck, or he'd tug at the ends of your hair. He kept making you snacks and drinks, though now you felt wary and distrusting after what had definitely been a sleeping pill or two crushed into your hot chocolate. But he kept doing it in a way that would bring you closer to him. You'd have to go over to his side to take the glass, or bowl, or plate. He wouldn't just drop it on the side table for you. You'd have to come and take it from him.
You were beginning to learn that he liked the little bits of control. In fact, he ate it up like candy.
He'd left you alone otherwise. There had been no going into your room, no sitting too close.
Except for once, when you had been in the kitchen. Everyone from your parents and cousins, to aunts and uncles were in the living room. It had been a Christmas movie marathon. You'd been alone, getting the last couple bowls of popcorn ready, when you flinched, hearing his voice say, "She probably needs some help! Not enough hands!" along with a laugh, called over his shoulder to the rest of your relatives.
You didn't even have time to brace yourself before your hips were digging into the edge of the counter, because he'd boxed you in, hands on either side of you on the marble, breath hot on your neck. You could feel him against your ass. His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear. '"I like this game we're playing, where you pretend to be disgusted with me. I know you're just trying to hide how much you wish we could be together. We can't let them know, honey. They don't get it. They won't get it. Gotta be real careful with you. You're so precious."
You were frozen stiff. You didn't turn around, because you were scared to see the look in his eyes, probably half-wild. You heard movement in the hall. "Hey, hey," he crooned, a hand running over your ribs. "It's okay. No one's comin' in. Don't be nervous, it's just me."
But you were nervous. Why the hell wouldn't you be? He was too close to explain it away as innocence, should someone enter the room. Somebody called his name, then yours, and he pressed a kiss to the spot where your shoulder and neck met before stepping away, grabbing the popcorn bowls. "We got it, comin'!"
And then you were alone in the kitchen again, but his voice was still echoing in your ears.
You were on edge the entire night. That was good, he thought. He wanted you to feel anticipation. He wanted to wind you up. He wanted you overloaded with want. He wanted you needy, wanted you to cling to him next time, to cry and hold him close and tell him that you loved him, and to mean it.
Meanwhile, you had been unable to sleep, after everyone started to drop off for the evening. You were worried he'd come to your room, invite himself in.
He didn't.
You looked like hell in the morning. He was playing mind games with you, you knew that. But you couldn't say anything because someone else was always there. The blessing and the curse of family, you supposed. What would you even say, anyway? That he was wrong? Crazy? Well, he was crazy, that was for sure. You'd never given any indication that you felt anything for him in that particular way. He was family. But he was crazy enough to think that you were just being coy, not honest.
You couldn't even shower without wincing every time you heard noise in the hallway. You were scared he'd open the door, scared he'd come through the curtain and you'd have to face him, just like he said. And you'd be fully aware, no sleeping pills in sight. You turned the water on hotter, used the pain of the heat to ignore the ache in your belly. It was your fear, the bitter tang of it, not anything else, surely... Right? Bringing up the memory of that night was traumatic. Not... not a Polaroid of a moment that made you feel damp. Water was the only wetness you should have been feeling. That was all, right?
When the New Year's party came around, you thought that maybe he was all talk. That he'd used up all his nerve by drugging you, and then the pseudo threat in the kitchen. In fact, the whole night he seemed borderline disinterested. He only passed by you once, a hand on the small of your back as he squeezed between you and the wall, but the touch was more perfunctory than lecherous. He was intent on getting to the table with the drinks and platters all laid out. Half of your family was gathered around the TV, watching the New Year's show, waiting for the ball drop. The others were in the basement, karaoke and games galore down there. And you felt like you could finally breathe.
Well, that was your first mistake.
Bucky was quietly fuming because he knew he couldn't kiss you at midnight. He couldn't even try to get away with it, because your family was not one that did overt affection. He couldn't pretend to explain it away. But he'd noticed that your guard had dropped. Maybe you would even leave your desk chair where it was supposed to be, tucked in front of your computer, instead of up under the doorknob.
Yes, he knew about that little trick. He arranged his features into a pleasant smile as he talked with your cousins, acting like he was interested in their little stories. But his eyes would always find your frame, your quiet anxiety slowly leaving you as the night wore on. And that only meant that he'd be able to get what he wanted, soon. He just couldn't bear to hold himself back for much longer.
Midnight was announced with silver streamers and gold confetti popped from little crackers. The younger kids had all cheered, high on sugar and excitement, while everyone over the age of eighteen celebrated with a chorus of, "Cheers!" and "Happy New Year!", with smiles and hugs shared.
Some of your relatives made the tired walk to their cars, parked in the driveway and out on the street, while others made their way down to the basement, where cots and sleeping bags had been set up. You streaked off to your room quickly and quietly, scrubbing your makeup away with a wipe and changing into your pajamas. You weren't ready to go to sleep, not yet, but you were ready to relax, alone, for a while. Maybe you'd catch up on social media until you fell asleep holding your phone. It sounded like a fine idea.
Your bedside lamp and the glow of stars stuck to your ceiling were the only illumination, other than your phone's screen. You busied yourself with liking friends' pictures and wishing a good year to anyone you could remember to contact. You were half propped up on your pillows, enjoying the solitude, listening to the faint voices of your extended family as the living room continued to empty.
You forgot about the lingering threat, the one that was supposed to be sleeping in the room next to yours.
You were reminded when the radiance of the hallway light momentarily blinded you, an outline standing in your now open doorway. All at once, you sat up, your phone falling away when you should have gripped it more tightly, threatened to record him if he didn't go away. You uncle closed the door behind him with the softest of clicks. Your eyes adjusted; he was already unbuttoning his green plaid shirt, and the pattern looked more garish to you than it had surrounded by the rest of your family. "You look so cute, waiting here for me. I knew you wanted me to come in. I could tell by the look you gave me before you left."
What look? You hadn't given him any sort of wanting gaze, not sultry tilt of your head, of that you were sure. You hadn't even glanced in his direction, too afraid to chance it, to catch him already staring at you. "IâI didn'tâ"
The plaid slid from his shoulders, and then he yanked the white t-shirt that had been underneath off, too, his glasses a soft clatter on your nightstand.
"Stop," you found your voice, though your body still cowered, paralyzed with fear, "Pleaseâplease stop. You don't have to do this."
You wondered if he had any mercy in him, or if there had ever been any at all. Maybe he'd been born without it. "Baby, I want to learn what you like the best. Why would I stop?" The words were a gentle hush, wild grass ruffled by a strong breeze.
Panic rattled through you, threatening to shake your bones. You scrambled upright as he got closer, your palms pushing down flat against the mattress, your shoulders knocking into the headboard. The feeling was a heavy weight in your gut, an anvil, crushingly heavy. But there was something elseâyou noticed it, the barest whisper in the back of your head. His eyes tracked the movement of your tongue swiping across your lips. Panic, your heartbeat as fast as a rabbit's, yes. But the other thing⌠was it? It couldn't be⌠anticipation?
It was gone almost as quickly as you'd realized it, like a winking star in the night sky. You pressed yourself against the headboard as if you could melt into it, through to the wall, and safety beyond. The mattress dipped under Bucky's knees as he crawled over you, bracketing your legs. It was a tactic to pin you, and it was successful. As your eyes darted left and right, seeking an escape route, they flashed once down his form, like someone else had taken control of your sight. Taut muscle, tanned skin. His belt buckle was shaped like a star. Would it leave a mark on your thigh? Would it be forgotten under your bed, collected when the sun rose over a fresh, new year?
His hands slid over your shoulders, resting for a minute. They felt heavy, heavier than they should. It felt like he was going to push and push until your head was underwater, until you'd drown, bubbles escaping your mouth in place of screams. One of his hands moved up, cradling the side of your neck. The heat was blistering. "You did so good for me the last time, darling girl. I know you're gonna be that way again, aren't you?"
Blue, blue, there was the blue, the twin lakes you'd drown in, caught between their tides, whirlpools of cobalt. Blue engulfed your vision, his eyes looking into yours. Determination was set in stoneâyou could see it in his jaw, the shape of his brow. He blinked once, like he was sending the right answer through the air and into you. Be good. It will be okay. It'll be over before you know it! But still, the animal instinct in you told you to buck, to wriggle away, anywhere that you could go on the floral island that was your bed. But there were no life rafts, not here. No sticks to form a message, S.O.S., across the beach of your blankets.
Bucky let out a displeased huff as you weakly kicked at him, but he remained relaxed, perfectly poised. "Now, I'm not gonna tie you up, honey. That's not what happy couples do. Just be a good girl for me, yeah? So that I don't have to."
You imagined it for a moment. Your wrists, chafed red and raw, the sting from the brown leather of his belt. He'd probably kiss the marks, stare into your eyes as he did it. It made you feel sick, the wetness that gathered between your thighs. Wrong, wrong, so wrong. Happy couples. What you knew of happy couples were courting, romance. Flowers at the door, dinner by candlelight. Grand gestures, for the sake of showing the world that you were in love, and that love was beautiful, and that it should be celebrated. It was not an imposter under your covers at night, vermin with no exterminator to call. But if you needed to play act, to get this over with, so be it. Your body was already doing its part, a subtle hum in your blood. If you pretended he was a normal man, a stranger you'd met at a bar, it would be okay. You gritted your teeth as you admitted to yourself that he'd seemed to have known what he was doing, the last time.
You nodded diplomatically, as if you were only agreeing to do the dishes, to do the laundry, something so mundane, so simple. Not this, not offering your body up, not letting him in, a second time.
It started with a kiss, satisfaction on your uncle's face, the smoothing of his brow, the quirk of his lips, mission accomplished. You willed yourself to play make believe, to conjure up the idea of another person before you, another man's hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so, drinking breath from your mouth, and blood too, when you bit on his lip hard enough to draw it. It was your one act of defiance, all you could manage. It only served to please him. You heard the growl, a claiming of territory, could taste it on your tongue. You couldn'tâwouldn'tâallow yourself to get lost in the feeling. Your hands, still firm on the mattress, itched to move, but you kept them still as statues. You didn't want to know what his chest felt like under your palms. You didn't want to know if your nails would leave scratches, pink lines to mark your place.
It was a slow slide, not an avalanche. You didn't know between which breath and the next, when your head had reunited with your pillow, your back against the sheets. Did you look like you were laying on a field of daisies, bluebells, and violets? Was your hair fanned out around you, an angel's halo? Your stomach was all aflutter, a toss up between curdled milk and a molten river.
You were doing your best to relax, given the circumstance. Tense muscles might make it hurt. A path was drawn, one you imagined to be tattooed in black ink. Jaw to ear to throat. Collarbones to the neckline of your camisole, the lace trim pulled down. Your breasts were a rest stop. He stayed there awhile, and again you fought, your mind at war with your body. This was wrong.
This is wrong! You screamed, but it only came out as a sigh, stirring the wisps of his hair. The travel resumed, your camisole gone. You were now a barren, naked expanse of ground to cover. Sternum, straight south, navel. He veered right, a scrape of teeth against your hipbone. You said a silent goodbye to your shorts, flimsy cotton with bunnies printed on them.
Thenâstartling clarity, you'd come up for air, when he reached his final destination. "Stop, stop. Please. Please stopâŚ"
Did you say it out loud? You thought so, but the shudder you felt at the base of your spine at the first lick of his tongue, undeterred and unhurried, made you think that you hadn't. No hesitation, not from him. Your eyes burned with unshed tears. Did you cry because you were scared, or did you cry because of the sensation? The hum of contentment against your clit, the brush of fingers against your folds. The first intrusion, the second.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Unlawful, corrupt, felonious.
"Delicious, sweet, mine."
A shockwave tore through you, and you gasped like a fish on land. He travelled back the way he came; hipbone, navel, sternum. Collarbone, throat, ear, jaw.
Bucky looked at you then, saw your lashes, the tears that seemed to glitter on them in the soft amber glow. Such a gorgeous swell of emotion, his eyes seemed to say, choosing to believe they conveyed your fidelity.
You'd asked him to stop, begged, even. But your baser instincts willed your muscles to go slack, to twine your limbs around his, to give in with a satisfied purr, after the clink and hiss of the belt buckle, his jeans, his boxers. Then your brain would shriek, the sound jarring, echoing around your skull, the mantra of "stop, stop, stop!" singing through your blood.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered in your ear.
You felt like a balloon, filled with air. Like you couldn't get any fuller, or else you would pop. Your arms had moved of their own accordâyou didn't remember when your wrists had locked around the back of his neck, nor did you know when your nails had started to bite into his skin. Bucky seemed to like it, though. He stayed gentle with you, but gentle didn't mean shallow. It didn't mean quick, or thoughtless. Vast, infinite, unfathomable, were more fitting.
It turned out, you had not been at your capacity. Your detonation begot his, a collide of natural disasters. Devastation, you thought, painted white from the inside out. Damnation.
But the soft touches on your face, lips to your forehead, fingers stroking your hair back, didn't suit that description. Dedication. Devotion. That was what they felt like, as you fell into the bottomless dark.
"Dearly belovedâŚ"
He would be leaving tomorrow. You would be safe in your home, though you didn't think you'd ever feel safe in your skin again. How could you? You stumbled out of bed groggily. There had been no drugs in your system this time, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, weariness the taste of ash. The bed was coldâhe'd left sometime after you'd passed out. Left you there alone, naked, but at least he'd covered you up with your blankets afterward, had tucked you in, even. Listen to you, making an excuse for him, for finding the good in a bad situation. Your shoulders were hunched as you dressed back into your pajamas. You held your shorts for a moment, before putting them on. You felt the soft fabric between your fingers. You had half a mind to burn them, to see them blacken and disintegrate.
The pajamas didn't feel like enough, so you found your fluffy, pink bathrobe and swaddled yourself in it, tying its belt tightly at your waist, fluffing up its collar to hide your neck. You didn't know if he'd been careful about marks, or not. You couldn't bring yourself to make a pit stop to the bathroom, not yet. You didn't want to look into your own eyes. You didn't want to remember the explosion of stars in your head, after the second wave had taken you under, or over, or through. You remembered anyway. The memory tingled like you'd electrocuted yourself. You examined your hands. You remembered digging your nails into his nape. Your knees bumped together as you thought of them locked around his waist.
