GODS, GORE & GROPING
cosmic entity!bucky barnes x human!reader [15.2k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; dark themes (I swear there is also comedy); it/its pronouns for bucky (the character is inspired by cthulhu); mention of gore, violence & death threats; angst; one (1) brief description of a nightmare; discussions about stress & anxiety; psychological horror elements; bickering (their dynamic is loosely inspired by eddie and venom in the movies); dark!bucky; overprotective!bucky; obsession; jealousy; possessive behavior; social exclusion; emotional dependency; unhealthy attachment; stalker-ish behavior; boundary violation; mourning; self-doubt; emotional withdrawal; denial as a coping mechanism; smut; mention of sex toys; monsterfucking; tentacle sex; pussy inspection; nipple play; restraints & gags; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; sort of mind break; creampie.
A/N: so, this is my ticket to hell. I posted this back in october as part of my halloween series trick or tease, which I will continue here. anyway, I wanted to give this one-shot an actual plot, so there have been some important changes since it was pretty much pwp before. disclaimer: this story contains monsterfucking, so please avoid sending weird inbox/comments (yes, it already happened). if you follow me, know that this is a recurring theme, as a matter of fact I already have two stories about orc!bucky. it's very simple: if you don't like it, don't read it. hope you'll enjoy 🖤
trick or tease masterlist
You love your apartment in a way that would probably sound ridiculous if you ever tried to explain it, because it’s not particularly beautiful, nor does it sit in some idealized neighborhood where everything feels arranged for aesthetic approval.
The building is old, long past charming. The pipes occasionally groan through the walls as though protesting against their own existence, and the floors remember every step, even when you try your best to be quiet. The kitchen is too small to ever feel fully practical, the bathroom is always slightly colder than the rest of the apartment no matter the season, and the elevator has broken down often enough that you have stopped trusting it entirely.
Objectively, there are better places to live.
And yet every evening, after a day spent among crowded sidewalks, half-finished conversations, and obligations that somehow leave you far more exhausted than they should, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen the moment the front door closes behind you.
Nobody interrupts you here. Nobody watches you with critical eyes. Nobody tries to dictate the way you exist. It’s just you.
Which is probably why you develop the habit of talking to yourself once you step inside.
It’s not something you ever decided to do, it simply followed you from earlier versions of your life. At first it was practical, a way of sorting out stress and untangling thoughts that felt too messy to leave trapped in your head, but over time it became part of who you are.
“Stark scheduled five meetings today.” You drop your keys on the counter. “New record.”
You kick off your shoes, already moving towards the fridge for some water.
“I swear he finds some sick pleasure in wasting everyone’s time.”
You never expect a response, of course, but carry on with the small rituals of the evening while the walls quietly absorb your voice.
Ultimately, you stop keeping tabs of how often it happens, because you talk while cooking, cleaning, and taking showers. You comment out loud while scrolling through your phone and revisit past conversations while folding laundry. Even when sitting on the couch at the end of a long day, you debate whether you’re too tired to start anything meaningful or too restless to do nothing at all, as if the pillows could answer back.
Still, there are moments—usually late at night—when the absence of another human being becomes harder to ignore. A small ache settles in your chest at the realization that entire days can pass without anyone else seeing them. Your thoughts, your victories, the countless insignificant moments that make up a life... all of them exist only inside your own memory.
The feeling never stays for long though: somewhere along the way, you just learned how to be content with your own company.
Most of your friends live hours away now, scattered across different cities and different lives, and trying to keep those connections alive feels mortifying when it becomes clear you’re not worth the effort.
Making new ones has never been any easier. Too many people seem worn down by disappointment, and retreating into themselves feels safer than risking another let-down. The rest treat every relationship like a negotiation, weighing what can be gained from it before deciding how much of themselves they are willing to offer.
So you fall back into your routine, and the apartment remains your favorite place, where you spend most of your time.
However, the feeling is not one-sided, because somewhere within the walls and foundations, something has begun, very slowly, to consider you a constant.
It has occupied the building for longer than any human memory can account for.
Long before you arrived. Long before the current structure of rooms and hallways. Not trapped within it, or bound in any conventional sense, but present like a memory inside a familiar object, woven through walls and doorframes and the quiet space between moments.
For centuries, humans were irrelevant.
They came and went, briefly altering the surface of things without ever touching what lay beneath. The Entity never thought of them as individuals, but as noise. Temporary disturbance that always faded back into silence.
Until you.
At first, you are nothing exceptional. Just another tenant. A fragile arrangement of blood and flesh moving through a structure that has already forgotten most of what it has held. You unpack and settle into your routines.
And then you start talking.
Constantly.
As though silence is something you have to keep at bay to stay sane.
And that’s what catches its attention. At first, it assumes you are speaking to someone outside its perception, but there is no other presence, no other voice.
Only you.
So it begins to assume the words are meant for the space itself, for the apartment as a whole—for the being that chose its shadows as a place to rest.
The conclusion is obvious.
You are talking to it.
The Entity initially listens passively. Your voice is just another sound among many, no more important than the groan of old pipes or the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows.
But as you keep talking, your voice stops blending into the background.
It learns your rhythms before it understands why they matter: the time you come home; the way your footsteps change depending on fatigue; the subtle differences between your frustrated sighs and your tired one. The melody of your happiness and the miserable sound of your sorrow.
The details gather one by one without purpose.
And somewhere along the way, it stops thinking of you as transient.
The first changes are small. A temperature fluctuation in your room settles earlier in the evening than it used to. A recurring fault in the elevator that keeps waking you up in the middle of the night doesn’t return. A light that hesitated before turning on now responds immediately.
None of it is noticeable enough to make you suspicious. Until the reason behind these adjustments changes drastically.
In its memory, humans have always approached beings like it through extremes.
They arrive trembling with desperation that melts into obsession, or rigid with fear that collapses into obedience. Their speech grows cautious, as though a single wrong word might invite disaster. Even when they pretend otherwise, there is always an ugly tilt beneath their requests: ambition, hunger, greed.
But you only fill rooms with thoughts that have nowhere else to go.
You complain about a man named Tony scheduling meetings throughout the day as though he has personal authority over the calendar. You debate dinner choices—usually pizza or sushi—because the outcome might alter your mood for the rest of the night. You spend an entire evening trying to figure out why a couple from your hometown broke up after everyone swore they’d end up married.
And throughout your little monologues, your voice never once bends toward reverence. It never tightens into fear.
And that becomes difficult to grasp.
Over time, those small routines become expected. And expectation creates its own kind of absence.
The first few times you leave for longer than usual, the apartment feels incomplete. Not empty, exactly, but quieter. The space remains the same, yet something about it feels wrong without you.
The conclusion it reaches is simple: if you are choosing to spend more time elsewhere, then the apartment must be failing you in some way. From that point on, every imperfection becomes unacceptable, and small inconsistencies are often corrected before they even have the chance to become problems at all.
Since you are completely unaware that something has started arranging the world around you, the changes continue without question.
You keep talking the way you always do, filling the apartment with things that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but not to the creature listening. You never thank it. Never ask for anything specific, or demand more. You simply exist inside a space that now quietly takes care of itself according to your comfort.
The simplicity of that still confuses it. The Entity has been worshipped before, feared, sought out for power... But no one has ever treated it like part of their daily life. Like an equal.
Your voice is familiar and reliable as you become its Polaris, the fixed point by which the rest of the world is measured.
The Entity has never concerned itself with anything beyond its own existence, most things are allowed to fade.
Anything connected to you is not.
When you come back that evening, something is different.
You move through your usual routine after stepping inside, loosening your shoulders and mumbling softly under your breath. Yet there is something unfamiliar that clings to the edges of your presence. It doesn’t belong to the apartment, and because of that, it draws its curiosity at once.
Humans carry traces of the outside world with them all the time: scents, particles, remnants of places and people. Most disappear quickly enough to be forgotten.
But this one doesn’t leave. It stays attached to you in a way that makes it hard to dismiss, fixed on a specific point of contact. Still, you hang up your coat, set down your bag, and slip off your heels with a relieved sigh. There is no hesitation in your movements.
Something outside its space touched you and was allowed to settle. And it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.
That unpleasant realization manifests like the first thunder announcing an imminent storm.
The air changes, pressure building ominously through the room enough to alter the flow of oxygen.
You notice it a few seconds later, your breathing feeling slightly more restricted, your chest tightening in a way that is easy to misread as fatigue from the day. You pause, one hand briefly touching your chest as if checking whether something inside your body isn’t working properly.
Frowning in confusion, you glance around the apartment before sprinting to the window to push it open, letting the crisp night air spill inside.
The suffocating feeling eases a little, but the Entity’s rage doesn’t.
The air turns clammy enough to make your skin prickle. Out of the corner of your eye, the shadows along the edges of the room grow longer, creeping farther than they should. The impression vanishes as soon as your head makes a sharp turn toward the wall, leaving you with a kind of discomfort that will haunt your sleep for the rest of the night.
You were still its when you left this space, but something else got close enough to interfere with that.
Whatever that presence was, it shouldn’t have been near you at all.
The changes start revealing themselves later, in moments that seem insignificant at the time.
You take a shower every morning—it automatically folds into your routine without much attention, the same way you sit on the edge of the bed with a towel around your body and half-awake eyes, letting the day assemble itself around you in slow pieces.
You turn on the tap and let the water warm up while you brush your teeth and check your phone. Sometimes you even have time to tidy up your room a little.
But one day you find yourself rinsing your face while the mirror is already beginning to fog. You dismiss it as temporary luck and keep going through the same motions the next day.
And still, it keeps happening.
A few days later, you’re standing in your bedroom half-dressed and with an unexpected ten extra minutes before work, trying and failing to understand where they came from.
Other weird things follow, like the bedroom door no longer sticking when it’s too humid. Then, the kitchen cabinet that always needed an extra push starts closing smoothly, and the draft from the living room window stops bothering you entirely.
There is an accumulation of small inconsistencies that leaves you with the subtle impression that the apartment and your recollection of it are no longer perfectly aligned, to the point that you start wondering if the problem is you.
Maybe you’re becoming forgetful, distracted... The thought never settles into genuine panic, but it lingers just long enough to leave a sour taste behind.
A quiet Friday night finds you stretched on the couch with the television murmuring in the background, when an email from Tony lands in your inbox. It marks yet another round of revisions of your presentation despite the fact that this is already the fourth time you have edited it.
For a moment you simply stare deadpan at the screen, the frustration that has been building all week finally manifesting with a sharp exhale.
“For fuck’s sake, Tony.”
“I could ensure he never troubles you again.”
The voice comes so quickly after your words that your brain just accepts it without question. Then, your limbs still at once at the realization. Slowly, you lift your head and look around the apartment.
The television still works. The kitchen is empty. The hallway is exactly where it should be.
You frown at it for another moment before forcing yourself to exhale.
Stress.
You imagined it.
Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the show.
“Well?”
This time you sit up abruptly, confusion sharpening into alarm.
“What the fuck?” You mumble, because whatever fragile explanation you were building in your head collapses at once.
You nearly trip over your own feet as you scramble to stand, your heart hammering against your ribs while your gaze darts frantically around the open space.
“Is someone here?”
There is a pause before the voice answers—calm, almost unaffected by your agitation.
“I am not visible at the moment.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“What does that even mean?”
“I am in the shadows,” it continues. “I am everywhere.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it comes out strangled.
“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Sure.”
You quickly check the hallway and then turn back again, trying to locate any possible source that could explain the voice seemingly coming from the inside of the apartment. When you can’t find anything out of the ordinary, your body instantly angles towards the couch, one of your arms already stretched out to get your phone and call someone.
Police. Your neighbor. Anyone...
But your fingers barely brush the object before it slides out of reach.
You freeze.
“No.” You whisper, because now your brain is splitting between panic and denial.
You glance at the device like it has personally betrayed you.
“This is insane,” you say, unconsciously backing up, your chest heaving dangerously fast. “This is fucking insane.”
“He can be removed.” The voice states with confidence.
You shake your head sharply.
“What does that even mean? And what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
“I have been here for a long time.”
“What?” Your stomach tightens as you take another step back, shaking your head again like that will be enough to reset reality.
“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the police.” You threaten more firmly this time, even if the trembling in your voice refuses to fade.
The air shifts at once, suffocating in its heaviness.
“Do not dare to call me an intruder.”
Until now, despite everything, some stubborn part of your brain had been trying to force this situation into a shape that made sense—a prank, a squatter, even a neighbor with far too much free time.
Something explainable.
Human.
“I have always been here.”
The words settle like a boulder on your chest.
A chill crawls down your spine.
Nothing around you changes: the walls are still standing, the lights are still on, and the floor is not splitting open beneath your feet. Yet your attention is obsessing over every neglected corner. On the narrow seam where two walls meet. On the vent above the kitchen doorway. On the faint cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.
Places you have never paid attention to before.
Places that now feel claimed.
You have lived here for years, slept, eaten, cried... Spent entire weekends doing absolutely nothing. And the thought that something might have been present through all of it sends a fresh wave of nausea through your body.
That’s enough for you to notice the change in your breathing. Each raise of your chest feels slightly shallower than the last, your lungs stinging as they instinctively prepare for a danger your eyes cannot see.
“Reality parts for me. I have drifted through the birth of galaxies, swallowed storms of time, watched empires swell and rot. Your world? An insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe. Your species? Flimsier than smoke. You puny humans only know how to crawl from the mud to devour each other over shallow trinkets and territory.”
You swallow thickly, flinching hard as your back brushes against the wall close to the front door.
You don’t even remember moving.
“Okay,” you mumble, your voice still uneven. “Someone’s a little too full of themself.”
A thunderous roar crashes through your skull, pain exploding behind your eyes so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges.
A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you double over, your body folding in on itself before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your head, fingers digging into the skin of your temples as your eyes squeeze shut against the pounding agony.
“I only speak the truth. I am eternal, and your defiance is inconvenient. Remember, human: if I wish to, I could bend you into nothingness before your heart finishes its next beat.”
The temperature of the room drops below zero. Biting cold wraps around you so viciously that it feels as though warmth has been erased from existence.
A violent shiver runs through you, and your arms promptly wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to make yourself smaller, safer, somehow less exposed to its wrath.
The threat itself should sound ridiculous, the sort of thing a comic book villain would say before getting punched through a building. Yet what’s frightening is the certainty burning beneath its voice.
An uncomfortable, deafening silence settles over the room, before the voice comes back quieter—almost timid.
“I have frightened you.” It sighs wearily. “Your fear is bitter. Forgive me. I often forget how small your hearts are, how fragile your existence can be.”
The cold begins to retreat, slowly loosening its grip on your body until you can feel your fingers again. The pressure squeezing your throat eases with it, and you quickly draw in a breath, gasping as if you have been forced under water.
You don’t answer. Instead your eyes close briefly, and inside your head you keep repeating that this is only a dream.
It has to be.
Dreams can be terrifying.
Dreams can feel real.
Dreams can make absolutely no sense whatsoever.
“I apologize. I am not used to... converse with humans.”
The explanation is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Sure, people do that too. They make themselves louder and hostile, more intimidating. They show their teeth because they are afraid to get bitten first.
But it’s difficult to be terrified of something while simultaneously understanding it.
“I would not harm another being, unless strictly necessary. Like Tony.”
There is a beat of silence after that, the kind that feels like waiting for a clarification.
Your eyelids slowly flutter open.
“Tony?” Your brows furrow in confusion.
“Yes.”
Your stomach drops. “I—Tony is my boss.”
“I am aware.”
That answer does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. Still, a weak, tired chuckle falls from your lips, the sound still sitting on the edge of disbelief.
“Well,” your voice wavers. “Next time you want to show off, try to be a little less... intense.”
There is a pause that lasts just long enough to feel like the conversation might actually end there.
“I will…” It rumbles. “Little star.”
You blink.
For a moment you genuinely wonder whether you heard it correctly. Of all the things it could have said, that had not even crossed your mind as a possibility.
“What?” You ask uncertainly.
“You are smaller than me,” it starts calmly. “And you shine the brightest when surrounded by darkness.”
The words hit you like a punch in the stomach, because that name feels like it was always meant for you—like this weird creature has spent some unknowable amount of time observing the universe until it reached the conclusion that you deserved your own little place inside it.
“And so you just… decided to call me that?” You say slowly, staring blankly at the wall.
“Yes.”
The answer arrives with complete confidence.
Your eyes scan the space again: the walls are still up, the furniture remains exactly where you left it, the front door is only a few feet away if you decide to make a run for it. However, now they all sit beside the crushing knowledge that you have never been truly alone in what you considered your safe haven.
And yet, despite the trembling in your hands and the excruciating headache, the apartment has never felt this warm.
After that night, the voice doesn’t appear on a schedule you can trace, and it doesn’t behave like something that interrupts your life so much as something that exists alongside you, its presence filling the apartment as naturally as sunlight through an open window.
Eventually you resign yourself to the fact that if this is real, then it has always been real. The Entity has existed beyond the edges of your perception all along, tucked into the shadows while you moved through your life unaware.
You are not discovering something new. You are simply learning how to share your home with a creature whose ego is, unfortunately, backed by evidence.
Strangely, that realization no longer feels like you’re losing your sanity. Every appearance still sends a jolt through you though, even when you start anticipating it. The jolts finally become sighs, the sighs fade into pauses... And then, somehow, they turn into full conversations.
“Allow me to intervene.”
The words emerge from nowhere and everywhere at once, threading through the sound of running water.
Your reaction is calmer than it would have been a month ago.
Pausing with a glass still slippery beneath layers of soap, you glance at the counter.
A deep exhale escapes your nose. “That’s not what I meant when I said Pierce should stop being an asshole.”
The silence that follows feels thoughtful.
“He deserves it.”
The certainty in its tone immediately tells you that this conversation is going to leave you with a migraine.
You slowly set the glass aside and reach for another.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He repeatedly enters the apartments without warning despite causing distress to their occupants. He ignores maintenance requests. He raises the rent while refusing to fix anything. He is unpleasant.” It growls at last.
You stare at the sink deadpan, because the worst part is that none of those observations are technically wrong.
“You still don’t get to decide what happens to my landlord.”
“You have developed a habit of assuming the worst about me, little star.” The response almost sounds offended.
“Last week you wanted to fold the mail carrier into another dimension because he bent one of my packages.”
“He damaged your property.”
“He dropped it because he nearly tripped carrying three other boxes.” You remark tiredly.
“Then he accepted more than he was capable of transporting!” It snaps.
Your eyes close, and for a moment you simply stand there with your hands submerged in warm water, wondering whether anyone else in human history has ever had to explain proportional responses to a cosmic entity living inside their apartment walls.
“You can’t solve everything with violence.”
“At least my ways are effective.”
The tone is so childish that something dangerously close to a laugh threatens to escape you. You barely suppress it, unwilling to give the Entity the satisfaction.
The last thing you want is to encourage it.
