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Summary: Azriel doesn’t believe he’s deserving of her love, yet there’s a line between pushing someone away and being cruel, and Azriel doesn’t know where to draw it
Warnings: ANGSTT + it gets steamy but nothing crazy
Notes: Back from another bout of writer’s block with something that kinda took on a life of its own. There will be a part 2!
If the dying fire in the hearth was any indication of how much time had passed, the Inner Circle spent the entire night drinking. The sun would rise in just a few drowsy hours, dousing Velaris with its buttery light, wrapping the sitting room of the townhouse in ribbons of pale gold.
Velaris’ hardest working citizens would be awake early enough to see it– the farmers, the bakers, the teachers and the rubbish collectors– while their High Lord and his Lord of Bloodshed would be passed out like a pair of bums on the couch in last night’s clothes until lunchtime.
The thought made Azriel laugh.
She sat beside him, leaning against his side as the vibrations of his laugh went straight to her lower belly. She leaned back to look up at him and he met her gaze instantly. The thin strap of her top slipped off her shoulder with the movement, and without removing his eyes from hers, his nimble fingers slid the strap back up her shoulder but made no further move to leave her skin.
Her skin pebbled in response like she was the static to his looming lightning strike. Every touch between them was like standing on the precipice of a story so damning, so wild, it terrified her to let it exist unbound. All it took was a single push of courage. A single breath of wind toward an already wavering resolve.
But it never came. These boundaries that defined their relationship were elastic. Azriel pushed the line, she shoved it, but it never snapped. It was a delicate little art, but they were so profound at this dance that it was all they knew. As treacherous as their will-they-won’t-they was, they had to have derived some pleasure, even a little bit, to be able to sit there, in a room filled with their closest friends, drunk, flushed, knee to knee, skin to skin, and still call themselves the best of friends.
A tale as old as time. A game they’ve played for years. A song whose words they could sing in their sleep. It was all of it and none of it.
With as many drinks as she’d had, definitely three or four ahead of Azriel, she slanted into his warmth like a cat bowing its head into a tender palm. His arm draped against the back of the couch, allowing her body to nestle into his in the most casual, most friendliest, most normal of ways. The back of her hand rested on his thigh as she threw her head back in laughter at something Cassian said.
If he was any more sober, his senses would have snapped to attention at the contact, but he couldn’t bring himself to be so skittish now. He savored the touch, the weight of her hand against his strong thigh, and had to reach for his glass just to take away the thought of holding her hand there with his own.
“You’re staring,” She looked up at him to find his gaze already locked on her features, assessing, admiring.
“I am?” His eyes were dark, shimmering with reflection of the licking flames in the hearth. “You’ll have to forgive me if I can’t help myself.”
He couldn’t explain where he found the audacity to be so bold with a woman so beautiful. But her eyelids fluttered as she regarded him through her eyelashes, and her smile was so damning he suddenly couldn’t even remember what he’d said.
“You’ll give our friends the wrong idea.”
He lowered his drink to his other thigh, tightening his grip around the thick crystal-cut glass to contain himself, to contain the heat racing up and down his spine like a bucking racehorse. “What’s so wrong about it?” The side of his full lips curved upward into a playful smile but he was sincere.
Azriel was fanning the flames of a dangerous fire. Again, they were standing at the brink of something so dangerous, so perfect, either of them could simply push a little farther and everything could finally be different.
But no. They both enjoyed the strain for it was its own type of pleasure.
She tried to steady herself, but with the heat of the fire, the multiple drinks, Azriel’s body heat, and mostly her own fluster, she was burning up.
To break the intense stare neither of them could pinpoint how much time they’d spent locked in, he volunteered to refill her drink in the kitchen. As soon as his broad, black-clad frame disappeared behind the threshold of the sitting room, her shoulders drooped and she ran her palms over her face in frustration.
It was such a tease, this whole situation. Like a cruel little joke, even if they did find some sick indulgence in it.
When she thought about it– which she tried not to do too often– it was downright treacherous what they were doing to each other. All of this had to mean something, right? Two people don’t just touch each other on purpose, hold each other's heavy gazes in crowded rooms, for no reason, right?
“Where’d your boyfriend go?” Mor demanded, plopping down beside her where Azriel had just sat. The tequila sloshed over the lip of her glass with the heavy landing.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she replied with little conviction. As much as it was the truth, it felt ridiculous to say it.
“Everyone sees the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. He can hardly breathe right if you aren’t in the room. It’s not a secret, if you both are keeping it one,” she took a sip of her drink, repainting the bright red lipstick mark on the rim that became her signature. Sometimes she envied Mor’s effortless femininity, her languid sensuality, that poised her at the receiving end of many amorous advances and escapades. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t be as casual as Mor was. She needed commitment, stability, and unconditionality from the one person she would give her everything to.
Which is why, as much as she loved Azriel, he bothered her. It was more than obvious they were more than friends– the way they touched each other, the things they told each other, the time they spent together– there was no logical way to deny it. But they’d never talked about putting a name to whatever this was or committing themselves to each other. She was lucky enough to find herself in that god-awful middle ground, the foggy, gray, no-man’s-land that every non-committal male sought refuge in when things got even mildly serious. She couldn’t understand why it was so hard to move past this purgatory when it was clear enough to her that she wanted no male more deeply, more dangerously, than she wanted Azriel.
“We haven’t talked about it,” was all she said, suddenly uncomfortable. She loved Azriel, but it would destroy her if all this was to him was a “good time.” There was nothing inherently wrong with one night stands or friends with benefits, but there was when her heart was a part of it too. Suddenly, the thought that his might not be stirred the alcohol in her stomach.
“But you are having sex?” Mor asked, a little louder than necessary. She was no longer lounging into the couch– she was fully sat up, legs tucked under her body, and spine rod-straight with attention.
“Mor!”
“Okay, you’re right I didn’t need to ask that. For such a big, beautiful house, the walls are quite thin,” she chuckled to herself.
“What, do you think he’s using me?” She couldn’t be bothered to feign mortification at the revelation that apparently the entire house could hear the two of them sharing beds.
Mor’s face softened immediately, sobering slightly at the sight of her friend in visible distress. “Oh, darling. Azriel is a good man–”
“He’s very kind.”
“The kindest,” Mor pursed her lips, pausing for a beat, before setting her glass down on the floor beside the couch. She took both of her friends’ hands in her own, forcing their gazes to align. “But he is a male, at the end of the day. And they often think with their dicks first, brains second.”
“Azriel is sensible…” she reasoned, not sure where Mor was going with this.
That was a terrible lie, though. She knew exactly what Mor was insinuating because she thought about it every day too. Every time he left her bed, every time he touched her, every time he said something that just-friends don’t say to each other, she wondered what his intentions were.
In her reckless need for him, she’d abandoned all expectations, all reservations, and given herself to Azriel wholly. She’d closed her eyes and leaped. When it came to Azriel, there was no thinking, no calculating, and she hadn’t registered how foolish that might be until now.
—-
Speaking of foolishness.
That train of thought crashed and burned, a smoking pile of faraway fears, when his hot lips bit at the soft spot behind her ear.
“Azriel,” his name was a breathless sigh on her tongue.
“Tell me to leave, and I will,” he murmured, his voice a deep husk of what it usually was, the pitch reaching so deep into her that it pulled and twisted her gut into a tangle of nerves, raw and fervent, like matchsticks ready to light from the mere breath of fire alone.
This was so bad. She should’ve been embarrassed how easy it was to get here. Azriel brought her back a drink but she couldn’t finish it when the conversation with Mor suddenly left her sick to her stomach (but no less sober). She tried to get away– tried to remove herself from his proximity for the night by feigning exhaustion– but of course she couldn’t deny him when he offered to walk her upstairs, a hand on her lower back. Of course she couldn’t deny him when he followed her into the room, sat next to her on the bed, then looked at her with those deep, conversational eyes that said so much more than he ever did, a man of few words that he was.
“Stay.” she heard herself say before her mind could even understand what her heart had demanded first.
And it was all he needed to hear before pushing his body on hers and slanting his perfect lips over her own. The way they came together, the way their bodies fit, was otherworldly. Each time their bodies meshed it was so good it almost felt instinctual, like they’d done this in a previous lifetime.
He savored the feeling of their chests pressed against each other and his heart palpitated like uneven footsteps, frantically searching for hers to match. Sobered from the alcohol and now drunk off her taste, there wasn’t one part of him that would not give anything to have her like this forever.
She could have floated between worlds with how weightless she felt as Azriel’s plush lips moved against hers, tasting her and taking his time. It was sweet, and admiring, and a little desperate, the way they exchanged breaths and looked for each other through touch and taste alone.
Azriel clutched the back of her neck to support her as he slowly pushed her down into the mattress, never once coming up for a breath. She was the air he breathed, the oxygen in his lungs, what else did he need?
He anchored himself above her with a knee between her legs and a strong hand at her hips. One of her hands flew to the nape of his neck and tangled in his mess of curls there while the other hooked onto the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer, but popping open a few more buttons instead.
She sighed as he shifted peppering kisses from the corner of her mouth to the soft skin behind her ear again, arching into his body against her better judgment, feeling his strong thigh against her. Like a wave in the ocean curling up towards the moon, she sought to be swept up into his gravity. Governed solely by the intoxicating scent of the crook of his neck, she lifted her hips to feel his strong thigh again, to touch her chest to his. She needed more friction and he groaned with the knowledge of it, shifting one hand under her hips to prop her up against the thigh he moved closer.
Any inhibitions that reappeared between her sobering up after the conversation with Mor and Azriel kissing her tonight were discarded like dirty laundry somewhere far, far away.
This is right, she told herself over and over again, the mantra chiming like worship bells in her mind. Nothing wrong could feel this good.
“I can never get enough of you,” he murmured against her flushed skin, taking in her scent as if he’d run out of breath without it.
“Are you saying–” she pushed the words out between breaths of hot air, too afraid to waste time talking and miss even a second of this. “– you think of me? Even when we aren’t in the same room?” It was a teasing tone, but she meant every word. She needed to know.
“All the fucking time. I thought that was obvious.”
It was as if the confession ignited a second fire within him. Azriel carried the kiss from behind her ear, down the side of her neck, to her exposed shoulder and collarbone, daring to bite, as if to test her willingness.
She sighed as she felt his low groan against her skin, the vibration piercing down to her very bones, searching for his lips until they found each other again. His thumb found the strip of bare skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pants. The feeling of his skin there sent a jolt through her system. Azriel slowly pushed his hand upwards, bunching her shirt between his thumb and forefinger as he went. As his hands slid her shirt up her torso, he kissed the skin as it revealed itself to him, warm and soft like the petals of a summer flower.
With feverish need, Azriel brought his lips back to hers as his hand slipped completely under her shirt, softly grabbing her, wanting to feel her moan into his mouth as she always did when he touched her there. He held her like no one else could ever manage.
A brush of his thumb sent a jolt of awareness through her, like a splash of ice cold water to the face.
“Wait,” she breathed out, as if it took every ounce of willpower to stop him. It did. She didn’t want him to stop, but she knew he should.
Azriel’s hand slid out of her shirt immediately, and he lifted his head just enough to read her eyes. They were darkened with something he couldn’t place, and her eyebrows knitted so low on her forehead, it took everything in him not to reach out and smooth the crease between them.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I just–”
“Don’t,” he shook his head, fixing the strap of her right shoulder as he smiled ever so softly. “Don’t apologize.”
“What is this?” She blurted out.
Azriel paused, unable to follow. “What is…this?”
“I mean,” she sighed, frustrated at her sudden inability to source words and form coherent thoughts. She was doing this now, it seemed. “What do you want from this? You and I?”
“I want you.” Azriel replied incredulously, as if it was painfully obvious. He dipped his head to place a kiss on the edge of her lips and his hand slid up the plane of her exposed belly. Methodically, he pressed his thigh between her legs again, as if to remind her. As if she could forget, underneath him like this.
The sigh that escaped her lips was involuntary, but as quickly as she felt her need overtake, she tamped it back down.
Impatiently, she swatted his hand off and pushed her blouse down. “Azriel, listen to me. I mean, where do you see this going?” After some initial hesitation- “What do you see us becoming?”
Azriel shouldn’t have laughed. He knew that as soon as it escaped his lips and her eyebrows furrowed in response, but it was too late. He didn’t even mean to, his body only reacted to the panic it felt when she asked such a question, and Mother above, was he incredibly dense for that.
“Get off of me.” She deadpanned, pushing her hand against his chest.
She’d never felt more vulnerable. Underneath this man she loved like she hadn’t loved anyone else, to have him laugh in her face when she tried to bear her heart to him was like a terrible dream come true. One she’d convinced herself many times impossible of materializing.
“I didn’t mean to laugh–“
“Azriel, get off of me.”
She pushed against his chest again and he sat up immediately. He flexed his hands, suddenly cold from the loss of her skin against his.
She sat up as well, adjusting her top. “Azriel, I need to know if you’re serious about me. I feel like we always tiptoe around whatever this is between us, but I can’t keep doing it if this isn’t serious to you.”
She needed to know that he felt the same, or everything had to stop. Even if she could never love another male the same ever again. That’s the price she had to pay, she supposed, for loving so wholly, so stupidly, before she even knew if he was ready to do the same.
It was everything he’d been waiting to hear. Dreaming of, praying for, almost convincing himself that her loving him was only a fairy tale that existed for his indulgence, and nothing more. But fear was taking over him as well.
“Of course I enjoy being with you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Azriel ran a hand through his disheveled curls, shaking his head. Say the right thing. Say the right thing. Say what you’ve been waiting to say. But no. “Where is this coming from?”
“Why can’t you answer my question?”
“Because I don’t understand what’s changed for you, all of a sudden. You know how I feel about you, isn’t that enough?” He didn’t mean it- the question or the accusatory tone it carried. It was a valid question– he was wondering when she’d put an end to this. She needed more than just a physical connection to be truly fulfilled- she needed him to be the emotionally available male she deserved.
“I–,” she bit her tongue before the word love could follow. “I just need to know if you’re serious about me because Azriel– fuck I just can’t ever seem to stop thinking of you. The thought that I just might be a ‘good time’ and nothing more to you makes me fucking sick, because I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. So I need to be sure… I need to be sure you’re not fucking around with me before I let you have me. All of me.”
Azriel was stunned into silence. Completely mute. Words failed him. Grammar failed him. He could barely get a syllable out and he’d never felt more foolish in his life. The sight of her vulnerability dried his throat and shallowed his breathing. An absolutely terrible time to go completely dumb, he recognized that, but she had this effect on him– made him lose touch with himself, lose his grasp on reality.
Everything he’d ever dreamed of– really, it was only her he dreamed of– flashed before his eyes like a moving picture. The love of his life, the very same one he’d convinced himself would never love him back just confessed that she did. That she wants for no other male but him. All those years he’d spent dreaming of her, awake or asleep, of sharing a life were not so self-indulgent after all. Even with this revelation that filled him with such a happiness it made him nauseous, he felt it all wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
She was wrong. There was no way someone like her– as intelligent, independent, and kind-hearted as her– could truly desire someone like him.
Perhaps it was only a phase. They shared every single thought, and occasionally beds, with each other- she could easily confuse those feelings with something else. It was the only thing that made sense to Azriel, for the man could not fathom someone loving him of their own volition, with their own sound mind. He felt the need to protect her from the evil in the world, and in his mind, that included him. He would not ruin her, would not deprive her of the things he couldn’t give her. The Mother knew there was nothing in this world she wouldn’t have if she asked Azriel for it, but he just couldn’t give her this one thing.
But even that thought filled him with a newer rage. The thought of another male holding her, touching her, listening to her thoughts and secrets, another man protecting her, providing for her, loving her and waking up everyday with the privilege of getting to share this life with her. It made him want to crush the mountains that surrounded this house with his bare hands until they were nothing but powder on the ground.
Azriel couldn’t think about that right now, though. She could be much happier without his burdens, and he resolved a long time ago that this was the way he would love her. From afar. Even if it hurt him, that’s what you do for the people you love, he told himself.
He knew what he had to do.