To the dining room, then. You could handle him for one more day, even if time was as slow as molasses. It would still pass.
Only, of course, you were the last one up. You trudged out into daylight, stark and gray through the windows. There were your parents, crowded around one end of the table, and there was your uncle, sitting there too. Bright smiles were exchanged at the sight of your unruly bedhead. "There you are," your mother said. At the sight of you, she stood and bustled to the kitchen to fix you a plate.
You sank into the empty seat beside hers, and across the table, Bucky demurely sipped from his coffee mug. As if he hadn't been inside your room, inside you mere hours ago. It seemed that it was much later than you'd thought; your extended family seemed to have all gone. How had you managed to sleep through the ruckus?
When your mother came back, a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in her grasp, your father said, "I think it's a great idea, by the way."
He said this to Bucky, not to you, as you woodenly shovelled food into your mouth. The conversation at the table turned to a buzzing drone, until you zeroed back in, who knows how long later. "She'll love that, won't you, Pumpkin?"
Pumpkin was your father's nickname for you. Your eyes slowly cast from the plate, the ring of roses printed on its edge, and up to your father. Your expression must have portrayed puzzlement, because your mother patted your shoulder good-naturedly. "Your uncle was saying that you'll be staying with him after your exams are over. You're going to help him fix up his house?"
She said it like this was a reminder about a topic that you'd already been aware of. All you could think was, no. But you couldn't summon the adrenaline, the fear, the horror at the idea. You had gone numb. So that was how he'd do it. He'd trap you up there all summer. And why would you say no? Your parents knew you had no plans after Aprilâyou'd thought maybe you'd get a job at the ice cream parlor, save up some money, but that hadn't been set in stone. It appeared that your future had been planned for you.
Your mouth opened, but before you could even think of an appropriate protest, you caught the hard, sharp gleam in your uncle's eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, like a trick of the light against his glasses, before he grinned at your father, your mother. "The old place need's a woman's decorative touch. I know I can trust our girl to do right by me."
He said 'our' but you heard 'my' anyway. You knew that was what he'd meant. And he knew that you knew, if the touch of his shoe against your foot, under the table, was any indication. A warning, a reminder, a promise, a threat, all rolled into one.
You thought back to the barbecue, last year. It had been at your aunt's house, and while the rest of your extended family had been bathed in sunlight, dotted around the lawn in folding chairs or laid out on the grass, your uncle had been hidden in the shade of the covered patio, a polite smile on his face as he sipped at his beer. It had struck you as odd, at the time, because one of the things you knew best about him was that he was an outdoorsman. Your dad and his many brothers, your uncles, including Bucky, had grown up camping and fishing. He might not have done much of that stuff anymore, but you were sure that that day's weather should have seen Bucky standing by the grill, turning over the burgers, or perched by the pool.
The realization felt like a bucket of icy water poured over your head. The only other person hiding out on the porch that day had been⌠you. Too engrossed in a summer romance you'd picked up from the library, only willing to go as far as the patio furniture and not one step more into the loud, lively family affair. He'd been there with you in mind. He hadn't done anything then, just stayed close. He'd asked if your book was any good, if reading was a new favourite hobby of yours. It had been a set of questions proposed in his usual, awkward manner, head ducking as he ran a hand over his hair, then glancing up with a shyness that would have been more at home on a teenager's smitten face.
You remembered this exchange as you watched your father pull out of the driveway, Bucky beside him in the passenger seat. He was gone, for now. But it was with a sinking certainty, for you, that he'd been a much more thorough planner than you'd thought, and you were sure that these months apart would only make the game that much more fun, for him.
Manipulation was a subtle game, as delicate as a silkworm's thread. Bucky was very, very good at it, he thought. Or he should have been. He had just been too overcome with lust over Christmas, something he chastised himself for. He was supposed to use that trip to lay the groundwork, to convince you to come to him this summer, of your own volition. But seeing you that day at the airport, feeling the warmth of your embrace, your soft body in his arms, the smell of your shampoo⌠He'd forgotten himself. He'd slipped.
Never mind, plans could change. And he'd managed it, anyway. His old house was in a rural area, a build from the 70s, in dire need of renovation. Of course, he could do much of it himself. But it was the perfect excuse to have you around. You were a helpful young lady, of course. You would probably have all sorts of ideas. After all, it would be your home someday, too.
He stood in the kitchen, the cracked linoleum peeling and yellow under his feet. Would you want tile, or wood? He could picture your silhouette, the shape of you, in front of the sink. You'd like the picture window, overlooking the backyard, the way it dipped off into the forest. He'd get you state-of-the-art everything, if you wanted. You'd pick it all out. He didn't think the walls would be green, anymore. Maybe you'd choose blue.
He'd rip up the old carpet in the living room. Refit the fireplace, so that it matched the mantelpiece. Install bookshelves on either side. You liked books.
The only thing he wouldn't compromise on would be the bedroom. Oh, you could decorate it however you liked, of course. But there would be no California king sized bed. Cozy nights together could only be achieved in something smaller. Closeness to you was a gift, and it was one he would cling to with everything he had. Someday soon, you would be falling asleep in his arms. He just didn't know how long that would take.
Spring began to mature into summer in a blink of an eye. You'd already felt that winter had slipped from your grasp, the snow melting into blossoms right when they were supposed to, though it had felt too fast, to you. And try as you might, you'd been fruitless in your attempts to find a way out of going to Uncle Bucky's house. You had willed your last exam to stretch and bend time like taffy, but you still found yourself blinking into the sunlight of your school's parking lot, other students talking about internships and backpacking trips instead of agonizing about the hottest months, the most hellish ones.
How fitting, to experience the devil's flame, the heat licking up your back in the shape of a tongue.
All too soon, your car was loaded up with a duffel bag and two suitcases. Your ticket and passport were safe in your mother's manicured hands, and you sat in the back, feeling like a kid again, as your parents drove you to the airport. They were all smiles, believing their baby girl to be having a gorgeous summer in a rural area, to see greenery and smell flowers and fresh air. To see wildlife and blue skies and rolling fields. They didn't know that those things would all take on shades of gray, for you.
The flight took no time at all, and as the plane descended, so did your mood. You hadn't thought it could get any lower, but you had discovered a rock bottom underneath the false floor in your head. The crowds of other travellers passed by you in a blur, a smudge of backpacks and crying babies, a smattering of languages and squeaky wheels. Your name in a scratchy scrawl, written across white card stock, jumped out at you from the crush of loved ones waiting to welcome their family members home.
There he was, no shame at all. A smile on his face, the calling card in one hand, a lopsided bundle of wildflowers in the other. You planned to roll your suitcases right past him, to force him to walk with you, or to lose you entirely, but your feet had stopped short, a few feet away. His eyes lit up, sapphire blue, pinning you in place.
Your uncle seemed more relaxed than you'd ever seen him, shoulders straight, posture loose. He tucked the card stock under his arm, and pulled you into him. You stumbled forward, brought into a hug that squeezed the air from your lungs. How was he so strong, only hugging you with one of his arms? His forearm, at that? It made you realize how gentle he really had been with you. How much worse it could have gone. "I'm so glad that you're finally here, sweetpea. We're going to have an amazing summer together, you and I."
It was murmured against your hair, and you could have sworn a horde of ants had crawled down your spine, making you itch. You no longer knew if it was a promise that held a double meaning, though you could guess.
You were mildly surprised by his car, a tan coloured Chevy, and an old one at that. Its interior was all brown leather, worn but clean. You wondered if he's restored it himself, but you didn't care to ask. You didn't want to humanize him. He'd taken your bags, spilled them into the backseat and the trunk, and switched on a cassette tape. You didn't hear the music, not really, too focused on the bluest sky you'd ever seen, through the windshield. The airport had been a tiny one, and there was nothing for miles around. You believed you'd be in the car with no one but him, for at least an hour. Probably more. You wanted to watch the speedometer, to see if he drove extra slow, to draw the moment out. Instead, you closed your eyes and feigned sleep, and prayed that he'd leave you be.
You did fall asleep, for a little while. The smoothness of the road giving way to gravel had roused you from your rest, and all at once it came crashing back to you, where you were. Blue sky, still, though the sun looked like a ripe orange, beginning its descent. Trees in varying shades of green. The gravel belonged to a long, winding driveway, amidst tall grass. They flung themselves against the sides of the car, ping! ping! ping!, greeting you as you drew closer to the house.
It was bigger than you'd thoughtâyou'd assumed it was to be a bungalow. It was one story, but it was longer, a great big rectangle made of faded, sickly sage panelling. The shutters looked like they had been white once. The flowerbeds weren't overgrown, at least. It looked like your uncle had started on that, already. But as for the restâŚ?
The screen door, when you got to it, squealed like a piglet. The foyer, a box of a room, was dingy, but at least it was clean. Disrepair more than neglect, truth be told. You knew that your uncle was a bit of a neat freak. His glasses were always spotless, shoes polished, shirts neatly tucked into trousers. His footwear, you noticed, was lined up neatly against one of the walls. Bile rose in your throat as your own joined them.
You thought you would retch, when he opened one of the doors down the hall with flourish. It couldn't be, but⌠it was.
It looked like your room, at home. Ruffled bed skirt. Coverlet of quilted floral. You cast your eyes up, and⌠there. Glow in the dark stars. Nothing was a perfect match, but it was scarily close. The desk chair was painted white wood, and you were sure if you looked closer, you would see flowers across its back. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that Bucky almost looked bashful. "I wanted you to feel at home here," he said, shyly. "How did I do?"
He wanted your approval?
His earnestness made your stomach hurt. "It's certainly close," was all you could muster, but it seemed to do the trick, for a beaming smile was shot your way.
"I'll give you some time to unpack, and then we can have some dinner, alright?"
Unpack. Right. Because you were staying here for the foreseeable future. Was this how a spirit felt, watching as their corpse was lowered into the ground, covered by earth, sealed in a wooden tomb? You were choking on worms, feeling them crawl down your throat. If Bucky saw the glassy sheen over your eyes, he didn't comment.
The door closed with the quietest of clicks, and your sobs were muffled into the neckline of your sweatshirt.
Your first few nights made you feel like you were laying on a bed of nails. Every shift of the house settling made you wonder if tonight would be the night that he came into your room. You couldn't understand, when the sun broke over the hills in the morning, why he'd let you be.
In fact, since you'd gotten here, Bucky had been perfectly cordial. The first day had been his worst. But after that� Maybe⌠Maybe it had all been a terrible mistake. Maybe something was wrong with him, and he needed help. Maybe that had been a break in a pattern, what he'd done to you. Sometimes you still felt the ghost of his breath on your mouth. But awake, standing in the same room as you, he stayed a respectful distance away. If he did touch you, it was to pat you on the back, or to help you down from the ladder, as you switched out light bulbs.
You were distracted, maybe, waiting and watching for signs, not allowing yourself to get lost in re-imagining his house. All that you had done so far was choose the light fixtures. He hadn't argued against a single choice that you'd made, so far. Had approved, complimented, smiled. Stood next to you, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, like he was trying to see what you did, the potential that could be fostered and grown. You could almost believe that everything was normal.
There was one blip in the system, so far, but it had been you more than him. You'd been standing at the sink. The sun had gone down, and the trees of the forest down the hill had looked taller, darker. Shadowy. You could envision all sorts of creatures of the night that could dwell in there. You hadn't noticed Bucky sidling over to you, your hands submerged in soapy water, fingers loose around a spoon.
When he ducked in your direction, you'd flinched and turned your head. Your brain told you that he'd been attempting something, though you didn't know what. But his gaze didnât cloud over or darken when you recoiled. He just apologetically slid an empty glass into the water, skimming your hand, and then grabbed a dishtowel. "I'll dry," he said, and you wondered if you had been making him out as worse than he was.
"I'll go to the hardware store tomorrow and pick up some paint swatches, unless you want to come with me? That's probably a better ideaâyou'll know exactly what you want, I'm sure. Better than I will."
You didn't hear yourself mumble a faint agreement, but you must have, for your lips moved, and his eyes twinkled behind their frames.
Privately, Bucky smiled. He had infinite patience, unlike the first time. You were on his turf, a lost little lamb separated from the herd, after all.
Town was miles away, but the weather was nice, and so, then, was the drive there. Bucky had rolled the windows down and you'd gulped in the air, saw the fuzz of dandelions dancing in the breeze. Four-way stops were aplenty, here. There was a slightly bigger city, beyond, but most things that Bucky left home for were here, in a centralized zone with no more than ten streets.
The workers at the store, in their red polo shirts, knew him by name. They greeted him with smiles, and he did the same, pressing a light hand to your shoulder blades to steer you to the wall of swatches.
A riot of colour stared back at you. You stared blankly, before turning to him. "What colour schemes do you like?" Your voice sounded robotic, even to you.
"Oh, I'm easy, sweet girl. Whatever you like, we'll get." His hands rested in his back pockets.
"Really? What if I want to paint the whole house pink?" You hadn't meant to make a joke, but it had come out anyway, and he laughed.
Your heart did a cartwheel, unexpectedly. You'd never heard him sound so comfortable before. It was unlike the laughs you had heard from him in the past, surrounded by the rest of your family. It was unlike anything you'd heard at all. Rich, deep, smooth, like a first sip of coffee in the morning. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle, behind his glasses. You wondered if he laughed a lot, here in the town he called home. If happiness was the cause of the barest beginnings of crow's feet.
"Well, I'm sure we'll have the prettiest pink house for miles around," was his response.
You faltered, then. We'll instead of I'll, like you had a stake in this house, too. Like you'd stay to see the finished product. Like you'd stand in the renovated kitchen and toast to your success. You realized then, that you'd leaned towards him. You could feel his body heat through your shirt. You put deliberate space between you, then, picked up the closest handful of swatches, and pretended to ruminate over the different shades. You hoped that your shaking hands weren't obvious.