“You’re missing the point.” You sigh.
“And your landlord is disruptive.” It retorts, returning to the original topic with persistence. “I remove disruption.”
A month ago, that statement would have sent ice flooding through your veins, now it makes you tired. Concerned, certainly; still mildly horrified. But mostly tired.
You noticed pretty quickly that the creature inhabiting the darkness has apparently divided existence into two simple categories: things that bring you comfort, and things that do not.
And whenever something falls into the second category, it immediately begins offering solutions.
Usually terrible ones.
You still can’t fully comprehend what it is and what it wants from you, yet you don’t reject it anymore, choosing instead to adjust yourself around it the same way people learn to coexist with eccentric roommates, noisy plumbing, or old neighbors with weird habits. But speaking more carefully than you used to has become necessary. Not because you are afraid of being overheard—you passed that stage weeks ago—but because the Entity is always listening, hungrily waiting for the slightest excuse to make itself useful.
The first time you muttered that a coworker was making you want to disappear, it was so concerned that it spent thirty minutes trying to understand whether your desire to “cease existing” was literal. Then you made the mistake of joking about your neighbor’s barking dog, and it calmly informed you that silence could be arranged...
Spending hours explaining hyperbole to a being older than galaxies had not gone particularly well, so now you think twice before speaking. You also avoid idle threats and clarify complains before they can be interpreted as instructions.
In addition to not knowing how human language works, it becomes clear that the Entity also doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Or perhaps it understands it perfectly well and simply sees no reason to respect it.
You are still trying to determine which possibility is worse.
Thursday has been peaceful so far. Tony hasn’t started any new scandal that requires damage control, and Pierce hasn’t called asking for more money to deal with the umpteenth gas leak.
Yet by the time you finally make it home, exhaustion sits heavily in your muscles—the kind that accumulates steadily over hours spent hunched over a desk, attending meetings that should not exist and dealing with your boss’ particular talent for creating problems out of nothing.
The apartment is quiet when you step inside.
After abandoning your heels somewhere near the entrance, you drag yourself to the bedroom with the same determination of someone whose social battery has been completely annihilated. All you want is to change into something comfortable, eat whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare, and spend the rest of the evening watching some trashy reality show.
The peaceful silence follows you as you set your bag on the floor and begin pulling your blouse over your head.
“This level of exhaustion is unacceptable.”
A startled yelp escapes your lips as you jerk backwards, immediately yanking the blouse back down.
For one humiliating moment, you are left standing in the middle of the room, tangled in fabric.
“Jesus Christ.” Your hand presses against your sternum.
The apartment remains perfectly calm.
“You scared me.”
“I did not intend to.”
“Yeah, I know.” You let out a weary sigh. “You never intend to.”
Finally pulling the blouse off, you throw it toward the laundry basket with significantly more force than necessary.
The Entity says nothing for what feels like forever, so your eyes narrow at a random corner.
“Were you just... watching me?”
The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably.
“You returned home forty-three minutes later than usual. You removed your shoes after entering, yet consumed no food despite having done so at the same time during the last three days. And your shoulders have remained incredibly tense since you arrived.”
You promptly let them relax, suddenly self-conscious of your posture.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was.” The creature sounds genuinely puzzled. “You asked whether I was observing you.”
Technically, that’s a logical answer, but it doesn’t make having a pair of monstrous eyes tracking your every movement with unwavering attention any less unsettling.
“You really keep track of all that?” You eventually ask, almost shyly.
“My attention is always upon you.”
The response arrives with such simple certainty that it makes the next words die on your tongue, leaving you frozen in the middle of your bedroom.
This thing has existed for an amount of time you cannot begin to comprehend. It notices things. It remembers things. It pays attention in a way that humans generally do not. And the reminder sends a strange heat crawling beneath your skin.
Suddenly, you are being hit with a feeling of disquiet at being so exposed.
“He should not be allowed to exhaust you like this.”
“No.” It falls from your lips before the conversation can continue.
“No?”
“No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”
“You cannot know what I am thinking.”
“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with taking care of Tony?” You mock its gravelly voice.
Another pause.
“You know me so well.” It sounds almost pleased.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you rub a hand over your face.
“Please, stop trying to find a reason to kill my boss.”
“I was not offering to kill him.”
Relief immediately floods your chest.
“Oh.” You tilt your head, positively surprised.
Maybe all those evenings spent teaching the Entity how to behave more like a human and less like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are finally paying off.
“I would only harm him.”
Your face falls instantly.
“God, can you just stop talking?”
“It is significantly better.”
“No.”
“It is objectively better.”
You let out a long groan, covering your face with both hands.
“Why do you always bring him up?”
“I was simply stating an observation.”
You scoff, removing your jewelry with far more energy than the action itself requires. “You always make observations right before suggesting violence.”
“I do not always suggest violence.”
The statement is delivered with enough dignity that you almost believe it.
“You suggested throwing an officer into the ocean because he gave me a ticket.”
“He was incorrect.”
Your eyes close in irritation. “You suggested relocating my upstairs neighbor because she vacuumed once at six in the morning.”
“Sunday is the only day you are permitted to sleep in.”
“You spent three days trying to convince me my internet provider is a hostile entity.” Your voice gradually rises, and the apartment slips into complete silence.
“Little star,” the Entity starts slowly. “The service they provide is unacceptable.”
You curse the day you decided to explain how technology and the internet work to this relentless, stubborn creature.
“That’s not the point.” You say through clenched teeth.
The room grows quiet again and you know it is genuinely attempting to understand something that refuses to fit within its understanding of reality.
When it speaks again, the question sounds sincere.
“Why is Tony different?”
You let your head fall back with a sigh.
As much as its insistence and anger management issues drive you insane, you always need to remind yourself it is truly interested in how your mind works.
“He isn’t different,” the words are no louder than a murmur, your body sagging slightly as irritation drains away. “People are just allowed to be annoying. That’s part of the human experience.”
You can practically feel the disagreement radiating off the walls.
“That seems inefficient.” It frets.
A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, still low but entirely genuine.
“Maybe it is.” You shrug.
“You dedicate a surprising degree of creativity to insulting him.”
“Because he frustrates me.”
“He makes you unhappy.”
“Hm, sometimes.” You nod.
“He increases your stress.”
“Yes.”
“You dread interacting with him.”
You hesitate for a second. “Well, only when he sends me to drag angry women out of his penthouse at nine in the morning.”
“Then I fail to understand why removing the problem is unacceptable.”
There it is—the same impossible logic it always returns to.
Everything else stops mattering the moment it involves you, so when something upsets you, it should be immediately addressed. The conclusion is predictable by now: anything causing you discomfort simply shouldn’t be allowed to continue existing. That’s the entire structure of its reasoning, there is no room for improvement or compromise.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks.
Then, very carefully, as though explaining something to a particularly intelligent but catastrophically misguided dog, “Harming my boss won’t fix my anxiety. And you really need to stop with the whole splitting people into categories based on whether they annoy me or not.”
The silence lingers, but you have learned enough about the creature by now to recognize when it is really considering your words.
“There are additional categories?”
This time you cannot help it—you burst out laughing, the sound brightening the room, loud and alive.
“Yes, you silly creature.” You breathe out, still smiling. “There are additional categories.”
Somewhere within the walls, the Entity appears to spend the rest of the night reevaluating its understanding of interpersonal conflict. You are not entirely sure the lesson will stick. Still, it feels like progress.
When your eyes snap open, the frantic pounding of your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. You find yourself disoriented, small but stubborn fragments of the nightmare still clinging to you.
There was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, doors opening one after another into empty darkness, and the overwhelming certainty that something was following just out of sight. The details fade almost immediately, but the fear lingers heavy in your chest.
“You are not alone.”
The rumbling voice cuts through the eerie silence out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.
Your body goes completely still as for one awful second, fantasy and reality blur together. Then, fear shifts into exasperation so quickly it makes you faintly nauseous.
“It was a dream.” You whisper to yourself, pressing a hand over your eyes.
“Yes.” The answer comes immediately.
You let out a long breath, instinctively reaching for the lamp on your nightstand. Light has always helped after bad dreams. It gives your eyes something solid to land on so you can breathe a little easier; something ordinary enough to remind you that whatever was haunting you belonged to the deepest pits of your unconsciousness.
Before your fingers can touch the switch though, the temperature in the room drops slightly and the lamp clicks on by itself. You stare at it blankly, before glancing up at the ceiling.
“Have you been in my bedroom this whole time?”
When the answer arrives, it carries a note of confusion.
“I am always with you.”
You instinctively pull the sheets closer around yourself.
“Hm, not really comforting.”
“I simply illuminated the room.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.” The words come out feebly, as though they were meant just for you.
The pensive silence that follows suggests it is trying to work out what you meant anyway. Eventually, it steers the conversation towards something it deems far more important than your discomfort at its incessant hovering.
“You were in distress.”
A chill crawls across your skin despite the warmth of the blankets.
“It was just a dream.” You dismiss as your eyes drop to your quilt.
“You have experienced similar dreams repeatedly.”
“What do you mean repeatedly?” You instantly look up.
“You have experienced seven variations of the same fear pattern within the last month.”
You frown at the wall in front of you.
“You remember them all?”
“Of course.”
You are not entirely sure what unsettles you more: the fact that the Entity has somehow found its way into your dreams, or the fact that it has categorized them so analytically.
“It was a nightmare.” You swallow eventually.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have to do anything about it.”
“I disagree.”
Of course it does.
You rub your eyes in exhaustion. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while.”
“You are not everyone. I do not care about everyone.” The word is thrown out in disgust. “And you were terrified, that’s enough for me to intervene.”
Your head falls back against the headrest with a dull noise. “It wasn’t real.”
“It still scared you.” It insists.
The simple logic behind its reasoning is incredibly annoying, because there is no easy way to argue with it. The distinction between reality and dreams seems irrelevant to a higher entity—fear is still fear.
“What was chasing you?”
You immediately regret answering any questions at all, hoping that lying on your side will implicitly communicate the conversation is over.
“Nothing.”
“What was behind the door?”
“Nothing.”
“Your heartbeat was dangerously fast when you remembered.”
You pull the blanket higher and settle deeper into the mattress, ready to ignore it.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
The response is so quick your eyelids flutter open again.
The Entity releases a sigh. “You return home exhausted. You experience distress during sleep, and it lingers long after you wake up. I do not understand why you insist these things are insignificant.”
The sincerity behind its words makes it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.
You know it’s not asking out of mere curiosity, or to eventually use your own fears against you for some hidden purpose. It genuinely cares about you, but not in any way that gives you space from it. Its attention doesn’t arrive and withdraw; it persists, clinging to you with a kind of obsessive inevitability. It feels less like being observed and more like being suffocated—a desperate grip around your throat that won’t loosen even when you need oxygen.
That attention has begun to register as pressure inside your nervous system, a second current running beneath your own reactions. As though it is already anticipating where you will move, what you will feel, what will unsettle you... and meeting you halfway.
Under the apparent reverence lies something far more obstinate: a deep, unwavering hunger to possess you. It craves to reach past what you can recognize as yourself, following you beneath language, control, and into the parts of you where emotion arises before it becomes yours to name—until even the boundary between what you truly feel and what you want to show is blurred.
“Because not everything needs to be fixed.” You ultimately sigh.
“Why?”
Your eyes close in resignation at the question that the Entity keeps asking since manifesting itself to you. It sounds so plain and obvious until you try to look for an answer that actually makes sense, devoid of useless excuses.
“Because sometimes people are just tired, and that can cause bad dreams. It’s called stress and it’s normal.”
The quiet that follows stretches long enough that you hope the conversation has finally reached an end.
“What was behind the door?”
You let out a groan. “Jesus Christ.”
“Little star—”
“Goodnight.” You exclaim loudly enough to cut directly across whatever question was coming next.
Several seconds pass and your body gradually melts against the mattress, your chest finally deflating with a relieved sigh.
“Goodnight.”
A pause follows.
“I am always here. You may inform me if the dream returns.”
You bury your face deeper into the pillow.
“I won’t.” It comes out muffled.
“I would still like to know.”
You gesture blindly toward the ceiling.
“Goodnight.”
The lamp switches itself off.
Several days pass after the nightmare conversation without incident, which should probably be reassuring. Instead, it leaves you vaguely suspicious, because you have already learned that silence doesn’t necessarily mean absence. More often than not, it simply means the Entity has decided to not comment on whatever it is currently observing.
You are cooking dinner when it manifests. Or well, attempting to cook dinner, which is definitely not the same thing. The recipe is open on your phone, and the ingredients are technically correct. Whether the final result will be edible remains to be seen.
The water has finally begun to boil and you are standing in front of the stove trying to remember whether the smoked salmon goes in before or after the tomato sauce, when the familiar baritone drifts through the kitchen as if commenting on the weather.
“You should not consume that.” It throws off-handedly.
You stop stirring altogether, your eyes still fixed on the sauce before slowly turning to the empty kitchen.
“What?”
“The nutritional value is poor.”
You can only blink. Being criticized by an ancient being for your dinner choices... Not everyone gets to put that on their résumé.
“You don’t even eat.”
“Correct.”
“Then how do you know what’s good for me?” You squint accusingly.
“I have observed your species.”
The spoon returns to the pan and you continue stirring, determined to not encourage it. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working after the third day.
“You consume insufficient vegetables.”
A sigh escapes you. “Stop.”
“It is the truth.”
“We’re not having this discussion now.”
“You purchased zucchini and carrots three days ago and have yet to consume them.”
Your wrist stills. Scarily slowly, you lower the utensil onto the spoon rest, and look at the wall with challenge burning hot in your eyes.
“You know what’s concerning about that sentence?” You cross your arms to your chest.
“The fact that you know when I bought them.”
“You not consuming the vegetables.” It speaks over you.
“Oh my God,” you snap as you sharply turn toward the empty kitchen. “Are you my roommate and nutritionist now?”
Silence follows, and you hope it has finally run out of opinions.
“Roommate is… acceptable classification.”
You freeze at its reply, because it suddenly dawns on you the mistake you just made. You decide to play it cool though, and turn back to the pan to resume stirring, your movements now a little more sluggish than before.
“That wasn’t an invitation, by the way.” You clear your throat awkwardly after a while.
No response comes. At least, not verbally. The flame beneath the pan flares a little higher before settling again, not enough to affect the cooking but just enough to feel deliberate.
You frown at it, annoyed at the fact that this Lord of the Darkness-wannabe officially considers itself a member of the household now, and you are the only one to blame for that.
“You should also sleep more.”
Your shoulders slump in defeat.
The conversation had been going so well.
“I sleep plenty.” You argue.
“You averaged five hours and forty-one minutes over the last seven days.”
The spoon nearly slips from your hand.
“Can you stop tracking my sleeping habits?” Your voice drips with indignation.
“You are tired.” It retorts at once. “Tired humans make poorer dietary decisions.”
“Who isn’t in this day and age?”
“Well, you are more tired than most people.” It barks back, agitated.
You are beginning to suspect that the Entity’s only hobby is monitoring your wellbeing with a level of dedication that borders on the absurd—and absolutely no sense of when to mind its own business.
Maybe you should introduce it to birdwatching next.
It becomes obvious that it also reacts to the people surrounding you. Not in anything you could immediately point to as proof, but small inconveniences cluster around certain names, voices, intrusions that are not physically present in the apartment and yet somehow seem to have been catalogued all the same.
At first you tell yourself it must be a series of coincidences.
A delayed train to go back home for Thanksgiving, forcing you to text your family that you won’t make it. A rooftop bar reservation that gets cancelled just as you’re getting ready to leave—the kind of place you were going to with old friends who insisted it was “important to catch up properly.” Plans with people you actually like quietly unraveling at the edges, and conversations turning into vague reschedules that never settle into anything concrete, leaving your evenings empty at home.
The pattern becomes harder to ignore.
You finally connect the dots thanks to Steve.
You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, nothing serious yet, though that feels less and less accurate when your evenings keep turning into phone calls that stretch far longer than either of you originally intended.
It’s late in the afternoon and you are talking to him while tidying the living room, the conversation drifting effortlessly as you gradually stop dusting and end up leaning against the couch, your cheeks hurting from how much you have been smiling.
Dating comes easy with someone as sweet and kind as Steve. You always feel a little lighter after spending time with him.
Perhaps that’s why he becomes an obstacle to remove.
“... and then she told me I should apologize to her cat.”
You chuckle. “What? Why?”
“Apparently me stating I have a dog offended him.”
After your laugh fades, your mouth parts to answer with a story of your own about disastrous first dates, when the call abruptly ends.
It doesn’t crackle, it simply cuts off. One moment Steve is speaking, the next there is silence.
You check the screen with astonishment written all over your face, and sure enough there is only your wallpaper staring back at you.
Your stomach twists with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling.
Slowly, you lower the phone, and that’s when it registers that the apartment has been quiet for a while.
Too quiet.
“That puny boy is annoying.”
Your brow lifts skeptically. Steve Rogers is many things, but “puny boy” is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when talking about him. The man has shoulders that deserve their own zip code.
You huff out a weary breath. “What did you do this time?”
“I ended the interaction.”
The answer is tinted with poorly concealed smugness, not a single attempt to hide what it has done—and it’s that stupid brashness wrapped in the arrogant conviction of always being right, that makes fury flare in your chest.
Your grip tightens around your phone.
“I noticed.” You smile caustically. “Care are to explain why?”
“The call had continued long beyond necessity.”
The scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Since when do you decide what is necessary in my relationships?”
“The puny human was occupying your attention.”
“We were having a conversation.” You state tartly.
“You have many conversations.”
“So what?”
“They occur too frequently.”
You blink at the wall, utterly flabbergasted by its impudence.
“Are you kidding me?” You chuckle drily, no traces of humor in it. “You were jealous of Steve and—and your solution was to violate my privacy and go through my fucking phone?”
Your arms rise in a gesture of helpless disbelief, only to drop again by your sides a second later. “What are you? Six?”
“He occupies a disproportionate amount of your time.”
“I like him.” You fire back.
“He is temporary.”
The answer comes out as a roar that makes you flinch instantly. Anger evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling beneath your ribs.
“He is temporary.” The Entity repeats calmly this time, as if the statement has already been settled rather than offered for discussion. “You have known him for weeks.”
There is a brief pause before it continues—still unhurried, still confident in its presumption.
“I have known you longer.”
The words are final in a way that doesn’t invite contradiction.
The dreadful realization that this fragile boundary between you had been crumbling day after day without you noticing makes it impossible to keep your voice steady.
“You don’t get to decide who matters to me.”
The apartment shifts—not physically, or visibly—but it feels like the air has suddenly reoriented toward the sound of your voice.
“I do not decide who matters to you.”
A pause follows, strategic.
“I only decide what enters my domain.”
The apartment is not a place it inhabits, but a condition that defines what can be present within it. And for the first time, the implication is not about Steve at all, or any of the other people the Entity has quietly pushed to the edges of your life.