So he shook his head, slowly stretching one leg at a time over the edge of her bed until he was standing next to it, leaving her sitting there with her shoulders slouched forward, eyes never leaving his. They pleaded for him to say something she wanted to hear, to confirm that everything they’d been doing these past years meant something. That he hadn’t led her on. It never came.
“You don’t mean that.” was all he said. It tore him in two to say it, serrated his irregular heart into messy, darkened halves.
She deserved better than what he had to offer. If it meant that he had to hurt her to protect her, he would do it. Azriel never claimed to be a hero or a villain, something in between better suited him, but he would gladly become the villain in her story to protect her. To make hating him easier. He saw the way she looked at him, noted how she told him things she never told anyone else. The details of her childhood, her day, asking for his opinion on things even though they had different tastes. He saw it now– she really was in love.
“I don’t know if she’s just being kind,” Azriel shrugged one day a few months ago, lounging in the chair opposite from Rhys’ desk.
“When a woman like that loves someone, she can’t hide it,” It was all Rhys had to say to confirm what Azriel already knew. Rhys knew as much as any of their friends did how she felt. Azriel did too. But his self-loathing was a cruel thing.
Her eyebrows furrowed and she sat up straighter. “Of course I do, Az. I wouldn’t make that up.” She reached her arm out, intending to take his hand in her own, but he pulled back and she too yanked her arm back in response, as if burned at the fingertips by his sudden aversion.
“It’s understandable to want more when we’ve already bared so much ourselves to each other,” He stepped backward. “But I see now that we aren’t on the same page.”
She saw the lie in his eyes like she could see stars in the sky. A bright, blinking lie. Of course she could, she knew him like she knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west. She just didn’t understand why he was pushing her away. But more than that, his rejection burned like acid in her gut, eating her from the inside out. The pit in her stomach grew deeper, hotter, as he backed up.
If she asked for the moon, Azriel wouldn’t think twice to grab it with his bare hands and pull it down to earth. If she asked for the stars he’d spend centuries collecting each of them one by one. But if she asked for him, all of him, his pain, his joy, his trauma, his hopes, he couldn’t promise it to her. He would not allow her to shoulder his burdens, to feel the pain he did. Because she would truly feel all of it. That’s the person she was and he could not let her put herself through that.
There was no easy way to break her heart, but perhaps making her hate him would be one last kindness he could afford her. This disappointment would just be one of many if he allowed her to love him, and she’d be unhappy soon enough.
“Azriel,” her voice cracked and she bunched up the fabric of the duvet in her fist to ease the burning in her throat. A telltale precursor of a breakdown, he knew. “I don’t understand. You said–”
“We both said a lot of things,” Azriel said simply, unable to meet her eyes. “But at the end of the day, they’re all just words, are they not?”
“Just words?” She furrowed her eyebrows, pushing the tears to her waterline as she did. “I pour my heart out to you every day for years, and they’re just words to you?”
“That’s not what I meant–” Fuck. It was coming out all wrong. Or maybe it was coming out perfectly– the more Azriel could fuck this up, the easier it would be for her to forget him.
“You are my best friend. But we’ve done things and told each other things best friends don’t. Why are you denying all these years of our relationship, Azriel? What are you running from?” She pleaded. Her voice was raw, throat hoarse. Azriel had kept her closer than the rest but still struggled with shutting her out when she got too close. In hindsight, knowing this about him, she didn’t understand how she could’ve thought this conversation could’ve gone any differently than this. “Just talk to me.”
Those four words were a last ditch effort, a final rap of her knuckles against his tightly shut doors, to be let in. They could just talk about this.
He couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted to say, even if she asked for it. So he resorted to hurt once again.
“I care about you very much, but … we are not on the same fucking page.”
Azriel watched her face crumple and she turned her head away, unable to keep the single tear at her waterline from trickling over. Angrily, she wiped it away.
“You’re an asshole for lying to yourself. To me.” The words were gritty and edged with grief. No one’s dead, but something that was once very much alive here is gone.
So maybe he did love her. But his decision, the resolve in his eyes, to live and make peace with the cowardice that told him to walk away from something so beautiful, she realized, he did not love her enough.
The conclusion hit her as if she’d flown straight into the side of Ramiel, ramming into the rock and tumbling down the face of the mountain uselessly until she was a pile of heartbreak at the bottom.
“I just need some time.”
“Get out.”
Azriel was silent, but made no move to leave. Suddenly he was rethinking everything, wondering if he made a grave mistake. In an instant, she was changed. The light in her eyes was gone, the glow in her skin had dulled, and she looked so very tired. When her gaze held his, there was no warmth, no recognition, no love. He felt like a stranger under her watch, and he suddenly had the feeling that he was intruding.
Azriel told himself that he was doing it out of love. That these are things you do, sacrifices you make, when you love as hard as he loved her.
“Get out!”
Azriel stayed for a few more seconds, as if he wanted to memorize her as much as he could. The sight of her hair slightly disheveled, looking absolutely flushed from his doing, with eyes and skin so unbelievably soft only inches away from his reach, would haunt him asleep or awake, dead or alive.
Then he was gone, closing her door softly behind him. The click of the latch solidified the finality of his actions. His regret would live within him– a living, breathing, hideous thing– forever.
If he couldn't have her, he could never love anyone else again.
She wanted nothing else in this world more than she wanted him to stay, to say he had made a stupid mistake and meant none of what he said, to get under her blankets, and hold her until the sun stopped rising, the moon stopped setting, and the rest of the world fell away.
If she couldn't have Azriel, she could never love anyone else again.
——-
Breakfast was quiet. Everyone was hungover and exhausted. Rhys sat at his chair, quietly making conversation with Feyre who kept going for another cup of coffee. Cassian slumped over his plate of eggs, but still made the most conversation. Whether anyone was actually listening was another story. Mor pretended to nod but she couldn’t care less.
Elain sat beside Feyre quietly, breaking apart a piece of toast. She spent the night in her room reading so she was far from hungover, but she refused to make eye contact with anyone at the table. It was strange, considering how much progress she was making with everyone, but bad dreams happened and the Mother knew she was probably having her fair share of them recently.
Amren was the only one sitting rod-straight, a book in her hands, sipping her special little drink from her cup. Rhys was more than kind to let her drink it at breakfast when there were more than one queasy stomachs at the table. Not that she needed his permission anyway.
The only person missing was Azriel. She felt his absence heavy in her chest. Not just from the table, but from her life, now, it seemed. She didn’t even realize Feyre was calling her name until the fourth time she said it.
“Hmm?” She forced herself back into the present, eyes darting to Feyre’s.
“Are you okay?” Feyre asked, holding her gaze.
Azriel’s husky voice asking the same question filled her head without warning, invading her memories and her reality once again.
She was not fine. She felt the ghost of his touch and breath, his familiar warmth, wash over her body. The way he looked at her as if she was the first time he saw anything in color.
She remembered his rejection, too.
Feyre called her name again and she snapped to attention, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”
“Some night you must have had,” Feyre chuckled.
“I told you Winter Court wine will fuck you up. You don’t know it’s working until it’s too late,” Rhys laughed, pouring her a glass of water and handing it to her from across the table. “Drink up everyone, we’re due at the Day Court by sundown.”
“Kallias has a very acquired taste, I’ll give him that,” she sighed, gratefully accepting the cold glass and downing half of it in a second.
“They need to stay warm up there somehow,” Cassian chimed in, ever the selective academic he was.
As the water cooled her nerves slightly, Azriel appeared in the doorway to the dining room and she was damned to hell all over again.
Everyone greeted him and even though he replied to them all, his eyes only sat on hers. The only open spot at the table was the one directly across from her and he sat, rigid and unflinching, unable to meet her gaze anymore from such a close proximity.
“Good morning,” his voice was low and aimed only at her. If she had any more energy, she would’ve laughed that that’s the first thing he chose to say after their conversation last night. She broke apart her toast with no acknowledgement of his attempt to break their stalemate.
“What the fuck is that?” Cassian’s loud voice broke her from her trance.
Rhys winced, holding his head. “Not so loud, we talked about this.”
“Az, you cheeky bastard, what did you crazy kids get up to last night?” Cassian’s eyes darted between her and Azriel, pointing out the dark mark on his neck.
“What are you on about?”
Azriel started, as if remembering it was there all of a sudden, pulling his shirt collar tighter around his neck and clearing his throat.
Rhys whistled upon realization and Feyre and Mor’s eyes darted to hers in silent awe.
She squinted at the mark, assessing. Did she do that? It was a dark, angry little spot that sat at the base of his neck, fresh enough that it was obvious it was made only a few hours ago.
With frigid realization, she knew she hadn’t done that. He’d kissed her neck last night, but she hadn’t kissed his.
She slowly looked up at Azriel for the first time that morning. His eyes were downcast as he poured his cup of tea. If she blinked, she would’ve missed his fleeting glance in Elain’s direction. But she didn’t miss it, and she quickly looked to Elain, who was red as a beet and hiding behind a curtain of her unbound, chestnut hair.
Cassian didn’t miss a beat either– he had a sixth sense for this kind of thing. “No way,” he whispered.
“What?” Feyre demanded.
Her eyes focused on the mark on his neck again. Maybe she did do it. She had a lot to drink. But no. They never left marks where others could see them. The angry little thing on his skin was amateur at best.
Small giggles sprouted from different ends of the table, but it was all a blur to her.
“Spit it out.” Amren demanded, but Amren’s eyes were on her, clocking the silent horror that molded her features rather than the surprise or amusement that defined everyone else’s
“Nothing. Mind your own business,” Azriel’s voice was thick and stern and nowhere as warm as it was last night.
“You and Elain??” Cassian cried in disbelief.
Forks clattered clumsily on their plates. The laughter stopped like someone sucked the air clean out of the room. No one moved, but she couldn’t even breathe. Elain?
Feyre snapped her head toward her sister, eyes wide. “What?”
“What?” Rhys echoed through bitten teeth, clenching his jaw, his gaze burning holes in the side of Azriel’s face who suddenly did not have the balls to return the look.
Elain shrugged sheepishly in her seat, gripping her teacup hard enough that her knuckles turned white. “When you feel that attraction, you can’t deny it. You understand that.” She watched as Elain finally lifted her head, staring doe-eyed at Azriel. A small smile graced her lips, shy and soft.
“Attraction?” She whispered in disbelief.
“Oh my god.” Cassian breathed.
“Cassian, shut the fuck up.” Azriel snarled.
She felt her heart stutter before it burst, like a glass vessel under pressure. Delicate, fragile, irreparable. Nothing could calm the wave of nausea that rose and fell in her stomach- if she was going to throw up, it would be straight bile and vodka, and it would be all over this breakfast table.
Breathe. She pleaded with herself to get a grip but she just couldn’t do it. Azriel sat in front of her, shoulders wound up tight, this time staring directly at her. His eyes were pleading as he tried to lock their gazes but she wouldn’t meet his.
Him and Elain was a mistake, one he made when he wasn’t thinking clearly at all, and one he regretted as he started and ended the night in her bed. But most of all, one he never meant for her to know of. He wanted to make their break as clean as possible, but this was more than he bargained for. This was just plain cruel.
He spoke her name once, desperately, but she barely registered it. The room fell away for both of them. He just wanted to get through to her, and she just needed to get out of there.
The flashbacks from all of their days and night that gave her butterflies at one point suddenly turned into moths– unwelcome, fluttering pests that tainted her memories of the years they spent so close, years building something so entirely untrue that it hurt her heart to reminisce for too long.
For him to open up to her and get her to open up to him, to then push her away, throw away everything she thought they had, to finally fuck another female right after, she decided she probably never knew him. Disgust flooded her and she felt like she needed to shower his touch from last night off of her instantly. She’d never felt so used in her life.
“Fuck.” Cassian muttered. Nesta and Feyre would not take their eyes off Elain, and Rhys’ eyes bore holes in the side of Azriel’s head. Cassian was the only one who looked at her. He watched her face fall, her mind turn, as the events unfolded. The regret that gripped his heart was crushing. He reached out a hand to her knee in a show of support but she flinched involuntarily at the contact and he quickly retracted his hand to a fist against his chest.
It was embarrassing. Mor was right, everyone knew how Azriel and her had felt about each other, otherwise this wouldn’t be so tense. And as much as she knew it wasn't pity that her friends felt for her, it was something pretty damn close because how could they not feel bad for her in such a fucked up situation? That sickened her more.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, standing up from the table and leaving the room as quickly as she could. The eyes of everyone at the table followed her out and she felt the familiar yanking in her throat before the tears pushed against her waterline. Last night already left her feeling so raw. To know Azriel had kissed her like a male deprived then gone off and fucked another woman– not just any woman, but Elain– made it hard to breathe.
The loud screech of a skidding chair came from the dining room and heavy footsteps caught up with her in the hallway. In a moment of desperation, Azriel grabbed her arm to stop her but she whirled around, yanking her arm out of the hands that had sent her to heaven and then straight to hell all in one night.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” she churned the words out through gritted teeth.
“I can explain,” Azriel replied lamely, immediately feeling as dense and useless as he sounded.
“I don’t care, Azriel. You’re a grown man, you’re free to kiss and fuck as many women in the same night as you want,” She didn’t mean it though, not after she laid her heart bare to him just a few hours ago.
“It didn’t mean anything, I– I don’t know why–”
“You don’t know why you went and fucked another woman after I told you you are all I can think of last night?”
“That’s not- I didn’t mean to-”
“You didn’t mean to fuck her?” She laughed, but there was no humor or joy to be found in her eyes. “Did you not mean to fuck me the countless times you did, then? Did you not mean to get so close to me, allow you to see me at my worst and my best? Did you not mean to just tell me those things you haven't even told Rhys and Cas? It was all a happy accident?”
“That’s not-”
“No! It’s not, you’re right, you did just say last night, more or less, all of those years we spent together, it was all just a good time to you. Right? Well, I guess you got everything you’ve ever wanted.”
She couldn’t be further from the truth. This was so much worse than what Azriel bargained for when he’d decided her hatred was easier to swallow than her disappointment. But now, regarding her sleepless face, beautiful as ever of course because it was her, he faced both her hatred and her disappointment. And now he’d hurt her in a way he never ever meant to.
“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.
“Not just any woman, Azriel. Elain.” She cried incredulously. She didn’t even realize the tears were coming until her voice gave out on the sister’s name. “Three sisters for three brothers, right? You never did let that go.”
“It would’ve been easier if you told me you didn’t love me and left it at that.”
“It’s not my responsibility to make this easy for you when it hasn’t been easy for me all this time. I’ve loved you for so long and I continued to even when I wasn’t sure if you felt the same. Because that’s what you do for the people you love, you’re there for them and you continue to love them especially when it isn’t easy.”
“I never meant to hurt you, I just thought I… I wanted to believe I-” he carded his hands through his thick black hair in frustration, searching her eyes for anything other than hurt and anger, but that’s all he could find. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“You were being a coward. You are a coward.” She spat. “You may not have meant to, but you used me, and you of all people know how I feel about that.”
He nodded. He’d turned himself into an amalgamation of everything that had ever hurt her before, landing his blow square into her chest when she’d come so far.
“You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve me.”
“That was never for you to decide, Azriel. These years should have been proof to you that I’d loved you exactly as you were, and it’s not your job to protect me from whatever it is you think I need protection from. I can handle it. I can handle you.”
“You can. I know you can. I’ve fucked up, truly and honestly, I don’t know how to make it up to you. Please tell me how I can make it up to you.”
He made a step toward her out of instinct when the tears rolled down her cheeks but she stepped back as if he’d shoved a torch in her face.
“Just leave me be. You said it yourself, we aren’t on the same page. We never were, it seems.”
He took her name gently, pleadingly. She dared to look up at him once more, but he still couldn’t meet her gaze head on. It was no use talking to him when he couldn’t even look at her.
With the new wave of tears she felt coming on, she turned in her heels and took the stairs two at a time to her room before he could see anything more.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s what she’s known all along. It’s exactly as she’d told herself all these years. It was never going to be you.
That did not make it any easier though. If anything, it was a worse pain to be proven right.
Anyway, there was no time to self-pity.