The days bled together.
The heat should have been sweltering, but Bucky kept you cool with a steady supply of water, chock full of ice, condensation dripping from the glass. It seemed like as soon as you'd finished one, he'd be standing next to you with another, holding it up to your mouth so that you wouldn't get lilac paint on anything but the shutters. He'd brush hair from your face, the touch casual, intimate, like he'd done it a hundred times before. Part of you wanted to shrink back, but the softness of his fingertips was pleasant. You almost wanted to tilt into it.
It was nice, for a time. Touches like that, you learned that you could handle. They were not a grope or a squeeze, a summoning to hold you closer. His hand would fall away and you'd track his movement, watch him swipe the back of it over his forehead. You heard yourself clicking your tongue. "Don'tâyou'll cover yourself in paint."
Your hands did not seem to be your own, as you lifted the white cloth you'd kept safe in your pocket, and dabbed at his face to wipe away the sweat. They seemed to be a stranger's, but they were your nails and your fingers and your knuckles. The sun couldn't overshadow the brightness of his teeth, the way they formed a perfect, satisfied smile.
The flowerbeds had you knee deep in dirt, as you pulled at stray weeds, keeping the chrysanthemums and dahlias free and clear. And your uncle would be right there with you, scratching your initials into the soil, then smoothing them over with a spade, like he was etching it into the very ground, letting it sink into the earth, an unfounded truth. It was boyish. You pretended not to see, and your feelings muddled, two street cats slinking into their respective corners after tangling together. Your steadfast trepidation was starting to crumble.
He plucked one of the flowers free and turned to you. It was slightly withered, not as strong as its siblings. He looked like a dork, a sparkle in his eyes as he tucked the stem into the front pocket of your overalls and fixed your sun hat. "A daisy for my daisy."
You held up a thistle. "This is all I can offer you."
Your voice was decidedly deadpan, and his laugh could be heard across the hills. "Whatever you give, I'll take, honey."
Slowly, new clothes began to appear in your wardrobe. One dress became two, became three, four⌠With each step of renovation completed, it seemed another was placed with care, tucked behind your other clothes. They were pretty, with skirts that would fan out if you spun. You didn't try them on. You didn't acknowledge them, either, but you searched Bucky's face every time you stepped out of your room in jeans and a t-shirt, instead of a dress, to look for anger, to look for spite. It was never there. Only a brightening of his features, like when you walked in, the lights had turned on.
Bucky had not kept many things from his childhood. You knew this, because there hadn't been much to go through when sorting through his belongings to 'donate, keep, sell, trash'. The bins you'd picked up with him at the store were only half-full. You felt like you'd brought more with you from home than he had in the whole house. You did find yourself cross-legged on the floor, however, on the area rug he'd put down over the spots where he'd ripped up the carpet.
The photo album was big, leather bound. James Barnes was etched into its cover. When you flipped through it, there were a few photos from childhood, a couple wherein you spotted your own father. Then there were a series of blank pages. Thinking that to be it, you resolved to close it and tuck it away, back in its place. The glossy plastic revealed one last photo, to your surprise.
Bucky, around your age. He was looking away from the camera, with what you believed to be a Walkman in one of his hands. Headphones covered his ears. He had a mustache. He didn't have one now. What struck you, though, was the way your heart had kicked into high gear. Handsome, if a little awkward, had popped into your brain. You traced his outline, the navy blue of his shirt. He was still handsome now, you thought, before banishing the idea. But if he'd looked this attractive back then, why had he never gotten married?
You wondered how old he had been when he had needed to start wearing glasses. The number of years it took before he had started to go gray at the temples, uneven streaks of it through the dark brown. You wondered, if you took him to a department store and got him new clothes, a haircut, and different glasses, how much younger he would look. Would he be angry, if you asked that of him? Would you finally see that switch, that part of him that you knew was lurking below the surface, a sleeping bear, waiting to be awakened?
You closed the album, and put it back in the cabinet.
The picture found a new home at the bottom of your sock drawer.
Bucky was not angry with you, when you'd casually asked about his attire. He'd looked down at his shirt, another plaid one, buttoned to the top, and chuckled. "I guess I am a few years behind. Are you going to give me a makeover?"
You acquiesced, because there was no way out of it now. You'd rolled the dice; it was time to play the game. "On one condition," he said, holding up a finger. "You can do whatever you want, but you have to wear one of the dresses I got you."
It seemed an easy enough trade. You picked the one that looked the least like a housewife's uniform, something that wasn't so form fitting, before leaving the half-finished house with him in tow.
It turned out to be easier than you thought. You stuck to neutral coloursâno more plaid for himâand started weighing yourself down with shirts, jackets, jeans. You were eyeballing the sizes, but you knew that under all of that green checker, there was a chiselled body. You were reminded of this fact again when Bucky stepped out from one of the dressing room in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. The sleeves hugged his biceps. He seemed painfully self-conscious, eyes darting between you, the floor, and the long mirror stuck to the wall. "Do I look okay?"
It was a fight to keep your jaw hinged closed. You stepped forward and carefully took his glasses from his face, stood on your toes to mess up his hair. He should really stop with the gel, you thought. He looked better when it was wilder. He looked younger, too. "Put this on." You passed him a jacket, made of sturdy leather.
The effect was instantaneous. You half-expected women to come out of the woodwork, the second it settled over his shoulders. You stood side by side in the mirror. You noticed, belatedly, too busy staring at him, that you were both smiling.
A lady stopped on her walk past you, a baby in the shopping cart. She smiled, too. "How cute. Are you letting your girlfriend play dress-up?" She asked, like it was an inside joke.
Bucky slipped his arm around your waist, and to your shock, you let him. "Just a little bit. Anything to make her happy, right?"
The stranger and Bucky exchanged a laugh. Your face was still frozen in a rare state of happiness. A split second of contact had felt like a steel bar, holding you down, but it melted away into something else. Something like⌠security. Safety.
When the woman moved along, Bucky unfurled from you. He looked you right in the eye. And you said nothing except: "These glasses are outdated. We're getting you new ones. Maybe contacts, too."
You hated thunderstorms. The rain lashed down. It felt like the foundations of the house were going to come loose, that you and it were going to wash away down the hill. It was so dark, you could hardly see the silver needles falling from the sky, but you could hear them. The roof was tin, about the only thing that wasn't going to be replaced during this renovation, and it was a consistent rumble above your head.
Bucky should have been back already. He'd gone to the bigger city, the one further away, to look for a specific style of doorknobs that you'd had your heart set on. You huddled on the floor, a shiny hardwood that you'd picked out. The fire was lit, turning everything shades of orange and yellow and red. The new TV still hadn't been connected yet. There was no comforting lilt of a sitcom to soothe your nerves, and you didn't feel like perusing his music collection in his absence.
Thump, thump. You barely heard the sounds over the noise of the rain. They still made you jump, skittish. You hoped it was your uncle. It seemed an alien notion, to long for his company. But despite your complicated thoughts about him, you'd do anything for the feeling of safety. Company was better than loneliness.
When you undid the latch, pulling the heavy wooden door in, and pushing the screen door out, he stood before you, slicked with rain, despite the coat. His hands were full of bags of takeout, along with what you were sure were the doorknobs. He smiled at you, like he wasn't soaked to the bone. "I'm sorry I took so long, lovebug. Thought it would be nice to take a break from cooking tonight, hm? Help me bring these in?"
You noticed the other bag at his feet, and when you lifted it, you heard the clank of soda cans rattling around. Obedient to a fault, you obeyed his request, only alone while he shucked off his coat and boots. The low coffee table was to be your destination. Chinese food was laid out across the scratched surface, no worry about water rings from the Coke, because it was still a refurbishing project. Before you could pluck up a spring roll, however, Bucky leaned closer to you, brought a hand to your cheek. Was it a burn, or a balm? You were beginning to confuse the two. "You doin' okay? I remembered on my way home that you don't like storms."
"I'm fine. It's not so bad when I'm not alone." When you're with me.
"That's good. But hey, if you get scared when you're trying to sleep later, just come and get me, alright? I'll look after you."
Like you did over Christmas? The question in your head almost took on a longing quality. You shoved a roll into your mouth, trying to ignore the burn in your blood, the zing of electricity you felt in your skin. "Okay."
You thought of the way that animals showed their fear. How a horse's eyes would roll about their skull, showing the whites, the huff of nervous breaths from their soft snouts, the uneasy swish of their tails. Was that how you looked, trapped here? Or were you more similar to a fox, its dainty foot caught in a trap, shredding through skin, muscle, bone, terror seeping from its russet fur?
The nearest neighbour was a ten minute drive away. The nearest store, double that. Walking would take a while, and you had a feeling that you wouldn't be left alone long enough to make the trek. Your only chance at that would have been the night of the storm. And besides, Bucky could always spot you on his return. You shuddered to imagine him steering the Chevy onto the shoulder, the tires spraying up gravel. The way he'd be so eerily calm, you thought. His rage had only showed in intimacy, in your bed. He'd roll down the window, and say, "Get in," the passenger door cracked open when he'd lean across to push at the handle. And you would, because he had a car, a great, heaving machine with which to mow you down, and you only had your hands and your mind, and those were not nearly sharp enough to get you out of danger. So you'd get in that car. And you wouldn't know how bad the punishment would be, or when it would come. If it would. You had a feeling he would deliver justice on his own terms, not yours.
But your bigger fear was not about him. It was about you. Because what scared you more than that, than any of those runaway thoughts, was the bottom line: you found yourself not wanting to search for freedom. It scared you that you did not feel more scared of this realization. Fear of lack of fear. Why hadn't you escaped with his car keys on the first night? Put your foot on the gas and sped down the twist of the road, back to that airport? Gotten on the first flight to anywhere?
Instead, you picked up the feather duster again, ran the plumes through your hand. You tickled the mahogany mantelpiece with it, too spotless to really accrue dust, and touched your fingers to the edge of the gilded gold frame above it. The frame was empty, no pretty picture in its depths. It looked new, the glint of the floor lamp making it shine. That same lamp would turn the silver in his hair to strands of the gold, a perfect match. It had been engraved carefully, with swirls that reminded you of the sea. You could fit the curve of your fingernail into its grooves. You wondered how much it had cost him, if it would be too heavy for you to lift and steal, something to pawn if you crept out in the dead of night. Would the dew show the shape of your footprints?
You looked at its empty center. In a blink, you imagined a picture there. Horrifying, that your mind had conjured up the idea of one with both of you together. A family portrait, in more ways than one. The thought was a maggot, eating at your brain. And you were nurturing it, not expelling it. You were allowing it to burrow.
You heard the creak of the screen door. It made you jump, your shoulders hinging up near your ears, chin tucking down to your chest. The clunk, scrape! of the woodblock he used as a door stopper. Then a hum, a familiar tune. You remembered it, from the record he had played the first night you'd been here. The one he'd made you dance with him to, your hand clasped in his, your head against his shoulder. If anyone had seen your silhouettes through the threadbare curtains in the window, they would have thought you were a married couple, keeping your romance alive. But all you could focus on, at the time, were the lyrics of the song, crooned in a woman's voice, and then the echo of Bucky's, a whisper in your hair, a breath against your skin. You heard it now, "and we'll be together, forever and ever," as he came to stand in the archway. You spun towards him, the skirts of your dress whirling along with you. "Help me with the groceries, sweet girl? I'll give you a treat if you do. I picked it special for you."
He was wearing the new clothes you'd picked for him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather. His hair wasn't gelled back, his old glasses replaced with contacts. He looked like somebody's boyfriend.
Sweet girl. You'd come to like that name. No one else was called that, just you. Like pulling the stopper on a drain, your thoughts dispelled, and you moved to help, letting him tell you what he'd picked up. The raspberries went into the new fridge. The cabinets had been refinished, and everything fit tidily inside.
The treat turned out to be a caramel apple, one he unwrapped carefully and handed to you. "How is it?" He asked, on the first bite.
"It's sweet."
"Not as sweet as you."
You no longer liked your bedroom. Well, you'd never loved it. Nor the one back at your parents' house. It had been designed by your mother, and this one was a near-perfect copy. But it wasn't you. Bucky's bedroom, however, was almost finished. The walls had been painted a colour that was a bit more blue than gray. The bed was made of oak. The dresser, too. The rug was soft underfoot, because you'd thought about the bite of cold hardwood on a winter's morning, and decided that something should dull the ice. There were perhaps too many throw blankets, but Bucky hadn't minded. The lighting was gentle, warm, and you had insisted that he needed a tall plant in one of the empty corners, to "give life to the room".
But you studied your own, ruffles and pink and yellow. White wood and floral everything. It wasn't you, and it never had been. The only thing you'd ever picked for yourself had been⌠the stars.
When Bucky was out in town, you laid across his bed, arms stretched wide, as you looked at his starless ceiling. One of the blankets was faux fur, dotted like a fawn's coat. His pillows were so fluffed, you were surprised that they hadn't burst. Calm, this room said. Safe. Maybe you had designed it with yourself in mind.
You didn't doze, but you did get lost somewhere in your head, because you didn't hear the front door, only the slight creak of the floor by the room's entrance. From your periphery, you could tell he was watching you. "What are you doing in here?" It was posed playfullyâhe didn't actually have a problem with it.
"I wish this was my room."
Silence, for a minute. Then a couple of footsteps. He was still far away. "Do you?"
"I think I made it for me. Sorry." It wasn't a real apology, flat on your tongue. It was more an admission than anything else.
"You can have it. Anything I have is yours." The words were followed by the dip of the mattress, Bucky sitting on its edge. You would have to stretch your arm, your fingers, to brush the curve of his knee.
Silly thing was, you believed it. He would give you this room. He hadn't done anything, not really. What had happened over the winter had happened months ago, and miles away. It couldn't be explained. Honestly, you could have been treated worse. If you thought hard enough, you could think of guys that you knew who had been far less kind than he had been. If anything, once you had relinquished any shred of power you may have held, he'd treated you like gold. "Will you sit with me?"