It’s about you.
“This apartment is not your domain.” You swallow, forcing the trembling out of your words.
“It contains you.”
Your stomach churns so harshly you feel like vomiting at how completely unremarkable the Entity seems to find its reasoning.
There is something profoundly unsettling about its inability to separate you from the spaces you occupy, the people you interact with, or the things that demand your attention. Everything collapses into the same category, tied together by the simple fact that it exists in relation to you, and therefore falls under the quiet assumption that it has the right to interfere.
And judging by the calm confidence in its voice, it’s a belief that has been festering in the background for a very long time, undisturbed. As though the boundary between what it assumes and what you are has never been particularly solid to begin with.
Your grip on the phone hardens until your fingers ache against its hard edges.
“You can’t sabotage every relationship I have.”
“That assumes they were ever stable to begin with.”
There was never anything meaningful enough to protect in the first place, only shifting connections that held for a while or failed on their own terms. And yet your life has been reshaped so nothing ever keeps you away for long, every little detail arranged so the roots of its sick devotion can sink deeper and deeper into your existence until eventually you’ll stop leaving.
You are living your days bounded by a mere, temporary concession of freedom, because the Entity has already gathered what serves its purpose.
The rest is nothing but a speck of dust meant to aimlessly wander across the vastness of the universe.
It’s a system that you reject but now find yourself placed inside regardless. The center of it all.
It’s the day you meet with Wanda that you really understand how deep the Entity’s visceral attachment to you goes.
Your friend comes over on a Saturday afternoon after several weeks of failed attempts to meet up. The visit is long overdue, and you spend most of it moving between rooms while talking about work, mutual friends’ life updates, and whatever gossip has accumulated since the last time you saw each other.
For the first hour everything feels normal enough that you almost forget about the presence woven through the concrete. You are halfway through making coffee when the conversation stops abruptly. At first you assume Wanda is checking her phone, but the silence feels unnatural.
When you step out of the kitchen, you find her standing near the entrance with an expression you cannot immediately identify.
She is confused, almost distracted—the way people look when they walk into a room with purpose only to forget why.
“Wanda?”
She blinks as if woken up by a dream, instantly meeting your worried gaze.
“Hm?”
You frown. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The answer comes a little too quickly as she nods frantically.
Her gaze then drifts upward again, lingering on the ceiling for a moment before returning to you.
She titters as she lightly shakes her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”
An unpleasant sensation tugs at your chest.
“What is?” You ask thinly.
Wanda’s lips open and close once, as if something is holding her back.
“Do you ever feel like someone’s… watching you?”
For a second your heart forgets how to beat, but you eventually manage a strangled laugh.
“No?” The word sounds more like a question than an answer.
“It’s not bad,” she clarifies apprehensively. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like…” She trails off, shrugging at last. “Like there’s someone else here.”
You stare at her and Wanda stares back for a quiet, uncomfortable minute, before her eyes briefly land on the cups waiting on the table, and everything is forgotten.
But your friend’s laugh is less loud, shorter. Her attention keeps wandering, and more than once you catch her glancing at empty corners as though she expects something to be standing there.
She leaves nearly an hour earlier than planned.
The excuse she gives you sounds legitimate. The timing does not.
You stand on the threshold long after she disappears down the hallway before slowly closing the door, your forehead briefly resting on the wooden surface as you let out a tired sigh.
“You dislike her.”
You roll your eyes, straightening up. “You’re slipping. Wanda is one of my closest friends.”
“Your interactions are infrequent.”
“We’ve known each other for eight years,” you reply promptly, a faint edge to your voice now. “We don’t need to talk every day for our friendship to be real.”
The Entity’s voice is pensive. “She occupies little of your time.”
“Again, that’s not how friendship works.” You huff, busying yourself with the dirty cups on the table.
“Proximity is important.”
You let out a short, disbelieving breath.
“Friendship isn’t defined by how often someone is physically or temporally close to me.”
“Yours is an inconsistent system, then.” It concludes and you let the cups fall into the sink with a loud clank.
“What exactly is your criteria for liking people?” This time the question is not tinted with accusation so much as worn down into something closer to fatigue. You turn around, this time directly staring at the wall.
Arguing definitions with something that doesn’t operate like a human being is starting to feel pointless.
The answer takes longer this time.
“Not believing in the arrogant presumption that they could take you away from me. The delusion that something so small, so transient, could ever lay claim to what is mine is preposterous.” It states at last.
In some distant, irrational corner of your mind, the words feel familiar enough to not shock you anymore. But the clinical insolence, and how strongly it believes it has the right to make such a claim, is revolting.
It simply exists in it the way breath exists in you, natural and unquestioned.
You exhale sharply, jaw tightening as your teeth press hard enough to ache.
“And what makes you think you have any claim over me at all?” The words come out strained, held together by effort rather than control.
The silence that follows presses into your skin like the walls have leaned in a fraction closer.
The answer has always been in front of you, it’s only a matter of when you will surrender to it.
Some tv series you picked up days ago and barely remember choosing plays at low volume on the television. The voices rising and falling should be comforting, but their rhythm isn’t quite landing anywhere inside you. You still keep your gaze on the scene out of habit, hoping that alone might eventually turn into genuine engagement.
You have been repeating that to yourself for almost two hours.
You shift on the couch once, then again almost immediately after. Your shoulders settle, then lift. Your back presses into the cushions and then pulls away, searching for a version of contact that actually feels like it belongs to you.
Everything is technically fine—the room is warm, the couch is comfortable, the apartment quiet except for the show—but your skin feels strangely hot, too aware of itself, like it can’t stop registering the absence of something your brain refuses to name directly.
You cross your arms loosely, then uncross them again just to feel something brush against your hardened nipples under your camisole. The strong urge to have something hard and definite pressed against your body instead of this drifting tension that never fully resolves, is driving you mad.
Your thighs press together without much thought—a slow, instinctive squeeze that makes your breath hitch when you remember you haven’t worn anything underneath in hopes of getting some sort of stimulation against your clit.
It ends up being a useless attempt to soothe the arousal, because it only sharpens the need to take care of the ache in your core.
You let your leg bounce once against the couch cushion, then still it, then start again a moment later.
The Entity has altered your life completely. Privacy is no longer a clean boundary, but something porous that breathes back. It has turned upside-down the way you exist inside your own space, despite your earlier belief that you could simply ignore it and carry on as usual.
Some nights the fire licking at your insides becomes too unbearable, but a part of you keeps pulling back at the last second—the sole idea of being fully exposed to its monstrous eyes while having a dildo plunging in and out of your pussy makes your guts contort with shame.
Your mental health is on the line, because it leaves you suspended in this strange, unnerving state—restless, alert, never fully grounded in anything else.
So your body keeps searching for relief in innocent motions.
You shift again, sinking deeper into the couch, then slide slightly forward. One arm presses into your side and your breath catches once, shallow and unexpected.
The television continues without caring whether you’re following it or not. A scene changes. A line of dialogue lands but leaves no imprint.
After a while, you stop trying.
Your attention slips away from the screen entirely as your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the coffee table. The cushions dip as you shift your weight again, abandoning any effort at sitting properly.
You lie down, hoping to find a little comfort in a less rigid position. One leg lifts and settles over the back of the couch while the other bends a little, enough to plant your foot securely on the soft cushions.
Instagram feeds you fragments of other people’s lives: house tours, obnoxious laughter, delicious recipes, cleaning reels, captions you don’t read all the way through. Your thumb moves automatically, pulling you further down the stream.
It seems to work, finally granting you some sort of reprieve, until a sharp gasp claws out of your throat.
The room sinks into darkness as the TV screen goes black, but the shock is soon replaced by a thrill of fear as something brushes your ankle. It’s a slick, cold contact that makes you flinch violently. When you look down, your vision catches on movement that doesn’t belong in the geometry of the room, emerging from beneath the couch as if the floor itself has opened to grant it access.
Your limbs stay frozen as oxygen gets stuck in your throat. Your eyes lock on the tentacle, wide and unblinking, because looking away means potentially giving it the chance to attack you.
Your voice is shaking with worry when you decide to ask for help.
“Please tell me this your doing.”
The Entity answers immediately, the sound not arriving from any clear direction.
“Yes, that is mine. You do not need to worry.”
Your shoulders relax at once.
“What the hell happened to you?” You frown, because your brain reaches for the closest thing it can tolerate. “Did you turn into the kraken all of a sudden?”
The subtle recoil from the tentacle somehow reads as disdain.
“That insignificant squid with delusions of grandeur?” It growls, voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t lump me with that drooling, crude imitation ever again.”
Despite the shock still lingering, you snicker at the pure pique in its words.
You hum, shaking your head slightly. “My bad, Squidward.”
With a loud squeal, you find yourself dragged down until you’re fully lying on your back again, this time both of your thighs bent and spread open by two tentacles tightly wrapped around your ankles that keep you still and exposed.
“Quiet.”
Your heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. “Not my fault you decided to go all octopus on me.” You choke out, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your lower belly.
“That is because I know you enjoy it.”
Oh, you knew that tentacle-shaped dildo in the back of your closet would come back to bite you in the ass some day.
“Okay!” You loudly draw the word out, already feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”
“You are not stable.”
Your left eyebrow lifts in perplexity at the ceiling. “Excuse me?”
“I feel your restlessness.” It hums. “It gets stronger day after day. Something is bothering you.”
You frown. “So?”
“I know what it is that makes you fidget like a little, frightened bunny.” Your eyes widen. “And I can help you.”
That earns it a short, disbelieving chortle.
“Jesus Christ,” you drag a hand over your face. “Okay, I—I can’t believe I’m really going to say it.” You mutter to yourself.
“Whatever, okay. Let’s see what you got, big guy, since you apparently have all the answers—oh.”
Two other tentacles peek out from under the couch, thicker than the ones wrapped around your ankles. You can’t really tell their color—perhaps a shade close to dark teal, bordering on black—the only source of light being the moon shining through the open curtains and the weak glow of the city lights in the distance.
Surely, being spread open by your filthiest fantasy is not helping you keep a clear head.
The two curious appendages stop by your stomach to kiss the soft skin with gentle caresses through the flimsy fabric of your camisole. Your breath catches in your throat when the tips teasingly graze your turgid nubs, but before a pathetic plea can fall from your lips, they wrap around your wrists to slowly guide both arms over your head.
Their hold is firm but not brutish as they keep them anchored against the cushion.
“What—” The word fades into a soft gasp as two thinner tentacles slide up your legs before trailing under the hem of your camisole.
“You constantly squeeze your thighs. I am simply helping you soothe the ache.”
Your eyes roll back at the simple yet suggestive explanation, your mouth forming a perfect circle as each one of the appendages finally takes hold of your breasts, their tips flicking your erected nipples with slow, sensual motions.
“You are… delightful to touch.”
“Thanks?” You frown in mild confusion, already panting from the playful touches against your tits.
“And beautiful.” It contemplates almost absently. “For a puny human, you have a stunning body.”
“You sure know how to woo a girl.” You answer drily, huffing out a strained chuckle.
“I apologize. I am not quite acquainted with this.”
“This as in… ?”
“Sex.”
Your eyes widen, before a sly smirk brightens your features. “Are you saying that me—a lowly, puny human—is going to take the big, mean kraken’s virginity?”
“Stop associating me with that unintelligent abomination!” The voice roars disgusted, a new tentacle lightly smacking your thigh. “I am a cosmic entity. And sex is a foreign concept to us: we do not reproduce, nor feel the need to pleasure ourselves.”
Your witty answer falls short when small, hard suction cups graze your clit through the light fabric of your shorts. The movement prompts you to thrust your hips up, and the tentacle responds in earnest, steadying itself to allow you to hump its surface as more tentacles slither up to rub your hips.
It exhales shakily. “I would like to see it.”
“Hm?” You moan quietly, too lost into the heavenly, throbbing sensation in your core to pay attention.
“This curious, warm spot.” The tentacle against your clit twitches. “Your hidden treasure. Its smell is celestial whenever you wake up sweaty and whimpering in the middle of the night, my little star. Did you know that? Did you know how hard it is to ignore your pretty, little cries?”
You whimper at the raw need in its voice. “You mean my pussy? I’m all yours, honey.”
It seems to appreciate your answer since the tentacles restraining your limbs immediately tighten their hold on you.
“Your clothes are in the way.”
“Let go of my wrists for a s—” The sound of fabric tearing leaves you gaping.
When you glance down, you immediately catch two thick tentacles releasing the ruined fabric of your camisole. It now hangs pathetically by the short sleeves around your shoulders. The appendages already teasing your breasts can finally move across your naked chest, patiently yet freely. You can’t prevent the loud moan that claws out of your throat at the lewd sight of those two slimy limbs wrapped around your tits, prompting you to push your chest into their touch.
You toss your head back when the suction cups finally attach themselves to your nubs, steadily sucking on it. It’s not entirely similar to a human mouth, not only because of the texture borders on rubbery, but also because of their colder temperature that feels surprisingly pleasant against your stiff nipples.
A string of wanton sounds falls from your parted lips as they alternate gentle strokes to playful, harsher tugs that leave you gasping for more.
“May I?” It strains out, two tentacles slightly pulling at the hem of your shorts.
“Please.” You moan.
With a mere tug, the sides of your bottoms rip into two perfect halves, and the fabric is abandoned under your ass.
The tentacles holding your ankles finally spread your legs wider with an enthusiastic pull as every limit has finally been annihilated.
“Oh.”
You giggle at the amazed tilt in its voice.
“I have never seen anything like this before.”
You jolt as the cold tips of two thin, smaller tentacles unexpectedly brush against your inner thighs, lazily sliding forward until they take hold of your folds, parting them delicately as if afraid you might break.
“Your pussy is very pretty” It hums. “It is glistening.”
“Thank you.” You breathe out, still squirming at the stinging sensation of the tentacles playing with your chest.
Silence engulfs the space as the Entity stills you completely, admiring the way your core shines beautifully with the mess you made with your slick. The tentacles still trace your folds leisurely, enjoying the smooth, wet texture.
At some point, they start toying with your hole, letting their tip slowly breach it only for the creature to marvel at how it flutters in response. Furthering its inspection, the tip of an appendage kisses your clit, using some of your slick to get your nub wet.
You gasp as it rubs your arousal through your folds with slight pressure, prompting the Entity to release a low, unconscious hum. It is more than satisfied with the sloppy sounds that bounce off the walls along with your hushed whimpers.
As the strokes of its tentacles turn more intense, the urge to feel it inside you becomes utterly oppressive. You don’t know if it is trying to tease you relentlessly, or perhaps if the curiosity it feels towards your body is genuine, wishing to take its time to study your reactions—from your cute sounds to the way you tense and squirm under its tender touches.
“Sublime.” It whispers. You squeak in response, writhing in its firm hold.
“Settle down, my little star.” It grumbles. “I am going to give you what you have been craving very soon.”
You nod eagerly, a cry erupting from your throat as the other appendage puts more pressure on your throbbing clit, the suction cup following the example of the two tentacles abusing your nipples by steadily tightening and releasing your nub.
Despite its weird, unique texture, it still feels like a mouth suckling on your clit.
“Must you move so much?”
“It feels—” You almost choke on your own saliva. “So good.” Your eyes squeeze close.
“Oh, my darling. You are such a vision.”
Your hips attempt to chase the stimulation, yet there are other appendages already emerging from different sides of the couch to carefully wrap around every exposed inch of your body, until you are forced to lie spread and still for the Entity to turn you into its personal fucktoy.
“Fuck.” You whisper, panting at the pure display of dominance.
The fact that you are fully restrained and exposed for this unknown, powerful creature to do as it pleases should terrify you—considering the sick obsession for you it flaunts so proudly.
Yet here you are, pliant and eager for it to finally lose control and possess you.
“That is indeed what I plan to do with you, lovely.”
“Oh, please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to unsuccessfully stop a shameless whine.
“You are an impatient little thing.” It chuckles eventually.
You would love to wipe the smugness out of its voice, see its tentacles flinch in disdain at another one of your silly nicknames, but then a smaller appendage joins the one that has been gently working on your clit and the two focus on two different rhythms, alternating quick, flicking motions to slow, intense sucks.
“Oh God.” You squeak, letting your head fall limp to the side.
“I could spend an eternity buried in your little treasure and still, it would not be enough.” The voice grunts. “Sing for me, my little star.”
All it takes is the suction cups on your nipples tugging at the sensitive flesh for you to come. Your climax is so intense that your mouth opens around a loud, raw moan, your vision momentarily fading out as your body attempts to arch into the wicked stimulation.
“Gorgeous.” It marvels. “I need more.”
Your eyes widen as your pussy is lavished with attention by several more tentacles tracing your folds, forcing you into that delicious state of perpetual pleasure.
With rapid and decisive movements, the Entity quickly drives you over the edge over and over again, leaving you flinching pathetically in its hold, your muscles tensing up so often that you feel a faint ache throbbing in your tendons.
The appendages on your breasts are still eager on your tender nipples, abusing them with their suckling motion and cruel flickers.
“Looking at you makes it difficult to believe anything else deserves attention, little star. I apologize but I will never tire of your sweet sounds. You are ravishing when you surrender to pleasure.”
“I can’t—” You sob, finally being granted a moment to breathe as a thin tentacle slides up your neck to catch the tears threatening to spill, lovingly stroking your cheeks and your damp forehead as you sniffle.
Your eyes briefly roll back as those two sneaky tentacles keep your clit wet and sensitive, electricity running through your veins as your hips hopelessly jerk against the Entity’s appendages trapping your lower half.
“Do you wish to stop, pretty thing?”
“No! No please.” You cry out, your eyes instantly snapping open. “Just—need you inside, please.” A mewl falls from your lips at the gentle pressure on your hole.
You briefly catch something moving in your peripheral vision, and when your head turns, your heart almost stops at the sight of a new, perfectly thick tentacle emerging solemnly from underneath the couch. Its bumps and ridges are far more numerous and prominent than the ones scattered across the others.
“I know you are fond of certain… sizes.”
You whine, before something crucial finally dawns on you.
“W—what’s your name?”
It seems taken aback. “My name…” It muses. “It is too difficult for humans to pronounce, little star.”
“What should I call you then?”
“For now,” you moan shamelessly at the sensation of being finally filled. “I want to hear you scream for me.”
The appendage works inside you, the ridges a pleasant addition as they stroke along your walls in a steady motion while it carefully feeds you of its length.
“More.” You whimper.
“Hm?”
“Give me more.” Crying out, your hips attempt to thrust up.
Huffing a chuckle, the Entity manifests a few smaller tentacles that carefully push inside you along the bigger one, each of them focusing on a new spot to rub. Your eyes cross in bliss at the incredible feeling of being so stretched. The fullness is almost absurd, to the point that you briefly wonder if your body is going to explode at some point, all burning and taut as you feel trapped in an endless orgasm.