The Inner Circle had a cross-border trip to make today, and if there was one male that wouldn’t have a problem meeting her gaze, it was the high lord of the Day Court.
in which jungkook doesn't realize what he has until he just about loses it.
PAIRING grumpy jk x sunshine fem reader
GENRE angst, fluff, roommates au, college au
WORD COUNT 8.4k
CONTENT jk 20 | yn 20, grumpy & troubled jk, soft & overthinking oc, quiet mutual pining, jk outbursts at oc, trouble in roommate paradise, oc turns to her ex to cope, jk turns to substances to cope, marijuana and alcohol consumption, oc is grabbed roughly by a male w/o consent, fight scene, jk beats the shit out of a guy, angsty moments, cute moments, sweet and open ending
Jungkook groaned as sunlight crept through the blinds, slicing into the darkness of his room. The familiar clinking of dishes and your humming drifted from the kitchen, grating on his nerves like nails on a fucking chalkboard. He rolled over with a heavy sigh, pulling his pillow over his head, but it did nothing to block you out.
“Wake up, Jungkookie!” your chipper voice rang out. “We’re going to be late! I made your coffee!”
He clenched his jaw, muttering a curse into the mattress as he dragged himself upright. You were always like this—too cheerful, too energetic in the mornings. He never understood how anyone could function with so much fucking energy at this hour, let alone be so damn happy about it. His body moved on autopilot as he trudged into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
You handed him a steaming mug, that same bright smile plastered on your face—the one that seemed to melt everyone else’s hearts. And, yeah, maybe his too on some days. But not today.
"Here you go, Kookie," you said sweetly, placing the cup in his hands. "Figured you’d need an extra shot. I know you were up late last night."
Jungkook muttered a barely audible "thanks," taking the mug as he plopped down on the bar stool, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. His mood was sour, patience wearing thin, and though you kept talking, going on about some assignment or weekend plans, his focus blurred. All he could feel was the irritation bubbling up inside of him.
And then you said it. The one phrase that tipped him right over the edge.
“You better get dressed, Kookie,” you hummed, sipping from your own drink. “It’s a beautiful day! Let's start walking so we can get some of the sunshine—"
“Can you just not for one second?” he snapped, slamming the mug down on the counter, the clank of ceramic echoing in your little flat. “Every morning, Y/N. Every fucking morning, you’re just so jolly and merry. Like, it’s annoying. I can’t take it.”
The silence that followed was instant and suffocating.
Your smile faltered, the usual brightness in your eyes dimming as his words settled over you. Jungkook watched your expression shift into shock and confusion, then into something smaller and quieter. Your shoulders slumped slightly, and without a word, you turned away, focusing on the dishes like you could disappear into them.
Jungkook cursed under his breath when he saw the hurt in your posture, his stomach twisting. He wanted to apologize, to take it back, but he didn't know how. So instead, he pushed off the stool and retreated to his room, the sound of his footsteps heavy as he left you all alone in the kitchen.
The atmosphere in your last class of the day was painfully different from the usual. You sat next to Jungkook, but the banter, the jokes, and the teasing nudges were nowhere to be found. Instead, you kept to yourself, eyes glued to your notebook, only speaking when the professor called on you. And even then, your voice was so much quieter than usual.
Jungkook kept glancing at you, each look tightening the knot of guilt in his chest. He never meant to hurt you. It wasn’t your fault—none of it was. The stress from his deadlines, the sleepless nights, the pressure from work, it was all too much, and he took it out on you. But that wasn’t fair. You had shorter deadlines, longer nights, and two fucking jobs. You never complained. You still smiled. Still hummed in the mornings. Still looked at him like he could do no wrong.
But now, you barely looked at him at all.
When class finally ended, Jungkook reached out to grab his things, intending to walk home with you, just like you always did on Fridays. But when he turned, you were already halfway out the door, your bag slung over your shoulder, disappearing before he could even catch up.
His heart sank right to his ass.
For the first time in months, you didn’t walk home together. No light footsteps beside him, no playful nudges, no laughter bubbling up between the two of you as you made your way through the streets. There were no silly word games that you always roped him into, the ones he pretended to hate but secretly looked forward to. Without you, everything felt… quiet.
Jungkook shoved his hands into his pockets, the weight of your absence gnawing at him much more than he expected. He trudged back to the apartment alone, grumbling under his breath the entire way.
Jungkook sat on the couch, phone in his hand, staring grumpily at the “seen” message on his last text. He had sent it over an hour ago.
Hey👋 Where r u? Did u still wanna get takeout for dinner?
He glanced over at the cold takeout sitting on the counter, your orange chicken untouched. His own meal was getting cold too, but he didn’t care. The apartment was far too quiet without you there, and the empty seat beside him felt heavier than usual.
He swallowed harshly, flicking through shows on the TV, finally landing on Fire Guardians. It was your thing—watching together every Friday night, a tradition of sorts. But he couldn’t bring himself to press play without you. It wouldn’t feel right.
It had been two years since you and Jungkook moved in together. You came into his life through Jimin, the first person Jungkook met at uni. And if Jimin was a ray of sunshine, you made him look like a grumpy, moody cloud. Well… like him.
Living with you had turned out to be this strange, quiet sort of heaven, though you always acted like he’d done you this huge favor by letting you move in. As if he didn’t look forward to coming home every day just to see you.
When you first moved in, the two of you tried to rotate cooking duties. He remembered you sitting there, waiting for him to tell you your cooking was awful—which, yeah, it absolutely was—but he never said a thing. You called him sweet that day, and he could still remember how those words sounded coming out of your mouth. How they made him feel. No one had ever called him that before.
Now, he did most of the cooking, while you handled the cleaning. And on the nights he was too tired, you’d order takeout. It was domestic. Stupid. Amazing.
The apartment complex wasn’t anything special, just cheaper than dorms and close to campus. That was the whole deal—you guys were saving for something better, something bigger. You were studying to be an elementary school teacher, and he knew you were going to be the fucking best. Meanwhile, Jungkook was racking up his hours and experience as an apprentice at Modify, a tattoo parlor in the city.
The plan was simple. You’d both graduate, find a nice place close to the school you land a job at, and he’d find a parlor nearby. Easy.
Jungkook had never been good at making friends—he knew that. He could count the people in his circle on one hand and still have fingers left. It wasn’t a mystery to him why that was. People didn’t get close because he didn’t let them. He knew the way he came accross; closed off, intimidating. But somehow you managed to slip right past all of that.
You, however, were the complete fucking opposite. Everyone knew you. Everyone loved you. It didn’t matter where you were, whether it was in class or working at the cafe, people just naturally gravitated toward you. You had this way of making everyone feel welcome, included. You were bubbly, outgoing, could strike up a conversation with anybody.
Jungkook had seen it a million times—how you could light up a room just by walking in. How you could talk to anyone, about anything, and leave them feeling like they’d known you forever.
But despite all of that, despite the swarm of friends, classmates that circled around you like moths to a flame, you always found your way back to him.
Jungkook didn’t understand it, not at first. You had everyone, you could be anywhere. But somehow, no matter where you went or who was pulling for your attention, you always came back to him. Even if it was just the two of you sitting quietly on the couch, sharing space without needing to fill it with words, you chose him.
He noticed it most when he’d get home late from the parlor. Sometimes he’d come through the door, expecting you to be out with friends, but you’d be there. Always. Maybe sitting cross-legged in his hoodie, scrolling through your phone or reading some article for school. Or curled up in a fluffy blanket, waiting for him to come home so you could say goodnight to him properly before finally crashing out on your own bed.
Maybe it was just your thing. Maybe you made everyone feel like they mattered, like they were important. But there was something different about the way you looked at him. The way you lit up when he came home, no matter how late or tired he was. The way you’d call him at the most random times just to ask what he wanted for dinner, if he needed anything.
It wasn’t the same with anyone else.
Or… at least he hoped it wasn’t.
Just as Jungkook was about to send another text, the door creaked open. His head snapped up, maybe a little too eagerly.
“Hey,” he greeted, his voice soft, cautious.
You offered him a small smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes, before heading toward your room. That was not your smile. Nowhere near it.
God, he's such an asshole.
“Angel, um, wait, please,” he called out, pushing himself off the couch. His tone shifted, softer now. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry. About this morning. I was just—”
“It’s okay,” you cut him off, turning back to him with a polite, small smile. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Jungkook. Um, I’m actually going out tonight, so…”
You trailed off, your eyes flickering past him toward the untouched takeout on the counter. His heart dropped at the sight of your lip gloss smudged slightly on your bottom lip, the way your eyes barely lingered on him, how you used his full name instead of your usual nickname.
“Oh,” he mumbled, his throat tightening. “Okay. To Tae’s party?”
You nodded quietly, turning back toward your room. Jungkook swallowed, trying to steady his voice.
“I thought we weren’t going to that tonight?” He couldn't stop the disappointment from bleeding through his words. “The new episode of Fire Guardians is out…”
“You can watch it without me,” you said softly, disappearing into your room before he could even think of a response.
Jungkook stood there, staring at the door as it clicked shut.
Watch it without you? As fucking if. He would never.
But then again… he was also “never going to snap at you,” right?
He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight it almost hurt. He lingered by your door for a moment. Then, with a low groan, he turned on his heel and made his way back to his room to get ready for Taehyung's party.
The soft sound of IU playing from your phone on the other side of the wall made his fist clench around the shirt in his drawer. That was your sad music.
God, he could fucking spew.
“Kook!” Taehyung greeted with his big, toothy grin, pulling Jungkook into a bro hug. “Good to see you, man! Thought you weren’t coming tonight?”
Jungkook shrugged, forcing a smile for his friend before glancing around the packed floor of Taehyung’s penthouse. The Kims were loaded, and this wasn’t even the most extravagant party Tae had thrown, but it still must have cost a few grand. Jungkook barely registered the lavish surroundings, his mind very much elsewhere.
“Change of plans,” Jungkook muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. “Have you seen—”
“Y/N?” Taehyung finished for him, a knowing laugh escaping as he shoved an unopened beer into Jungkook’s hand. He pointed toward the living room. “Yeah, man, she’s over there, with, uh…”
Jungkook didn’t hear much after that. His gaze locked on you sitting on the couch, leaning against Jisung. Your ex-boyfriend.
Taehyung must’ve seen the way Jungkook’s expression shifted because he didn’t say anything else, just threw an arm around the younger boy's shoulders and steered him toward the lounge.
As they got closer, you glanced up, blinking in surprise when you saw Jungkook. Your body stiffened slightly, and you sat up a little from where you had been resting against Jisung. Your ex, who had been mid-conversation with his friend Minho, glanced down at you when he sensed the change in your demeanour.
“You good, babe?” he asked quietly.
Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He dropped onto the free couch next to Taehyung, twisting the cap off his beer with more force than necessary, eyes narrowing as he stared into nothing.
You nodded at Jisung as you ignored the pet name, but the discomfort in your chest was not as easy to push aside.
You knew how much Jungkook disliked Jisung. He had been there when you were a sobbing mess after Jisung broke up with you, picking up the pieces when you couldn’t even function. And now here you were, sitting under Jisung’s arm like nothing had happened. You couldn’t stop the guilt from swirling in your stomach, couldn’t stop imagining what Jungkook must be thinking.
But you tried not to dwell on it too long. After all, you were just an annoyance to him, right? He didn't explicitly say it, but you know you. Always hovering, always seeking him out, always needing something. Maybe you were doing him a favor by being here with Jisung. If you got back together with him like he had been begging you to, maybe you’d finally give Jungkook the space he seemed to need. Maybe you wouldn’t be so clingy anymore. Maybe, eventually, you’d move in with Jisung, and Jungkook wouldn’t have to deal with you at all.
Jungkook’s gaze, however, was already dragging over your outfit. That little black skirt—the one that always made your ass look so fucking good. Enough of your thighs were showing that he could easily imagine sinking his teeth into the soft, warm flesh. His head tilted a little as his eyes trailed up to the slightly cropped flowery top you wore, rising just enough to reveal a sliver of your stomach. Jungkook watched Jisung’s fingers trace mindlessly at the strip of bare skin, and his grip tightened around the beer bottle as he took a long drink, forcing his gaze to shift to the floor.
It was infuriating. He didn’t know who he was fucking angier at. You, for sitting there with Jisung like it was fucking nothing, or himself, for caring about something that shouldn’t even be his problem.
Your eyes met his for just a second, and for a brief moment, Jungkook saw the sadness there. He wanted to go over, to ask if you were really okay, but instead, he looked away, taking another swig from his beer. You pressed yourself further into Jisung’s side, retreating into your own hurt.
Jungkook’s jaw clenched tighter, his knuckles white as they gripped the neck of the bottle. And when Taehyung leaned over, blunt in hand, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He pulled the beer away from his mouth and slipped the blunt between his lips, inhaling deeply. The familiar burn settled in his chest, a sensation he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the movement, saw the smoke curling around him, and your heart dropped.
He had been doing so well. He was eighty four days clean. It wasn’t that you had a problem with him smoking—you didn’t, but you knew what it meant to him to stop. His family’s long, dark history with addiction weighed heavily on him, and he had promised himself he wouldn’t let the cycle continue.
“Jungkook,” you said, your voice barely audible over the music. You tried to sit up, but Jisung’s arm was draped heavily over you, pinning you in place. “Jisung, I need to sit up, please.”
You tapped his arm, but he barely reacted, too engrossed in his conversation with Minho.
Jungkook didn’t even look in your direction. He took another long drag before the first hit had even settled, his expression cold and distant. Then he grabbed another blunt and lighter from beside Taehyung, stood silently, and headed for the door.
You didn’t think. You just moved, shoving Jisung’s arm off and muttering a quick apology when he shot you a confused look. You adjusted your skirt when it had risen as you stood and hurried after Jungkook.
“Jungkook, wait, can you slow down, please?” you called, your voice straining over the music while you weaved through the crowd. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you, but then he slowed, just enough for you to catch up. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge you, but he held the door open as you slipped outside.
The cold night air hit you both as you walked down the stone steps in silence, the sound of the party fading behind you. When you reached the bottom and sat down, Jungkook followed suit, blunt still dangling between his fingers, the end of it flickering weakly. He puffed at it, reigniting the embers before taking another drag. He gave a low sniffle, his tinnitus acting up like it always did when he smoked.
After a long pause, you reached for the blunt, but Jungkook pulled it away, rolling his eyes as he did.
Your hand fell limply back into your lap, frowning as he took another slow hit, his eyes fixed on the empty street ahead.
“So, you can break your three-month sobriety, but I can’t have one smoke?” you asked with furrowed brows.
“Yep,” he replied, exhaling away from your face.
Your eyes narrowed at him before you mumbled, “that doesn’t seem fair."
“That sucks.” He shrugged, finishing off the blunt before stubbing it out under his shoe. Without hesitation, he started lighting the next one.
You bit down hard on your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Why are you being such a jerk?” Your voice trembled slightly, and you turned away before he could see the tears welling in your eyes. “Are you really that sick of me?”
Jungkook froze, lighter still sparked in his hand. His grip tightened, the flame flickering out during the long pause. His body went rigid as your words sank in before he slowly turned to look at you.
You were sitting there, lips pressed to the side in that way you did when you were trying not to cry, and he wanted to punch himself in the fucking face.
God, he was such an asshole.
All he had done today was hurt you, push you away, and now here you were, thinking that you were a burden, that he was sick of you.
He wasn’t sick of you.
Far fucking from it.
But how was he supposed to say that? How was he supposed to admit that the thought of losing you terrified him more than anything? That seeing you with Jisung tonight had ripped him apart. That he couldn’t stand how easily you seemed to be slipping away, falling back into old patterns that didn’t include him. That all he wanted was to take you home, put you in one of his hoodies, curl up on the couch, and watch the new episode of Fire fucking Guardians together. Eat the rest of your orange chicken because you always insisted on getting a large even though you never finished it.
But he couldn’t say any of that.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he sparked the second blunt, raising it to his lips for a long, angry drag. The silence between you stretched heavily and painful. Then he saw it—the tears finally spilling over, running freely down your cheeks.