He already was. He said as much, a hand resting on the fawn blanket. You flopped your arm over the bed, limp as a noodle. "Sit with me?" You asked again, and this time your wish was granted, because it hadn't really been sit. It had been forget the world, lay down beside me. And he did.
His shoulder brushed yours, after your folded your hands over your ribs. Now you both stared at the empty ceiling. "Would you like stars in here?" He whispered.
"I don't think I need them. Not when I have you."
Tentative and delicate, it felt like a first date, or a dance at the prom. The sheets were pale gray, a shade darker than a dove's wing. They felt cold. The A/C was on high. If you hadn't been outside cleaning the windows today, you would have never believed that it was the height of summer. One side of the sheets flipped down, then the other. A mirror image, you on the left, and Bucky on the right, climbing into the bed, pulling the blankets up. All the throw blankets were on your side. Your side. His contacts were gone, replaced by his new frames. Black, stylish. He propped himself against the headboard and picked up the book on his nightstand. The lamps were twin suns, dialed down to their gentlest setting.
A list ran through your headâthe physical one had been left in the living room. Tiles for the bathroom. A new sink and counter top. What about a vanity? Towels. Shower curtain, unless you installed a glass door. His closet needed more shelving. You wanted to showcase his vinyl collection in the living room, the cassettes too. So many things to do, stillâŚ
"You're thinking very loudly, over there."
Bucky's voice interrupted you, working hard in your ideas factory. "I left the list on the coffee table."
He was already sliding his bookmark into place. "Do you want me to get it for you?"
"No, it's okay. We're already here. It can wait for tomorrow." You snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them high, up to your chin. You fumbled one hand out from under them to tap blindly at the nightstand, before you grabbed and pulled at your lamp's chain. Darkness swallowed your side of the room.
We're already here. How quickly you had gotten used to we, and our. Our home, our living room, our bedâŚ
You heard Bucky slide his book across his own nightstand, the rattle of his own lamp's chain. Complete blackness. No stars in sight. You rolled onto your side; he did the same. Your pinkie brushed his. You thought was an accident, until it happened again. Shy, a question.
Less shy, your answer, inching closer.
The closing statement, a hand slipping through the dark to land at your waist, to pull you into orbit. Earth and sun, a steady stratosphere.
Lips on the crown of your head.
And finally, sleep.
The stars were taken down. The bed frame, desk, chair, given to a family in town that needed them. Your room, or rather, your old room, was to be whatever you wanted. A library, a music room, a guest room, with your own vision in mind⌠the world was your oyster.
The barrier had toppled over. It wasn't with some great sweeping storm, a hurricane ripping it away by its nuts and bolts. It wasn't some bloody, knock-down fight. It was a biodegradable decomposition, instead. You were waking up in Bucky's arms every morning. Sometimes he would kiss you, and you would let him, your lips molding to his, your fingers running through his hair. He'd whisper things into your skin. They sounded like oaths, to you.
You were never alone. Trips to town were made together. Sometimes, hand-in-hand. You'd wash dishes, he'd dry. He'd twirl you around the living room while a record played. The house wasn't finished quite yet, but it didn't matter.
Sometimes you heard a buzz in your head, like a fly. A quiet, weak warning. But what about⌠You shouldn't⌠This isâŚ
But you'd bat it away, and it would fade.
This house was cozy, lived in, and yours. You tasted the air when it started to change, when the breeze would carry a chill. College was calling, and so were your parents. But you'd begun to think⌠What if you did your schooling online, this year? What if you found one closer?
What if you stayed?
Explanations were ready on your tongue: the house wasn't finished yet, it was more than Bucky could manage. You liked the area, you weren't ready to leave. The change of scenery was refreshing, and no one else in your family lived on this side of the country. He was by himself here. He needed you.
Your fingertips tapped on the kitchen table. It was round, dark wood. The vase at its center was full of dahlias, the ones from the flowerbed by the front door. Your laptop lay closed in front of you. Your lip was caught between your teeth, a nervous hum in your body.
"Lonnie said he could get us a quote at a discounted rate for the plumbing in the bathroom," you heard from down the hall. He was back.
You didn't answer, your back to the open arch. You only turned when Bucky padded into the room, stopping short. "What's the matter?"
Did you looked worried? You didn't know. You must have. "It's about⌠It's about school."
He stood straight, like an arrow. It made him look taller. You saw his throat move when he swallowed, like you'd handed him a bitter pill.
"I want to defer for a year."
"Iâyouâwhat?"
"The bathroom reno is gonna take longer than we plannedâ"
"You're gonnaâ"
"âIf I want to get that marble tile, it's not going to be finished until Octoberâ"
"âput off schoolâ"
"âAnd then we really should talk about the basementâ"
"Angel."
You stopped your explanation. Looked up into azure flames. "I want to stay."
"You want to stay." Bucky echoed the sentiment.
"I want to stay. Is that okay?" Now you looked down, at your hands. Your fingers twisted in your lap. What if he⌠didn't want you to?
An obscure worry slammed into you like a train. Had every single interaction been read completely wrong? You no longer knew which way was up, or which way was down. Everything was water. Above your head, below your feet, no matter which direction you swam.
"You want to stay. With me?"
You nodded, foolish tears pricking your eyes. Had you made a mistake? Fingers on your chinâyou didn't know when he'd gotten closer. Crying was embarrassing. You sniffed, not meeting his eyes, even as he tilted your face up. His thumb wiped stray salt water away. "My darling girl. This is your home. Of course you're staying."
You saw it then, when you looked at him: certainty. Like there had been no other answer. Like you'd both swiped a knife over your palms and scattered blood over this land, signed it as yours together, and so it would stay that way, and you would stay too. Stay with him. You'd be with him. You'd be together⌠forever and ever.
The kiss was sweetâyou tasted like raspberries. It dissolved into laughter, breathless and nonsensical.
Staying.
Staying.
You were staying.
But not in this room, not at this table. As soon as you stood, Bucky lifted you, strong hands under your thighs. They locked around his hips like you'd done it before, muscle memory you didn't know you had. Unsteady kisses and unsteady breaths were the road map to his bedroomâyour bedroom.
The blankets were soft under your body. The sunlight cast you in gold. "Bucky," said like a prayer.
"I'm here," said like a vow. "I'm with you," said like a promise. "You're mine," pressed into your skin with a sinner's mouth.
Your dress had buttons down the front, a tie at the waist. It was as easy to unwrap you as it would be a gift. It rippled off the bed like a cascade of water, a pool of blue over the rug. Blue everywhere. Blue on the floor, on the walls, in his eyes. Blue, blue, blue.
But you felt all shades of red, burning hot from head to toe. A kiss like a bruise, and then a caress. A bite at your neck, followed by the slide of Bucky's tongue. "My sweet girl, mine. Knew it all along. Knew you loved me." He pulled away from you, hovered above you. "Say it. Say you love me?"
Another time and place, worlds away, those words demanded from you as you fought for consciousness. Snow had been falling, then. Now, it was all sunbeams and the twittering of birds. "I love you."
"Say it again."
"I love you."
The most blinding smile you'd ever seen, followed by a pledge. "I love you, too, my darling girl."
Now it was your turn to unwrap your gift. Off came the shirt. You didn't know where it wentâit could have grown wings and flew, for all you cared. The same belt with the star buckle. The metal was warm in your hands. Warmed by the friction of your bodies. A successful tug had it sliding from the belt loops with a sigh. Button, zip, pull.
Bare, both of you, and you remembered fear, but it had faded like a photograph left to the elements. Try as you might, you couldn't summon it, now. All you felt was want. All you wanted was completion, belonging. Your thighs were slick, and it was painfully obvious. About as obvious as Bucky's own want. Suddenly the fire was gone, replaced by a timid, mousy reach of your hand, closing around him.
The sharp intake of breath made you pause. Had you done it wrong? But when you focused on Bucky's face, his eyes had fallen shut, his jaw slack. You moved experimentally, then paused, waiting forâŚ
"Good girl. You're makin' me so happy. Just like that."
You got the rhythm down, the twist of your wrist, your hand. The words poured over you like summer rain. But you kept looking at Bucky's face, kept listening to the sounds that kept falling from his mouth like music notes. Whatever had happened in the winter was not the same as what was happening now. You wanted to hear more.
Just when you thought you would see his great undoing, his hand closed over yours, and you stilled. "I don't want to⌠not yet. Not now."
Bucky put your hand in his, and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes on yours. "It'll be different this time. You know what you want now, huh?"
A submissive nod, your hair loose about your face. A kiss to your palm, next. "Just took you some time. That's okay, I'm patient. I knew this day would come eventually."
He liked to talk during this carnal act, you remembered. But it would be different now. He was right; you had only needed to come around to his way of thinking. He laid you back, and your head hit the pillow. Your legs jolted after he spread them, running his fingers across your folds like he was playing an instrument. You'd be making some sort of noise, soon. His fingers were replaced by the head of his cock. It made you quiver, the electric current that seemed to shock you as he coated himself in your wetness. "Better than last time. You want me."
"Please."
"All you gotta do is ask nice, baby. I'll give you the world." A serene smile, a brush against your clit.
"Please, I want you," your voice sounded thin, "please."
He was all the way in before the last word had entered the air, and you were hip to hip, chest to chest, your shriek swallowed by his mouth. He laced your fingers together. "Good? Or do you need time?"
You could only respond by squeezing his hand, a low whimper caught in your throat. He answered aloud for you. "Good. Fuck, I've been waiting for months to feel you again."
One roll of his hips, then stillness. "Knew from the first time that you were for me."
Roll, pause. "Knew you were special."
Roll, pause. "You're my girl. So special."
Slow as a wave at sunset, and as deep as the ocean. Bucky kept you in the tide, far from the sand. This was your real first time together, you decided. The others didn't count. He'd had problems with control, and that was fixed, now. You were the only girl in the world, the only one that mattered. He only stopped murmuring praise to kiss you, and your free hand tugged at his hair with each particularly deep stroke, one that made your heels dig into the plush of the bed. You could feel the fur of the fawn blanket tickling the soles of your feet.
Everything had narrowed to him. What was he to you? There was a definition that the rest of the world knew, but you forgot what it was. All you knew was yours and mine.
"We're gonna go together, sweet girl. Wanna feel you with me. Got it?"
"Yes." The word was broken in half.
His hand untangled from yours to smooth your hair back from your face. "Good girl," he cooed, "let go for me."
Like a one-two punch, milliseconds apart, your body spasmed around his. A groan by your ear, teeth on your lobe, and a burning spill. Liquid metal, red hot, poured into a mold. You were floating away on a cloud. Your stomach lurched, but you didn't feel sick. You felt full of butterflies, full of him, full of possibility.
You were staying.
You were staying, and so you wouldn't have to try to capture this feeling, to bottle it up, because you'd get to experience it again, in your bed, in your home. The rest of your thoughts were whisked away a kiss that was so wet, you weren't sure if one or both of you were drooling.
Then Bucky laid beside you, and you stared at the ceiling again, your skin sticky, arm pressed against his.
"You've never needed the stars. You've always been the brightest one."
The fear you'd felt, or thought you felt, when you'd wake up at night, the worry that you'd turn over, towards the door, and see a shadow in its arch, had banked like embers in a cold fireplace. Your terrors had become less. You didn't know when it had happened, when it had crossed to another feeling. What was it? It felt like it was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn't place it. Was it⌠safety? Now a darkened doorway meant you weren't alone. When had that become a comfort?
It meant that someone had arrived, that somebody had walked down the wood panelled hall, turned the brass knob. That they'd mimicked you, followed your path. And that theyâheâwould keep following it, taking the same proverbial fork in the road. He'd round the bed. He'd climb under the covers, dove gray. He'd find you there, in the black night, as if you'd been lit from the inside out, a flame in a glass jar. Once, that had felt like the blade of a guillotine balanced across your neck, the hands of death grasping at your wrists, your ankles.
Now, you tucked yourself into the warm touch, grasped for it like an alcoholic would with a bottle. Now, those arms meant shelter. That heartbeat was a song on a station tuned to you, and you alone. You would feel hands in your hair, lips at your jaw, your shoulder, your temple, and you'd be whisked to the land of dreams. Fear didn't exist there. Maybe it never had.
You scanned the copse of trees beyond the window. The wind blew, and you could see the rustle of the leaves, could imagine the whistle of the cool air. Fall was coming. Those leaves would be turning yellow, soon. Confusion, a fleeting panic, like a startled deer running through the forest, galloped across your brain. The dishes were put away, and you moved into the living room, all warm browns and handcrafted furniture. And then⌠an almost pleasant numbness, a radio's static gone silent. You fixed the picture above the mantelpiece, and you smiled.
pairing: entity!bobby franklin/bb x f!reader
wc: 9.1k đ
summary: BB has waited an eternity for someone to choose him. You finally let him in. All of him.
contents/warnings: 18+, explicit smut (entity sex, oral (f receiving), crazy amount of overstimulation, marathon sex, body worship!!!), non-human anatomy && shifting during sex, tummy bulges!!! (you're his cocksleeve i'm afraid <3), eldritch features (elongated tongue, additional appendages, iridescent skin), mutual praise && desperation, emotional themes of loneliness && touch starvation (yeah,,, in your monsterfucking smut ikik), references to emotional neglect in a prior relationship/guilt over moving on, past references to real bobby/reader.
notes: this took years off my damn life because I kept reworking parts but I did enjoy writing it overall. pic used is for aesthetic purposes only && is not representative of the reader character. I just like looking at Finn with his mouth gaping open mid moan :) also this is NOT canon compliant for the main series. y'all just want to fuck bb && I respect that (also this was put off twice & I reckon I owe you one after Part 6). essentially this can be read as "entity x/bobby/plot never happened & you chose to stay with bb forever" au.
âś better bobby series.