The depravity of being restrained and pounded by a mess of eager tentacles right in the middle of your living room only makes you moan louder.
“You have to be quieter, little star. Someone might hear you.”
The urge to chortle and reply with something sarcastic is strong, but right now you can barely recognize your surroundings.
“There could be the entire building watching me from the window for all I know and I still wouldn’t give a fuck.” You breathe out.
A wail roughly makes its way out of your chest when the little suction cups tug at your nipples harshly, the length of the appendages curling around the flesh of your breasts to fondle and squeeze them together.
The Entity lets out a growl so guttural it makes your bones shake.
Your breath catches when something slimy brushes over your bottom lip—another tentacle, quite thick but not like the one thrusting inside you.
“Open.”
You obey at once, parting your mouth as it doesn’t waste any time to slip inside. Its motions are less harsh compared to the Entity’s possessive tone, and that allows your lips to wrap around it and suck at your own pace.
“I warned you before I would harm other beings if necessary.” It starts, your body tingling as the hair on the back of your neck raises at its baritone echoing right into your ear.
The large tentacle around your waist tightens, almost protectively.
“I will rip the flesh and feast on the bowels of anyone who dares to touch you.” The Entity’s tentacles inside your pussy pick up their pace, furious and wild, eliciting a string of loud moans out of you that get promptly muffled by the appendage curiously exploring your tongue.
“I love watching pleasure consume you, my lovely, beautiful creature.” It grunts. “You are perfect. So soft, and wet and warm.” It blabbers, as delirious as you.
A low moan quietly resounds in the living room as it plunges in and out of your pussy while the other tentacles work in unison to send you over the edge, never stopping their unforgiving twists and sucking on your nipples and clit until you are thrown back into pure and utter ecstasy.
“You are coming, right? I can feel your pretty pussy clench around me.” The tentacle inside your hole gently whirls as it slides in and out.
“I am going to mark you so deep with my essence that every being, mortal and celestial, will know not to challenge my claim on you.”
The Entity gasps as the tentacles holding and fucking you suddenly tense up, trembling and pulsing. It roars, the sound so primal it travels deep into your bones till it reaches the tips of your nerves.
The warm, viscous liquid filling you initially catches you by surprise. Then, you eagerly accept it as if you’ve been craving it for eons, doing your best to relax your throat to accommodate the spasming tentacle.
The one on your clit moves harder and faster, clearly determined to break you completely.
You keep shuddering in sensitivity, yet the tentacles avidly work one last time to make the unbearable tension in your lower belly snap.
You shriek around the slimy flesh stuffing your mouth, not even noticing the smaller appendage that comes up to stroke your cheek, as though to calm you down. The other tentacles cling onto you, tightening their hold in tenderness to keep you safe throughout the burning climax that shatters the only ounce of composure you had left.
Only when your body ceases its severe shaking, leaving you pliant and drenched in sweat, the Entity eases its grasp. The skin of your cheeks is gently held as the tips of two more appendages wipe away the tears the moment the tentacles leave your pussy.
The others begin a soft kneading motion on the sore muscles of your legs as the ones previously attached to your clit curiously brush your puffy folds, marveling at its cum steadily running down your hole and inevitably dirtying your ruined shorts.
You barely have any energy left to notice the deep ache in your joints when the Entity guides your arms back by your sides and your legs on the couch. Still, you try to control your stuttering breath as those two sneaky appendages keep stimulating you in tender curiosity.
“Rest, little star.”
You lazily blink at the ceiling, startled that your eyes had been closed this whole time.
Speechless, your ears and mouth both feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool. “Huh?”
“Rest, little star.” It purrs, still caressing your sides, adoration dripping from each reverent touch.
“You are safe with me here.”
The next morning, you wake with a small smile already tugging at your lips and your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memories linger a little more before consciousness can interfere—the beautiful sense of fullness, the phantom ache of being held firmly in place without needing to understand the technicalities, the solid warmth curled around you in the aftermath.
It’s only when you open your eyes that you notice the unusual quiet.
You lie still for a moment longer than necessary with bated breath, because some part of you is already reaching for that familiar presence that always lingers somewhere at the edge of your awareness. But you can’t find it.
You sit up almost lethargically, expecting the feeling to return now that you’re properly awake. The apartment is exactly as it should be, unchanged in every single detail, and somehow that only makes the emptiness beneath your ribs harder to ignore.
Of course you assume it will return, so you start your morning, anticipating the Entity to pop out anytime as you eat breakfast.
But the coffee grows cold in your mug. The television drones quietly in the background. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as the hours go by... And still nothing.
Usually, its silences never feel truly empty. Even when it isn’t speaking, there is always the certainty that it is there with you.
This is different.
And that’s where everything begins to change.
The next day arrives with a kind of stubborn normality that feels almost insulting.
You wake again hopeful that the absence might have been temporary, something that would fix itself the way it should. But the same void is still there.
What unsettles you the most is not the loss itself but the way your thoughts keep skirting around it, never lingering for too long, as though looking at it directly might break you completely.
It hurts to acknowledge the small pauses between actions, the moments where you find yourself waiting for something to talk, and then realize, too late, that there is nothing to respond at all.
Each time it happens, it leaves behind a faint sting of embarrassment.
By the fourth day, the idea that something was there starts to feel like a version of events that only exists because you keep brooding over it, even when everything around you refuses to support it.
You keep turning moments inside out, trying to hold them in place, but they slip out of reach as soon as you look at them too closely.
It feels like a stab behind your ribs, because your memories of it are no longer anchored to anything that could confirm its existence.
There are moments when anger comes out of nowhere, sharp and ugly, usually when you catch yourself waiting again without meaning to. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, reacting so strongly to something that simply left without a word.
That feeling turns quickly inward, because there is nothing else to blame that makes sense.
Only you.
After several days, its memory trails after you like a ghost—quiet enough to ignore for a while, but never far enough to forget.
You work, eat, sleep, and in between, there is always that quiet, painful feeling of something missing.
Gradually, you accept that it is not going to return. Not because you have figured some big mystery out, but because the waiting has sunk its poisonous teeth into you. It feeds on every quiet moment, contaminating every stray thought, gnawing steadily at your sanity, rotting the vulnerable parts of your life.
Day by day, it consumes you out from the inside, leaving behind a space shaped entirely by its hunger.
At the end of the second week, the silence has become ordinary in a way that almost convinces you it was always like this. The version of events where something had been present starts to feel increasingly difficult to defend, even in the privacy of your own mind.
It’s only later that reality bursts in a way you cannot ignore anymore.
You are standing there, knife in hand, your movements automatic as you work over the cutting board, when something inside you finally tears loose, so violent that even breathing results painful.
Your movements slow without permission, until they stop completely.
For a long, horrible moment your still body exists in a space that feels suddenly foreign. Your eyes stare blankly at the counter as your vision quickly blurs. You blink once, sharply, hoping that it would fix it, but it doesn’t. Only then something wet falls on your cheek.
You let out a short, disbelieving huff.
“Shit.” You swallow thickly, but the word comes out wrong—thin, strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”
You press the heels of your hands briefly against your eyes as if that could physically push the tears back into place. If anything, it only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing heavier with every second.
“This is pathetic.” You whimper, not sure whether the anger is aimed at yourself or at the situation.
Or at the fact that there is no situation at all.
Because there is nothing to justify this.
Nothing that should be making you cry in the middle of making dinner on a random Friday night.
You let out a sharp laugh, but it breaks halfway through.
“I’m actually losing it.” You sniffle.
Standing there with your breath uneven and your face still wet, your hands wipe your cheeks a little too roughly.
Your attention goes back to the cutting board, as if resuming the task might finally steady that precarious balance you’ve been clinging to for days, but your hands don’t immediately follow. They hover—uncertain, trembling.
And beneath all of it, there is still that absence—hollow and impossible to prove—pressing against the inside of your awareness, a dull ache lodged in your chest that no amount of distraction can soothe.
The next week is quieter.
You stop revisiting it. There is no point in chasing something that leaves only pain behind.
You’re not waiting anymore, not voluntarily at least. You still pause sometimes in doorways, still find yourself listening into empty rooms, but the expectation is gone. What’s left is only habit.
You eat because Tony still needs your help keeping the company running—there are too many things that would fall apart without you.
You clean because the mess won’t clean itself.
You move because stopping would mean having to untangle what comes next, and the sole thought of facing that is akin to stepping off the edge of a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.
At night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours—not really on purpose, sleep just evades you. When nothing happens, there’s no disappointment. Only a bland confirmation.
The absence stops being absence, it just becomes normality again.
Because remembering hurts more than letting go.
Three months pass and you have finally taken some of the vacation days that have been accumulating in your file for months.
Well, calling it a vacation feels generous considering most of it has been spent catching up on everything you never seem to have time for while working.
Medical checkups you kept postponing. A dentist appointment for a wisdom tooth you should have booked six months ago. And then there are the usual tedious tasks: laundry, groceries, cleaning...
By all accounts, it should feel productive.
Instead, you are left drained.
You move through your days checking items off lists and running errands across the city, returning home every evening with aching feet and the vague satisfaction of having accomplished something, only to discover the feeling never lasts particularly long.
The apartment is still your favorite place. At least, you think it is. Lately, it feels less like comfort and more like retreat.
There are moments when you catch yourself staring into nothing for no reason. Moments where a pit opens somewhere in your stomach before disappearing so quickly you almost convince yourself it never happened.
You have stopped trying to understand it, though. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—refuses to become any clearer with time.
Maybe loneliness is capable of stranger things than people give it credit for.
Maybe your mind had built something elaborate to fill a void you didn’t even know was there.
Maybe that’s why the memories still feel like a knife buried deep in your chest.
By the final day of your leave, you have mostly made peace with what your life has become.
You spend the afternoon exactly as planned: sprawled across the couch, surrounded by junk food and no obligations in sight. For the first time in weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.
When the doorbell rings, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream and so absorbed in the new season of Abbott Elementary that it takes you a moment to realize the sound isn’t coming from the television.
You briefly assume it belongs to your phone, lost somewhere between the cushions, and decide to ignore it. You have every intention of enjoying the last few hours of freedom before returning to your personal circle of hell that is Tony’s company.
However, after exactly one minute, the shrill sound comes back, clear and unmistakable, and now you are pushing yourself upright with a groan—your back aches from lying there all day.
You cross the space without much urgency, immediately regretting all your life choices once you open the door in pajamas and find a handsome man standing on your doorstep.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt that perfectly hug his big, sturdy body.
He has the kind of face that would attract attention without ever seeking it. A man people notice instinctively and then spend the next several minutes pretending they haven’t, because there is something eerily intimidating about a face that looks carved by the gods themselves.
His eyes catch your attention next.
Blue. Startlingly so, almost unnaturally bright, the color so vivid and intense it looks like pigment suspended beneath glass. You decide they must be contacts, because that’s the safest explanation and your brain is gradually learning to settle into this pattern for the sake of your own sanity.
The moment he smiles, the effect is immediate.
It softens his sharp beauty, easy and unforced in a way that invites trust and warmth.
Such a shame that his presence is so staggering that you completely miss what really lies beneath the illusion—a crude imitation.
His body seems to always react a fraction later than intention: his shoulders shift a moment after his head turns and his posture corrects itself a beat too stiffly, as though alignment is a conscious reminder rather than an innate response.
When he steps forward, there is the faintest unevenness in his weight, one foot pressing down a little too carefully before the other follows. A subtle trembling persists in his legs even when standing still, his knees locking into place a second later than expected.
Even his hands don’t settle easily. When they fall to his sides, a few fingers twitch and bend on their own accord before returning back to a more natural state.
“Hello.”
There is something unfairly serene about his voice, just as smooth as silk.
“I’m James,” he continues. “I just moved in next door. Apartment 6B.”
The tension you hadn’t noticed you were holding loosens without permission, leaving your shoulders a fraction lighter and your breath a little less controlled than it had been a moment before.
Unfortunately, you realize a moment too late that you have been staring at his gorgeous face all along.
“Oh—sorry.” You let out a short, embarrassed chuckle as you shake your head. “I didn’t know Ms. Esposito moved.”
The man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the name.
“Ms. Esposito?” He repeats, lightly, the name seemingly not settling the way it should.
That small hesitation makes your brows knit faintly in confusion.
“Yeah,” you add, half-amused. “She lived here. Apartment 6B. I just thought—”
You decide to stop as his expression remains unchanged, waving your hand dismissively. “Never mind.”
Maybe they didn’t have the chance to meet each other.
His gaze remains exactly where it is, fixed on your face with the same intense attentiveness as before.
The silence stretches a second longer than it should, and you find yourself shifting slightly under it.
“Well,” you start with a small titter, eager to fill the gap before it becomes too awkward. “Nice to meet you, James.”
As you offer him your name, something shifts—a subtle spasm in his features, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.
You accept his extended hand without hesitation. His grip is warm, firm without being excessive, but there is a curious deliberateness that suggests he is paying more attention to the contact than what is socially acceptable.
You are already preparing to let go when his grip abruptly tightens around your hand, enough that the bones in your fingers press together unpleasantly. The change catches you off guard. Your breath hitches as a sharp pulse of discomfort runs up your arm, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze drops to your joined hands, noticing how his knuckles have been turning an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on dark grey.
When you look back up in confusion, your stomach gives a small, sickening lurch.
James’ big smile is exactly the same, but it doesn’t respond anymore. It stays frozen in place with an odd consistency, as if it has been placed there and forgotten.
You don’t remember his eyes looking so... wide. His eyelids seem to draw farther and farther apart by imperceptible degrees, exposing a little more white with every passing second.
Your hand jerks in a reflexive attempt to pull away, but his grip doesn’t yield. It holds with the intransigent firmness of steel, his long fingers locked around yours as though they have forgotten how to let go.
And so you remain there, forced to watch as the features of this weird stranger soften until they slowly melt out of shape.
“Oh, I already know that, little star.”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
i block ppl all the time so my blocklist ranges from "actual fucking asshole fascist" n "post that mildly annoyed me because im petty" and if i went thru my blocklist rn i probably would have no idea why i blocked each of them but whatever
all twisted sparring with leon turns spicy drabble !
tw. mdni. dry humping. flirting. manhandling. semi public sex. clit rubbing. almost caught.
the training room in the BSAA safehouse was a converted warehouse, all concrete floors and exposed pipes. flluorescent lights hummed overhead casting sterile white across the mat-covered center where you stood slightly breathless facing leon.
he’d been at it for forty-five minutes. started with basic stance work—feet shoulder-width apart, knees soft and weight balanced. moved into striking drills that left your forearms aching from blocking his padded hits. now he was circling you like a wolf, those blue eyes tracking every shift of weight, every nervous glance.
"again.” he said voice low, patient. "you’re telegraphing the cross. that shoulder dip tells me exactly what's coming."
you reset your guard, fists up, stance wide. leon moved in throwing a slow jab that you slipped, then a hook you caught on your elbow. he was taking it easy on you—you could tell by the way he pulled his punches, the way his breath stayed steady while yours came in fast sharp gasps.
"better." he closed the distance stepping inside your reach and suddenly his hands were on your hips, guiding you backward. "but you're still thinking too much. fightings not about thinking."
"what’s it about?" the words came out breathier than you intended.
his hands stayed on you, warm through the thin cotton of your tank top. "you gotta feel it.”
he moved again, a sweep that knocked your feet out from under you, but his arms caught you before you hit the mat. for a heartbeat you were suspended, back arched with his body pressed against yours from chest to thigh. then he lowered you down, following one knee between your legs, his breath ghosting across your jaw.
the mat smelled like rubber and sweat. leon smelled like something darker—cedar and gunpowder and the sharp musk of exertion. his face was inches from yours, that stubbled jaw tight, eyes blown at the pupils.
"this part of the lesson?" you managed.
his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. "depends. you want to learn what happens when you can't get back up?"
your heart slammed against your ribs. his weight pressed down, and you felt it—the hard ridge of him through his tactical pants, grinding against the heat between your legs. not accidental. definitely not accidental.
"leon..”
he shifted just slightly and the friction sent a jolt through your entire body. your hips rolled up to meet him, instinct overriding any pretense of training. his breath caught. his hands slid from your hips to your thighs, gripping, spreading you wider beneath him.
"yeah?..” he breathed, almost to himself. "yeah, that's it."
you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt pulling him closer and he obliged—dropping his weight fully onto you, pelvis grinding into yours in a slow deliberate rhythm. the rough fabric of his pants dragged against your shorts catching a friction that made your toes curl beneath your shoes.
his mouth found your throat, open-mouthed, teeth scraping over the pulse point. "been watching you all session-“ he growled against your skin. "the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating.. the way your tits bounce when you move. Fuck."
you arched into him, wrapping a leg around his waist and he groaned—low and guttural, a sound that vibrated through his chest into yours. his hips pistoned harder, that thick pressure rubbing directly over your clit where you needed it most, every grind sending sparks up your spine.
"that feel good?" his voice ragged now, losing that controlled edge. "feel how hard I am for you?"
you could. god you could feel every inch of him, straining against the fly of his pants, pressing into the cradle of your thighs. your own body responded, soaking through the fabric slick and desperate.
"yeah!” you gasped. "dont stop..!”
he didn't. he picked up the pace, both hands gripping your ass now lifting you into each thrust. the mat squeaked beneath you. Your breaths mingled hot and fast and you could feel it building—that coiling tension in your belly, the way your walls clenched around nothing desperate for him.
his forehead dropped to yours. "im.. gonna—fuck, I'm close—"
and then a red light blinked on the far wall.
leon froze. his eyes snapped open tracked to the corner of the ceiling, where a security camera stared down at the mat like a dead eye.
"shit.”
he was off you in an instant rolling to his feet, adjusting his pants with practiced efficiency. you lay there flushed, trembling legs still open, watching him run a hand through his disheveled hair.
“cameras.” he said voice clipped, all business now. “central feeds. people gotta be watching.”
you sat up slowly heat burning your cheeks for an entirely different reason now. the abandoned ache between your legs throbbed unfulfilled.
leon offered you a hand up. His grip was steady but his eyes swept over you once—lingering on the hard peaks of your nipples visible through the sweat-damp tank top. his jaw tightened.
when he spoke again his voice had dropped back to that low private register. "meet me in the locker room.”
he squeezed your hand once then released it, already walking toward the control room with that easy unhurried stride.
you stood there legs shaky, pussy aching watching him go. the camera's red eye still blinked indifferent and omniscient.
You were only meant to study the life of James Buchanan Barnes, not meet him beneath an open sky, not learn the sound of his voice or the way he looks at you like you don’t quite belong; his world isn’t yours and yours was never his, but time doesn’t ask before it takes, and somewhere between borrowed days and every stolen glances, you realize the end won’t come gently—it will simply take you, and leave everything unfinished.