You pulled your phone from your skirt and started swiping through the Uber app. The glow of the screen lit your face as you sniffled quietly, your fingers trembling as you clicked to confirm the ride.
Jungkook frowned, pulling the stick from his mouth, the smoke lingering in the air between you. “Y/N, please don’t cry,” he said lowly. “And don’t get an Uber… I’ll walk you home.”
“That’s okay,” you replied shakily, wiping quickly over your eyes. “I don’t want to burden you more than I already have.”
You sniffled again, the sound breaking through the quiet as you stood up. “Um, I’m just going to grab some things and stay at Jimin’s tonight. Give you some space.” You paused, hand trembling as you ran it under your eyes, trying to pull yourself together. “If you’re… reconsidering us living together, just let me know. I’ll apply for a dorm next semester and—”
“What?” His eyes were wide, voice sharp as he stood up. “No. Don’t-don’t fucking do that. I don’t- I’m not—” He huffed, frustration and panic mingling as the weed fogged his thoughts, making it harder for him to convey what he wanted to say.
God, he was so fucking stupid!
He hastily threw the blunt to the side, the sparks fading as it hit the ground. He closed the distance between you in two steps, hand reaching out as if he could somehow stop you from slipping away.
“Y/N, please don’t leave. I don’t know what I’d do if you moved out. Just—please.”
You looked away, the embarrassment of crying making it harder to speak. “Well, something’s changed, Kookie,” you said shakily. “I thought I just caught you at the wrong time this morning, and I know I can be a lot sometimes, but… I don’t want to stay if you’re unhappy.” Your gaze dropped to the ground as you fought to keep steady. “I don’t want this turning into resentment. I can’t have you hating me. I-I can’t.”
Jungkook’s heart shattered at the sight of you—shoulders hunched, lip trembling as you tried so hard to hide your tears. He clenched his fists, hating himself for being the reason you were standing there thinking he was unhappy. That he could ever hate you.
You took a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair as you tried to calm yourself. “I’m going to go get Taehyung so he can stay with you. You haven’t smoked in a while and your tolerance is low,” you said quietly, turning to climb back up the steps into the house.
Jungkook didn’t move. He just stood there, heart cracking, feet rooted to the ground as he watched you walk away.
Five minutes later, you were almost back at the front door, a bottle of water for Jungkook in hand. You had spoken with Taehyung, asking him to keep an eye on Jungkook for you since you were heading home. He could tell something was wrong—he'd never seen you look this sad before, and it clearly worried him. But instead of pressing you for details, he simply nodded and promised to hang with Jungkook and make sure he got home safe.
Jisung’s voice cut through your thoughts as he walked up to you. “Hey, babe, is everything okay? I made you a drink and couldn’t find you… come back to the lounge?”
You glanced up at him, swallowing back a grimace. Going back to the couch with him was the last thing you wanted right now. At that realization, guilt twisted sudden and deep in your gut. You knew you were using him, even if it hadn’t been conscious at first. But after just finally letting yourself cry for the first time today, the reason for your actions had become crystal clear.
Jisung had been surprised when you texted him after your last class, finally agreeing to meet up after months of declining his advances. You’d gone to his dorm, made out a little, but when he tried to take it further, you’d pulled away and claimed you weren’t feeling well. You had agreed to come to the party tonight, thinking maybe it would help. That maybe it would ease the ache in your chest from feeling like such a burden to the one person who mattered most to you.
What Jungkook said this morning wasn’t horrible. If anything, it was true. You were too chipper in the mornings. But you had never gotten the sense it bothered him before. If you had, you would’ve toned it down. You thought he was okay with your personality. You thought he liked it. He said he did… He was probably just lying to spare your feelings.
God, you were such an idiot.
“I’m really sorry, Jisung, I just don’t feel well tonight. Could we try another night? I’ll text you later. I just—I need to lay down for a bit.”
You watched as Jisung’s grip tightened around the glass in his hand, his expression shifting from something concerned and hopeful to something much darker.
“Do you ever get tired, Y/N?”
The question threw you. You fidgeted with the water bottle in your hands, blinking. “I- uh- what do you mean?”
“Do you ever get tired of leading guys on?” he sneered, his eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “Pretending you’re gonna give it up, only to leave them hanging while you run back to your depressed-ass boy toy?”
For a second, you couldn’t believe what you’d just heard. That someone you had been in a relationship with, that you had cried over losing, could say something so horrible.
“E-excuse me?” Your voice trembled slightly, but the anger flared hotter than the hurt. “First of all, I don’t lead anyone on. And second of all, Jungkook isn’t—” You stepped closer, defensiveness spiking in your gut. “Don’t talk about him like that. You don’t know anything about him.”
Jisung let out a cruel, mocking laugh, shaking his head. “Please. It’s pathetic, Y/N. The way you follow him around, waiting for him to give a shit. You really think he’s gonna be there for you? That he wants you the way you want him? Wake the fuck up.”
“Fuck you,” you spat, stepping back, the bottle trembling in your grip. Your heart pounded as you turned to leave, but Jisung’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you back into him.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
“Let go, Jisung.” You yanked your arm, panic crawling up your spine as his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your skin.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he snarled. “You think that fucking degenerate could offer you more than I can?” He scoffed, his breath hot against your face. “Oh, please.”
Anger surged through you so hot it was blinding. Your palms pressed against his chest, and with all the strength you could muster, you shoved him so hard it even shocked yourself. Jisung stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the front door with a loud thud, and for a second, he looked startled. But then his expression darkened even further as he stepped toward you again.
You were about to throw the water bottle at him and make a run for it when the door suddenly swung open. Jungkook appeared, his eyes scanning the commotion that he heard through the door, finally landing on the sight of Jisung towering over you.
He didn’t think. He just moved.
Before you could say anything, Jungkook was lunging at Jisung, but Taehyung rushed in behind him, grabbing the back of his shirt before he could make contact.
“Kook, don’t—”
In his attempt to dodge your best friend, Jisung stumbled, his shoulder slamming into yours. Your footing slipped, and you landed hard on the floor, ass-first. A few girls who had been dancing nearby rushed over when they saw you fall.
“Y/N! Are you okay?” one of them asked, her voice full of concern as she grabbed your arm to help you up. She gasped as you winced, pulling her hand away and seeing the red marks forming on your skin. "Oh my god—"
“I’m okay,” you said quickly, shaking your head even as your voice wavered slightly. “I’m fine, really, Eunji. Thank you.”
Jungkook was there in an instant, shaking off Taehyung’s grip as he dropped to his knees beside you. His hands hovered over your thighs before settling there as his eyes scanned your face.
“Are you o—” His voice faltered, cut off as his gaze dropped to your arm, the bruises standing out starkly against your skin. His entire expression shifted, his worry morphing into something darker, something furious.
He didn’t speak, didn’t even blink before he was on his feet, turning back to Jisung with murder written all over his face.
Your phone buzzed in your hand, the Uber notification flashing across the screen
Before he could storm off, you grabbed his hand. “Jungkook, my Uber’s here,” you pleaded. "Please, let's just go. Please."
You could feel the tension in his body, every muscle coiled and ready to explode. But when you tugged at his hand again, his eyes finally met yours. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze flicking between you and Jisung, who stood there with that smug, unbothered look that only fueled Jungkook's rage further. But after what felt like forever, he nodded stiffly and helped you to your feet, intertwining his fingers with yours as he led you toward the door.
Just as you reached the threshold, Jisung’s laugh echoed behind you.
“Yeah, go run after your little bitch, Jeon,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “I get it, bro. I’d be all over that too. Tightest pussy on campus, huh?”
Welp.
Jungkook broke from your grip instantly and swung around so fast you almost didn't catch it. His fist connected with Jisung’s jaw before anyone could stop him, sending him crashing straight to the floor.
But he didn’t stop. Jungkook dropped to his knees, landing punch after punch, his knuckles splitting as they collided with Jisung’s face, the sound of bone crunching under the force of his blows.
You stood frozen, your breath caught in your throat as you stared at Jungkook straddling your ex-boyfriend's waist, fists reeling back before surging forward again and again and again.
“Shit, Kook! That’s enough, man. You’re gonna fucking kill him.” Taehyung was back, rushing in with a few others, grabbing Jungkook by the arms and trying to pull him away. It took at least three of them to drag him off Jisung.
Jisung was still on the floor, groaning in pain, blood coating his mouth, face already beginning to swell. You just stared, unable to look away, the image of his bloodied, battered face searing itself into your mind. Your stomach twisted violently as bile rose in your throat. Damn it. You were going to be sick all over the Kims’ ten thousand dollar rug.
Jungkook was panting, his chest heaving with the adrenaline and rage still coursing through him. But when his eyes landed on you, all the fight drained from his body. His heart dropped as he saw the look on your face.
You looked so fucking terrified.
“Y/N, fuck,” he whispered, his voice raw as he broke away from Taehyung's grip. He took a slow, hesitant step toward you. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t cry. Don’t—please.”
But, of course, you were already crying, hot tears slipping down your cheeks uncontrollably. You shook your head, your voice barely audible through the sobs that wracked your chest. “C-can we please go now?”
He nodded quickly. “Of course,” he said softly, surprised you still wanted to leave with him, as he reached out to take your hand. “C’mon.”
The two of you slipped out of the house, pausing to apologize to Taehyung on your way out. Tae just shook his head, the worry in his eyes masked by a small, comforting smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice gentle as he wrapped you in a hug. “Just get home safe. I’ve got a couple of the boys cleaning up Jisung. I’ll get an Uber to send his ass home soon.”
Your heart sank as you thought about what this might cost Jungkook—charges, money, a mark on his record that could follow him for years. It made you feel sick just thinking about it.
Jungkook must have seen the panic starting to take root in your expression because he gently squeezed your hand, pulling you toward the waiting Uber before you could spiral further into your thoughts.
“I don’t care about any of it,” he muttered under his breath as you climbed into the back seat. “Jisung’s a dirty piece of shit. He had it coming.”
He helped you settle in before climbing in beside you. As soon as the car started moving, the weight of everything hit you all at once. You leaned into Jungkook’s shoulder, your body shaking with quiet sobs as you clutched his hand in your lap. The sight of his bloody knuckles made your chest ache even more.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
Jungkook wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you closer. His mouth pressed gently against the top of your head, and you felt his warm breath against your hair as he whispered, “Don’t apologize.” His lips brushed softly against you. “None of this is your fault. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“This-this is your tattooing hand,” you whimpered, your tears slipping down your cheeks as you gently cradled his hand. “God, Kookie… I’m so sor—”
“Stop,” he cut in softly but firmly, pulling his hand away from your view before you could spiral further. “It's not your fault, and I don’t care about my hand.” He made sure not to get any blood on you as he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you snug against his chest. His face nuzzled into your hair, his hold on you tightening as you sniffled and leaned deeper into his warmth, your arms instinctively curling around his waist.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on both of you, but Jungkook kept you close, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your side as he held you.
When the car finally pulled up outside your apartment, you quietly pulled out your phone, making sure to tip the Uber driver 50% before you hopped out. You apologized profusely for being late, your voice soft and exhausted.
The driver barely acknowledged you, grumbling something under his breath that made Jungkook’s jaw clench in irritation. He opened his mouth, ready to snap back, but before he could, you reached back into the car and tugged him out by the hand.
“Give him one star,” Jungkook grumbled as the two of you made your way up the steps to your apartment complex.
For the first time all day, a small laugh escaped your lips. It was quiet, tired, and caught even you by surprise, but it was there. And it was enough to make Jungkook’s heart swell in his chest.
God, he missed that sound so much.
The apartment was quiet when you both finally stepped inside, closing the door on the loud night behind you. For a few moments, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just tired.
“Do you need to talk, Kookie?” you asked softly.
Jungkook nodded, leaning against the counter, eyes on you as you toed off your boots and lined them up neatly by the door. You straightened his Adidas that had been knocked over, placing them neatly beside your shoes.
“Later,” he muttered, pushing himself off the counter and heading for the fridge. “Needa eat before I pass out.”
You let out a soft laugh, your shoulders relaxing as you watched him pull out the takeout containers. He hadn’t touched his food earlier, and a frown crept back upon your face. You wondered if he’d even eaten anything at all during the day. Your schedules were different most of the week, except Fridays, when you had the same last class. Normally, you'd text him about what you'd eaten and check in with each other, but today had been different. You hadn’t even responded to his text this afternoon.
Jungkook glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a small smile playing on his lips as he noticed you eyeing the food. He had the same thought—wondering if you had eaten today. Without saying anything, he warmed up both bowls in the microwave, letting the quiet fill the space between you.
As the microwave hummed, you stepped closer, gently taking his right hand in yours. The blood had dried, but his knuckles were bruising, and your chest tightened at the sight. Silent, you led him over to the sink, carefully washing the dried blood from his hand. Jungkook didn’t argue or pull away, just stood quietly as you ran the warm water over his skin.
Once the food was ready, he grabbed both containers while you grabbed some forks and napkins and followed him to the couch. You both sat down, pulling the throw blanket over your laps as you settled in.
“We’ll wait until tomorrow to watch Fire Guardians, yeah?” Jungkook mumbled between bites. “Didn’t wanna watch it without you.”
You paused, your hand hovering over the remote as his words sank in. Your eyes lit up a little, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Okay. Thank you,” you said softly, warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of him waiting for you.
You flicked through Disney Plus, finally settling on Grey’s Anatomy. You’d both seen it a hundred times, but it felt comforting in the moment, something familiar. As you sat there picking at your food and letting the soft murmur of the show fill the background, everything felt a little more normal. The chaos of the night faded, replaced with the quiet comfort of home.
Jungkook ate quietly beside you, and every time your eyes met, he offered a small, reassuring smile, as if to say, we’ll be fine. You believed him.
Once the food was gone, you snapped back into practical mode. “Okay, let’s go,” you said, grabbing his hand gently and pulling him up from the couch.
Jungkook huffed but didn’t resist as you led him to the bathroom. “I’m too tired for this,” he huffed, dragging his feet like a child. “Can we sleep, please? Do this tomorrow?”
“You’ll live, Kookie,” you mused, rolling your eyes. “Gotta patch you up before we sleep.”
He sighed, slumping down onto the toilet seat like a sulking kid, but he didn’t fight you. You stood between his legs, grabbing one of your hairties and pulling your hair into a pony before gently cradling his hand as you began to wash the cuts and bruises once more.
He could tell you were being extra careful not to hurt him, the warm water turning pink as it rinsed away the grime, but Jungkook barely noticed. He just watched you, his eyes following every movement as you worked. The scent of your soft perfume, the feel of your gentle, smaller hands on his, the way your brow furrowed cutely as you concentrated.
When you finished cleaning his hand, you pulled out the pack of bright pink band-aids from the drawer and started sticking them all over his knuckles. It was almost comical—his large hand covered in far too many tiny pink band-aids. You stepped back, chuckling at the sight.
“There. All patched up,” you said with a little snort. “Just until we go to the hospital tomorrow, Kookie... Ah, gosh, that’s so sad…”
Jungkook blinked down at his hand, then back up at you, his lips twitching. “S’ok,” he muttered, leaning forward to rest his head against your stomach. He exhaled softly, his warm breath tickling your skin as he murmured, “Tired.”
Your fingers automatically slipped into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as you cradled his head against you. “I know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “Skincare, then sleep. C'mon.”
Jungkook groaned but stood up, letting you guide him to the sink. You both brushed your teeth, standing side by side, barely fitting into the small frame of the mirror of your tiny bathroom. Jungkook was taller than the vanity entirely, so his face wasn't visible in the reflection when he stood up straight. You always found that oddly cute.
When it came time to wash your faces, you pumped some of your cleanser onto your hand and offered him some. He took it, following your lead as you both washed up in silence.
As you rinsed off the soap, Jungkook’s gaze lingered on your face—peaceful, serene. Despite everything that had happened tonight, this was the most normal he’d felt all day.
He was in a trance when the words slipped out. "You're pretty."
Your hand froze mid-motion, towel now pressed to your cheek as you blinked in surprise. The corners of his mouth lifted into a soft smile at the startled look in your big eyes, and before you could say anything, he took the towel from your hands. He dried his own face before standing there, waiting for you to continue with the next step of your routine.