âI found something for you.â
BB is crouching beside the nest when you open your eyes, his cool fingers turning something small and bright in his palm. A button. Red plastic, chipped at one edge, the kind that falls off a coat and rolls under a shelf and gets forgotten. He holds it out to you with the nervous care of a child presenting a drawing.
âIt was in one of the lower hallways,â he explains, watching for your reaction. âNear a door I haven't opened yet. It's the same red as the mug you told me about. The one your mom had. I thoughtââ He turns it in his fingers. The yellow light catches the glossy surface. âI thought you might want something red. There's not a lot of red here.â
You take the button. It's warm from his hand, or rather warm from the contact with his hand, because BB himself runs cool, always cool, his body temperature a few degrees below what feels human until your skin draws the heat out of him. The red plastic sits in your palm. Cheap. Cracked.Â
It's the most thoughtful gift anyone's given you in over a year.
âThank you, BB.â
He smiles. That shy, lopsided thing that doesn't belong on Bobby's face because Bobby never smiled like that; Bobby's smiles were teasing and self-aware and loaded, and this one is open and unguarded and a little bit terrified that you won't like it.
âYou do? You like it?â
You lift your eyes toward him, and smile. âI love it.â
The yellow warms toward gold around you. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
You hold out for months.
That's the part that's going to eat you alive later, the part you'll turn over and over in your head. The part where you knew.Â
You knew what kissing him did to you from the first time, that clumsy mortifying moment in the blankets when he'd come in his shorts and watched himself discover his new body. The look on BBâs face had carved itself into you like a brand.
You knew because kissing BB isn't kissing. Kissing BB is a substance. It enters your bloodstream through the point of contact, and within thirty seconds, you can feel it spreading. Warm and heavy and stupid, a fog that settles behind your eyes and at the base of your spine.Â
The longer his mouth is on yours, the worse it gets. Or better. You can't tell anymore which of those words applies. The two collapse into the same sensation when BB is touching you because his version of pleasure isn't built on the human axis where good and too-much are different categories.
His skin is cool when he isn't touching you. That's one of the things that took getting used to. The temperature of him. His hands when they find your wrist in the dark, his chest when you lean against him in the nest. Cool like marble or water from a deep well.Â
There's warmth underneath the surface, banked and dormant, waiting, but it only comes alive when he touches you. The warmth bleeds through contact, drawn out by your body heat, rising to meet you and then surpassing you. And once the warmth is going, it does things. It sinks. It reads. It feeds information back to him through his palms, fingertips, and mouth, a living scan of your nervous system in real time through his skin.
So you hold out. You let BB kiss you sometimes. Short, careful, your hand on his chest when it threatens to become more. His immediate compliance every single time, pulling back to press his forehead to yours. Just breathing even though he doesnât need oxygen the way you do, hands shaking on your waist, always mortifyingly patient.
For months after the first kiss. Just that.
âDo you dream?â BB asks one evening, his fingers working over your hair.Â
You're lying with your head in his lap. The yellow hum is low tonight, and the ghost-flowers on the wallpaper have settled into stillness for once.
âSometimes,â you tell him honestly.
âWhat about?â
You almost say Bobby. You catch it in your teeth. âHome, mostly. The apartment. My side of the bed.â
BB's fingers pause over your hair for half a second. Then they resume, slower.
âDo you miss it?â
You think about that. Really think about it, while his cool fingers stroke over your hair and the hum fills the silence with its tuneless drone. Do you miss it? Do you miss the apartment where Bobby's camera equipment colonised every surface? Do you miss the kitchen where he stopped looking at you? Do you miss your side of the bed, which was your side because Bobby took the other side and the middle and left you the edge.
âI miss what it used to be,â you say quietly. âBefore it went bad.â
BB's hand settles on your temple. Warm now, from the contact with your skin. His thumb traces the curve of your eyebrow.
âTell me about before,â he says softly.
Before was good. That's the thing, the thing that makes the after so unbearable. Before was so good.
Bobby in the early months was a revelation. Bobby with his camera aimed at you across a crowded room, lowering it to grin at you with his whole crooked face, saying the light's doing something crazy on you, babe and meaning it with every fibre of his skinny sun-browned body.Â
Bobby who kissed you in parking lots and edited footage with his head in your lap and rolled joints on the kitchen counter while telling you about his day in that low lazy drawl that made your stomach flip even when he was talking about lens caps.
Bobby who touched you like you mattered. Hands on the small of your back in a crowd, arm around your shoulder or waist, always. Fingers laced through yours during movies. His mouth on the back of your neck while you were doing dishes, warm and idle, a press of lips that said I'm here and I like being here. Bobby in bed in the early days, Bobby with his chain tangled between your bodies, looking at you with those pale eyes and saying come here, baby, let me feel you with a softness that undid you every single time.
The good was so good it spoiled you for everything that came after.Â
The good taught you what Bobby was capable of, what he contained, and that knowledge made the withdrawal so much worse. Because you knew. You knew he could be tender. You'd seen the inside of him, the soft unguarded core he showed you, and then he'd locked the door.
You'd tried to get back in. That's the part that hurts the most now.Â
You'd asked him what was wrong. You'd asked him if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, if he needed space, if you'd done something. You'd tried every key you could think of, and the door stayed shut. And the worst part, the very worst part, was that you could hear him on the other side. You could hear him breathing. He was right there, your Bobby, the real one, the one who filmed you sleeping because the light was good, and he wouldn't open the door for a reason you didnât know.
That hurt more than the silence. More than the grunting. More than the nights he turned his back. Because the silence you could have explained away. You could have told yourself he'd changed, that the tenderness was a phase, that you'd imagined the depth of it. But you hadn't imagined it. You'd been inside. You'd touched the walls. And knowing what was in there and being locked out of it was a cruelty so singular it felt designed.
You tell BB some of this. Not all. You tell him about the parking lot kisses and the kitchen touches and the way Bobby used to look at you through the viewfinder. The way he hugged you with his whole body every time he saw you, nuzzling into your shoulder with a muffled sigh. You tell him about the door closing. BB listens with his head tilted, his fingers still in your hair, his pale eyes fixed on your face with that total, unwavering attention.
âHe had all of that,â BB says quietly when you finish. âAnd he put it behind a locked door and wonât even tell you why.â
âYeah.â
âAnd you kept knocking.â
You force a breath over the lump in your throat. âYeah.â
BB is quiet for a long time after that. His thumb traces your temple. The yellow walls warm around you, trying to bleed toward gold again.
âI don't have a door,â he says softly, quietly. âI don't know how to build one. Everything I have is right here. You can see all of it.â
You close your eyes, and the purr starts low in his chest.
You don't say anything. But you reach up and press his hand against your cheek, keeping him there, close. BB's breath catches, and he holds perfectly still, and the yellow turns gold.
You hold out for months, and the guilt sits inside you like a stone.Â
Guilt for wanting it. Guilt for not wanting it enough. Guilt for thinking about real Bobby while BB's mouth is on you, and guilt for not thinking about real Bobby enough. Guilt for the fact that some traitor part of you has stopped flinching at BB's touch and started anticipating it, leaning into it.Â
You go to bed with your back to him and wake up curled into his chest, because your body made a decision before your conscious mind could.
And you didn't leave.Â
That's the thing you can't explain to yourself, the thing that damns you.Â
You didn't leave because after what happened with Bobby, after months of being invisible in your own space, being wanted felt so good. Being needed felt so good. BB looked at you every single day like the sun rose and set in the shape of your body, and that kind of attention was a drug more potent than anything his kiss could do to your bloodstream.Â
You were terrified of how much you liked it. You were more terrified of losing it.Â
The nest also changed. You don't remember when. You'd been asleep, and BB had been out, doing whatever BB does when he leaves the territory, and you'd woken to find your apartment.
Not exactly. A yellow-tinged approximation of it, laid overtop the warm patch of carpet. The blankets rearranged into a bed with your bedspread from Santa Clara, the one with the faded blue flowers. The pillows you'd left in the apartment when the wall took you. The little side table with the lamp from the yard sale in Sunnyvale. Even the pattern of the wallpaper had shifted, not away from yellow but around it, a suggestion of the flowered paper you'd hung in the bedroom, ghosted through the buttercup background.
BB had been sitting cross-legged beside the nest when you woke, watching your face for the reaction, hands twisted together in his lap. He'd looked at you with such raw nervous hope that you'd started crying before you understood what he'd built.
âI heard you,â he'd said, voice unsure, small. âYou said you missed home. So Iââ He gestured at the room, his hands shaking. âI don't know if I got the pattern right. I only saw vague glimpses in your mind. I could change it, if it's wrong.â
You'd crawled into his lap. Buried your face in his neck. His cool skin had warmed slowly under your cheek.
That was weeks ago. Months ago. Time is soft here. It's before you started noticing the flowers on the wallpaper moving when you weren't looking directly at them. Before you noticed the lamp doesn't have a cord. Before you noticed that when BB is happy, the yellow warms toward gold, and when he's worried it cools toward green, and the whole territory has become an extension of his mood.
None of it scares you the way it should. That's the part that actually scares you.
âBaby?â
BB is sitting on the edge of the bed. He's holding a blanket he found somewhere, a thick, dark green wool one, and he's folding it with careful absorption. His long fingers crease the edges. Heâs already gazing at you when you glance his way. His eyes are Bobby's blue today, human-shaped, the entity safely tucked away behind the mask.
âYeah?â
âCan I ask you something?â he asks carefully.Â
You nod. âOf course.â
He visibly hesitates, his head lowered. âDo you want to go home?â
Your chest tightens. âBBââ
âYou don't have to answer.â He folds the blanket smaller. His voice is steady, and his hands are also steady, but neither of those things is true underneath. âI just⌠I've been thinking about it. About whether you're staying because you want to or because you don't know how to leave. And I want, baby, I want you to know that if youââ He swallows. âIf you need to go... I won'tâŚâ
He stops, staring at the blanket in his hands.Â
âI won't stop you,â he finishes, practically choking the words out.Â
You gaze at him. At the green blanket folded in his lap. At his hands, which are familiar and gripping the wool hard enough to dimple the fabric. At his face, which is Bobby's face and isn't, which is the face of a thing that heard you crying through a wall and built itself a body to hold you and is now offering to let you go because it loves you more than it loves having you.
âI don't know,â you say honestly. âI don't know, BB.â
He nods, keeps folding. You sit together in the quiet, and the yellow is the palest green you've ever seen it, almost grey, and BB's hands are shaking slightly around the blanket, and he's pretending they're not.
That night you lie awake in the nest that looks like your old apartment with BB's arm across your waist, and you think about going home. Really think about it. You think about the apartment in Santa Clara and the kitchen and your mug on the drying rack and your shoes by the mat. You think about Bobby. You think about whether Bobby is sitting in that apartment right now, or if he moved on without you there to nag him.
You think about going back to him, walking through the wall and climbing the stairs. Finding him. And you try to feel what that would be like, the reunion, the homecoming, and what you feel isâ
Grief. You feel grief.Â
Because going home means going back to Bobby, and going back to Bobby means going back to a man who locked the door. Who might open it now, might fling it wide, might weep and hold you and swear he'll be different. But you've spent months on the other side of that door. Months knocking. Months making yourself smaller and smaller to fit through the crack underneath. And even if Bobby opens the door now, you know what it's like when it's closed. You know the sound of his back turning. You know the weight of his indifference. You carry it in your bones.
The relationship was over months before you left. You know that now. The wall in Clark's basement didn't end your relationship with Bobby. Bobby ended it. Quietly, one day at a time, one turned back at a time, and you'd stood in the wreckage pretending it was still standing because the alternative was admitting you'd been alone for months in a room with someone who used to love you.
You're only here because you're finally letting the ghost of going home go.
Because letting BB in means choosing the yellow. Choosing the hum. Choosing a place with no sky and no weather. No yard sales on El Camino with golden retrievers named Mango. Letting BB in means letting the real world go, and admitting that the girl who fell through the wall in Clark's basement is not the girl sitting in this nest.Â
That girl was going home. That girl was holding on.Â
This girl has let go of everything except the creature beside her, and she doesn't want to pick any of it back up.Â
It means letting Bobby's ghost go, too.Â
The real one, the Bobby who exists in Santa Clara, the one who grunts at your goodbyes, that Bobby has been a ghost to you for longer than BB has been real. And the Bobby you've been holding onto, the candle in the draft, the one who filmed you sleeping and called you my girl, that Bobby is a memory.Â
A beautiful, aching, preserved memory of a man who doesn't exist anymore.Â
Loving a memory is not the same as loving a person. A memory can't change. A memory can't hurt you, can't grow, can't learn. A memory just sits in your chest, glows, and keeps you warm, and slowly, slowly starves you because you're using it to feed a hunger it was never designed to fill.
BB is not a memory. BB is real. Heâs flawed in his own inhuman ways, learning in real time, and holding you right now, his cool arm across your waist, his purr a low vibration you can feel through the mattress. BB is the one who brought you a red button because your mom had a red mug years ago. BB is the one who offered to let you leave even though it would destroy him.
You love him. Not as a replacement. Not because he wears the right face. You love the thing behind the face. The thing that has no door, that never had it.
You turn over. Press your face into BB's chest. His arms tighten around you at once, his skin warming under your cheek.
âI'm staying,â you tell him in a tender whisper.
BB goes still.
âYouââ
âI'm staying, BB,â you tell him again, pressing closer, tucking yourself close. âI'm choosing this. I'm choosing you.â
The purr cracks. Breaks apart. Reassembles into something so deep and so full it vibrates in your skull. BB's arms crush you against him and his face buries in your hair, and he's shaking, shaking, his cool body warming everywhere you touch him, and the yellow floods gold.Â
The whole room, the whole level, gold as sunlight, gold as the thing inside his chest that has waited longer than time itself for someone to say those exact words.
You kiss him the next day.
He's beside you in the nest, cross-legged, telling you about a level he found that loops back on itself, and you're half-listening, more focused on the shape of his mouth than the words coming out of it. You lean over and press your lips to the hinge of his jaw. Just there. A small, warm press between his ear and his chin.Â
BB falters mid-sentence. A stutter, a swallow, his eyes flicking to you and away.