݈݇— themes: HISTORICAL/WESTERN AU, TIME TRAVEL, Fish-Out-Of-Water, Captor/Captive Dynamic, Marriage for Protection, Opposites attract (Brooding Outlaw x Chaotic Smartass), Enemies-To-Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Emotional Walls, Comedy, Angst (Emotional Damage), Eventual Smut.
Author's Note: If you know me...yes it's inspired by Taylor Swift's song Invisible String lmao...Say thank you Taylor!!
part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v ᥫ᭡
i keep laughing at the way that eridian culture in the movie and eridian culture in the book are not contradictory at all, if you accept that movie rocky is just a total FREAK
grace: boy i sure can't wait to meet other eridians haha!
rocky, putting on a shirt for the first time in four years: rocky has something to tell grace but does grace promise not to be mad, question?
Summary: Ryland Grace is your both your professor and your doctoral academic advisor. You are his student. Which meant that being anything more than that was soooo unbelievably off limits. …Right?
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: 18+! SMUT! MDNI! P in V sex; inappropriate use of a microscope; also inappropriate use of biology terms (i definitely got something wrong); shameless use of the professor x student trope through reader is a grad student and very much of consenting age; the glasses stay ON during sex!!
GIF from owenhcrper
“Come on, guys. The final exam is next week and I really don’t want to have to fail anyone this time around…again. So let’s show a little more initiative! Yay, cellular anatomy!”
He lightly pumped his fists in the air in an almost convincing cheer. You think it was meant to be encouraging but, looking around at your classmates, they didn’t seem to get the hint. They returned your dorky professor’s enthusiasm with glazed over expressions and the occasional monotonous click of laptop keys signifying they were likely working on another task all together instead of paying attention.
You couldn’t exactly blame them. Dr. Ryland Grace’s courses were among the hardest in the university’s advanced molecular biology track. Rumor has it that his exams have made students literally drop out of the program before. It wasn’t exactly his fault, the subject was enough to melt anyone’s brain on its own, but Dr. Grace made up for it by being an amazing professor.
He was always incredibly engaged, exceptionally witty, and, overall, just seemed to genuinely care for the material. You couldn’t deny that you definitely felt the insurmountable pressure of the high expectations he placed on his students, but something about his passion just…spoke to you. It was like he breathed life back into the subject that you chose to make your career all those years ago.
Admittedly, you had been a fan of Dr. Grace’s work since you were in undergrad, opting to enroll in this university’s program for even the mere, microscopic chance, that you could study under him. As luck would have it, he was accepting new doctorate students the year you were admitted.
Pursuing a PhD in molecular biology was daunting enough, but you learned fast under Dr. Grace’s caring hand. He made it seem like you were the only student he had ever taught, with the way his eyes lit up at your ideas, doing everything his lab’s budget could afford to make them a reality.
Over the past three years of your thesis study, you were shyly keen to admit you and Dr. Grace had grown fairly close to one another. After all, he strangely decided to stop taking students after he signed on to mentor your study, which meant that you always had his undivided attention He was by far the best teacher you had ever had, which is why it made you feel all the more guilty that you also…had not been paying attention to his question.
“Okay.” Dr. Grace let his shoulders slump in a sigh. He looked as exasperated as his students. He ran his fingers through his messy blond strands and readjusted his glasses. “Tell you what. If someone can answer this last question correctly, I’ll let you all out early. I know it’s almost finals and my exam isn’t the only one you all have to worry about, so you guys just do me this one last favor and we can call it a day”.
Your ears, along with the rest of your classmates, perked up instantly. You heard the faint sounds of students adjusting themselves in their seats as they leaned in, eager to earn this rare reprieve from classes. Dr. Grace smirked and clapped his hands together. “Alright, signs of life! So, tell me, what are the three major types of lipids that make up cellular membranes?”
This time, when you looked around, your classmates were deep in thought. Some of them looked like the act of searching for the information needed to answer the question physically pained them to work through. Not you though. This was something that you had already gone over with Dr. Grace for your research proposal write up. He had coached you through cellular membrane structure semesters ago. You raised your hand, albeit, hesitantly.
Dr. Grace had bitten his lip in anticipation looking around at his students in expectation. When his eyes met yours, his gaze softened. He nodded, waiting for your answer patiently.
“Uh, I believe they are phospholipids, glycolipids, and sterols?” You knew it was the correct answer but you still held your breath, and Dr. Grace’s stare for that matter, waiting on his confirmation. Something about the intense blue of his eyes just seemed to make coherent thoughts impossible, even when it came to material that you knew inside and out.
Dr. Grace nodded emphatically and threw up his hands. “We have a winner! Excellent work! That’s exactly right,” he exclaimed. You heard a few small cheers from your classmates in the back, who had already started backing their bags. Dr Grace retreated behind the lecturer’s stand and started to pack up his things as well. “Okay you all, a promise is a promise, you’re free to go.” The few students who had yet to pack up started doing so feverishly, as if they were afraid Dr. Grace would take back his seemingly merciful act of kindness.
Dr. Grace shouted to the back of the room as students shuffled out the door. “I will see you all bright and early next week for the final. Remember that you will need to know ALL of the protein pathways of the cell membrane to be able to answer the extra credit question! Don’t try to name only one and expect me to give you full points…” He smiled and cast his gaze down to his laptop, turning off its connection to the projector that had his meticulously detailed cell diagram thrown up on the lecture hall’s ginormous screen.
You finished shoving your books into your bag and signaled to your classmates that you would catch up to them later. You had to ask your advisor a question about finalizing a date for your dissertation. It was a little over two weeks away and not knowing all the details was driving you insane. Or maybe it was just the thought of having to present all of your research findings to the very man that basically invented the topic you were researching.
You had chosen to take an experimental approach to Dr. Grace’s hypothesis that life didn’t require water to survive. You had found some pretty compelling evidence in his favor among local bacterial life, but the thought of explaining his own research findings to the man himself had your stomach in knots. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Grace seemed to have your stomach in knots all on his own the last couple of months.
You hated to admit it, but you had developed something of a schoolgirl level crush on your professor. Sure it was somewhat embarrassing, but could anybody blame you? He was unbelievably charming, so ridiculously intelligent it was almost intimidating, funny, passionate, sincere, and…yeah.
He was pretty fucking hot too.
Everytime you walked into his lab, with him in one of those stupid science pun t-shirts that seemed to always be unfairly tight on him, leaving none of his muscular build to the imagination, you felt like your knees were going to give out from under you. Plus, he always seemed to stand right on top of you as he examined your findings through the microscope with you, which was not helpful at all. His forearms would often brush your side as he adjusted the lens settings, sending almost painful shockwaves through your body. Although, it was probably the glasses that sent you over the edge. He always seemed to look straight through your collected exterior you worked so hard to put forth when he peered at you over the rims that delicately balanced on the sharp bridge of his nose.
Who are you kidding? It was definitely the glasses that sealed your fate.
But that was inappropriate! Dr. Grace is your professor, your advisor for fuck’s sake. Nothing more!
……Right?
Yes, oh my god! Jesus, yes, of course he was just your professor. What were you even thinking?
You snapped out of your thoughts and realized that you were soon to be the last student standing awkwardly in the lecture hall. With a grunt, you gathered up your bag full of textbooks and lab equipment and shakily headed up to Dr. Grace, who was still inspecting his laptop up at the lecture podium.
He looked up from whatever he was poring over at the sound of your footsteps. He grinned at you and crossed his arms, leaning his hip onto the podium.
“Hey! There’s my favorite future doctor of microbiology. Got a nice ring to it, huh? Excellent job on that question, by the way.” He stared at you expectantly, though you know this was just another clever ruse to relieve the stress he knows he’s been putting you under. You laughed softly and cast your gaze to the floor at his praise, heat moving impossibly fast up your neck and onto your cheeks.
“You ready for the big day?” Dr. Grace asked, inquisitively, referring to your thesis presentation. His question quickly put out the flame that was building in your core and reminded you of the anxiety-inducing task you had ahead of you.
You met his eyes again. “Yeah! Totally…” you cringed, not even believing your own words. “Well, almost. I was just hoping we could talk about the dissertation date? I know you’re super busy and you’re going to have a lot of exams to grade and probably a lot of undergraduate papers too…and that I’ve technically already finished my research, really just need to finish writing the presentation slides, but I just really was..” the words seemed to spill out of you faster and faster by the second. Somewhere, in the back of your brain you willed yourself to stop babbling like an idiot but that thought never seemed to bring itself out of your subconscious and make itself useful. Dr. Grace looked at you back and forth hurriedly, trying his best to follow your words, before putting his hands on your shoulders and chuckling.
“Woah, woah, easy tiger. Slow down.” His grip on your shoulders tightened, causing you to freeze at the sudden contact. God, his hands were firm. You eased up a bit under his touch.
“Don’t get yourself so worked up. You are going to do fantastic. I know you are. That committee won’t even know what hit them,” Dr. Grace said. As he spoke, his thumbs worked their way up and down on your shoulders, almost as if they were trying to etch his words onto your skin so you would believe them. It did the trick though, you exhaled a bit before Dr. Grace continued.
“I know we have a couple of things to wrap up. Tell you what, I have to run to a faculty meeting in a bit but later tonight, how about you meet me in the lab and we can go over your data one last time, okay? Would that make you feel better?” Dr. Grace had sunk down on his knees a bit to be at eye level with you. His words warmly rushed over you, soothing your worried mind. With your thoughts a bit clearer, you hadn’t even noticed how close the two of you were. He was basically holding your body in place with his hands and his face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath as it fanned over your cheeks. He seemed to notice your close proximity as well as he dropped his hands from your shoulders suddenly and cleared his throat.
You almost sighed at the loss of contact but caught yourself at the last second. Instead you said, “That would be amazing Dr. Grace, thank you.” He lightened a bit at your agreement. “Great! I’ll probably be in there at around 8:00? Feel free to drop by then.” You nodded and waved him off as he exited the hall.
You were definitely in for a long night.
--
You found yourself pacing outside of Dr. Grace’s lab at 8 o’clock on the dot, mentally coaching yourself to go in. Why were you so nervous, even? Dr. Grace was your advisor, you had been working with him for months, this is just an ordinary lab meeting like you’ve done with him countless times before. Before you could lose your courage, you swung open the door and immediately stopped in your tracks.
Dr. Grace was positioned at the centermost lab table, carefully holding up a glass beaker to the glow of the moonlight that was being cast in through the lab’s window blinds. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he transferred a clear liquid into the beaker with a pipette dropper. He was in another one of his classic science t-shirts, his arm positioned almost at a perfect 90 degree angle holding up the beaker, which exposed every curve and vein of his bicep for your hungry eyes to devour. Bright, blue, latex gloves were pulled tight over hands that were a stark contrast to his firm arms, instead, skillfully holding the beaker in place to not spill any liquid. His glasses were knocked slightly askew on his face as he wore protective goggles over his eyes, but to you, that just made him all the more endearing.
Your eyes roved over his form, rigid and unwavering with the confidence of a man precisely in his element. Even though there was nobody else in the room except for you two, his presence seemed to demand attention. His fellow faculty members may have never paid much attention to his work outside of mindlessly recommending his lectures to their students, but, god, would you never get tired of marveling at this genius of a man. Both because he was a leading mind in your field and also because he was insanely attractive while he worked.
Dr. Grace looked up from whatever he was studying as he heard the door close softly behind you. He greeted you with a smile. “There you are, right on time as always. I would’ve expected nothing less. I’m just about wrapped up with this. Why don’t you grab your slides from the back and get set up while I put this away and then we can get started. Okay, sweetheart?”
Your heart felt like it dropped into your shoes. Dr. Grace had turned his back to you as he busied himself with something near the sink which gave you some time to process what you had just heard.
Sweetheart? That was definitely a first. I mean sure, you’ve had teachers call you that before, usually just in an endearing, almost parental way when you were younger. But something about the way he said it left you reeling. It felt…charged. Almost like he was dangling the term of endearment over both of your heads, knowing that there was nothing either of you could do to act on it. You replayed his voice saying it over and over again in your head to convince yourself you didn’t imagine it, when Dr. Grace spoke again.
“You alright over there?” He had now taken the goggles off and was wiping his regular glasses on the bottom of his t-shirt. He placed them back on carefully and put his hands on his hips, his t-shirt tightly coating his broad chest like a second skin. He raised his eyebrows at you pointedly, waiting on your answer. It was then that you finally noticed you hadn’t moved an inch.
You choked out a laugh. “Yeah! Yeah, of course.” His eyebrows drew together in questioning. You smiled weakly and hurried to grab your slides.
--
The next two hours were full of calculations and write-ups that made your brain feel like it was leaking out of your ears. You and Dr. Grace worked silently and diligently, double and triple checking your work to make sure you were prepared for your dissertation. It was honestly impressive, the way the two of you moved in tandem, re-examining slides under the microscope and writing up the conclusions on the large whiteboard at the center of the room. You two seemed to glide in and out of your respective areas with ease, Dr. Grace stopping every so often to check in and make sure that you didn’t need help with anything. Busying yourself with your work did seem to help quiet the distracting thoughts you kept having about your professor. Instead of Dr. Grace making you dizzy, it was the goddamn microscope whose viewfinder just didn’t seem to want to work with you that had your vision spinning.
You groaned in frustration and threw your arms up onto the lab counter, dramatically flopping your head onto them with a huff. Dr. Grace spun around from his designated place at the whiteboard. Your eyes were so weak with exhaustion you could barely keep them open anymore but you were able to make out that he somehow had three different dry erase markers in his possession, one tucked into the top of his ear, one in his hand that he was currently writing with, and one clenched between his teeth. He looked downright sinful as he plucked the marker from his mouth, a few drops of saliva following his fingers from where the marker met his lips. Between the microscope, your report writing, and Dr. Grace’s incessant need to unknowingly drive you crazy with want, you were certain you wouldn’t even make it to your presentation day in one piece.
“Aw, what’s wrong?” He chuckled softly. “Lens settings giving you trouble again?”
“I don’t even know why they make the knobs this sensitive. It’s like the big science companies actually want to cause me anguish and despair every waking moment of my academic career,” you whined sarcastically. Dr. Grace walked over to you, tilting his head with a small smile at your frustrated state. “Do you want me to show you a trick I learned in grad school? It saved my life a couple of times when I was back in your shoes.”
You bobbed your head up and down excitedly. Anything to make your life easier right now was welcomed with open arms. Speaking of arms, your excitement almost died in your throat as you felt Dr. Grace’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you up and back to the microscope ever so gently. He positioned you in front of the microscope with his body directly behind you. There seemed to be only an inch of space between the two of you. One wrong move and your back would be flush with his chest as he caged you in.
You felt like all of the air just got punched out of your lungs.This was too much. It was one thing for you to admire Dr. Grace from afar, knowing that there wasn’t a chance in hell of anything happening between the two of you. It was another when he had you literally locked in place, his rock solid figure giving you no chance of escape.
This was real. This was painstakingly, agonizingly, undeniably real.
It felt like your world was crashing down, your thoughts empty except for your goddamn professor's frustratingly lean body behind you that almost had you wiping your salivating mouth with your shirt sleeve. I mean seriously. A microbiology professor has no business being that toned. Your breath hitched in your throat and you cast your view down to the microscope, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand.
Except, Dr. Grace wasn’t letting you off that easily.
Dr. Grace delicately grabbed your right wrist and placed your hand on the fine adjustment knob. Except he didn’t stop there. His hand remained on yours, his fingers were ghosting your own, guiding them into exactly the right position. You felt a slight pressure in the pads of your fingers as he pressed down, swiveling the knob ever so slightly. He nudged your shoulder with his own, prompting you to take a look into the microscope.
You moved your face down into the viewfinder, placing the bridge of your nose underneath the ocular lens. Dr. Grace followed suit, leaning his head down closer to you so that it was just next to yours. This caused the very top of his chest to connect with your shoulderblades and you tensed. This could not be happening right now.
His words, a deep whisper that was very unlike his typical teacher voice, almost startled you as they were uttered so close to your ear.
“You see, the key is to take two fingers,” Dr. Grace said intensely, “and slowly–”
He lifted your pointer and middle finger along with his own, placing your middle finger on the coarse adjustment knob in addition, and slid his fingers over yours so the knob rolled heavily under the both of you.
“--work both the knobs at the same time,” Dr. Grace finished. He leaned his head back and watched you carefully, making sure you understood his instructions.
You could feel his gaze, hard and unrelenting, so you refused to look up from your slide and meet his eyes. You were almost panting with need now. The lab was usually sterile and cold, but from where you were standing it felt like you were in an inferno. You had never been this physically close to Dr. Grace before and it was setting your insides on fire. Part of you wanted to snap out of his grasp and run into the hall before you did anything you’d seriously regret. The other half of you was dying to find out what would happen if you didn’t. Pushed the boundaries a little bit. Fought fire with fire.
You couldn’t.
Could you?
You scolded your mind for wandering so far away from the task at hand and returned your thoughts to the microscope.Oh, would you look at that, Dr. Grace got the image of your slide looking pristine through the viewfinder on his very first try.
You internally scowled. It also wasn’t helpful that his academic prowess was a major turn on.
You clenched your legs together to relieve some of the pressure that had settled there, all the while, Dr. Grace still kept you in between his arms. His hands were now flat against the table, no longer guiding you. By all intents and purposes, he had absolutely no reason to still be standing so close to you but there he was, trapping you against him.
“See it now?” Dr. Grace questioned. He was referring to the absolutely gorgeous cell that was now blown up in scale through the viewfinder thanks to his help. You had to admit, you never got tired of that feeling. The feeling of staring at actual life, smaller than the tip of your pinky finger, teeming with blues and pinks and purples of the various organelles inside of it.
“I do. It’s beautiful, Dr. Grace,” you admitted. You turned your head around on your shoulder and met his eyes. He really was close to you. Truly, you could step a quarter of a foot forward and your foreheads would be pressed together in a forbidden meeting. Something to never be seen by another’s eyes. Yet, standing here, almost fully enveloped by Dr. Grace, it didn’t feel as wrong as you thought it would.
His gaze dropped down to your lips briefly. It was quick, but you noticed. He met your eyes again and you could have sworn you saw his pupils dilate in real time. The moonlight coming in through the windows earlier was now mixed with the soft glow of the campus lamplights that lined the walkways below the lab floor. The yellow lights mixed with Dr. Grace’s blue eyes, swirled a supernova of color around in his irises.
And him? He looked transfixed on you, as if you had hung the stars in the sky.
Could you do this? No. You were sleep-deprived and not thinking straight. Except your body had other ideas.You leaned in slowly, your eyes trained on Dr. Grace’s soft lips. Your hands had a mind of their own, coming up to almost cup his cheeks, like they knew you wanted this, knew you wanted to cross this boundary from which there was no coming back from.
They were never able to reach their destination.
Dr. Grace jerked back from you suddenly and retreated into the corner of the lab, pacing, his hands thrown up in defeat, folded together to support the back of his neck as he let out a wavering breath.