Your brows furrowed slightly as you processed his words, that stupid flutter in your stomach returning. Why did he say things like that if he didn’t mean them? Did he mean them?
You recovered quickly, blinking away your thoughts as you offered him a little smile, poking his stomach gently. "You're pretty too, Kookie."
Jungkook let out a quiet laugh, leaning into the counter as you grabbed your moisturizer. You pumped a bit into your hand, holding it out toward him like you always did, waiting for him to extend his hand. But instead, he simply tilted his head as he closed his eyes.
"Can you do it, please? M'tired..."
Your mouth parted in shock before you shook your head with a soft laugh. “You’re such a baby,” you teased, but yet without hesitation… your hands reached up to smooth the moisturizer over his face.
Your fingers were gentle as they glided across his skin, and Jungkook hummed in contentment, leaning into your touch. His skin was cool under your warm fingertips as you worked the moisturizer into his cheeks, his forehead, and along the line of his jaw. When his face shifted slightly beneath your hands, you gave his cheeks a playful squeeze.
"Stop moving," you mumbled softly.
His face relaxed, and you found yourself lingering on the task longer than necessary. But when you noticed that you hadn’t covered his nose properly, you whispered, “wait,” before grabbing a bit more moisturizer. You gently rubbed it into his pretty nose, your touch tender and focused.
When you were finally done, you pulled back and admired your work, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. Without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "All done."
Jungkook’s breath hitched slightly, his throat tightening at the feeling of your lips on his skin. He swallowed hard, the touch of your kiss lingering more than it should’ve. It wasn’t unusual for you two to cuddle or exchange small kisses, usually on the forehead or the cheek. He doesn't know why the kiss on his nose felt so… intimate.
Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, watching as you moved back toward the mirror, completely unaware of the effect you had on him.
He stayed still, his eyes following every movement as you massaged the last bit of moisturizer into your own skin, your face illuminated softly under the bathroom light. A comfortable silence settled between you before he broke it.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
You looked over at him with the prettiest smile—the real one, not the small, fake smiles you’d been giving him all day. His heart felt full. “Of course, Kookie. I like doing your skincare. You should let me do it more often.”
You don’t need my permission to touch my face whenever you want, he thought. But in reality, said nothing of the sort.
“For everything, I mean,” Jungkook clarified, watching the way your expression shifted slightly, a confused pout forming as you washed your hands. “For dealing with my moods, for always being there for me, for being my best friend, for—”
You spun toward him so quickly, water droplets splashing from your hands. You gawked at him in surprise, and for a moment, panic fluttered in his chest. Had he said something wrong? He hadn’t meant to upset you—
“You consider me your best friend?” you gasped, voice small as tears welled up in your eyes.
Jungkook froze. “Uh, I just—I mean, yeah, well—”
“Oh, Kookie,” you sniffled, closing the distance between you in two little steps, your arms wrapping around his waist. You pressed yourself against him, and it wasn't long before he leaned down, resting his mouth against your head, his hand rubbing soothingly at the nape of your neck. “You’ve never said that before. I’m so happy.”
“Oh,” he mumbled. “Sorry. I thought you knew.”
You tilted your head up to look at him, chin resting on his chest, your eyes still glossy but now with the brightest smile on your face. “Of course I knew, you treat me so well,” you said, your voice gentle. “I just didn’t want to say it out loud in case I scared you off or something...” You let out a small chuckle, your fingers gently squeezing his sides. “You’re my best friend too. I love you.”
Jungkook’s throat tightened. “I love you more,” he whispered as he glanced down at your face—your gorgeous, soft, perfect fucking face. His hand slid up to press your face back against his chest before he did something stupid.
His lips rested back on your hair, and he stayed there for a quiet moment, just taking in the warmth of you.
Oh, fuck it.
“You love me more than Jimin?”
You giggled into his shirt, your fingers squeezing around his waist teasingly. “I love you more than anyone in the world. Surely you know that.”
His heart soared at your words, bottom lip rolling between his teeth.
He couldn't help himself, okay... "And you're going to live with me forever?"
You glanced back up at him, confused at first, but then smiling at his almost shy question. He pulled back just enough to see your face properly, his thumb gently brushing away the lingering tear tracks from your puffy cheeks. He even swiped under your nose, ridding the moisture there too.
“If you still want me to,” you answered quietly, your voice soft and full of uncertainty.
Jungkook’s chest tightened at the doubt in your tone. How could you even question that? How could the most beautiful, sweet, intelligent girl he's ever met in his life ever feel unwanted?
Hmm… maybe because you made her feel like that, you fucking idiot—
Jungkook cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on your cheeks. “I was in such a bad mood this morning, Y/N. I’m so sorry I took it out on you—”
But you shook your head, your hand rubbing up and down one of his arms soothingly. “You’re stressed, I understand now—”
He huffed, his brows pulling together in frustration. “Don’t do that. Don’t make excuses for me being an asshole. You always do that.”
Your lips formed a little pout, and his heart ached at how easily you forgave him. “I did not fucking mean anything of that shit. You are not annoying. You are not too cheerful. You are fucking perfect,” he said, his voice full of raw honesty. “I’m the one who’s fucking impossible in the mornings, but you never say anything… I just—”
Jungkook sighed, brushing his thumb over your cheek again, as if reassuring himself that you were still there. “It will never happen again, Y/N, I promise. If I’m ever in a mood like that again, I’ll just stay in my room and lock the door so I don’t do anything to upset you.” He shrugged, eyes tracing over your face. “Simple.”
A small laugh bubbled from your lips as you reached up to hold his wrists gently. “You’re so ridiculous, Kookie.”
After finishing up in the bathroom, you and Jungkook made your way to your rooms to change into pajamas. You slipped into your usual sleep shorts and t-shirt, rubbing at your tired eyes as you padded back into the hallway to say goodnight to your best friend.
Jungkook appeared from his room at the same time, wearing loose sweats and a black tee, his hair still damp from washing up. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, his hand gripping the frame as he hesitated before speaking.
“Uh… can I… can I sleep in your room tonight?” His voice was soft, so shy and your heart clenched. What a cutie.
“Yes,” you beamed, grabbing his non-bandaged hand and tugging him with you into your room.
You crawled under your blanket as Jungkook slid in beside you, his larger frame making the bed dip as he settled in, pulling the covers up over you both. You curled up next to him, your head sinking into the pillow as your eyes adjusted to the dim light, tracing the faint lines of his pretty face.
“Goodnight, Kookie,” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep as your eyes fluttered closed.
There was a quiet shuffling beside you, the bed shifting slightly before his soft voice broke the silence. “Goodnight, angel.”
You barely registered the brush of his lips against the top of your head before you were fully drifting, his warmth lulling you into a peaceful sleep.
Jungkook lay there for a moment longer, his head sinking into your pillow as he exhaled deeply. The smell of you enveloped him, and for the first time all day, he felt his body relax completely, slipping into the easiest sleep he’s had in weeks.
summary : When the Ghostface killings began, you found safety in your best friend 𝓑𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼, only to discover the dark secret he hid.
word count : 16,8k
warnings 18+ : this is very very dark so please read with caution!!! college au, no use of y/n, porn with plot, inspired by the scream franchise, explicit sexual content, knife play, violence and gore, mentions of blood, organs, killings, stabbing, phone threats, oral sex (m & f recieving), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, masturbation, obssesion, gaslighting, verbal threats, coercion, dub con, degradation and humiliation
𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 : hii!! holy shit this got so long, my bad... wrapping up kinktober with totally unhinged ghostface!bucky barnes, maybe binged fresh and scream for some twisted inspo :3 huge thanks for all the love on my kinktober fics AND 400 FOLLOWERSS HOLYYYYYYY I LOVE YALL SO MUCH <3333
⤷ had to reupload this bc tumblr hates me and has been refusing to let me edit it for literal months
The campus lay hushed beneath the October sky, a brittle silence that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something unspeakable. Bucky moved like a wraith, his black coat billowing slightly as he glided through the shadows, the Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, mouth frozen in a scream tilting with each calculated step.
The knife strapped to his thigh, its serrated edge snug in a leather sheath, brushed against his jeans, a faint whisper of death in the quiet. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a cold contrast to the warmth of the thrill coursing through him, familiar and intoxicating. The air tonight reeked of fear and desire, sharp with the decay of fallen leaves and the promise of blood.
Jake had no clue Bucky was coming. He shouldn’t have.
Bucky had been watching him for days, stalking from the edges of campus life, noting every stolen glance Jake aimed at you, every laugh he shared with you in the cafeteria, every “accidental” graze of his hand against your shoulder in the crowded lecture halls.
Each moment was a trespass, a violation that clawed at Bucky’s insides. You, with your sweet, oblivious smile, thought nothing of it, your innocence was what made you his, what made you perfect. But Bucky saw through Jake’s charade.
He knew the rot behind those easy smirks, the hunger in those lingering stares. Worst of all, he’d overheard Jake at lunch, his voice low and smug as he bragged to his friends about what he’d do to you if he got you alone, filthy fantasies of cornering you, making you his in ways that made Bucky’s blood boil.
That was it. That was more than Bucky could stomach.
You were his best friend. His doll. His. Nobody else got to think of you like that. Nobody else got to breathe near you with that kind of intent. Nobody… but him.
Jake’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the sickly glow of a desk lamp and the faint pulse of music leaking from his oversized headphones, some generic trap beat that drowned out the world. He was sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the Ghostface mask peering through the cracked window, its black eyes fixed on him from the shadows.
Bucky’s hands, one flesh and one metal, tingled with the cold, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except you, keeping you safe, keeping you his.
He dialed Jake’s number first. Part of the game. Part of the ritual that made his pulse sing. The burner phone’s ringtone cut through the muffled music like a knife through flesh, and Jake jolted upright, fumbling for his phone.
“Hello?” His voice was shaky, already threaded with unease. Perfect.
“What’s your favorite scary movie?” Bucky rasped, his voice distorted through the modulator he’d rigged, low and menacing. The words carried a mocking lilt, anger and dark amusement bleeding into every syllable.
Jake forced a laugh, rubbing his neck, trying to play it cool. “Uh… Halloween? Friday the 13th? Hey, who is this? This some kinda prank?”
Bucky’s lips curled beneath the Ghostface mask, his head tilting as he savored the tremor in Jake’s voice. “Wrong answer, Jake,” he whispered. “You’re in my movie tonight.”
Jake froze, his eyes darting to the door, but it was too late. Bucky had already slipped inside through the window he’d jimmied earlier, silent as death itself, his vibranium arm absorbing any sound. His boots barely touched the floor, each step deliberate, a predator closing in on prey.
The room smelled of cheap cologne, stale pizza, and the faint musk of Jake’s gym bag, but Bucky could already taste the coppery tang that would soon overwhelm it all. He dragged the serrated knife along the edge of Jake’s desk as he approached, the blade scraping faintly against the wood, sending a shiver of anticipation up his spine.
Jake was still clutching the phone, stammering, “Man, this isn’t funny-” when Bucky struck. In one fluid motion, he was behind him, vibranium hand clamping over Jake’s mouth, silencing the scream before it could escape.
The Ghostface mask tilted close, its hollow eyes reflecting Jake’s widening terror as Bucky pressed the knife against his throat, the serrated edge biting just enough to draw a thin bead of blood warm, slick, trickling down like a warning.
The first cut wasn’t meant to kill. Not yet. Bucky wanted Jake to feel it, to know who was in control. He drove the blade into Jake’s side, just below the ribcage, the serrated edge tearing through skin and muscle with a wet, ripping sound. Jake’s body arched, a muffled scream vibrating against Bucky’s metal palm as blood gushed, soaking his t-shirt, the dark red blooming like a grotesque flower.
The knife grated against bone as Bucky twisted it, savoring the resistance, the way Jake’s body bucked in agony. He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, blood spraying in a fine mist, splattering the Ghostface mask. The wall caught some too, Jake’s tacky posters of bikini-clad models now streaked with gore, as if they were bleeding too.
Jake’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, hands clawing at the wound, fingers slipping in the hot, viscous blood that poured out like syrup.
“P-please… I didn’t… I swear…” he choked, voice breaking into sobs, tears and snot mixing on his face as he looked up at the Ghostface mask looming over him.
The sight of it Bucky’s cold blue eyes barely visible through the black sockets, unyielding, merciless, sent Jake into a panic. He scrambled backward, knocking over a lamp that shattered on the floor, his heels slipping in the growing pool of his own blood. The stench hit hard now: copper, piss, and raw fear, thick enough to choke on.
Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching Jake’s pathetic crawl with the detached curiosity of a hunter studying a wounded animal. Adrenaline and obsession surged in his chest, a heady cocktail that made his blood sing.
“You thought about her,” he hissed, voice low and venomous through the modulator, each word dripping with possession. “You talked about her. You don’t get to do that, Jake. She’s mine.”
Jake’s hands scrabbled at the carpet, leaving bloody streaks as he tried to drag himself toward the door. Bucky stepped forward, deliberate and slow, savoring the moment.
He grabbed Jake by the hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale, sweat-slick column of his throat. The knife flashed again, this time slicing deep, parting skin and muscle with a wet, tearing sound.
The carotid artery gave way in a violent gush, blood spraying in rhythmic pulses. It dripped from the chin of the mask, pooling on the floor, soaking into Bucky’s boots. Jake’s body convulsed, a gurgling scream bubbling up as blood flooded his throat, spilling over his lips in a frothy red tide. His hands twitched, clawing weakly at the air, then went still, his eyes rolling back, glassy and vacant.
Bucky stood over him, chest heaving, the knife dripping in his hand. The room was a slaughterhouse now, blood smeared across the walls, pooling beneath Jake’s limp body, soaking the carpet until it squelched underfoot.
The Ghostface mask tilted one last time, as if admiring the carnage, before Bucky wiped the blade clean on the inside of his coat, the dark fabric swallowing the evidence.
His heart pounded, not with guilt but with a twisted, electric satisfaction. Jake was a lesson, a warning carved in flesh and blood for anyone who dared think of you that way.
He slipped out the window as silently as he’d come, the Ghostface mask tucked into his coat, his vibranium arm gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The campus stayed quiet, oblivious, as Bucky melted into the shadows, already thinking of you, safe, untouched, his.
The thrill of the kill lingered, sharp and sweet, but it was nothing compared to the thought of you, his pretty girl, forever out of reach of anyone else’s hands.
The next morning campus felt heavy, the air thick with a chill that sank into your bones. You gripped your coffee mug, its warmth fading as you entered the common room. Whispers swirled among pale-faced students huddled near the old TV, their eyes wide, phones clutched tightly. The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sickly glow.
“Did you hear about Jake?” a girl whispered, clutching her hoodie, knuckles white. “He didn’t make it.”
Your heart stuttered. “Wait- what?” you said, voice soft, the mug warm against your palm. Jake, your chem lab partner with the cocky grin, dead?
Her eyes darted nervously. “Someone called him last night. ‘What’s your favorite scary movie?’ Then…” Her voice cracked. “They found him… so much blood.”
The room tightened, the air suffocating. Goosebumps prickled your skin. You pictured Jake’s lingering stares, now heavy with his absence. Your gaze flicked to Bucky on the couch, laptop forgotten, his hoodie shadowing his sharp jaw. His eyes met yours, piercing, unreadable. A red cut marred his knuckle, raw and fresh.
“Cut myself cooking,” he said smoothly, shrugging, the cut vanishing into his sleeve. He stood, crossing the room, leaning close until his breath warmed your ear, smelling of coffee and something metallic.
“Just some psycho,” he murmured, voice a dark rumble. “College idiots with too many horror movies.”
You shivered, his gaze sharp, almost hungry, before it softened into a familiar grin. Unease knotted your stomach. His hand brushed yours, passing you your chipped mug, your spare, his thumb grazing your wrist, lingering too long.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice heavy with certainty. “No one’s touching you.”
Your pulse quickened, caught between comfort and something tighter, dangerous. The TV flashed grainy footage: a janitor mopping East Hall, unaware of a cloaked figure trailing him, a serrated knife glinting under flickering lights. For a split second, a white mask, Ghostface, flashed, hollow-eyed, mouth gaping.