ââand the walls change texture right where it loops, which is, um. Interesting becauseââ
You kiss the corner of his mouth. Lightly. Barely there. And your hand finds the back of his nape.
BB stops talking.
His neck is cool under your palm. Smooth, the tendons shifting as he swallows. Your fingers curl into the short hair at his nape. The change is immediate: his skin warming under your touch, temperature rising from mild to warm in three heartbeats.Â
âBaby,â he says carefully, his voice dropping half an octave. âWhat are youââ
You kiss him again. On the mouth. Full. Your lips part against his, and you make it different. You don't hold back. You don't keep your hand on his chest as a brake. You kiss him with your whole body leaning into it, and your hand on his nape tightens, pulling him closer.
BB makes a sound against your lips. Small. Startled. His hands come up to your waist on instinct, and you can feel them warm against your skin in real time, heat blooming where you're connected. He's bracing himself for the pull-back. He's already preparing to be patient about it.
You press forward instead. Your weight shifts, your knee coming up onto the blankets, your body tipping into his. BB's hands tighten on your waist. You can feel the exact moment he realises you're not stopping, his fingers digging in, his breath hitching, his mouth opening wider for you. And you push him.
Gentle but firm, both hands on his chest now, and BB goes where you push him.Â
His back hits the wall. The ghost-flowered wallpaper presses against his shoulder blades, and you're in his lap, knees on either side of his hips, chest against his chest. You kiss him fully. Mouth open. Tongue sliding against his. Your fingers in his hair and your hips pressing down against him and every last ounce of restraint you've been maintaining for months dissolving into the heat flooding through you.
The heat. The fog. It hits you the second you stop fighting it. Months of buildup pouring through. Your head swims. Your skin goes electric. BB's warmth blazes against you, drawn out by your body, his cool skin going hot wherever you touch him.
BB moans. Deep, ragged, pulled from somewhere below his chest, vibrating through his ribs into yours. Hungry and wanting. The sound of a creature starved, weak with wanting you so much.Â
His hands move. They stop being still on your waist, and they move. Both of them, everywhere at once, kneading. His fingers grip the fat of your hips. His palms slide up your ribs. His hands cup your breasts through your shirt, fingers pressing and kneading with a desperate, tactile hunger. He needs to touch all of you at once, and two hands aren't enough.
His tongue slides along your lower lip, longer than it should be, and you open your mouth wider and let him in. BB groans desperately, his hips rolling up against you.
The sound is wet. BBâs tongue slides against yours in a coil that tightens and releases in eager pulses, saliva building between your joint mouths. The kiss is messy and open, drool collecting at the corner of your lips because you can't swallow around the thickness of his tongue filling your mouth.
You roll your hips against him again, harder. BB makes a broken sound, and his head drops back against the wall, his throat baring. You kiss it. The spot his pulse should be, his Adam's apple, the hollow at the base. His skin is warm now, fully warm, almost hot.
You pull back, your face inches from his. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slamming against your palms. BBâs eyes are half-black. His mouth is swollen and wet, gaping open. His hands grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, his whole body trembling.
âI want you,â you gasp against his lips.
BB goes still. Every muscle in his body locks, his hands freezing on your hips. His breathing stops. His eyes search your face with an intensity that has nothing to do with Bobby and everything to do with the ancient thing behind the mask.
âYouââ His voice trembles, going thin. âYou wantââ
You press your forehead against his. âI want you, BB.â
âDo⌠do you meanââ
âI mean all of it,â you rasp, your hand slipping into his hair. âI mean you."
BBâs face cracks open. His expression unravels completely, and what's underneath is raw and enormous and terrified and so, so joyful. His eyes go fully black, the entity surging to the surface, and he looks at you like you've just handed him the universe.
âYou want me,â he whispers desperately, testing the words, faint with disbelief.
You cup his face with both hands. Your palms on his jaw, your thumbs on his cheekbones. His skin is burning under your hands.
âI want you,â you repeat, and you kiss him. Deeper. Slower. His tongue coils around yours, gentle, trembling, the grip shaky because BB is shaking, his whole body is.
He pulls back a centimetre, forehead nudging against yours. Eyes black and wet as they drink you in.
âI waited so long,â he whispers, his voice pained. âI waited so long for you. You don't know how long I was alone. And there was nothing. Just the hum, and the yellow. And then there was you. I heard your voice and Iââ
His breath hitches, a wounded sound vibrating at the back of his throat.
âI'd rarely heard anything except the hum and the things in the dark, but then you were on the other side of the wall, and you were talking. Your voice⌠it was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. I built thisââ He touches his own face. Bobby's face. His hand trembling. âI built all of this for you. Because I heard you crying and needed hands because you were sad. And I⌠I wanted to hold you, and I didn't have anything to hold you with.â
Tears burn your eyes. BB's thumbs trace your cheekbones lightly, wiping the tears as they threaten to escape.
âYou were born for me,â he breathes, fierce and tender all at once. âI know that now. I was in the walls forâI don't have a number. But then you came along, and I knew. I was waiting for you this whole time. You were always going to be mine. I just had to learn how to deserve you.â
âI love you,â you choke out. âBB. I love you.â
He makes a broken, needy sound, pressing kisses to your face, your cheek, your jaw, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. âI love you. Let me touch you. Please. Baby, please. I've waited so long.â
âYes,â you whisper. âTake me to bed.â
He carries you. Two steps, three, his inhuman strength on casual display, and he lays you down on the bedspread with the faded blue flowers.Â
His hands are shaking. The purr starts in his chest, a deep warm vibration you can feel through the mattress. He kneels between your legs and looks at you, just looks. His mouth swollen and wet. His chest heaving.
âI don't know how to. I've neverââ
âI know.â You reach up and cup his face. His cool skin warms immediately under your palm. âI know, baby. I'll show you. I've got you.â
He drops down against you, his weight settling along your body, his face burying in your neck. His mouth opens against your pulse, and you feel his tongue, just the tip, tracing the vein under your skin. His lips close over your pulse point, and he sucks gently, the purr vibrating through his mouth into your neck.
âYou're so warm,â he breathes against your skin. âBaby. You're so warm. I've been cold forever. And you're like a fire. I can feel your heartbeat through your skin. You're so alive. You're the most alive thing I've ever touched.â
His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt. His palms drag over your ribs, warming as they travel, and you can feel each finger pressing independently, the cool-to-warm transition happening in streaks along your skin. He pushes your shirt up and off, and his breath catches.
âOh,â he exhales. Awed. âOh.â
His hands hover an inch above your body, fingers spread, trembling. He looks at you like touching might break him entirely.
âIt's okay,â you whisper. âBB. Touch me.â
Both hands settle on your breasts. Cool palms cupping you, and his temperature spikes, warming fast from the centre of his palms. His thumbs drag across your nipples, and you arch into the sensation, shivering.
âThere,â he breathes. âLook at you. You're so soft. I've been touching concrete and monsters forever, and you're, you're soââ
He ducks his head and presses his mouth to the swell of your breast. Open-mouthed. Hot. His tongue slides out, the tip tracing the curve of you in a wet drag, and you gasp. BB makes a hungry sound against your skin, half moan, half purr.
âYou taste alive,â he murmurs between greedy, slick licks. âI don't have a word, baby. You taste like everything I was missing.â
His mouth finds your nipple. His tongue coils around it, wrapping and squeezing gently, and he sucks. The purr intensifies, vibrating through his lips and his tongue into you. You cry out, sharp and broken, cupping his head to keep him there.
BB's hand kneads your other breast, fingers gripping, the wrong-textured pads of his thumbs dragging across your nipple. Between the attention to both at once, your head swims, your hips lifting off the bed. He murmurs praise into your skin, pulling off with a wet pop to press his open mouth to the underside of your breast, licking the crease there, nosing into the soft skin desperately.
âSo beautiful. You have no idea what you look like. I didn't even know what this body was for until I saw you.â
He sucks a mark into the inner curve of your breast, suckling greedily. Then his mouth moves lower. BBâs tongue draws a long, unbroken line from between your breasts to your navel. He presses his mouth flat against your stomach and breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.
âI could stay here forever,â he mumbles against your belly. âJust breathing you in. You smell warm. I didn't know warm had a smell until you.â
BBâs fingers hook into your underwear and pull them down gradually. His breath catches as he bares you. His eyes go wide and fully black, fixed between your thighs. He's looking at you with such naked reverence it steals your breath.
âYou're wet,â he says, hushed. His thumbs trace the crease where your thighs meet your hips, slow even as you sense the shaking still quaking his fingertips. âSo wet, baby. Is that for me?â
You shiver at the touch, squirming. âYes. All for you, BB.â
BBâs whole, borrowed body shudders at the confirmation. His tongue slides out, long and sinuous, and he licks his lips with it. The hunger on his face is staggering.
âLet me taste you,â he begs quietly. âBaby, please. I've never⌠please.â
Heat floods through your veins, molten and thick, at the pleading note in his voice. âYes. God, yes.â
BB drops down immediately. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee. Cool lips warming as they drag up your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses into the soft skin there. His tongue traces the path, licking long wet stripes up your thigh. He pauses an inch away. Breathes. His breath is hot and damp, and your hips jerk toward him.
âYou smell so good,â he murmurs. âAnd you're hot. I can feel it on my face.â
His tongue makes contact. Long and wet, dragging flat from the base of you all the way up. You sob, and your hands fly to his hair. BB makes a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through his tongue and into you, the purr kicking up so hard it vibrates the bed frame. His fingers dig into your thighs, and his mouth opens wide, and he licks you again. Slower. Longer. The tongue lingering at the top, the tip curling and pressing between your folds curiously.
âBaby. Baby. You taste⌠youâre dripping for me and so alive. I can't stop, I can'tââ
He buries his face in you. His mouth open and his tongue extended to its full impossible length, lapping and stroking and coiling with the desperate, artless hunger. The sounds are obscene. Wet, squelching, sloppy. Saliva and your own arousal mix and drips down his chin. BBâs moaning into you with a continuous low vibration, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, pulling you closer, pressing his face deeper, taking more.
âMore,â you gasp through a breathy moan. âBB, more. Please.â
His tongue extends further. Longer. Longer. You feel it pressing inside you, and your hips buck, and BB growls against your clit then keeps pushing. The muscular length of it curls and coils inside you, filling you, reaching deeper than fingers could reach. Deeper than anything human could, and you feel it pressing against the back of you, the very deepest place, and your whole body seizes.
âBB, that's, oh God, that'sââ
His tongue presses against the mouth of your womb. The tip of it, delicate and hot, nudging that innermost barrier, and the sensation is so deep and so foreign that your entire body goes rigid and your hands yank at his hair and you make a gasping, yelping sound. High and ragged, pitching toward half a scream.
BB moans into you. The vibration travels through the full length of his tongue, from your clit where his lips are sealed to the deepest place where the tip is pressing. Stimulation at both ends simultaneously and all through the middle, his tongue moving, coiling and uncoiling, massaging places that have never been touched. His lips close over your clit and suck, hard, and the tongue is so deep you can feel it in your stomach.
You're thrusting into his face. Your hips rolling, grinding against his mouth, and BB makes a pleased sound and holds you tighter to him, delighted. Then his hands clamp on your thighs, and he pins you. Presses your hips flat to the mattress with an inhuman grip you couldn't break if you tried, and the sudden loss of control makes you writhe.
Your sounds don't belong to you anymore. You're gripping his hair with both fists. BB is purring so hard the vibration sits at the back of your throat, and his tongue is touching places that have never been bordered. His chin is soaked, and you can hear the wet, filthy sounds, and you're sobbing, thrashing against his grip.
âYou're gonna come for me,â he mumbles against you, his mouth never fully leaving. âI can feel it. So close, baby. Give it to me. I want to taste you when you come.â
You come. Hard.Â
Your whole body arches against BBâs grip, thighs clamping around his head, hands pulling his hair. BB moans into you and holds you down and licks you through it, his long tongue working inside you as you clench and spasm around him.Â
He's swallowing, sucking, drawing every last drop into his mouth and gulping it down hungrily. His lips close over your swollen folds and he laps at them, slow and thorough, licking you clean with long flat drags. Each pass over your over-sensitive skin makes you twitch and whimper, and he keeps going. Collecting every trace of wetness, every last drop, his tongue dragging through the mess of you with a patience that borders on worship.
âEvery drop,â he's murmuring, practically slurring. âI want every drop. My perfect girl.â
His tongue retracts gradually, inch by inch, and you can feel every inch leaving you. The emptiness when it's gone is aching.
BB presses a kiss to your cunt. Right there. Soft. His swollen lips against your swollen folds, gentle and lingering. He pulls back just enough to breathe against you.
âI'll be inside here soon, baby,â he murmurs, his lips brushing your throbbing core as he speaks. âRight here. Right where my tongue was. I'll be so deep. I'll fill you up.â Another kiss. Softer, absent. Like he has no idea what his words and actions are doing to you. âI'll take good care of you. I promise.â
He crawls up your body. Wet open-mouthed kisses up your stomach, between your breasts, on your throat. He tastes like you. You can taste yourself on his tongue when he kisses your mouth, wet and deep, and the intimacy of it, tasting yourself inside his kiss, makes your whole body clench.
âI need you,â he pants against your lips. âI need to be inside you. Please. I needââ
You peck his lips, breathing against them, âGo on. Need you, too. But I want you to show me. Show me what you really are.â
He goes still. The fear rises behind Bobby's eyes. His whole body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on your hips.
âItâs fine.â His voice quivers. âI can keep the shape. You don't have toââ
You trace his cheek, outlining the ridge of his cheek. âI want to.â
âI don'tââ He swallows hard. âI don't want you to see me andââ His jaw pulses from how hard heâs clenching his teeth. âWhat if you can't look at me after? What if I'mââ
âBB.â You cup his jaw, the constructed bones trembling under your palms. âWhatever you're comfortable with. Whatever you want to show me. I'm not going anywhere.â
He gazes down at you. Black-eyed and trembling, searching your face for the lie, for the flinch, for the moment you take it back. He doesn't find it.