“Oh my god I-,” He started to spiral. “I wasn’t, I didn’t-”
He caught your eyes and immediately looked away, as if the simple act of looking at you was a punishable offense. You retreated into yourself, horrified that you would even think to act on your feelings. It was a dumb move, so ridiculously stupid, that you were afraid you just cost yourself your advisor, hell, your entire academic career.
But Dr. Grace wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was running his hands through his hair feverishly. “I’m so sorry, god, I don’t know what I was doing I-”
He whispered to himself in a tone barely audible enough for you to hear. “She’s your student, Ryland, what are you thinking?”
You realized this wasn’t about you. This was about him. He was trying to keep himself in check. Not do something he would regret. The thought that he might be having the same ideas you were having, filled you with a confidence you had no business having.
You slowly walked over to him and he flinched when he realized how close you had gotten.
“Dr. Grace?” you whispered.
Dr. Grace stilled as if your voice snapped some invisible thread that was holding him together.
“Your hands are shaking–here let me help you,” you picked up his hands with your own, interlocking your fingers, half expecting him to recoil from your touch, but he didn’t. “I, I don’t know what to say,” Dr. Grace strained. “I’m so sorry, you’re my best student, I have no idea what came over me.” He sounded wrecked. Like you had stolen all of the air from his lungs. It was in that moment that you made a decision. One that was going to seal your fate either for better or for the worst. You took a deep inhale.
In one deadly move, you surged forward and captured his lips into your own. You felt Dr. Grace tense up immediately but melt into your touch as you tangled your hands into his blond strands. His hands fell onto your hips like they were always made to be there. It was a searing kiss, with both of you putting your entire body weight into the other, as if this was the last chance that you were going to get to make this mistake. He pulled you closer to him, pressing his hands into you so hard you were sure he was going to leave a mark.
You broke apart, breathless. Dr. Grace squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead onto yours. He shook his head. “I am your professor,” Dr. Grace choked out. “I’m responsible for you, I could lose my job, my title, my reputation,” It sounded like he was trying to make a list of all of the reasons this was a bad idea but you didn’t care. The only person he was trying to convince at this point was himself. He cupped your face in his hands and scanned your expression.
“I need you to tell me to stop.”
Silence.
“God, I am in so much trouble.”
He drew you into another kiss and you happily reciprocated. It felt like fireworks were being lit off in your chest. Whatever you had imagined, this was a million times better. He was somehow both gentle and rough at the same time, trying to devour you like you were his last meal. He ducked his head down into your neck and took your skin between his teeth, nipping at the soft flesh.
“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he breathed out. He was working his way up your neck, kissing the exposed flesh as he went.
“Every time,” Kiss. “You talk,” Kiss. “All I can think about,” Kiss. “Is your mouth on mine.”
He walked you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours. Eventually your back hit the lab counter. It stung a bit but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was getting that t-shirt off of his frame and onto the floor. You were dying to see what was under those stupid science pun prints.
You moaned into his mouth and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, signalling to him what you wanted. He leaned back a bit, arms still encircling your waist, and smirked. “Yeah? You want this off?” he questioned knowingly. You nodded.
“Come on, use your words. You want my shirt off?” he asked.
Oh, he was going to kill you. “Yes, Dr. Grace,” you answered, obediently. Dr. Grace’s eyes almost rolled into the back of his head. He groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” you asked. “That thing with your voice,” Dr. Grace said. “Calling me doctor all sweet like you do, you know you can call me Ryland.” You tugged on the hem of his shirt once more. “Okay, Ryland. Shirt. Off. Now,” you demanded.
“Yes, ma’am,” he snickered. He made quick work of grabbing the bottom of his shirt and ripping it over his head. He made to pull you back into another kiss but you stopped him just short of contact. You pushed him back slightly, leaning back and drinking him in. You couldn’t even believe what you were seeing. Ryland was fucking ripped.
The evening light highlighted his abs just right, where you could take in every curve and detail, as his muscles seemed to strain against absolutely nothing. You ran your hands down his stomach and he shivered. His stomach intricately curved down into a sharp V that was so defined, you had to do a double take to convince yourself it was real. “Who knew microbiology was such a grueling subject?” you joked.
Dr. Grace laughed. “Hey, I personally think that understanding cellular adaptation and atrophy is more difficult than any workout.” You shook your head and smiled. Even when he was hot and heavy, he still took every opportunity to make a science joke. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
This time it was you who pulled him back into a kiss. He stole your move and tugged on the bottom of your blouse. You untangled your hands from his hair and began to undo the top buttons. Ryland followed your hands with his mouth as you worked your way down the shirt. With each inch of skin that was exposed to him, Ryland placed an open-mouth kiss there, leaving wet patches along your chest. As you reached the last button, Ryland’s mouth stayed on your navel but his arms snaked up to help you abandon the offending fabric..
He looked up at you from where he was perched on his knees, his chin on your stomach, those sweet blue eyes still in awe of you. That this was happening. That you weren’t something out of his wildest dreams. His right index finger toyed with the button on your pants. “Can I take these off, sweetheart?” Your eyes widened. Ryland grinned. “I’m going to take that as a yes with your eyes, now I just need your mouth to tell me the same.”
“Yes”, you rasped. He wasted no time pulling both your pants and your underwear down in one fell swoop, nearly knocking you off balance, but, of course, Ryland was there to catch you as you fell. He steadied you by digging both his palms into the back of your thighs, palming your flesh. He stood up, hands not leaving you for a second, meeting your lips again.
“Jump,” he stated simply. Without a second thought you hoisted yourself up by digging your hands into his shoulders and felt his strong hands grab the underside of your thighs, lifting you onto the lab table. The coldness of the counter was a stark contrast to the heat that was coursing through your body; it almost made you wince. You made to return Ryland’s favor and undo his jeans, but he caught your hands in his.
“Not yet, I want to make you feel good first,” he said, lips now working their way up the side of your face and under your earlobe.. “Is that alright?” he asked. You shuddered as the breath of his words met your skin. His hands had left their spots on your thighs and fluttered over your torso, tracing the outline of your ribs on your skin.
“O-okay,” you stuttered. It felt like your entire body was numb, but also so sensitive to every touch that Ryland gave you, all at once. Ryland leaned back and took your naked form in again. “Thatta girl,” the words seemed to drip off his tongue. He tapped your knees in encouragement and dropped to his knees again, parting your legs gently. He met your eyes quickly, a silent ask for permission which you readily granted.
With that, he kissed the insides of your thighs, working his way inwards from the inside of your knees. As he got closer to the spot where you needed him most, you felt the sharp edges of his glasses rims knock into your inner thighs. Ryland leaned back on his calves. “Sorry, sweetheart. Let me get these out of our way,” he plucked his glasses off of his face and made to place them on the counter before you interjected.
“No!” you startled yourself by how quickly you responded. Ryland looked up at you, puzzled. However, he paused where he was at, glasses still in hand. You sheepishly smiled. “Keep them on. Please.” You internally grimaced, embarrassed by your begging. However, after three years of pining after your professor, you were not passing up the thought of looking down to his glasses-framed face as he fucking ate you out.
Ryland smiled smugly. “Got a thing for the glasses, huh?” He placed them delicately back on his face. “Tell me,” he said, “Is it the daring Clark Kent vibe that gets you going or the wizened academic look that you like more?” He gestured to his face, mostly jokingly, but you could sense there was a genuine question somewhere in there. You leaned down and pushed the glasses further up his nose. “What can I say, I’ve got a thing for hot, nerdy, men,” you replied.
He laughed. “I’ll take it.”
It felt natural, the progression. His kisses felt earned, given with adoration, and he made sure that not an inch of you went untouched. After what felt like a million light years of him paying attention to everywhere except where you wanted, he licked a long, wet, downright disrespectful stripe up your folds. You moaned instantly and threw your head back. You didn’t even have any time to recover before he dove in again, his tongue swirling around your clit and sucking gently.
He didn’t know all of the spots to make you squirm right off the bat, but god was he a quick study. Whenever his tongue brushed a spot that tore a sound out of you, he made sure to hit that spot again. Over and over again. He seemed determined to get as many sounds out of you as he could, and you happily obliged. Not like you had much of a choice in the matter.
Fuck, he was good, you thought.
“Yeah?” Ryland asked from between your thighs. “You think so?”
You hadn’t realized you said that part outloud. You were too overwhelmed with bliss to even care. “Fuck yes, Ryland. You feel so fucking good, oh my-”
A finger being pushed into your folds cuts you off instantly. After that, there truly was no hope for you. He set a punishing pace, pumping his fingers in and out while using his tongue to get to all of the spots that his fingers couldn’t reach while preoccupied. You clenched around his fingers and you felt him tense as he jut his hips forward involuntarily. “Ryland,” you gasped. “I’m gonna-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before Ryland picked up his pace further, if that was even possible.
“Come on, sweetheart. You can do it, let go,” you heard Ryland say, even though his voice sounded muffled and far away. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking hard, and the coil in your lower stomach finally broke. A loud moan tore out of you and you bit the back of your hand to silence yourself. You were still in the campus lab after all. Euphoria washed over you, from head to toe, and your legs shook with the impact. Ryland’s hand came up to steady you as he slowed slightly and worked you through it.
“There you go, just like that. I got you,” he coaxed gently. You moved the palm that you were biting down your face as the waves subsided. You couldn’t help it, you collapsed back on the table. Ryland resumed his ritual of kissing up your navel, to the center of your sternum, in between your collarbones, and finally, standing up, to your lips. You returned his kiss, although rather weakly.
“You okay?” he asked. You nodded. He paused for a moment, seemingly pondering if he should speak again. He decided on another question.
“You want more?” he asked, his voice deeper this time, lower.
“Fuck yes,” you cursed.
His words invigorated you with a second wind. You sat up quickly, hands rushing to undo the button and zipper on his jeans as he leaned into your hair and placed kisses to your head. As you fumbled with his belt loops, you could feel his arousal underneath your palm. Just to test the waters, you palmed him slightly, earning a whimper from Ryland into your hair. You hopped down from the counter as you finished unzipping his jeans. Ryland took over from there, sliding his jeans and underwear down in one go. Your eyes immediately cast downward and you bit your lip.
His cock sprang forward, rock hard and already leaking pre-cum. You would have never guessed in your wildest dreams that he would be this big. It made your mouth water. You slowly began to sink to your knees to show him as good of a time as he just gave you, but he stopped you with a hand to your chest.
“Please I- I can’t wait any longer,” Ryland searched your eyes. “I need to be inside you.”
Oh.
His words almost made you falter. As if you hadn’t had enough life-altering experiences tonight, here was Dr. Ryland Grace, published scientist, respected research and professor, begging to fuck you.
Ryland seemed to take your silence as a yes, as he grabbed your hips and gave you one last kiss before spinning you to face the lab counter. From your perspective, you could see out the lab’s large windows. The lab was on the second floor of the science building, so all you could see out the window was the tops of the trees on the grounds. Still, all that was running through your mind at this moment was the fact that students could be walking down below, without a clue about all of the filthy things you and your professor were doing in his lab.
Ryland places a hand on the small of your back and pushed you forward, effectively bending you over the lab counter. Your palms hit the counter, leaving an imprint on the black tops. Ryland kissed your back and you felt words muttered onto your skin. “Is this okay?”
“Yes, Ryland, please just-” He didn’t even let you finish. As soon as the word ‘yes’ left your mouth, he was pushing inside you. His cock stretching you out slow and depraved, making you gasp. Ryland cursed behind you, his hands flying to your hips and digging his short nails into your sides. He pushed slowly inside, inch by glorious inch until he was buried completely inside you. You turned your head slightly to see Ryland’s perfect face. He had his head thrown back, eyes closed, as if the act of being inside you was something that deserved a moment of silent reverence.
“Ryland?”
“Hm?” he hummed without opening his eyes.
“Move,” you demanded.
Well, you did ask for it. He pumped in and out of you like a piston, building up a rhythm that had you sobbing. Ryland’s hands never left your hips, you think he needed to hold on to them for his own sanity at this point. “Fuck you feel, you’re-” you sputtered. “You’re so fucking tight.”
His pace quickened as tears squeaked their way out of your eyes and onto the lab counter. You were sure that you had never felt this good in your entire life. You could feel that low simmer in your stomach that you felt earlier. You were close. “Just like that Ryland, I’m gonna cum again”, you croaked. Your voice was gone, all of the air absent from your lungs.
Ryland seemed to sense it too as his once steady rhythm faltered and failed at points. He was losing steam, and fast. “Oh my, oh my fucking god,” he growled. “Come on, cum with me, that’s my girl.”
The praise sent you over the edge. As your second wave rocked your body, you felt Ryland following suit. His hips stuttered as he spilled inside of you with a broken moan. His head fell forward onto your back as you felt his last few strokes, slow and intimate, pushing everything he gave you back inside, not letting a drop of the evidence of both of your choices drip onto the lab floor.
You could barely breathe. It was the best feeling in the world. Ryland stroked your hair and slowly pulled out from you, with you whining at the loss of contact. You rolled slightly on to your side, looking at your professor, a sheen of sweat gracing his gorgeous body, glasses askew on his nose. Ryland leaned back onto the lab table and brushed his fingers through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his cheeks. He turned over to you.
“So professor,” you teased in a sultry tone. You batted your eyelashes innocently. “Does this mean I get extra credit?”
PAIRING: (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; (ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
WORD COUNT: 14.4k
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Your own boyfriend.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
They say dreams fade at dawn, but yours burn brighter—his blue eyes the only color in a world washed gray. You're covered in hues you can't keep when you wake. Tell me: when the blurry man starts sounding like someone standing in front of you. . .which is the real one?
݈݇— themes: Dream Sequences. Dreams vs Reality. Fluff and Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Multiversal Variants. Soulmates. Enemies-to-Lovers (ish), Forced Proximity. Post-Thunderbolts.
part i ᥫ᭡ part ii ᥫ ᭡part iii ᥫ᭡ part iv ᥫ᭡ part v
Playlist
Angel Baby - Troye Sivan
Dancing In The Flames - The Weeknd
Die With A Smile - Bruno Mars, Lady Gaga
Dreaming of You - Selena
How To Save A Life - The Fray
In The Stars - Benson Boone
It'll Be Okay - Shawn Mendez
Kiss it Better - Rihanna
Power - Little Mix
Symphony - Cleab Bandit, Zara Larsson
The Night We Met - Lord Huron
willow - Taylor Swift
Wide Awake - Katy Perry
You Found Me - The Fray
Your Guardian Angel - The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
...Ready For It? - Taylor Swift
Summary: Three miles from town and a world away from the life she knew, she finds herself relying on a reclusive stranger whose measured distance and iron self-control may not be enough to resist the pull he feels toward her.
Word Count: 9.2k.
note: My first time writing a/b/o, let's see where this goes...
The bus stopped with a hiss of brakes and a cloud of diesel that made her nose wrinkle. Through the grimy half-open window, she could see nothing but forest on both sides of the cracked asphalt road.
"End of the line, miss," the driver called back, with a mix of sympathy and impatience that came from dealing with passengers who'd clearly made questionable life choices. "Town's about three miles up that way." He jerked his thumb toward what looked like a dirt path cutting through the trees.
She threw her backpack over her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her rolling suitcase. "Thank you," she nodded, giving him a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The doors shut behind her with a wheeze, and she watched the bus disappear around a bend, leaving her alone with the sound of wind through pine needles and her own slightly elevated heartbeat. The scent blockers were doing their job, but they couldn't do anything about the anxiety crawling under her skin. Her body still wanted to broadcast her distress.
Pulling out her phone, she squinted at the screen. One bar of signal, which was better than she'd expected this far from civilization. The GPS showed a thin blue line winding through an expanse of green, with a tiny cluster of buildings marked ahead about three miles away. She'd known it would be remote when she'd applied for the resettlement program, but seeing it laid out in pixels somehow made it more real.
Rural community seeks new residents to revitalize local economy. Housing is provided for qualified applicants willing to commit to one-year residency trial.
The ad had appeared in her search results like a miracle after two weeks of looking over her shoulder every time she left her apartment, checking locks twice before bed, jumping at every unexpected knock on the door, or at every unfamiliar scent in the hallway. David had made perfectly clear that moving across town wasn't far enough. Her rejection wasn't final to him, it seemed. The restraining order was just a piece of paper, a minor inconvenience he'd already violated twice.
This, though, this was distance. Six hundred miles from the city, accessible only by a state highway that crumbled into gravel for the last twenty miles. The old railroad spur that once had been the town's lifeline had been abandoned decades ago, leaving it too remote for casual visitors and too inconvenient for anyone not serious about staying.
Perfect for an omega who needed to disappear.
She'd sent in her application the same night she'd found the listing, attaching her tutoring credentials and a brief explanation of her work-from-home ESL teaching business. The response had come within a week: a congratulatory email from someone at the Town Hall, along with an address for a house on Willow Street, noting her keys would be waiting at the local diner.
Now, standing on the side of a road that barely qualified as such, breathing air so clean it almost hurt, she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.
The rolling suitcase bumped and protested against the uneven ground as she started walking, following the dirt path that the GPS insisted would eventually lead to civilization. Pine trees towered on both sides, and their branches formed a canopy so thick that the afternoon sun came through in scattered patches.
It was quiet in a way that her city-trained ears found both beautiful and terrifying. No traffic, no sirens, no constant noise of human activity that had always annoyed her but now seemed like a safety net she'd taken for granted. Just the whisper of wind through the trees, the distant call of some bird she couldn't identify, and the crunch of her footsteps on the road that seemed to echo far too loudly.
Every shadow between the trees made her pulse quicken. Every rustle in the underbrush had her gripping the handle of her suitcase tighter. She should have asked more questions about transportation. Should have planned better. The bus driver's casual "three miles" had sounded manageable in theory, but walking alone down an isolated path felt like every safety lecture she'd ever received coming back to haunt her.
After what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, she rounded a bend and nearly sobbed with relief. Ahead, placed into a small clearing beside the road, was a modest wooden building marked by a weather-faded government sign: Sheriff's Substation. There was a patrol car in the gravel lot, next to a well-worn pickup truck that looked like it had seen better decades.
Her steps quickened, and the wheels of her suitcase practically sang against the packed earth as she hurried toward the building. Whatever this was -a checkpoint, an outpost- it had to be safer than walking alone down an empty road.
The screen door protested with a rusted squeal as she pushed it open, stepping into the cool interior.
The conversation inside stopped abruptly.
Behind a simple wooden counter stood a woman in a sheriff's deputy uniform; her beta scent was clean, almost paper-dry. Across from her, leaning against the counter with his back to the door, was a man in work clothes: flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, worn jeans that had seen honest labor, and boots that looked like they'd walked through half the county. An alpha. His presence filled the cramped space in a way that was somehow unmistakable, but controlled, leashed.