Your mug trembled, coffee sloshing. Bucky’s vibranium hand steadied your wrist, his voice calm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, but the word felt fragile. His eyes watched you, memorizing your fear, your shallow breaths. A dark thought sparked, what if Bucky was behind that mask?
You pushed it away quickly, but it lingered, sharp and thrilling.
Bucky tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle but his eyes stormy.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” he growled, a vow etched in stone. The TV looped the footage, the shadow vanishing. Whispers grew louder, but Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightened, anchoring you to him, a blade’s edge between safety and something far darker.
The dorm room was a cozy cocoon of familiar scents: the faint, greasy tang of microwave pizza, the warm, slightly musty smell of blankets piled haphazardly on your bed, and the lingering bitterness of late-night coffee clinging to the air.
You sprawled across your bed, legs tangled in a faded quilt, your laptop precariously balanced on your knees, its screen casting a soft blue glow over your face.
Textbooks teetered in uneven stacks on your desk, dog-eared pages and highlighters spilling out like a scholar’s battlefield. The room hummed with the quiet comfort of routine, the kind of lived-in mess that felt like home.
Bucky was on the floor, his broad back pressed against your bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of novels and half-read philosophy texts. His headphones dangled loosely around his neck, the faint thump of some metal playlist barely audible, as he scribbled notes for an assignment neither of you fully understood, something about political theory that you’d both been dodging for weeks.
His dark hoodie was slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the glint of his vibranium arm in the dim light, and a half-eaten pizza box sat open between you, grease spots blooming on the cardboard.
“Hey,” you said, nudging a slice of pepperoni pizza toward him with your foot, careful not to knock over your laptop. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna hog all of that by yourself.”
He smirked, not looking up from his notebook, but reached for the slice with a lazy grace, his fingers brushing the crust.
“You know me, doll. I eat what I want. You’re lucky I even share with my favorite roommate.” His voice was warm, teasing, but there was a weight to the word favorite that you didn’t quite catch, too busy rolling your eyes.
You laughed, grabbing a pen from your bed and tossing it at him. It bounced off his shoulder, but his vibranium hand snapped up, catching it midair with a precision that made your breath hitch for a split second. He tossed it back with a grin, the pen landing neatly in your lap.
“Careful,” he said, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “One more miss, and I might have to mark my territory.”
“Territory?” you teased, tilting your head, your hair falling over one shoulder as you propped yourself up on an elbow. “What, like Ghostface or something?”
Bucky’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden intensity that made your stomach flip. The air shifted, just for a moment, as if the room had inhaled and held its breath. Then he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. “Yup. You have no idea.”
You shivered but laughed it off, your heart giving a quick, unsteady thud. “Uh-huh, sure, Mr. Slasher,” you said, waving a hand dismissively, trying to shake the odd electricity in his stare. “Keep dreaming.”
He chuckled, leaning back, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long before he returned to his notes, the scratch of his pen filling the silence. You settled back into the night, the tension dissolving into the familiar rhythm of your friendship.
You argued over which horror movie to watch, your voice rising in mock indignation as you vetoed his suggestion of Scream for the third time this month.
“We’re watching The Shining,” you declared, clicking it open on your laptop. “It’s a classic, and I’m not dealing with your Ghostface obsession again.”
“Fine, fine,” Bucky conceded, his grin easy but his eyes sharp, like he was savoring a private joke. He shifted to sit beside you on the floor, his knees brushing against yours as he settled in, his arm casually draped over his leg, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
It was just Bucky, your goofy, protective roommate, the guy who’d steal your snacks but always replace them, who’d stay up late to help you cram for exams even when he was dead tired. You didn’t think anything of the contact, the way his shoulder pressed lightly against yours. It was normal. Comfortable.
But there was an edge to him you didn’t notice, a tautness in his posture that didn’t match the easy smile he wore.
When you got up to grab more snacks from the tiny dorm kitchen, he was right behind you, his footsteps silent but his presence heavy.
“I’ve got it,” he said, reaching past you to grab the bag of popcorn from the top shelf before you could, his vibranium arm brushing your shoulder.
“Got what?” you asked, pouring soda into a chipped mug, the fizz bubbling over your fingers. You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, half-expecting another teasing remark.
“Protection,” he said with a shrug, his voice deceptively light, like he was joking, but his eyes were steady, unyielding, fixed on you. “You never know what’s lurking out there.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing as you nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re ridiculous, Buck. It’s a dorm, not a horror movie set.”
“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning, but there was something darker in it, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. “But I like being safe. Especially when it comes to you.”
You laughed again, thinking it was just his usual overprotective streak, the way he’d always hover a little too close when you walked home late or glare at guys who got too flirty in the cafeteria.
“Uh-huh,” you teased, bumping his shoulder as you headed back to the bed. “You’d protect me if Ghostface showed up, right?”
Bucky’s smirk deepened, and he leaned just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Always, doll.”
You settled back onto the floor, blankets draped over both of you like a makeshift fort, the laptop now perched on a pillow between you. Bucky nudged the mouse toward you, his fingers brushing yours, lingering just a second too long. “C’mon, pick a different one,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Scariest one we’ve got.”
You smirked, scrolling through the streaming app with exaggerated slowness, just to mess with him. “You mean the one where I scream like a maniac and you just sit there eating pizza like it’s nothing?”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning closer again, his shoulder pressing against yours, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Screaming’s part of the fun. And I don’t mind seeing you squirm.”
You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly, but your laugh betrayed the flutter in your chest. “You’re awful.”
“And yet… your favorite,” he shot back, his eyes glinting in the dim light, the flickering glow of the laptop casting shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze.
Hours passed in a haze of popcorn crumbs, empty soda cans, and the eerie soundtrack of Halloween filling the room. Michael Myers stalked across the screen, and you flinched at every jump scare, your squeals mixing with the screams from the TV. Bucky stayed close, his presence a steady warmth beside you.
When a particularly loud scare made you jolt, he offered his arm, letting you grab onto it, his vibranium hand resting lightly on your shoulder to steady you.
It felt comforting, safe, normal, Bucky being Bucky, always there when you needed him.
But there were moments, fleeting, subtle, when you caught something else.
The way his jaw tightened when you mentioned Jake’s name earlier in the night. The way his fingers flexed against his thigh when the movie’s killer raised his knife, as if he were imagining it in his own hand.
When you finally yawned, stretching across your bed, your shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin, Bucky’s gaze snapped to it, then away, quick enough that you didn’t notice. He stood, checking the door one last time, twisting the deadbolt with a faint click.
“Sleep tight,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual, as he dimmed the lights just enough to leave the room in a soft, shadowy glow. “I’ll hear if anything happens.”
You smiled, half-asleep, your eyelids heavy as you burrowed into your blankets. “Thanks, Bucky. You’re the best.”
He paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint light from the hall, and for a moment, he just watched you. His smirk was barely there, a faint curve of his lips, but his eyes were dark, cataloging every detail, the way your chest rose and fell with slow, sleepy breaths, the way your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket, the way you looked so soft, so vulnerable, so his.
You were blissfully unaware, your eyes fluttering shut, the world fading into the soft haze of sleep.
But Bucky knew. He knew the campus wasn’t safe, not with shadows lurking, not with people like Jake who’d dared to look at you, think of you, speak of you in ways that made Bucky’s blood burn.
He’d made sure Jake wouldn’t threaten you again, his knife carving that promise into flesh and bone. And he’d make sure no one else did either, not the shadows outside, not the wind rattling the windows, not the whispers of fear spreading through the dorms.
October gripped the campus, Halloween’s eerie glow in full swing. Carved pumpkins flickered along pathways, fake cobwebs swaying in the chilly breeze. Ghostface masks were everywhere, students chasing each other across the quad with mock screams or standing silently, their hollow-eyed stares unnerving in the twilight.
The day after Jake’s death, the campus hummed with nervous whispers, the shock fading into uneasy static. You walked through the quad, hoodie tight against the October chill, backpack tugging at your shoulder. Each Ghostface mask you passed spiked your pulse, your nervous laugh betraying you as you tugged your hood lower.
“Why’s everyone Ghostface this year?” you muttered to Bucky, striding beside you.
His blue eyes glinted, sharp and playful. “Keeps things interesting,” he said, voice light but heavy with something unspoken. His arm brushed yours, each touch deliberate, lingering just enough to tingle. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”
You rolled your eyes, nudging him. “You say that too much,” you teased, but your heart thudded, caught in his warmth.
Later as you were cutting between the science building and library, a masked figure slipped from behind a dumpster, silent and swift. Your breath hitched, sneakers skidding on gravel as your heart hammered. The Ghostface mask tilted, unreadable, until Bucky tugged it off, revealing his grin, dark hair mussed, eyes mischievous.
“Boo!” he laughed, but an edge in his voice kept your pulse racing.
“Bucky, you jerk!” you snapped, half-laughing, hand on your chest. “Don’t!”
“Scared you, didn’t I?” he teased, stepping closer, voice low, intimate. “You like it, doll.”
You shoved him, cheeks warm, oblivious to how his eyes drank in your nervous smile, your hitched breath, feeding something primal in him. The day became his game, scares and reassurance. In the cafeteria, his vibranium hand grazed your shoulder, whispering “Boo” as you flinched, nearly spilling your soda.
“Stay sharp,” he winked, positioning himself between you and the crowd.
On the library steps, he slipped behind the stacks, emerging as Ghostface again. You gasped, clutching a textbook, only for him to reveal himself, grinning.
“Guess who?” he murmured, leaning close, leather and metal scent enveloping you. You swatted him, stomach fluttering.
By evening, the campus quieted, streets empty save for costumed stragglers, laughter echoing off brick buildings. You chuckled about a freshman’s Ghostface dummy prank at the fountain, fake knife and all.
“Idiots,” you said, leaves crunching under your sneakers.
“Creative,” Bucky replied, hands in pockets, vibranium fingers flexing subtly. “Terrifying’s more like it,” you countered, voice nervous.
A masked figure darted from behind an oak, Ghostface mask gleaming under a streetlamp. You squealed, backpack slipping as you stumbled. The figure froze, tugging the mask up to reveal Luke, a sophomore from psych, freckled face flushed, eyes glinting.
“Gotcha!” he laughed, plastic knife dangling, grin not quite innocent.
“Luke, what the fuck?” you snapped, hands trembling on your backpack strap. “Not funny!”
Luke stepped closer, hand brushing yours, lingering. “Scary, wasn’t it?” he said, savoring your fear.
Bucky loomed, boots silent, vibranium hand flexing. “Back off,” he growled, voice cold, threatening. “She’s not your fucking prank.”
He leaned close, breath warm on your ear. “You’re safe… with me,” he whispered, words heavy, possessive. You believed him, trust instinctive, but a shiver lingered. As you walked to the dorm under flickering streetlamps, Bucky stayed close, tensing at every rustle, his hand ready, always shielding you.
The dorm was silent, the late-night hush broken only by the creak of the old building and your soft snores from the bed, where you lay tangled in blankets, a sliver of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Bucky leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, vibranium arm glinting faintly, flesh hand flexing restlessly.
His mind churned with you, your nervous laughs at his pranks, your startled squeals, the heat of your shoulder brushing his in the library. Each moment fueled a raw, possessive hunger that clawed at him.
He slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. Steam curled from the running shower as he stripped, hoodie and jeans pooling on the floor, leaving him bare. The scalding water hit his skin, but he barely noticed, his thoughts consumed by you.
Bracing his vibranium arm against the tiled wall, his flesh hand drifted down, fingers grazing his cock, already hard and throbbing with need.
“Fuck…” he growled, voice low, swallowed by the water’s hiss. His hand wrapped around his length, slick with water and precum, stroking slowly at first, each glide deliberate. He pictured you in the library, your tits bouncing when you jumped at his Ghostface scare, your wide eyes sparking a primal ache.
He imagined you here, pressed against the tiles, water streaming over your skin, lips parted as he pinned you, his hands roaming your curves, claiming every inch.
His strokes quickened, rougher, his grip tightening as darker fantasies took hold.
He saw you trembling under him, fear and trust mixing in your gaze, knowing he was the masked figure. He pictured the blunt edge of his knife at your throat, your whimper of his name, your body yielding to his touch. His cock pulsed, precum leaking faster, slicking his hand as he pumped harder, hips bucking into his fist. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin echoed faintly under the spray.
He imagined pinning you to your bed, vibranium hand locking your wrists, his other tearing your clothes, exposing your soft skin. He’d whisper how no one else could touch you, Jake’s blood proved it, spilled to keep you his.
“Fuck, doll…” he rasped, voice raw, his hand moving frantically, chasing the edge. He saw your thighs trembling around his hips, your moans turning desperate as he fucked you slow, deep, making you feel every thick inch of him.
The thought of you sleeping, unaware, just beyond the door, pushed him over.
He came with a choked moan, hips jerking, cum spilling hot and thick over his fist, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. His knees buckled, vibranium arm bracing him as his breath came in ragged gasps, aftershocks pulsing through his cock.
He shut off the shower, the heat in his veins simmering, never fully fading. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing at your sleeping form, blanket slipped, revealing your hip’s curve. His smirk was sharp, predatory.
He’d spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, every moment of you his to claim.
The morning broke with an eerie stillness, the dorm cloaked in a quiet that felt too heavy, too tight, as if someone had drained the vibrancy from the walls and left them pale and hollow.
The usual hum of campus life, distant laughter, the clatter of footsteps, the muffled thump of music from neighboring rooms, was muted, swallowed by the October chill that seemed to linger in the air.
You stirred awake, blinking against the soft gray light filtering through the blinds, your blanket still tangled around your legs from the night before.
The room felt smaller, the shadows longer, and for a moment, you lay there, listening to the silence, your heart giving a strange, uneasy thud.
Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the tiny dorm kitchen, your bare feet cold against the linoleum. The faint scent of last night’s pizza lingered, mixing with the stale bitterness of coffee left too long in the pot. Your eyes caught on a piece of paper taped to the fridge, the handwriting sharp and familiar.
You peeled it off, the tape sticking slightly to your fingers, and read Bucky’s note:
Had to go out early. Don’t know how long I’ll be. Don’t worry, doll.
A small, selfish smile tugged at your lips, a flicker of warmth cutting through the unease. Bucky’s protectiveness, his casual use of doll, always had a way of grounding you, even if it came with that strange, unnameable weight you’d been noticing more lately.
You tucked the note into your hoodie pocket, the paper crinkling softly, and went about your morning, the words looping in your mind like a quiet promise.
The day moved in fits and starts. You grabbed your backpack and headed to your morning class, the campus still draped in Halloween’s eerie glow. The whispers about Jake’s death followed you like a shadow, hushed conversations in the lecture hall, nervous glances over shoulders.
You tried to focus on the professor’s droning lecture about organic chemistry, but your mind kept drifting to Bucky, where he was, what had pulled him away so early, why the note felt like it carried more weight than it should.
Lunch was a quick affair, a half-eaten sandwich and a lukewarm coffee from the campus café, the plastic lid sticky under your fingers.
You sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through your phone, the news about Jake still trending on X: Campus murder… Ghostface prank gone wrong? The grainy security footage you’d seen yesterday looped in your mind, the shadowed figure, the glint of a knife, the white mask that seemed to haunt every corner of campus now.
You shivered, pulling your hoodie tighter, and pushed the thought away, telling yourself it was just some sick prank, just like Bucky had said.
By the time you pushed open the dorm door after your last lecture, it was past noon, the gray sky outside heavy with the threat of rain. The apartment was still empty, the silence thicker now, unbroken by Bucky’s usual presence, his low chuckle, the clink of his coffee mug, the faint hum of his music through his headphones.
You dropped your backpack by the door, the thud loud in the quiet, and glanced around, half-expecting to see him sprawled on the couch or leaning against the counter, ready with a teasing grin. But the space was empty, the air stale, and that strange unease crept back, settling in your chest like a stone.