âOkay,â he whispers. âOkay. Just, just a little. Let me justâŚâ
His jaw sharpens under your hands. Just slightly. The line of it going harder, more angular, the bone shifting beneath his skin. He watches your face the whole time, ready to snap back at the first sign of revulsion.
You stroke your thumb over his newly sharp cheekbone. âBeautiful,â you exhale.
BB makes a low, choked sound. His eyes go wider, blacker. The pupils elongate slightly, going vertical. He's shivering. Genuinely shivering, full-body tremors, and you can feel his skin gaining a faint iridescent sheen under your palms, cool and smooth.
âMore?â he asks, barely audible.
You take him in, all of him. âMore, baby.â
His shoulders lengthen. His neck gains an inch. The proportions of his face slide further from Bobby, the mouth too wide, the cheekbones too high, and you trace the new angles with your fingertips and press your mouth to his jaw and lick the iridescent skin and BB whines. High and desperate and pleased.
âYou're⌠you're notââ He's stammering, trembling in your hold. âYou're not scared?â
âI'm not scared, BB. Keep going.â
He gives you more. His spine gains extra vertebrae you can feel through his skin, his torso gaining a sinuous quality. The ghost of a diamond pattern moves beneath his skin, the suggestion of scales. His fingers lengthen slightly, extra articulation appearing in the joints.
You run your palms down his chest, trace the diamond pattern. You press your mouth to his collarbone, where the iridescent sheen is strongest, and kiss the skin there, open-mouthed, tasting the chilly smoothness of him.
BB drops his face into your neck. Hiding. He's hiding, his too-sharp jaw pressed against your shoulder, his shivering intensifying, and you can feel his features still shifting against your skin. He's giving you more, but he can't watch you see it.
âHey,â you coax, putting your hand under his chin. Tip his face up. âHey. Look at me.â
He resists for a second. Then he lets you lift his face.
He looks alien. His eyes are polished obsidian, no whites. His jaw is too defined. His mouth is too wide. The iridescent skin catches the yellow light in shimmering refractions. He looks terrified. He looks beautiful.
âThere you are, baby,â you whisper, and lean up and kiss him.
BB produces a broken, grateful sound against your mouth, and the purr comes back so hard the walls vibrate.
He adjusts his position, still kissing you as he settles between your thighs, and you understand, immediately, that heâs not a copy.
The mimicry that he's maintained for months falls away the second BB pushes inside you. He's BB. A creature in a body he built to love you, figuring out what it can do in real time.
The shape of him inside you is not human. It's close enough that the entry works. But once he's seated, the texture is wrong, and the temperature is wrong, cool at first then warming fast, and he fills you in ways men don't. His anatomy is adjusting, learning you, reshaping moment by moment. Ridges where there were none. Swells of pressure in places human anatomy couldn't produce. The length of him moving with a sinuous quality. And it's still changing, adjusting his shape to hit exactly what makes you cry out.
âOh baby,â he breathes, his voice cracking, ragged. âI can feel everything. I can feel your heartbeat through yourââ He shudders, his back arching like itâs too overwhelming. âHow do humans survive this?â
âBB, you feel so good, right there, donât stop, babyââ
You press your hips up against him, taking him deeper, squeezing him with your inner muscles, and BB makes a choked, groaning sound, his whole body going taut above you.Â
You can feel the fullness of him shifting inside you, the ridges dragging, his cock reshaping in response to the pressure of your squeeze. Where you tighten, he swells. Where you release, he fills. It's a feedback loop made flesh, his anatomy learning yours in real time, and the sensation is so foreign and so full that your eyes water.
âYeah? Is that good?â His voice breaks. His hips roll again, deeper this time, and the ridges snag and drag on the withdrawal, a slow slick pull that makes an obscene dripping sound. You both gasp at it. You both hear it. The slick, filthy evidence of how wet you are, how aroused, and BB's eyes go glassy, his mouth falling open. âTell me. Tell me Iâm good.â
You adjust your thighs again, opening even wider, hooking your ankles behind his back and pulling him in until he's nestled so deep you can feel the cool-turning-warm base of him flush against you. The fullness is immense, a stretch that borders on too much, and you squeeze him again and BB's arms buckle. His elbows hit the mattress on either side of your head, and his face is inches from yours.Â
His mouth opens, and the sound he makes is a raw, ruined whine.
âY-You're perfect, BB. Don't, ah, stop.â
He rolls his hips again. Slow, sinuous, that serpentine wave he can't suppress anymore, and the motion drags his cock against you, every ridge and swell and shifting contour lighting up nerve endings you didn't know you had. The slick sounds between your bodies are continuous now, a gushing symphony between your joint flesh. You can feel your own arousal dripping down onto the sheets below, and you don't care because the fullness is extraordinary, and every roll of his hips makes the ridges snag against your walls and catch and pull, and each pull sends you closer to the edge.
You push your hips up to meet his next stroke. The impact makes you both groan. You do it again. Finding a tempo together, his wave and your thrust, the wet lewd sounds getting louder, and BB is panting against your mouth, his breath hot and damp, his eyes half-closed.
âYou're so tight,â he gasps. âBaby, every time you squeeze me I can feel your whole body, I can feel everything tighten, you're gripping me so hard, and it's, it'sââ
You squeeze him harder. On purpose. Clench around the shifting shape of him and hold. BB's eyes fly open, and his mouth stretches wide, and a sound comes out of him thatâs pure entity, a harmonic moan that vibrates through his cock and into you and through the walls. His hips stutter out of the wave and slam forward, involuntary, and the ridges catch deep inside you and your back bows off the bed.
âThere,â you gasp, your eyes burning from burning pleasure ravaging through your body.
âThere,â he echoes, awed. âI can feel what that does to you. I didn't know anything couldââ
He shudders, and his features shift with it. His jaw sharpens a degree. The iridescence pulses brighter on his cheekbones. He ducks his face into your neck, hiding.
âNo,â you say, breathless, your hand tangling into his sandy hair. âLet me see you.â
He resists. His jaw pressed against your shoulder, his breath ragged against your throat.
âBB. Let me see.â
He lets you lift his face, his features having slipped further. Cheekbones too high. Mouth even wider. The iridescence brighter. His eyes are completely black and wet, and he's so scared, you can see it. You look directly into them and say, âDon't hide from me. You're beautiful.â
BB makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering. The purr cracks and reforms. His features shift more, right in front of you, and you watch them move, watch his face rearrange itself in real time, and the intimacy of it makes you reel. Because itâs more intimate than the sex. Heâs literally coming apart in front of you and letting you watch.
âGood,â you moan, stroking his shifting jaw. âThat's it, BB.â
The pleasure isn't building in a line; it's accumulating in layers.Â
His hand under your back, lifting you. His mouth on your throat, usually cool lips searing. His thumb at the hinge of your hip, longer now, bending where thumbs don't bend. The appendages emerging one by one, warm and tapered, gripping your thighs, holding your legs open at an obscene angle. Each one a new layer feeding into the one beneath it.
His hips slam deeper, and your breasts ripple with the force. BB is watching, his too-wide mouth lolling open, and his eyes are glazed, his features shifting faster now, responding to pleasure the way a human face flushes. His jaw sharpens then softens then sharpens again. His pupils dilate and contract in pulses seemingly against his control.Â
âLook at what I do to you,â he pants, his voice hitting a deeper register thatâs decidedly not Bobby. âI can't stop touching you. Your skin is so soft, every part of you is burning for me, and you'reââ His voice fails him. He ducks his face into your neck again, his features shifting against your skin, and you feel the rasp of scales that aren't quite scales, there and gone.
You pull him back up again, hold his face. He's whining, high and continuous, his eyes wet.
âStay with me,â you say.Â
He moans loudly. His features ripple again, even further from Bobby, and his mouth is trembling, and BB looks destroyed, open, the ancient thing behind the mask laid bare while he fucks you, and the vulnerability of it makes your chest ache.
âYou're incredible,â he breathes. âYou're so wet for me, all of this is for me. I can f-feel how close you are. I can feel it building. Baby, please. Come for me."
Your orgasm rips through you, and BB snarls at the sensation, his features sharpening, the entity surging to the surface, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow. His hips keep working ruthlessly. The shape of him inside you keeps shifting with each thrust. The appendages grip your thighs tighter, and your orgasm rolls into another one immediately, pinned down, taking whatever he gives you.
âThat's it,â he purrs against your ear, nuzzling. âMy girl. I can feel you fluttering around me. I've never felt anything like you.â
His tongue slides out, longer than it should be. Drags up the side of your neck. His teeth catch your earlobe, too sharp, and the tiny sting makes you gasp. His hand kneads your breast, gripping, his ridged thumb dragging across your nipple.
âYou're so perfect,â he mumbles against your ear, his hips still working, the wet squelching symphony filling the room. âEvery time I push in, I can feel you opening and closing around me, and it'sâbaby, it's the best thing I've ever felt, it's better than anything, you're better than anythingââ
His length adjusts on every stroke, swelling and contracting, ridges rubbing against your sensitive walls. The sheets are getting damp beneath you. BB is moaning with every thrust now, layered over the purr, and the purr is vibrating through his cock and into you.
You can't control the sounds coming out of you. You're moaning and sobbing continuously, mindless, drool on your chin, tears on your face, your nails clawing at his back and leaving furrows in the iridescent skin.
The third hits. Your whole body seizes with it. BB cock swells inside you, expanding impossibly, and the stretch shoves you over again, a fourth on the heels of the third.Â
âThat's it,â he gasps. âYou're taking me so well. You're the first. The only one. There's never been anyone except you.â
The truth of those words hits you straight in the heart. He made this body for you. It has never known anyone else, and likely never will.Â
By the fifth round, you can't produce words anymore. Your mouth is open, and nothing's coming out. BB is murmuring into your skin, his tongue licking the tears off your cheeks, tasting your throat, your sweat, every available inch of skin. Your body is nothing but sensation. He's whispering, awed and dazed: âI've got you, baby. So brave. So warm. You're everything, my everything.â
Around the sixth, your hands go limp. Your whole body goes slack except for the involuntary tremors. You're drooling freely onto the pillow. Your eyes are glazed and half-open. Youâre conscious but only just, held in a state of continuous pleasure that has dissolved every boundary between your body and his.
BB feels himself getting close. His breathing changes. His hips lose their fluid wave and become harder, urgent, perfectly ruthless. The purr breaks into a low keening sound, and he pulls back.
He cups your ass. Both hands, those long wrong-jointed fingers gripping the flesh of you. He raises your hips off the mattress, tilts you up toward him. Holds you there, suspended.
And he peers down. At your stomach.
You follow his gaze through the fog. You look down at your own body.
You can see him. The shape of him moving inside you. A subtle bulge beneath the skin of your lower stomach, pressing outward with every thrust, the length of him shifting and adjusting. The bulge presses up and recedes in time with his hips. Your stomach ripples with each motion.
BB is staring, transfixed. His black eyes are nailed to the sight of himself inside you, his mouth parted.Â
âLook at that,â he purrs, and this time you see and hear the predator underneath, satisfied with what heâs seeing. âLook at that. I can see myself inside you. You're so full of me.â
He presses deeper, and the bulge pushes higher. You moan, a thin broken sound, and BB makes a soft noise back, almost soothing, and his hips work faster, holding you up, watching himself move inside you.
âYou're taking all of me,â he remarks appreciatively, head cocked. âEvery inch. Look at what you're holding.â
His tongue extends, slipping to wrap around the spot where his cock keeps sliding into you, and you moan when the tip prods almost playfully at your swollen clit.Â
He thrusts into you twice more, hard and deep, finishing inside you with a pleased sigh.
Warm. Impossibly warm. It pulses in time with the harmonic, filling you, filling and filling, overflowing, spilling out around him. The faint gold glow. Pale and luminescent, pooling on your inner thighs, gushing down onto the sheets. Puddles of it. The bed soaked. His release casts a soft light upward onto both your bodies. BB is still inside you, still shaking through it, his mouth on your neck, licking slow grateful stripes up the column of your throat now.Â
Youâve never heard the purr going louder.Â
âYou did so good, baby,â he rasps affectionately, peppering small kisses behind your ear. âLook at what you took. All of me.â
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. Your whole body is a limp pile of limbs beneath him. Youâre boneless against the pillows, drool on your chin, tears drying on your face, hair plastered to your forehead.
BB pulls back to examine you. His face is a mess, too, half-slipped, jaw too sharp on one side and human on the other. Black eyes and swollen mouth, chin still dripping with you. He's grinning. That dark pleased grin, all predator, the purr rumbling on in his chest cavity.
His hips roll again. Slow, testing. Still hard inside you.
âAgain, baby?â Low, dark, almost mocking. âOne more for me?â
You don't have one more in you. Youâre empty, wrung out, incapable of forming sentences.
You nod anyway.
BB whines, high and pleased, and drops his mouth back to yours and starts moving all over again.
He fucks you until you black out.
You lose consciousness somewhere in the middle because your body cannot sustain the amount of pleasure being poured into it and your brain, mercifully, shuts down. The last thing you're aware of is BB's purr vibrating through both your bodies and the faint gold glow pooling under you and his mouth against your temple whispering I love you, I love you, I waited so long, I love you.
When you come back, you have no idea how long it's been. You're clean. He's cleaned you. The bed is dry. You're wrapped in the blankets, wearing one of his shirts. BB is curled around you, human-shaped again, mostly, his face buried in your hair, his arm heavy across your waist. Heâs purring. Low and pleased and constant. His skin is cool again, warm only where you're pressed together.
You stir. He notices immediately.
âBaby,â he calls out, his mouth finding your temple. âYou're awake. Are you okay? Did I⌠was I tooââ
âPerfect,â you slur, your throat aches from the sheer amount of moaning and screaming youâve done. âYou were perfect, BB.â
He goes still. Then he shudders, his arm tightening around you. He presses his mouth to your hairline and holds it there for a long time. The purr deepens into something so full it borders on mournful, loving, perfectly content.