Both had gone completely still when the door opened, turning toward her in perfect unison like she'd triggered some kind of alarm. The deputy's expression quickly shifted into something professionally welcoming, but the alpha looked like he'd been physically struck. His spine went rigid, and she caught the subtle flare of his nostrils as he breathed in involuntarily.
He was tall, with dark hair that fell over his shoulders and blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. When his gaze met hers, she caught a flash of something -surprise, wariness, hunger that was quickly crushed- before his expression went blank.
He cursed under his breath and angled himself away from her, as if he could block her scent from reaching him, but the damage was already done. He’d already breathed her in.
She was definitely on blockers -good ones- but something had spiked her adrenaline and cracked the chemical seal. Tiny, treacherous threads of her real scent were bleeding through the synthetic mask, threading the air like a current only certain noses could catch.
“Can I help you, miss?” the deputy asked, stepping forward with a reassuring smile. The name tag on her uniform read 'Ross.'
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, suddenly very aware of how she must look, travel-rumpled and probably radiating anxiety. "I just got off the bus up the road, and I wasn't sure how to get to town from here. The driver said it was three miles, but I didn't realize when I bought the ticket that the bus doesn't actually go all the way to town."
The alpha straightened from the counter, his scent of oak and coffee fractured into something harsher -fresh-split bark and a metallic thread like iron- but didn’t speak.
"You're walking to town?" Deputy Ross asked, raising her eyebrows. "Alone?"
The concern in her voice made it clear this wasn't a common occurrence there. And let's face it, it wasn’t common almost anywhere. That was the kind of scenario that made headlines for all the wrong reasons.
She shrugged, trying to project more confidence than she felt. "What other option do I have?" She gestured vaguely toward the door. "But I have to admit, I'm relieved to have found this place so I could ask for directions.”
The deputy exchanged a quick glance with the alpha, something passing between them that she couldn't quite read. The man's jaw had clenched slightly, and his hands, she noticed, had closed into loose fists at his sides.
"The bus route changed about two years ago," Ross explained apologetically. "The county cut the funding, so now it just stops at the main road intersection. Most folks who come out this way have their own transportation or someone picking them up."
"I see." She shifted her weight, suddenly feeling every inch the clueless city outsider she was. "Well, is the walk to town... safe? I mean, it's just woods, right?"
The alpha's jaw clenched visibly, and she caught the way his hands flexed again at his sides, like he was restraining himself from reaching for something. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough, looking at her as if she had lost some marbles. "It's not the forest you need to worry about."
Ross shot him a look that seemed to say 'charming as always,' but he was already dragging a hand through his dark hair in what looked like a nervous habit, or maybe an attempt to disperse whatever pheromones he'd just released.
Because something had definitely changed in the room. Not just scent, but atmosphere. The air felt heavier, charged, and her pulse stuttered in response before her conscious mind could catch up. Her body recognized what was happening: an alpha bristling, protective, dangerous, but also holding himself in check.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, and some of that metallic edge in his scent eased back, though it didn't disappear entirely. "Look," he said, fixing his gaze on hers for just a moment before it slid to somewhere over her shoulder. "I was heading into town anyway. I can give you a ride."
The offer hung for a moment. She could see the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to be fighting some internal battle even as the words left his mouth. This wasn't someone who made casual offers to strangers; everything about his body language screamed solitary, guarded, reluctant. But something about her situation had pushed him past whatever boundaries he had for himself.
"That's very kind of you," she said carefully, studying his face. There was something almost grudging about his helpfulness, like the offer had been dragged out of him by instinct rather than logic. "Are you sure it's not too much trouble-?"
"No trouble," he replied, a beat too quickly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Like I said, I was going that way anyway." His scent changed again, the harsh metallic edge fading as coffee and oak reasserted themselves, like he was deliberately putting himself back under control.
Ross watched the exchange with barely concealed fascination, her gaze ping-ponging between them like she was witnessing something they hadn't quite figured out yet. "Bucky's good people," she offered, apparently sensing the other woman's hesitation. "You'll be safe with him."
Bucky -so that was his name- shot Ross a look that might have been grateful or annoyed, it was hard to tell.
"I'm Deputy María Ross, by the way," the woman said, extending her hand with a professional smile. "And you are?"
She thanked her, shaking the offered hand and introducing herself by name.
"Nice to meet you," Ross said with a smile, then pointed her thumb toward the alpha. "And this charming specimen is James Barnes, but everyone calls him Bucky."
"Not everyone," Bucky muttered under his breath, though there was no real irritation in it.
Ross rolled her eyes. "Fine, everyone who actually talks to you calls you Bucky." She turned back to her with a grin. "He's particular about these things."
She caught the flush that crept up Bucky's neck at the gentle ribbing, the way his jaw flexed like he wasn't entirely sure how to handle being the center of attention. Something about that embarrassment made him seem less intimidating, despite the way his presence still dominated the small space.
"Truck's outside," he announced abruptly, gesturing toward the door like he was ready to escape this particular social interaction. "Just need to finish up here first." He glanced meaningfully at Ross, who immediately started patting down her uniform pockets.
"Right," she said, counting some bills and giving them to him. "Thanks for the delivery."
Bucky pocketed the cash and moved toward the door, pausing and resting one hand on the frame as he held it open for her. The gesture caught her off guard. In her experience, alphas typically expected others to walk behind them, not precede them. She glanced up doubtfully at him, but his expression was neutral; there was only patience in those blue eyes.
She nodded her thanks and stepped outside, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight.
Up close, his truck was exactly what it looked like: a working vehicle that had seen years of hard use, with scratched paint and a bed that showed evidence of hauling everything from lumber to tools. It was clean, though, and well-maintained despite its age.
He moved around to the passenger side and reached for the handle, and something almost sheepish crossed his features.
"Fair warning," he said, his voice carrying a hint of embarrassment that made her omega instincts perk with interest. "She's temperamental. The handle needs persuading."
She watched, transfixed, as his large hand wrapped around the chrome, giving it an upward twist. The muscles in his forearm flexed beneath the rolled sleeves of his flannel, and the door opened with a reluctant groan.
"Thank you," she said, accepting his help getting her suitcase positioned and climbing up into the cab.
The interior had the same vibe as the exterior, with a worn bench seat, a radio that looked original to the truck, and a faint smell of sawdust and something distinctly him.
The truck dipped as Bucky sat behind the wheel, and suddenly the space between them contracted to nothing. The bench seat that had seemed adequate now felt intimate, dangerous. His presence filled every corner of the cab, wrapping around her like smoke.
This was alpha, undeniably so, but not the brutal dominance she'd learned to fear. This was something far more treacherous, restrained power that ran beneath his skin, controlled but never truly tamed.
Her pulse hammered against her throat, and she pressed her fingers there instinctively, terrified that somehow the frantic rhythm might betray the effect he was having on her. The last thing she needed was for him to scent her body's traitorous response to his proximity.
The engine turned over with a rumble that spoke of good maintenance despite the truck's age. Bucky adjusted the rearview mirror, checked his blind spots, and pulled out of the gravel lot with the confidence of someone who'd been driving these mountain roads for years.
----
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the engine going and the crunch of gravel under the tires as they made their way back to the main path.
She found herself stealing glances at his profile when she thought he wasn't looking, the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands rested easily on the steering wheel, the slight tension in his shoulders that never seemed to fully relax. Her body reacted before her mind could: stuttering pulse, heat pooling low and insistently in her belly, the faint prickling along her back that screamed omega aware of alpha.
Bucky was acutely aware of every one of those glances, every subtle shift, every almost imperceptible inhale of hers, though he kept his eyes firmly on the road. The confined space of the truck cab was playing havoc with his concentration. Her scent was there, faint but present despite what she was using, and it was... distracting. Sweet, warm, like caramelized almonds with an undertone that was traveling directly to his groin, an instinct he'd spent years learning to ignore.
He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw clenched as he inhaled carefully, trying to taste less, to control himself more.
This was exactly why he avoided situations like this. Why he lived alone, worked alone, and kept his distance from anyone who might trigger the part of him he'd spent decades learning to suppress. Because his body didn't give a damn about appropriate boundaries or the fact that she was a complete stranger who probably wanted nothing more than a ride to town. And he hated not being in control.
----
She wasn't sure if she should fill the quiet or let it be. In the city, silence in a car with a stranger -especially an alpha- would have felt like a threat waiting to materialize. But this felt different somehow. Not precisely uncomfortable, but... charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
The truck hit a small pothole, and she had to grip the door handle, sliding a fraction closer on the bench seat. The motion brought her a few inches closer to him, and she caught another wave of his scent that made her omega hindbrain purr with dangerous satisfaction.
Fuck.
Bucky's knuckles went white on the steering wheel as she shifted closer, and he had to force himself not to flinch visibly. Every instinct he possessed was howling at him to pull over, to crowd her against the door, and-
He cleared his throat roughly, more to give himself something to do than because he needed to. "Road gets better once we hit the main stretch," he muttered in a gruff tone.
She let out a soft chuckle, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "Now I understand why the bus doesn't want to come down this road."
The sound of her laugh did something to the tight knot in his stomach, loosening it just enough that he could breathe a little easier. He glanced at her briefly, catching the hint of a smile on her lips before looking back at the road.
She saw the opening his comment had created as a chance to start a real conversation, but found herself at a loss for what to say. What did you talk about with a stranger who'd just rescued you from a three-mile walk through the woods? Especially when that stranger was an alpha whose presence was doing interesting things to her usually composed nature.
After a moment of internal debate, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a food container. "I made these for the trip," she said, opening it to reveal several neatly cut brownies. "Would you like one? Take it as a thank you."
The smell hit the cab immediately, rich chocolate and nuts, with a hint of something that might have been espresso. Homemade, definitely, and a thousand times better than anything that had ever crossed the threshold of his truck.
Bucky's hands pressed on the wheel again, but for a different reason this time. The gesture was so... domestic. Thoughtful. The kind of thing that spoke of someone who planned, who nurtured. It made his chest hurt with something close to homesickness, to long for things he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve to want. He was too tired, too broken for this.
"Not necessary," he said, and it came out harsher than he'd intended.
Her smile faltered slightly, and she closed the container with careful movements, making herself smaller against the passenger door like she was trying to disappear into the upholstery.
He caught her reaction from the corner of his eye, the way she slightly pulled back toward the far edge of the bench seat, and something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach. It wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t get his shit together long enough to accept a simple act of kindness without making it weird.
"…but I want one," he added quickly, softer this time. "They smell good, thank you."
Her gaze widened and her smile returned, warmer this time, as she reopened the container and carefully selected one of the brownies. "I'm sorry, I don't have any napkins," she said, holding it out to him in her palm.
Bucky nearly huffed with amusement at the apology. As if he'd be bothered by the lack of a fucking napkin when he spent his days covered in sawdust and tree sap. The concern was so unnecessarily considerate that it was almost painful.
He took his eyes off the road for just a moment, reaching over to take the brownie from her outstretched hand. His fingers brushed briefly against her palm -warm, soft, inviting- before he pulled back and immediately took a bite.
The flavor was a revelation. Rich, dark chocolate with just enough sweetness, and there was definitely espresso in there. His eyes closed briefly, a small involuntary tilt of his head as he savored it, and he couldn't quite suppress the low sound of appreciation that rumbled in his chest. A faint trace of her scent reached him in the process, wrapped in sugar, testing his restraint like a whispered challenge.
"Fuck," he muttered around the bite, then caught himself. "Sorry. This is... really good." He glanced at her, something almost shy flashing across his features. "Give me a couple more of these and we'll call the ride even."
The praise hit her like a shot of dopamine. Something warm and bright bloomed in her chest. Not just satisfaction, but that deeper, more dangerous pride that made her want to preen, to bask in having pleased him, having provided something he genuinely enjoyed.
The realization made her stomach twist with irritation at herself. She knew what this was: her omega side rising to the surface, desperate to please and provide and earn approval through care and feeding.
The internal conflict must have shown on her face because Bucky shot her another glance, this one longer and more concerned. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly, forcing a smile and pushing the container toward him. "Help yourself. I made way too many anyway."
----
The road improved as he'd promised, the packed dirt giving way to cracked but serviceable asphalt as they approached the outskirts of town. She could see buildings now through the trees, a water tower, the peaked roofs of houses, a church steeple rising above the canopy.
"So where are you staying?" he asked, taking another brownie from the container now balanced on the seat between them.
"One of the houses on Willow Street," she replied, pulling up the address on her phone. "Part of the resettlement program."
Bucky glanced sideways, but he didn't say anything. Just nodded and slightly worked his jaw as if he was chewing on words he wasn't sure he should say.
The ad hadn't exactly lied about the housing, but it had definitely been generous with the truth about the condition of those houses. Some of them were decent enough, livable with a little work. Others... well, others needed more than a little work.
He pulled up to a modest diner where her keys were waiting, its peeling paint and sun-faded sign somehow made welcoming by the rich scent of coffee and fresh bread drifting through the screen door. Inside, the place was empty except for a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and flour-dusted hands who handed over the keys with a smile that seemed genuinely warm.
Back in the truck, he navigated through the quiet streets until they reached her new neighborhood.
When they stopped in front of her new house, she stepped out first, taking in the small, weathered building. It wasn’t terrible. Not a paradise, certainly, but with a little care it could be home. She turned back toward the truck, offering him a tentative smile. "Well, this is it."
But he was staring at the house with narrowed eyes, his expression darkening by the second. "They seriously expect an omega to settle in here?"
In the city, she'd been able to pass as beta without question, blending into crowds, her blockers working flawlessly to mask the telltale markers. How the hell had he-?
Bucky caught the change in her scent immediately -charged with panic now- and cursed under his breath.
"How..." she started, then had to clear her throat. "How did you know?"
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. "Whatever you were using back in the city probably worked fine," he said carefully, like he was picking his way through a minefield. "But out here? No crowds, no constant background noise of a hundred different scents mixing together. Everything stands out more clearly."
He paused, watching her shoulders tense. “And… well, being nervous about arriving somewhere new… that doesn’t exactly help keep things hidden.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment, and something dangerously close to panic. Her scent blockers had been military grade and expensive as hell. If they were failing her now...
She was going to need to find a local physician. Fast.
Bucky caught the way her fingers flexed on the strap of her backpack and felt the inexplicable urge to soothe her before he could stop himself.
“Hey,” he said quietly, “You’ll be fine. Just- try not to get too worked up. The quiet out here, the clean air… that's part of why everything's more obvious. But the other part..." He hesitated, brushing his thumb over a callus on his palm like he was trying to wear it down. "It's me. I've been trained to pick up on things most people miss. Even if you were drowning in blockers, I'd probably still know."
“Trained for what?”
He glanced at her, then at the shabby house, then down at his hands, where his thumb kept working that same spot on his palm.
“Retired military,” he said at last, almost grudgingly, as though the words tasted bitter.
She took a small step closer, something shifting in her expression. Recognition, maybe respect. "Thank you for your service."
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He shook his head once, sharp and dismissive. “Don’t. I don’t deserve that.”
Then he looked away, focusing on a suddenly interesting weed on the sidewalk.
"I didn't mean to-" she started, her tone gentle. "Whatever you think you did wrong-"
"I'm not being modest." His voice was flat, final. The kind of tone that usually ended conversations.
“Sorry. Wasn’t my intention to upset you.”
That word -sorry- made his stomach sink. There she was, apologizing to him when he was the one being a complete asshole. Again. His social skills had never been great, but years of isolation had turned him into something that barely resembled functional.
He shifted his weight, his thumb finding its familiar groove in his palm, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find words that he couldn’t reach.
"It's-" Nothing. He had nothing that wouldn't make this worse.
The silence stretched between them for a moment. He swallowed, glanced at her from under his lashes, and forced his attention back to the house. His hand came to rub the back of his neck.
"Did anyone check this place before you got here?" he asked, assessing the building with what looked like a professional eye. "Someone from the town or the program?"
“I don’t think so.” She followed his gaze to the house.
“Probably not,” he muttered. “The program’s bare-bones. They get the paperwork done, throw in some paint and make sure a key’s waiting, but…” His eyes traveled methodically up the roofline, cataloging loose shingles and sagging gutters, along windows that might not close properly, over steps that looked like they'd collapse under any real weight.
"But what?"
"Things like electricity, plumbing, heat… that's usually left for the new resident to figure out."
He cleared his throat. "Look, I-" He stopped, started again. "You mind if I- I mean, if you want, I could take a quick look around. Just to make sure the basics are working." The words came out awkwardly, like he wasn't sure he had the right to offer. "Won't take more than five minutes. But if you'd rather handle it yourself-"
She stared at the house while he talked, the words “electricity, plumbing, heat” unspooling a new list of worries in her head. From the outside, it looked manageable. Shabby but solid. But his tone suggested he'd seen enough of these program houses to know better than to trust appearances.
And then there was his offer.
Rationally, it made perfect sense. He obviously knew what he was looking at, and he'd already gone out of his way to help her. But the part of her that had survived years in the city by being cautious, by never letting her guard down completely, balked at the idea of inviting a strange alpha into what was supposed to be her sanctuary.
Her grasp on the strap tightened, fighting down the instinctive rush of caution. He hadn’t crowded her once during the drive, hadn’t used his size or his scent to push at her boundaries.
He caught her reaction instantly and exhaled slowly through his nose. He hadn’t even thought about what it meant to offer.
In his head, it was just a practical thing: to make sure the wiring wasn’t a death trap, or the pipes wouldn’t burst, or if the locks actually latched. But to her, to an omega alone in a strange town, with an alpha she'd known for all of two hours…
His gaze flashed to hers, then away again. He eased his posture back a fraction, opening his hands at his sides in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. “I’m not-” he started, then stopped, searching for words. “I don’t mean anything by it. Just… making sure you’re set up since I’m already here. That’s all.”
She finally turned to look at him. The strap of her bag was still trapped in her fist, but she read his awkwardness as honesty, and that gave her enough footing to nod. “If you don’t mind,” she said at last, voice calmer than she felt. “I’d appreciate it.”
----
Inside, the house smelled of fresh paint layered over mustiness and years of abandonment. She dropped the bag just inside the door and stepped aside, giving him room to enter.
Bucky moved, assessing outlets, baseboards, locks, and the slight dip in the kitchen floor, where water might have warped it.
She watched him, trying to look like she wasn’t. Some part of her -the practical, city-bred part- was relieved. Someone competent was checking the things she hadn’t thought of examining. Another part, -the more treacherous one- was warmed by seeing him doing it.
Some primitive part of her brain recognized the gesture for what it was: protection. Care. Strong hands turning their attention toward her space, her safety, her well-being.
She shook her head, as though she could scatter the thought. But her eyes went back to him. To his broad shoulders under that flannel, the dark hair brushing his jaw, the way his thick thighs flexed when he crouched to check the heater with his big palm splayed across the vent…
When he straightened, brushing dust from his fingers, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. “Everything… okay?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t betray the direction her thoughts had taken.