You wandered to the fridge, the note still crumpled in your pocket, and poured yourself a glass of water, the tap sputtering slightly. The dorm felt too big without Bucky’s energy to fill it, too small with the weight of the silence. You sank onto the couch, pulling out your phone to text him
You 5:09pm
Where are you? Everything okay?
but hesitated, your thumb hovering over the send button. He’d said not to worry, and Bucky always came through, didn’t he?
You glanced at the window, the blinds casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. Outside, a group of students passed, one wearing a Ghostface mask, the white face tilting as if watching the dorm.
Your heart skipped, and you stood abruptly, crossing to the window to twist the blinds shut. The room dimmed, the shadows deepening, and you told yourself it was nothing, just Halloween, just pranks, just your imagination running wild.
But as you settled back onto the couch, the note in your pocket seemed to burn, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky’s absence meant something, that the quiet wasn’t just empty, it was waiting.
The hum of the refrigerator, a distant siren wailing somewhere off campus, the muffled thud of footsteps in the hall, ordinary sounds that usually faded into the background, now grated against your nerves, intrusive, too loud in the oppressive quiet.
You pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest, trying to let the silence wash over you, but it clung instead, heavy and suffocating, like damp cloth over your mouth.
Your phone lit up on the cushion beside you, the screen glowing.
No Caller ID.
Your heart stopped, a cold spike of dread pinning you in place. Every instinct screamed to ignore it, to fling the phone across the room, to run, but a sick, magnetic curiosity curled in your gut, urging your trembling hand to swipe and answer. You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice barely a whisper.
“Hello…?”
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence, so thick it seemed to crawl into your chest, squeezing your lungs. It wasn’t just quiet, it was the kind of silence that had weight, that had eyes, that watched. Your breath hitched, shallow and sharp, as you tried again, forcing firmness into your tone.
“Alright, I’m hanging up.”
A rasp sliced through the quiet like a serrated knife dragging across glass, jagged and raw.
“Do that… and I’ll carve you into a decoration everyone remembers this Halloween.” The voice was low, wet, hungry, each word dripping with a perverse glee that made your skin crawl, as if the speaker could already taste your fear.
Cold flooded your veins, your teeth chattering despite the warmth of the room. Your grip tightened on the phone, knuckles white, the plastic creaking under your fingers.
It was him, the Ghostface who’d gutted Jake, who’d left the campus whispering about blood-soaked carpets and screams that echoed through East Hall. The one whose knife had painted the security footage in crimson, whose mask haunted every corner of your world.
“What- what do you want?!” you shouted, your voice cracking, raw with panic, the words spilling out before you could stop them.
“To see what you look like when you scream,” he purred, and a wet, cruel chuckle rattled through the line, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the image of you breaking.
“I want to see your guts, sweetheart. Your insides, spilling out, warm and slick. Your blood pooling under you, your organs twitching in my hands. Ever seen a heart still beating? It’s beautiful… until it stops.”
Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat, burning its way up. The words weren’t just a threat, they were a vision, vivid and grotesque, painted with a sick relish that made your vision blur.
You could almost see it: the glint of a blade slicing through your skin, the hot, sticky rush of blood, your intestines spilling like wet ropes, glistening under the dorm’s fluorescent lights, your heart exposed, pulsing weakly as his gloved hands cradled it.
“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice shaking, barely audible, as if speaking might summon him from the shadows.
“You see,” he hissed, each syllable deliberate, venomous, dripping like blood onto cold stone, “your guts would look perfect splayed across the floor, your intestines tangled like string, your liver sliced just right, glistening, still warm. Your blood… so bright, so thick, so hot, running over my hands, soaking the carpet. I’d make it slow, sweetheart. I’d make you feel every cut, every tear, every moment of your body coming apart.”
Your hands shook uncontrollably, the phone slipping in your sweaty grip.
You tried to move, to stand, to do something, but your legs felt like jelly, your body pinned to the couch by the weight of his words.
The TV flickered behind you, the game show’s cheerful music warping into something sinister, its light casting jagged shadows that skittered across the walls like crawling hands, like fingers reaching for you.
Every sound, the creak of floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the distant thud of footsteps, became a threat, a sign he was already here, waiting in the corners, his knife gleaming, his mask tilting in the dark.
“Tell me, darling,” he whispered, his voice now impossibly close, as if he’d slipped through the phone and into the room, his breath ghosting against your ear, “what’s your favorite scary movie? Because I’m gonna make it real. I’m gonna carve you into my own little horror show, and you’ll scream so pretty when I do.”
The line went silent for a heartbeat, a pause that stretched into eternity, heavy with a thousand unspoken horrors.
You could taste them, thick and metallic, coating your tongue like blood. The knife plunging, slicing through muscle and bone, blood spilling in hot, sticky streams, organs collapsing in a wet, writhing heap, your life leaking out in a grotesque tableau, his gloved hands slick with your insides, arranging them like a twisted artist.
Then, the whisper came again, soft and final. “I’ll be watching, sweetheart. Every shadow, every heartbeat. And soon… it won’t just be imagination.”
The TV flickered violently, the screen going black, plunging the room into darkness. The silence was deafening, but your pulse thundered, a relentless drumbeat drowning out everything else.
You dropped the phone, slamming it face-down onto the couch, your hands shaking so badly you could barely move. Tears stung your eyes, hot and blinding, your chest heaving with ragged, raw breaths. Every corner of the dorm pulsed with danger, the shadows twisting into shapes that weren’t there, hands, blades, masks staring from the dark.
Minutes crawled by, each second a lifetime, your body frozen, your breath shallow, as if any movement might summon him.
Then your phone lit up again, the screen glowing like a malevolent eye.
No Caller ID.
Every nerve screamed to smash it, to run, to hide, but that sick, magnetic pull held you fast, your trembling thumb hovering over the answer button. You knew you shouldn’t, knew it with every fiber of your being, but the silence was worse, the not-knowing unbearable. You pressed answer, your voice barely a whisper.
“Hello…?”
“Do you know what happens when you hang up on me?” The rasp was sharper now, a blade honed to cut deeper, scraping against your sanity. “You don’t get to walk away, sweetheart. You don’t get to hide.”
Your chest tightened, air trapped in your throat, your vision narrowing to a pinprick. “W-what do you want?” you stammered, the words barely escaping, your voice small and broken.
“To see you bleed,” he purred, the wet chuckle returning, slow and deliberate, dripping with anticipation. “Not just a cut, darling… I want to see what’s inside you. Your organs, your blood, your fear made flesh. I want to peel you open, layer by layer, watch your intestines spill like ribbons, your heart twitching in my hands. I want to paint the walls with you.”
The words were a physical blow, each one landing like a knife in your gut. Bile surged, your stomach churning as the images flooded your mind, your body splayed open, his gloved hands digging into you, pulling you apart with a lover’s care.
The couch beneath you felt alive, its cushions shifting as if something moved beneath them, something waiting to claw its way out. The room was a trap, every shadow a threat, every creak a footstep, every hum a blade being sharpened.
“Stop… please…” you choked, tears streaming now, hot and salty, your voice barely a whisper as the terror consumed you.
“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he hissed, his voice now so close it felt like he was breathing down your neck, his presence seeping through the walls.
“I’m already here, sweetheart. In the shadows, in the cracks, in the air you breathe. And when I come for you, you’ll scream so beautifully, your blood will sing for me.”
The line went dead, but the silence was worse, a void that pulsed with menace.
Your hands shook as you dropped the phone to the floor, the clatter echoing like a gunshot. The darkness seemed to move, the shadows stretching, clawing, detaching from the walls. You heard it or thought you did, the faintest scrape of a blade across tile, a whisper of fabric brushing the floor, a low, wet chuckle from somewhere just out of sight.
Your eyes darted to the corners, the door, the windows, every shadow a potential hiding place, every flicker a glint of steel.
You were prey, and he was hunting. The realization sank into your bones, cold and final. He wasn’t just imagining your blood on his hands, he was planning it, savoring it, his knife already tracing the path it would take. The dorm was no longer a sanctuary; it was a slaughterhouse, and you were the lamb.
Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your heart a frantic drumbeat, and as the shadows closed in, you knew with sickening certainty: he was already here, watching, waiting, his Ghostface mask tilting in the dark, ready to make you his masterpiece.
The door’s keys rattled like a gunshot, shattering the dorm’s suffocating silence. You screamed, raw and broken, scrambling upright on the couch, clutching a heavy textbook as a weapon, knuckles white, heart slamming. The Ghostface’s voice echoed in your skull, promises of blood, guts, carving you into a grotesque masterpiece.
The door swung open, and you swung the book, pages fluttering wildly.
“Whoa, calm down!” Bucky’s rough, familiar voice cut through. He caught your wrists, vibranium hand cool, flesh hand warm, stopping the book inches from his face. His blue eyes widened, taking in your tear-streaked terror, your trembling frame. “It’s just me, doll.”
Reality snapped back. Bucky, hair mussed, jacket damp with rain, stood before you, concern masking a flicker of something unreadable.
The textbook thudded to the floor, pages splaying. Your knees buckled, sobs breaking as you collapsed against him, fingers twisting into his shirt, anchoring to his warmth.
“It was him, Bucky,” you cried, voice shattering, muffled against his chest.
“He called… wants to kill me… my guts, my blood…” The words spilled, laced with Ghostface’s gruesome threats, intestines spilling, heart twitching in gloved hands, blood painting the walls. You shook, tears soaking his shirt, the images searing your mind.
Bucky’s arms wrapped tight, vibranium hand steady on your back, flesh hand cradling your head.
“Shh, doll, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice soothing, a balm to your terror. His fingers traced slow circles, grounding you, but to him, it was control, holding you exactly where he wanted, vulnerable, his. A hidden smirk tugged at his lips, buried against your hair. He was the voice on the call, the one who’d unraveled you, savoring every tremble.
He tipped your chin up, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks, touch tender but calculated.
“Look at me,” he said, voice warm, steady. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re safe with me.” His eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of dark satisfaction at your dependence.
“Bucky… sleep with me tonight? I’m terrified…” Your voice was fragile, eyes pleading, feeding the dark thrill curling in his chest.
“Of course, doll,” he said softly, masking his twisted joy.
“Nothing’s gonna touch you.” He guided you to bed, settling beside you, blankets tangling as you curled against his chest, fingers tracing his shirt, seeking comfort. His vibranium arm draped over you, flesh hand brushing your hair, lips grazing your temple.
“Sleep tight,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Inside, a war raged. The protector Bucky, your best friend, who’d stayed up studying, walked you home, loved you fiercely, purely, wanting only to shield you. Holding you now, your trust in every soft breath, he ached to be your hero forever.
But the darker Bucky, born of scars and violence, was the Ghostface who’d dialed your number, rasping threats of carving you open, thriving on your fear, your sobs, your clinging need. He’d watched you answer, hidden outside, your terror lighting a primal fire in him, possession, not just protection.
Guilt gnawed, sharp and relentless, screaming he was sick, betraying you, twisting love into obsession.
Your whimpers in sleep, pressing closer, stoked both sides, guilt and desire warring. He’d killed Jake for you, spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, believing it was love. His fingers tightened in your hair, possessive, then softened, torn between monster and savior.
You murmured in sleep, trusting, and he buried the truth, playing protector while the Ghostface mask waited, his game far from over.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, a vow and a cage, his smirk hidden as he planned the next move.
The next few days passed in a blur. Every little sound in the dorm the unexpected thump of a door, the creak of the floorboards, even the hum of the radiator, made your heart jump as if it were trying to escape your chest.
Sleep came in short, fractured bursts, haunted by nightmares that always ended the same way: a shadow looming over you, a whisper in your ear, the metallic scrape of something sharp against the floor.
Bucky stayed close, more than usual, wrapping you in his presence like a shield. But there was something… different. Something that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
His eyes were sharper, more calculating, always flicking to corners you didn’t think could hide anyone. He lingered at doors longer than necessary, listening to noises you couldn’t even hear, and sometimes he flinched at a sound that didn’t exist.
The next night, the city lay in restless silence, oblivious to the predator moving through its veins like a shadow through fog.
Bucky slid the Ghostface mask over his face, the hollow eyes swallowing his own, the black mesh blurring the world into a void of anonymity. He pulled the long black coat tight around him, the fabric whispering against his jeans as he let the night embrace him like an eager accomplice.
In his gloved hand, the knife caught the weak glow of the flickering streetlights, its serrated edge gleaming with a silver promise of agony and finality. Every movement was deliberate, ritualistic rehearsed a thousand times in his mind, controlled down to the flex of his fingers. Step by step, the hunt began. Tonight, there would be a lesson, written in blood and screams.
He spotted the target before the man even realized he wasn’t alone.
Bucky knew him, Luke, that was it. Jake’s roommate. The same unlucky bastard who’d stumbled across Jake’s cold, ruined body in East Hall, the blood-soaked carpet squelching under his feet, the metallic stench clinging to his clothes for days.
And worse, he was your project partner. Bucky had seen the way Luke’s eyes lingered on you during those late-night study sessions, the way his hands brushed your arm a little too long, too bold, fingers grazing your skin like he owned it.
He’d even had the audacity to ask you out, his voice dripping with false charm, as if he was worthy of touching what wasn’t his, what would never be his.
Bucky’s grip on the knife tightened, his chest coiling with a cold, venomous fury that burned like acid in his veins. Touching you was bad enough. Fantasizing about you? Unforgivable.
He could still see it in his mind’s eye: Luke’s gaze fixed on your tits as you leaned over the table to point at a note, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, the subtle flex of his fingers like he was imagining grabbing your ass, pinning you down, making you his.
The thought made Bucky’s vibranium arm hum with restrained power, his flesh hand itching to feel the knife sink deep.
And now, here Luke was, walking alone down the dimly lit alley behind the campus bar, thinking the night belonged to him. Hood up, earphones blasting some mindless rap, careless steps echoing off the graffiti-scarred walls. An easy target. A dead man walking.
The phone rang in Luke’s pocket, vibrating insistently. He slowed, frowning, before pulling it out with a casual swipe.
No Caller ID
“Yo?” he answered, his voice laced with annoyance, oblivious to the shadow closing in behind him.
The rasp poured through the line, rich with malice, modulated to a gravelly whisper that scraped like nails on bone. “Do you want to end up like your pal Jake?”
Luke froze mid-step, his breath hitching audibly, the color draining from his face under the sickly yellow glow of an overhead bulb.
“The fuck? Who is this?” His voice cracked, a tremor creeping in as he yanked out one earphone, spinning to scan the empty alley, shadows twisting at every corner like grasping fingers.
“Wrong question,” Bucky sneered, his voice jagged through the modulator, low and hungry, savoring the spike of fear he could hear in Luke’s quickening breaths. “You should be asking where I am.”
Luke spun again, eyes darting wildly, trash bins overflowing with garbage, a chain-link fence rattling faintly in the breeze, puddles reflecting the neon sign of a distant bar.
“Look, man, this isn’t funny. I know people-” His free hand fumbled in his pocket, perhaps for a weapon or his keys, but it was too late.
“Not anymore.”
Ghostface hissed, and Luke barely had time to whirl around before Bucky lunged from the shadows, the knife flashing in a brutal arc. The blade sank into Luke’s abdomen with a wet, tearing sound, flesh parting like overripe fruit, the serrated edge grinding against muscle and sinew as it buried deep.
Luke gasped, a choked, gurgling cry escaping his lips as blood bubbled up, hot and thick, soaking through his hoodie in an instant. Bucky twisted the knife slowly, deliberately, feeling the resistance of organs shifting, the blade scraping against the edge of a rib, sending a shudder through Luke’s body that Bucky could feel vibrate up his arm.
Luke’s eyes bulged, wide with shock and agony, his mouth opening in a silent scream as blood flecked his lips, dribbling down his chin in sticky rivulets. His hands clawed weakly at Bucky’s coat, nails scraping uselessly against the black fabric, leaving faint smears of red.
The coppery scent of fresh blood flooded the alley, hot and metallic, steaming faintly in the cool night air, mixing with the faint rot of garbage and urine from the pavement.
“Please… please-” Luke gurgled, his voice wet and broken, bubbles of blood foaming at the corners of his mouth as he tried to beg, his knees buckling.
“Did you like it? Staring at her tits? Thinking about her ass?”