âI love you,â he says, his voice small, shy again. âI love you more than anything.â
Your eyes burn, but for a different reason now. âI love you too, BB.â
He shivers at the words, a full-body reaction. Under the blankets, one of the appendages, not retracted all the way, probably never fully retracting again, curls around your thigh. Possessive. Settling. Warming as it holds.
âAgain later,â he murmurs against your temple. That cocky dark satisfaction layered underneath the tenderness. âWe're going to do that again.â
You should be terrified.
But youâre not. Because youâre finally home.
You fall asleep to the sound of BBâs purring, and his whispered I love you in the yellow light of a nest that looks like your old apartment, in the arms of an ancient lonely being that has finally, finally been chosen.
an: never written monsterfucking aside from that one shorter piece a few weeks back so if this sucks i'm sorry. I tried.
Imagine getting fucked by a ghost or an invisible force in front of a mirror. Thereâs nothing you can do but feel and see your gaping pussy. The best part is that you never know when theyâre going to fuck you again since you canât see them <3
WARNINGS: Dub-Con/Non-Con, blood, murder, power imbalance, exhibitionism
âĽÂ banner by @vase-of-liliesÂ
summary: You expected to sign away a piece of your soul when you were hired on to serve the Danforth family, but Titus Danforth wouldn't be satisfied until he owned you in mind, body, and spirit.
â§â
When you were hired on to serve the Danforth familyâor the Danforth Clan as many liked to call themâyou knew that you were stepping foot into the devilâs lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew thereâd no doubt be things youâd witness and be privy to that youâd be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadnât known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but youâd known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense.Â
âŚbut when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known youâd be signing your body away too.
Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a childâs demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocketâand an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hatâhe could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence.Â
An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.
âThis oneâs new.â
That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didnât necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he shouldâve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.
Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and sheâd stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and youâd followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.
Such a small act had his full attention.
âYes, Mr. Danforth,â the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasnât a question. âSheâs one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.â
You hadnât moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what youâd signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.
Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.
âLetâs hope you last.â
He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didnât require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasnât to say that it was easy, but youâd been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long youâd been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.
âŚbut then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.
The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadnât been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers youâd been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and youâd only been able to ask yourself one question.
What had you gotten yourself into?
Youâd had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servantsâ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could justâŚleave, right?
So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadnât been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursulaâs wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.
There was only before and after, now.
Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfortâyour fearâand if you hadnât known better, youâd say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.
âWhatâs your name?â
You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name youâd been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.
âYour real name.â
At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.
You nervously swallowed.
âPernilla saidâŚâ
Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.
âWhatâs my name?â he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.
âTitus Danforth,â you answered without hesitation.
âExactly, and that means this is my estate youâre working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?â
He didnât give you a chance to answer.
âThat makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as Iâm concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,â he said to you, and you nodded. âDo you understand? Say you understand.â
âI understand,â you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.
Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didnât like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.
âNowâŚwhatâs your name?â he repeated, his voice softer now.
You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.
âY/N,â he said again with a nod, voice louder now. âGo get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.â
âYes, Mr. Danforth.â
At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you werenât able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest heâd ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.
âSir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.â
You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.
âYes, sir,â you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.
With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate.Â
âWhat about this one?â
You hesitated for only a moment before answering.
âThat oneâs nice.â
Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.
âYou said that two shirts ago,â he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.
âTheyâre all very nice, sir,â you told him, an honest response.Â
You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling soâŚafraid around him.Â
You didnât know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.
He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a wayâŚsometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.
The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldnât refine the man. They couldnât make himâŚfit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle withâŚbehaving.
You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and soâŚMr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.
When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts.Â
â...and this one?â
He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from youâexpecting somethingâand you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.
âThat oneâs my favorite,â you honestly told him, and he liked that.
You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.
âThen Iâll wear this one.â
You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over.Â
You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who youâd met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.
Mr. Danforth was quick to reactâquick to angerâand in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldnât be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasnât real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things youâd seen in your time here.
âWhat will you do while Iâm gone?â
His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.
âYour father wants the main garden replanted, and itâs something Iâve been assisting with in between other duties.â
Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didnât like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didnât like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.
It was scary how much you grew to know him.
âI want you to wait hereâŚuntil I get back,â he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.
His words gave you pause, and he noticed.
âI donât like these stupid gatherings, and I donât want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.â
When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.
âYou know I hate thatâŚâ
âSorry, sir.â
âI want to hear you say it.â
âI understand,â you said to him. âIâll be here.â
He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath youâd been holding.
It wasnât the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. Heâd offhandedly mentioned once that he didnât like bringing women back to his bedroom.
You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.
Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.
You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment youâd ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.
âŚand it didnât help that he required so much of you.
You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didnât get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much youâd been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.
Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.
You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.
It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he âbrokeâ you, but the circumstances didnât call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. WellâŚit wasnât nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything youâd ever expected.
Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforthânot all that removed from an animalâwas very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didnât seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that thatâs exactly how he came off.
It didnât scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.
A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforthâs servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldnât hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.
Youâd gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldnât be you fetching his towels, he hadnât wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, heâd made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as hisâhis right, you supposedâbut you hadnât realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.
You made a mistake by getting distracted.
Mr. Danforthâs food wasnât quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so youâd occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two werenât best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldnât help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around.Â
Titus Danforth wasnât looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you werenât used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.
You could hear a pin drop.
âIs this how you choose to spend your time when youâre supposed to be waiting on me?â he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.
âNo, sir,â you hurried to answer. âYour food isnât ready yetâ.â
âSo you come back to me and tell me that,â he sternly interrupted with a nod. â...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.â
You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.
âYes, sir.â
Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and youâd gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldnât tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didnât like it, and you didnât relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.
âWhatâs your name?â
He accepted your friendâs response, slowly nodding.
âWhen my food is ready, you bring it to me,â Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.
The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.
His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.
âŚand it was your first offense too.
âI want to apologize again, sir,â you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. âI didnât think it would take more than a few minutes.â
He didnât respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room.Â
âUrsula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,â he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. âFind me somethingâŚnice to wear.â
You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft âof courseâ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.
âDo you like him?â
His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.
Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.
âIâm sorry?â
âDo you like him?â he repeated, saying your friendâs name.
Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.
âHeâs my friend,â you answered with a shrug. âI see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.â
Mr. Danforthâs only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that heâd just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.
You found it odd that he both asked for your friendâs name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. Thatâs why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforthâyour Mr. Danforthâwas requesting the presence of you both.
âItâs probably some poor woman heâs brought back to the estate,â sheâd mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. âHe must need a clean up.â
Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadnât occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.
Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.
The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursulaâs wedding, and his hands werenât too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasnât standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.
âPernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.â
He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.
The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didnât show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the bodyâthe familiar bodyâthrough tearful wide eyes.
âPernilla,â Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didnât hesitate any longerâŚleaving you alone with him.
He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.
âClean this up,â he spat, but you couldnât move.
The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasnât much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforthâs shirt, and you couldnât stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.
When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadnât even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.
âY/N,â he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. âClean. This. Up.â
You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.
Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldnât move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldnât bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.
âMr. Danforth, Iâd be more than happy toâ.â
âNo, Pernilla,â he barked, keeping his eyes on you. âShe will clean this up.â
Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.
âNo?â Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. âAre you telling me no?â
Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.
âPleaseâŚplease,â you softly said. âIâŚâ
You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldnât swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the groundâŚright next to his body.
You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.
âPernilla, get it out of here,â he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. âY/N will clean up this mess.â
You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.
Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.
You knew what she was thinking.
What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour heâd yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.
With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldnât even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.
When he turned on the sink, it felt almostâŚromantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.
When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.
âI hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.â
An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.
Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.
Youâd always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadnât prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.
The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clanâa family that practically controlled the worldâand what was one body of some insignificant employee?
Your friendâs fate often brought tears to your eyes.
Sometimes you wondered if youâd be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed veryâŚintent on youâintent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.
Tonight, it was several drinks.
âIâll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,â he said to you.
âYes, sir.â
The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust heâd first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that heâd scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.
You hated that he was right.
When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinksâalways alone these daysâand you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.
None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforthâs treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.
So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadnât realized what youâd walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.
âI apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realizedâŚâ
Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.
You werenât currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.
âSet it down,â you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.
You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.
âDid I say you could go?â
His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didnât hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you shouldâve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.
You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.
âTurn around.â
The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.
You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didnât understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.
When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman youâd never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didnât seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.
That lasted for all of four seconds.
You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldnât stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didnât stop until he was right in front of you.
His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.
âWhat did I say?â
Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.
âSirâ.â
Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.
âYou will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, Iâm going to be very unhappy,â he gruffly told you.
When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.
Forced to watch this, you couldnât do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.
You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldnât disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestialâyet vulnerableâmoments.
Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and youâd only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.
âŚand when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.
The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforthâwith Titusâshouldnât have surprised you.
âŚand yet it did.
It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldnât have changed a thing.
Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.
This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.
It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.
Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.
You didnât know any of that though.
Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.
Youâd hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didnât want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didnât want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where youâd end up.Â
Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldnât just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glanceâlooking for anything that might ease your worriesâyou leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.
You didnât miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.
âRight there is just fine,â he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.
The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldnât stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didnât take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to youâtoo afraid toâand you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.
He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldnât stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.
âI donât want you wearing these pants anymore,â he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. âA skirt. Youâll look nice in a skirt.â
Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didnât say anything. He likely didnât care.
When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.
The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.
Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue againâŚand again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldnât hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.
When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didnât expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.
âŚbut Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.
When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didnât budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.
You wanted him off of you.
No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.
You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.
When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didnât pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.
When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didnât know where to go from here. You didnât want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.
When he eventually did, you couldnât get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.
You didnât know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.
âMy food is cold,â was all he said, making you deflate.
When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.
âYes, sir,â you forced out with a nod. âIâll get you a new plate, right away.â
You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didnât stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.
Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.
That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that werenât surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were forâa âwillingâ and bought body that couldnât fight back or refuse him.
You didnât know if youâd ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture.Â
It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another lineâthe final lineâbut you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task youâd been in the middle of long forgotten.
It went unnoticed. After all, it wasnât unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and itâs not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.
âIâm so sorry, Ms. Danforth,â you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with.Â
You didnât even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.
âMy brother isnât working you too hard, is he?â
You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.
âNo, Ms. Danfoth,â you lied. âI just havenât been sleeping very well.â
That part wasnât a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didnât appreciate her brotherâs brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.
Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didnât fully believe you, but clearly she didnât feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brotherâs attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, sheâd probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.
She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldnât have been able to stop him from fucking you.
There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.
The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and heâd only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. Heâd never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldnât even think about getting away.
Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around himâto be dominated in the way that mattered most.
You hadnât been prepared for all the biting.
Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.
However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.
Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.
You hadnât expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. Youâd glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothingâhis eyes saying it allâand youâd swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.
âMy back,â was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.
When you were done in the shower, you hadnât been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.
Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didnât love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace youâd ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.
Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.
âLook at me, Y/N,â he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. âLook at me.â
There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titusâ demanding appetite catching up to you.
âKeep them on me,â he told you. âI want you to look at me when I fuck you.â
The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.
âI want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.â
His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.
Titus always talked to you during like a normal coupleâtelling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, heâd be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement wasâŚnice. To him, this was wholesome.
So much soâŚthat when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.
âŚwhatâŚ?â you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.
She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it.Â
When she requested your presence in her study one morning, youâd had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic with her brother being at the top of the list. Youâd been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.
âItâsâŚnot going to happen,â she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. âTitus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.â
You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.
âAlthough I shouldnât be surprised at the true nature of yourâŚrapport.â
She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.
âMy brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I canât imagine what youâve endured.â
You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.
âFatherâs putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,â she assured you. âThatâs all this is.â
That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought youâd have.
âWhat is the nature of your relationship with my son?â
You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.
âAh.â he quietly said. âI feared that was the truth of it.â
You werenât some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you werenât some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.
âIâm sure you can find some other womanâany womanâwilling to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.â
The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.
âHe demands no one but you,â he finally breathed. âHe is entirely willing not to fight me on thisâŚso long as it is you.â
You looked down at that.
âThat is the only satisfaction he seeks.â
You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.
âIt will not happen,â he said with so much conviction that it shouldâve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. âI will not give into his childish whims.â
The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadnât been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.
Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursulaâs panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what heâd done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old manâs former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.
It wasnât long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didnât know what Titus said to her, but sheâd only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. Youâd stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.
âDonât fucking look at her,â Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. âWhat are you looking at her for?âÂ
He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.
âTitus,â you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over.Â
You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.
The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom youâd met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you shouldâve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.
The ring, the dress, the ceremonyâŚnone of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.
You were official property now.
The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforthâs wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasnât acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said âI doâ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.
Your only hope was the wedding night.
The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that youâd pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that youâd only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didnât involve a married life with Titus.
You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this.Â
You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didnât want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.
You knew if it came down to it, sheâd have no trouble killing you.
The thought almost made you smile, but you didnât, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chairâŚwaiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatientâanxious to see how this night would progressâand you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.
You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.
You could hear a pin drop, thatâs how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldnât stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up.Â
âWhat does it say?â Titus impatiently asked, and when you didnât answer he took it from you.
The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.
âShe got Old Maid,â he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody
Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husbandâsâŚhe saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldnât be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.
You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yoursâhis excited and yours pained.
His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didnât take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.
Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and youâd wanted to faint as you agreed to âthe possession of each otherâ. Maybe in some sick twisted way youâd never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.
His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.
His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didnât look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.
âI know you wanted to die tonight,â he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. âI know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill youâŚto take you away from me.â
A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.
â...but Mr. Le Bail wouldnât do that to me. Iâve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and youâre my reward.â
You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.
âYou are my pretty little prize, Mrs. Danforth, and you are never getting away from me.â
gamechangershow
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