He gave a small nod, eyes still looking around the room. “Looks solid. Needs some airing out, but nothing dangerous I can see.”
He moved toward the kitchen sink and twisted the handle. The pipes groaned before a thin stream of brown water spluttered out, then cleared to something closer to drinkable. He let it run a moment, watching the color change. “Let the water flow a couple of minutes every morning,” he said, almost absently, wiping his damp hand on his jeans. “Old pipes. Clears the sediment before you use it for drinking or cooking."
She nodded, maybe too quickly. There was something about the casual authority in his tone, the way he didn’t even look at her while saying it, that felt oddly intimate. Like a glimpse into some alternate reality where someone simply took care of things without needing to be asked.
Next, he tested the window latches, checking that they actually secured. "Keep these locked at night," he said, demonstrating the mechanism with those long fingers. "Country air's nice during the day, but you've got wildlife out here. Better safe than sorry."
Her pulse stuttered at the word safe. She hated how her body responded to the subtle care threading through his warning, how watching his hands work the latch sent that familiar heat to pool low in her stomach. Provider, whispered that traitorous voice in her brain. Protector. Mine.
When he turned back to her, his expression was neutral, almost wary. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Force of habit.”
She shook her head quickly. “No, thank you. I- I wouldn’t have thought of half of that.”
He gave a small shrug, averting his eyes, like he didn’t quite know what to do with gratitude. “Yeah. Well. Someone should.”
She lingered near the counter while he checked the last window, fidgeting before she finally found the nerve to talk as he started walking toward the living room. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she began carefully, “since you’re here… I was wondering if I could ask you a few things about the town. Things only someone who lives here would know.”
“Sure,” he said after a pause. The word came out low, neutral, but his jaw worked slightly.
Inside, he felt the familiar tug-of-war. Half of him was already calculating the fastest route to his truck, back to the safety of isolation and routine. But the other half -the part that had been buried under years of self-imposed exile- was reluctant to walk away from the soft warmth of her scent in the air, from being looked at like he had something useful to offer instead of something to fear.
He rubbed a palm against the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Ask away,” he muttered, softer this time.
She caught the flash of something conflicted in his expression. Not impatience exactly, but wariness. Like he wanted to stay and run in equal measure. That in-between quality made her braver somehow, like he wasn’t untouchable as he seemed after all.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling a little, trying to keep her voice light even as her pulse sped. “It’s just… everyday things like where to get groceries, or if there’s a good coffee place. Stuff the brochures don’t tell you.”
Bucky exhaled slowly and shifted his weight. “There’s a market on Cedar, usually cheaper than the one on Main. But-” He hesitated, darting his eyes to hers, then away. “I use Granger’s on Main. Costs more, but they deliver once a week.”
Her brows lifted. “They deliver all the way up here?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed a thumb along the windowsill. “Good people. All betas, so you don’t have to worry about… complications. Groceries, cleaning supplies, pharmacy stuff. If you're not feeling up to going into town, they'll bring it right to your door.”
That relieved her in a way she hadn’t known she needed. The thought of navigating a small town's social dynamics as an unmated omega had been one of those background anxieties she'd been trying not to think about.
She nodded, saving the information for later. “That’s… actually really good to know. Thank you.”
Bucky shrugged, still avoiding her eyes. “Fresh produce's better if you go yourself, though. And don't wait till late Saturday, the shelves'll be picked clean by then.”
“Noted,” she murmured, smiling despite herself.
He stood in the middle of her living room, scanning the walls and the old radiator one last time as though making sure everything he’d just checked was still holding. She felt lured to the oak scent he exuded as he tilted his head while turning the handle, the faint smell of coffee swimming over the dust of the almost empty house.
She could tell he was already mentally half-turned toward the door. That needy part of her -sly, almost hungry- wanted him to stay longer. To keep speaking, to keep standing there looking too large for the space. But her rational side knew better. She still had a house to make livable and belongings to unpack. And, he clearly had his own life to return to.
She cleared her throat softly. “I should let you go. You’ve probably got things waiting, and I’ve taken up enough of your time already.” She offered a small smile. “Thank you for doing this. You’re a good neighbor.”
He blinked, caught off guard. Color rose at the tops of his cheekbones, something raw and unprepared crossing his features. Compliments didn’t seem to land easily on him; his eyes dropped to the floorboards, and his shoulders gave a tight, involuntary twitch, as if he’d been touched somewhere tender.
“I-” He stopped, gave the smallest shrug. “Yeah. Sure.”
She hesitated a beat, then remembered the container in her backpack. “Oh! before you go.” She pulled it out and held it toward him. “Take them, please.”
Surprise flashed on his features again. “You don’t have to-” His hand hovered over the container like he was afraid it might burn him.
“It’s the least I can do,” she said, pushing it gently toward him. “After driving me here and checking everything out.”
For a heartbeat, he seemed caught between instinct and politeness, darting his eyes between her face and the tupperware. Then he took it, carefully and almost awkwardly, brushing her fingers for an instant before retreating. “Thanks,” he muttered, low enough that it barely reached her.
She smiled and stepped back, giving him room to breathe, letting him have his exit even as something selfish and desperate inside her wanted to find another reason to keep him there.
He paused by the door, then leaned slightly forward, almost murmuring. “Weather report said it’ll get windy tonight… when you go to bed, make sure the windows stay locked.”
She nodded, caught off guard by the sudden, practical concern. “Got it. Thanks.” Her chest clenched, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. “You really are a good…alpha.”
His head snapped up, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second before he blinked, swallowed, and forced a careful composure back onto his face. But she caught the brief flush that crept up his neck, the way his jaw flexed as he processed what she'd just said.
She hesitated, feeling her cheeks warm. “I mean… a good neighbor. I know I already said it, but really.”
He managed a stiff nod. His posture relaxed fractionally, though the faint flush remaining on his skin betrayed that her words had affected him more than either of them would care to admit.
----
She sat back on the edge of the old couch as the door closed behind him, pressing her palms to her knees to calm herself. Good alpha. She’d actually gone and said it.
Heat crept up her throat at the thought. In the city, she could pass for beta. In the city, she controlled the script. Here, somehow, he’d scented her, and worse, she’d shown her hand.
The room held traces of his scent now, oak and coffee and something warm that was faint but unmistakably him. It shouldn't have been comforting, but it was. She could still picture the way he’d held the tupper in his hand and the small, unchecked pulse of pleasure he had exuded when accepting it.
She covered her face with both hands, caught between mortification and something dangerously close to excitement. She’d just wanted to thank him for being a good neighbor, for looking out for her. What came out instead had been something she hadn’t even let herself think yet.
And now she was alone in a half-empty house, with the wind starting to rise against the windows, and the echo of coffee, oak, and something dangerous swirling like a promise in the air.
----
Bucky climbed into the truck, putting the container in the passenger seat. The cab still held her scent, warm, sweet, nervous, now threaded with the little pulse of pride he’d felt when she’d handed him the brownies. And under it all, still ringing in his ears, the words she’d actually said, not the polite correction: good alpha.
He shut the door a little too hard, then sat there for a second, breathing like he’d just run uphill. Good alpha. No one had called him that in years.
He dragged a hand down his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt. He wasn’t even sure why it affected him so hard, maybe because it had just slipped out of her lips, unfiltered and honest. That honesty did things to him he didn't want to examine too closely.
The brownies sat there like an accusation. He shouldn’t have taken them. He shouldn’t have gone inside. He shouldn’t have liked the shine of trust in her eyes. And yet he did.
But the words good alpha didn’t just sit there; they hit a switch, dragging him back to places he'd spent years trying to forget.
He still could feel the chemical burn of the injection rushing through his bloodstream, a fever that stripped him of judgment and left only the instinct. A field tent stinking of blood and sweat, shadows of bodies moving, his hands gripping rough canvas, the taste of metal in his mouth. They’d called it a reward, a boost, a push for their finest specimen. The pinnacle of what an alpha soldier could be.
He didn’t remember everything that had happened afterward, not in order, not clearly. The memories came in fragments, violent and disjointed. But he had a pretty good idea what he'd done while riding that chemical high they'd pumped through his veins.
And sitting there now, he couldn’t stop the bitter thought: Good alpha. For what? For who?
His fingers dug into the muscle of his opposite forearm in a hard squeeze. The truck cab came back into focus, the brownies on the seat, her fading scent in the air. He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax before he put the truck in gear.
----
A week slid by, quiet and strangely calm. The midday sun shone on the gravel drive as the delivery truck rumbled up, coughing diesel into the air. She stepped out onto the porch just as two men in gray shirts started unloading the stack of boxes: the new bed frame and mattress she’d ordered, plus four padded dining chairs she'd chosen specifically for their comfort during long grading sessions. She liked spreading out her laptop and papers across the dining table, no cramped desk setup, no gaming chair aesthetic.
Since the encounter with Bucky, no one else had clocked her as an omega -No casual sniffing, no lingering looks, no uncomfortable conversation- which she privately filed under her small victories list.
Then came the fine print.
The men, polite but unmovable, explained that their contract only covered delivery to the property line; the liability insurance forbade them from carrying anything inside. She looked at the heap growing on her front yard -the cardboard-wrapped mattress, the slats of the bed frame, the bundled chairs stacked like dominoes- then back at their bland, apologetic faces.
“You’re kidding,” she said flatly.
“Company policy, ma’am,” one replied, already scanning his clipboard. They put down the last box, took her signature, and were gone in a puff of gravel dust, leaving her alone with the mess.
She muttered a string of curses that would've made her city friends proud, but refused to be defeated. The padded chairs were light enough; she could start with those, then figure out later how to wrestle a queen mattress through the doorway without help.
----
Bucky sat in a corner booth at the diner, with a plate of steak and eggs cooling in front of him. He’d already delivered three loads of domestic firewood and couldn’t put off the errand any longer: he still had her tupperware in the passenger seat of the truck. A hint of red tinted his cheeks as he remembered eating all of them in one sitting when he came home, like a starved thing coming out of winter.
He finished his food, left cash on the table, and went back into the truck. As he rolled onto her street, he slowed down, frowning.
The front yard was littered with furniture: a mattress still in its protective wrap, lying in the grass like a stranded raft, chair cartons split at the corners, wooden rails stacked in haphazard pyramids. From a distance, it looked like a campsite after a storm.
He narrowed his eyes and pulled over, letting the engine idle. He didn’t want to barge in, didn’t want to assume she was alone with all that weight on her. For a moment, he stayed behind the wheel, tapping the food container with his thumb, observing.
Then she appeared through the doorway, unwrapped the last padded chair with a cutter, giving the empty carton a small kick, and disappeared back inside.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t believe that Bill and Eric dumped everything in the yard like that. It would have taken them two fucking minutes to carry the boxes to the living room.
Before his brain could line up the reasons to stay in the truck and drive away, his body had already made the decision. The door swung open, and his boots hit the pavement. He slammed it shut with more force than necessary and started walking toward the house, scowling at the mess and clutching the container.
She stepped back onto the porch just as he was glaring at the mattress.
When she spotted him -tupperware in hand, eyes narrowed at the chaos in her yard- she felt a small shock of surprise, quick and pleasant, like static under her skin.
The blockers might be dulling her scent, but they did nothing for the rest of her body's reaction: pulse spiking, pupils dilating, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips before she could stop herself. She lifted a hand in what she hoped was a casual wave. "Hi, James."
He blinked, as if he'd been so absorbed in his silent fury at the delivery situation that he'd forgotten she existed. Now his gaze focused on her face and stayed there a beat too long. He registered every micro-change in her: the slight tremor at her throat, the fast rhythm at her pulse point, the catch of her lower lip.
Something prickled under the skin of his jaw, the old alpha reflex he hadn’t asked stirring inside him like muscle memory. He straightened, brushing his thumb against the plastic container, and cleared his throat before answering her greeting.
“Hey.”
He passed the container from one hand to the other. “I uh- came to give this back.” His voice was a touch too flat, like he’d rehearsed it on the way over. “Sorry it took a while. Haven’t been down to town much.”
She reached for it with a small laugh, the kind of stupid sound she immediately regretted but couldn’t stop. “No problem. I didn’t think you were going to keep it hostage or anything.”
He let one corner of his mouth twitch. "Getting settled?" He jerked his chin toward the mattress and scattered boxes.
“Trying to.” She blew out a breath, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sold my old stuff in the city. With what I saved, I’m… slowly filling the place.”
Silence stretched between them until he cleared his throat again, the sound rougher this time.
"Let me guess." His voice dropped to something dangerously close to a growl. "Bill and Eric had somewhere else to be."
She sighed. “Company policy.”
He raised an eyebrow. Sure. Company policy probably meant they were running late for their standing poker game at Murphy's. He didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he glanced at the mattress, at her hands, then back at her.
“Let me help you with that,” he said. A beat later, softer, almost grudging but unable to help himself: “Since I’m already here.”
She felt that familiar flutter in her chest at his offer, the one that made her want to say yes immediately, and also made her wary of how much she wanted to say yes.
"You don't have to-"
"I know," he cut her off, already moving toward the mattress. "But you're not getting that thing inside by yourself."
She opened her mouth to protest again, but stopped when she saw him crouch to test the weight. The flannel stretched across his shoulders, the muscles in his forearms moved as he gripped the wrap, and she had to look away before her stare became obvious.
"Okay," she said, trying to sound casual. "Thank you."
----
Working together turned out easier than she expected. He let her guide corners and hold doors while he handled the actual lifting; she steadied the mattress as he angled it through the doorway, pressed herself flat against the frame as he pivoted it up the narrow hall. When it was clear she couldn’t help with the heavier parts, he wordlessly took over. In two trips, the mattress and the disassembled rails were stacked neatly in the bedroom.
Once everything was inside, he stretched his back with a soft grunt and wiped his palm down his jeans, glancing at the scattered pieces of the bedframe. “You got a toolbox?”
She laughed under her breath, a little embarrassed. “At the moment? A screwdriver and a hammer. I assumed that whoever delivered the bed would also assemble it.”
Bucky threw her a look, one brow raised.
“That’s how it works in the city,” she tried to excuse herself, placing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, the corner of his lips twitched despite himself. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned on his heel and disappeared out the door.
A moment later, she heard the truck door slam and his boots on the porch again. He reappeared with a well-worn leather toolbox in one hand and set it down beside the stacked bed rails. Metal clinked softly as he flipped it open and began pulling out what he needed.
“This is getting more embarrassing by the minute,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m sorry for making you lose your afternoon like this.”
He didn’t look up right away, measuring a bolt between his fingers before answering. “I can afford to choose how I spend my time.” His voice was even, but there was something deliberate under it. “This is how I'm choosing to spend it.".
She stood there for a beat, watching him kneel to fit two rails together, at the easy way his hands moved over tools and bolts. Outwardly, she kept her arms crossed, trying to project a polite neutrality. Inwardly, though, there was a traitorous spark of satisfaction seeing him handling her things, the patience in his movements, the way he seemed to fill the bedroom without even trying.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep the pleased smile off her face.
He’d told himself it was just the decent thing to do; no one should be left hauling a queen mattress alone, and that was true. It was in his nature to step in, shoulder the weight, solve the problem. He didn’t plan anything beyond that. No ulterior motives.
But as he crouched to accommodate the frame, he felt a traitorous little pull. He could feel her presence behind him, quiet, watchful. He could smell the faintest ghost of her scent under the blockers.
And it felt… wrong, and at the same time dangerously right, to be the one putting her bed together, to be the hands that had carried her mattress, that had been trusted inside her space, moving her most intimate belongings.
He shifted on his heels, forcing himself to concentrate on the bolt in his hand instead of the way his pulse had kicked up. He hadn’t come here to feel anything. Yet, with each turn of the wrench, it felt like something deeper than assembly, a kind of claim his body understood, even if his mind didn’t.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his shoulders. This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be about him. But there was a low, insistent thrum in his blood at being the center of her attention, at being the one she'd trusted to build the place where she'd sleep tonight. He hated how much it satisfied something primal in him. Hated how it made him feel, for one reckless moment, less like a neighbor lending a hand and more like a wolf marking the boundaries of his territory.
She wiped her palms on her jeans and nodded toward the kitchen. “Since you've got this under control, the least I can do is make some coffee. If you want some.”
He didn’t look up from the frame he was tightening, just made a low sound of agreement in his chest. “Coffee sounds good.”
“Apple pie or almond biscuits?” she asked lightly from the doorway.
He paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. Apple pie or almond biscuits. For a moment, he just stared, his brain slow to catch up, like she'd suddenly started speaking in tongues.
“I…” His mouth quirked, caught between confusion and something that might have been the beginning of a smile. “Uh.”
She shifted her weight, suddenly self-conscious, wiping her hands on her thighs. “I bake when I’m bored,” she said, like it needed explaining.
He dropped his eyes back to the frame. The scent of wood, her voice offering pie, everything felt absurdly normal. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had offered him something baked that wasn’t out of a plastic wrapper.
He gave the screw another turn until the metal protested with a small screech. “I don’t even know what to pick,” he admitted, more to the wood than to her. “You choose. Surprise me.”
----
He caught the smell of coffee almost at the same time he set the mattress on the slats, the scent threading through the room like a hook. One last glance at the bed -trying and spectacularly failing not to picture her curled up there later- and he made himself step away, heading toward the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, big shoulders nearly filling the frame. “All done.”
"Perfect timing," she said, glancing over her shoulder from where she stood at the counter. "Don't just hover there like you're afraid to sit down. Come on."
He nodded and complied. She placed a mug of coffee in front of him, then turned back to retrieve a plate that made him blink in surprise: a generous wedge of apple pie, alongside three almond biscuits arranged like an offering.
He stared at it longer than was probably polite. He'd told her to surprise him, but he didn’t picture that she’d give him both pie and biscuits, like some afternoon feast.
She caught his pause and the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “What? You told me to surprise you,” she said lightly, picking up a biscuit for herself with a small shrug. "I aim to please."
He let his eyes linger on the plate a moment, the aroma of warm apples and cinnamon mingling with the faint undertone of hers. For just a second, he allowed himself the almost illicit luxury of being cared for, even in something as simple as too much dessert and fresh coffee.
has anyone noticed that after the porn ban of 2018 tumblr was essentially killed from the mainstream and everyone flocked to other social media sites like twitter and meta. then those sites got enshittified to where twitter became Nazi Central and meta sites had an entire meme around getting “zucced” aka mark zuckerberg himself would ban you for saying a no-no word like fuck. and then the mainstream shifted to tiktok where infamous toddlerspeak sentences like “he got unalived by a pew pew” were born because if you once again say a no-no word like kill or gun or any other word that isn’t corporate i mean kid friendly then the algorithm will bury your post into the ground. and somehow we’ve come full circle and tumblr is now the most bearable social media site because although we can’t have female presenting nipples we can at least talk to each other like adults. has anyone noticed that at all or is it just me and the flaming skull
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