Ghostface rasped, his voice a venomous whisper behind the mask, his free hand clamping over Luke’s mouth to muffle the screams, feeling the hot, panicked breaths against his glove.
He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, a gush of crimson spraying across the alley wall in a fan of dark red, splattering the graffiti like abstract art. Luke’s body jerked, his abdomen now a ragged wound, intestines peeking through the torn flesh in a glistening, coiled mess, blood pouring out in rhythmic pulses with each frantic beat of his heart.
Luke collapsed to his knees, clutching at the gaping hole, his fingers slipping in the warm, viscous gore that coated his hands, strings of blood and tissue stretching between them like macabre webs.
“No… God, no…” he whimpered, voice fading to a rasp as shock set in, his face paling to a ghostly white, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.
Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching with detached fascination as Luke’s blood pooled on the cracked concrete, spreading in a dark halo around his knees, seeping into the cracks like ink on paper.
The thrill built in Bucky’s chest, a dark, intoxicating high, but he wasn’t done. He drove the knife up again, this time into Luke’s ribs, the blade punching through with a crunch of bone, grating against the sternum as it pierced a lung.
Luke’s body convulsed, a wet, choking cough spraying blood in a fine mist that dotted Bucky’s mask, the warmth seeping through the fabric. Air whistled from the wound, bubbling with each labored breath, the sound grotesque and pitiful.
Luke’s eyes rolled back, his body twitching in the final throes, but Bucky leaned in close, his voice a low, intimate whisper behind the mask. “She’s not yours. She was never yours. And now, you’re nothing.”
The final slice was brutal, a swift, clean drag across the throat, the serrated edge parting skin and muscle with a wet rip, severing the carotid in a violent gush of arterial spray.
Blood erupted in rhythmic jets, painting the wall in hot, pulsing arcs, soaking Bucky’s gloves and coat in a sticky cascade. Luke’s body went rigid, then limp, collapsing in a twitching heap, his throat a ragged, gaping smile, blood frothing from the wound as his last breaths gurgled out.
The pool beneath him widened, thick and viscous, carrying chunks of tissue and flecks of bone, the metallic tang so strong it coated Bucky’s tongue even through the mask.
Bucky stood over the body, his chest rising slow and steady, the knife dripping red in his grip, strings of gore hanging from the blade like viscous threads. The rage in his chest eased, replaced with something quieter, darker, satisfaction, a cleansing fire that burned away the jealousy. Luke’s eyes stared blankly at the sky, glassy and vacant, his mouth frozen in a final, silent plea.
Another lesson delivered. Another secret buried in blood.
Bucky wiped the blade clean on Luke’s hoodie, the fabric absorbing the residue with a faint squelch, then slid it back beneath the folds of his coat.
He melted into the shadows once more, the night swallowing him whole, his steps silent on the blood-slick pavement. The city remained oblivious, but Bucky carried the weight of the kill like a badge, a vow etched in crimson: no one would touch you. No one but him.
The door creaked open past midnight, slicing the dorm’s heavy silence with a low groan. You jolted awake, heart hammering, the Ghostface’s gruesome call still clawing at your nerves. Every sound, creaking floorboards, hissing breath, felt like a threat.
“Bucky?” you whispered, voice trembling, clutching the blanket as you scanned the shadows.
He stood in the entryway, a dark silhouette against the hallway’s orange glow, hoodie damp, hair slick, chest heaving slightly.
“It’s me, doll,” he said, his smile off, too controlled, as he shut the door with a soft click. Wet smudges trailed from his boots, the dark patches on his hoodie glinting faintly, not sweat, you realized, but you pushed the thought away.
“Where were you?” you asked, suspicion sharpening your tone.
“Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run,” he said smoothly, shrugging off his coat, eyes avoiding yours, lingering on the shadows.
“At this hour?” Your unease grew, the air thick with unspoken tension.
He chuckled, boyish, disarming, crouching beside the bed, eyes level with yours.
“Restless, you know me.” But a faint smudge on his cheek, dirt, or something else, made your stomach twist.
“You’re not… hooking up with someone, are you?” you blurted, vulnerability creeping in.
His brows lifted, surprise flashing before a soft laugh. “Doll, if I was with some girl, I’d look better than this.” He gestured to his disheveled form, but his gaze flickered, dark, possessive. “You’re stuck with me.”
Relief eased you, and you leaned into his touch as his flesh hand brushed your hair, warm, lingering. He pulled you against his chest, the faint scent of leather and metal masking something coppery, sharp.
“Sleep,” he murmured, lips grazing your hair, hiding a smirk as he thought of Luke’s blood pooling in the alley, the knife still warm from the kill.
You settled against him, his warmth lulling you, but a dangerous spark flickered low in your belly, kindled by nights of his closeness, his arms a fortress too intoxicating. Glancing at him, his face softened in sleep, jaw relaxed, lips parted, you felt the ache grow.
Your hand drifted down, fingers brushing your shorts, rubbing slow circles against your pulsing clit, already soaked. The friction wasn’t enough, the need sharp.
Slipping under the waistband, you teased yourself, biting your lip to stifle a moan, his name escaping in a soft, desperate.
“Bucky…”
He stirred, eyes blinking open, thinking you were scared. Then he saw you, hand in your shorts, hips shifting, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a moan. His breath caught, gaze darkening, hungry.
“Doll?” His voice was rough, laced with desire, as his vibranium hand caught your wrist, stopping you, the cool metal searing against your heated skin.
“Fuck! Buck, I’m sorry-” you stammered, mortified, yanking your hand back.
“Shh,” he soothed, lips brushing your shoulder, voice a velvet chain. “Don’t stop. Let me make you feel good.” His tone was tender, but the hunger in it sent shivers down your spine.
His flesh hand slid past your trembling fingers, parting your slick folds with deliberate slowness, exploring your soaked heat like he was claiming it.
Two thick fingers pressed into your entrance, stretching you with a slow, burning thrust that made you gasp into the pillow, hips bucking. He curled them, hitting that spot inside you that blurred your vision, pumping deep and precise, coaxing desperate whimpers.
“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growled, voice dripping with filthy praise, lips grazing your neck. “This pretty little pussy’s begging for my fingers, isn’t it? Sucking me in like she can’t get enough.”
“God, Buck,” you whined, arching into his hand, thighs shaking as his fingers thrust faster, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. His thumb found your clit, circling firm and relentless, each stroke sparking through your nerves.
“Look at you, dripping all over my hand,” he purred, teeth nipping your earlobe. “Such a good girl, falling apart for me. Bet you’d feel so fucking perfect wrapped around my cock, wouldn’t you?”
Your body trembled, the coil in your stomach tightening as his fingers fucked you harder, curling just right.
“F-fuck… right there, don’t stop,” you moaned, nails digging into his forearm, clinging as pleasure consumed you. His vibranium arm pinned you against him, keeping you in place.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he rasped, voice husky with want. “My sweet, needy girl, coming undone just for me. Gonna make this pussy sing, baby.”
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, fingers thrusting deep, relentless. The pleasure snapped, crashing through you in hot, shuddering waves, your walls clenching tight around him as you came with a muffled cry, face buried in the pillow.
He didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse until you were a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
He eased his fingers out, the wet sound loud in the quiet. Bringing them to his lips, he licked them slow, savoring your taste with a low groan, eyes fluttering shut like it was divine.
“Fucking delicious, doll,” he murmured, voice thick with possession. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. All mine.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you were too spent to respond, tucking against his chest, breath syncing with his steady heartbeat.
He kissed your hair, tender but smirking, the taste of you mixing with the phantom scent of Luke’s blood, the kill fresh in his mind. His vibranium arm tightened, a vow, as he lay awake, planning his next move. You were his, fear, pleasure, trust and he’d kill again to keep it that way.
Over the next few days, small details gnawed at you. Dark, sticky stains on Bucky’s hoodie, dismissed as “ketchup” with a shrug. Missing kitchen knives, vanished without explanation. His eerie knowledge of the killings, details about victims, police patterns, things he shouldn’t know. You pushed it down, heart rebelling. Bucky was your best friend, your protector. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t.
But the dorm whispered warnings, shadows lingering too long, doors clicking open, faint metallic scrapes in the night, like a blade testing its edge.
This morning, the air felt lighter. You woke without fear’s familiar weight, Bucky already up, propped against the headboard, scrolling his phone, a faint smile softening his face. Breakfast was easy, eggs, coffee, teasing over toast. For an hour, you could pretend the horror didn’t exist. Almost.
A week later, that illusion shattered. Rummaging in Bucky’s drawer for a sweater, your fingers brushed something hard, smooth. You pulled it out, and your breath froze, a Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, grinning cruelly. Panic clawed your spine, the world narrowing to its black, empty stare.
“Bucky?” Your voice cracked, thin, holding the mask at arm’s length like it might bite.
He turned from the desk, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes, gone in an instant, replaced by a casual chuckle.
“Oh, that,” he said, scratching his neck, voice smooth as silk.
“You forgot I had that, doll? Picked it up for Halloween.” He stepped closer, plucking the mask from your trembling hands, tossing it back into the drawer with a thud that made you flinch. “Thought it’d be funny, you in your nurse costume, me scaring you with this. A theme, right?”
His grin was warm, disarming, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, lingering on the shadows behind you.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His laugh was soft, teasing, but it felt rehearsed, like he’d planned for this moment or feared it.
You forced a shaky smile, trying to laugh it off, but your chest stayed tight, heart pounding. The mask, buried under his clothes, felt too deliberate, too hidden. As he went back to his desk, humming casually, you couldn’t shake the thought: had he wanted you to find it, or had you stumbled too close to a truth he meant to keep buried?
The campus pulsed with chaotic energy, costumes ranging from tacky vampires to countless Ghostface masks, the air thick with beer, sweat, and spilled punch. EDM bass rattled the windows.
In Bucky’s dorm, you fidgeted before the cracked mirror, tugging at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs. The red cross pinned to your chest and cheap stethoscope felt bold, exposing. Your cheeks flushed under your reflection’s gaze.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, glancing at Bucky through the mirror, his lean frame in the doorway, dark hoodie and jeans radiating danger. His smirk was sharp, eyes raking over your hips, stockings, the low neckline, lingering with a heat that set your skin ablaze.
“You look… medically irresponsible,” he teased, voice low, predatory, making your heart skip.
“Excuse me?” you shot back, hands on hips, instantly regretting the way it drew his gaze.
He stepped closer, wolf-like, fingers grazing your skirt’s hem, knuckles brushing your thigh, sending a jolt through you.
“This wouldn’t pass hospital protocol,” he said, eyes dark, cataloging your parted lips, quickened breath. “Do you even own a stethoscope?”
You swatted his hand, flustered, cheeks burning. “It’s called theme commitment, Bucky.”
“So, you’re the nurse, I’m the patient?” he murmured, leaning close, breath warm against your ear. “Gonna take real good care of me, doll?” His tone was suggestive, curling like smoke, making your knees weak.
“Bucky-” you started, but he straightened, ruffling your hair with a grin, breaking the tension. “You look cute,” he said softly, disarming.
As he grabbed his jacket, you glimpsed black fabric in his desk drawer, the same one where you’d seen a Ghostface mask last week. Your stomach twisted, unease cutting through his warmth. You told yourself it was nothing, just a costume, but the doubt lingered as you followed him out.
The party throbbed with wild energy, EDM bass rattling the walls as strobe lights carved sharp shadows across the room. Pumpkins leered from tables, streamers swayed in the heat of sweaty bodies, and Ghostface masks dotted the crowd among cheap vampire fangs and witch hats.
The air reeked of beer, sweat, and punch. You tugged at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs, feeling exposed. Bucky was “mingling,” but you scanned for him, eyes catching every mask, every shadow.
A figure emerged by the snack table, black coat flowing, Ghostface mask glaring. Your stomach dropped, ice flooding your veins, heart hammering as the mask tilted, watching you.
“Relax, doll,” Bucky’s teasing voice came, lifting the mask to reveal his grin. “Just me.” His predatory stance and hollow-eyed mask chilled you despite the familiarity.
“Bucky, you scared me,” you said, voice shaky, forcing a laugh. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the sticky floor, a plastic knife prop dangling, his hand hovering near your hip.
“Dressed for patient care?” he rasped through a modulator, voice sinister yet playful, eyes raking over your skirt, the red cross on your chest. “Or does my nurse need attention?”
“Bucky…” you stammered, cheeks burning, caught between fear and a dark thrill, thighs clenching. “Stop messing around.”
He chuckled, low and menacing, the plastic knife grazing your thigh, making you jump. “I could keep everyone away from you,” he purred. “You’re mine tonight, doll.”
A drunken student in a cheap Ghostface costume leapt out, thinking it was a prank, slurring a mock scream. The crowd laughed, some shoving, but you froze, heart pounding, unsure if it was a joke or him. Bucky’s vibranium hand gripped your wrist, iron-tight.
“Stay here,” he hissed, eyes locking on the prankster through his mask, predator assessing prey.
He slipped into the shadows, silent, his long coat blending with the dark corner of the room. The prankster stumbled toward a hallway, giggling, oblivious, as Bucky followed, a ghost in the chaos.
Behind a stack of crates, out of sight, Bucky struck, his real knife, not the prop, gleamed, sinking into the kid’s side with a wet crunch, slicing flesh, grinding against rib. Blood welled, soaking the costume, the coppery stench sharp. The boy gasped, choking, blood flecking lips as he clawed at the wound, fingers slipping in sticky gore.
Bucky twisted the blade, feeling muscle tear, a shudder vibrating through the boy’s body.
“Not a game,” he whispered through the modulator, mask inches from the kid’s terrified face. He yanked the knife free, blood spraying, then stabbed again, cracking ribs, piercing lung with a wet pop. The boy convulsed, whistling gasps, blood frothing, collapsing in a heap, intestines peeking through torn flesh, pooling crimson in the dark corner.
Bucky stepped back, mask tilted, blood dripping from the blade, satisfaction burning in his chest. He wiped the knife on the boy’s costume, squelching, and slipped it beneath his coat. Moving like a shadow, he weaved through the oblivious crowd, the music and chaos masking his absence. In seconds, he was back at your side, arm sliding around your waist, mask still on, voice steady through the modulator.
“Miss me, doll?”
You jumped, then relaxed, clinging to his coat, relief and fear twisting, a dark thrill making your thighs clench. “Don’t leave like that,” you muttered, heart still racing.
He chuckled, pulling you close, the mask’s hollow eyes unreadable. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, grip possessive, the faint scent of blood clinging to him, unnoticed in the party’s stench.
A piercing scream cut through the music.
“Oh my God!” A girl near the hallway pointed, trembling, at the crates. The crowd parted, revealing the prankster’s body, blood pooling, intestines glistening, eyes glassy in a frozen plea. Gasps and shrieks erupted, partygoers scattering, the music jarring against the horror.
Your breath hitched, fingers digging into Bucky’s coat, the image searing your mind. His vibranium arm tightened around you, voice calm, almost too calm.
“Let’s go, doll. Back to the dorm. You’re safe with me.” He guided you through the chaos, his grip a lifeline, but the ease of his return, the blood you couldn’t see on his gloves, made the line between protector and predator blur, a truth too dangerous to face.
The October chill bit your skin as you stumbled from the chaotic party, Bucky’s coat brushing your arm, his warmth a stark contrast to your flimsy nurse costume. The image of the prankster’s blood-soaked body, torn flesh, glistening intestines, glassy eyes, burned in your mind, tangled with Bucky’s modulated Ghostface voice, teasing yet sinister. His arm anchored your waist, guiding you toward the dorm, but his steps were too sure, his vibranium hand flexing.
“Shit,” he muttered, stopping, eyes scanning the dark street, jaw tight.
“What?” you asked, heart skipping, catching the guarded edge in his gaze.
“Left my phone at the party,” he said, clipped, glancing back where lights pulsed faintly.
“You’re going back?” Panic spiked, the memory of the knife’s wet crunch too raw.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging, eyes softening but hiding something. “Go to the dorm. I’ll catch up.”
The idea of being alone chilled you, the Ghostface’s threat, 'I want to see your guts, sweetheart' echoing. “Be careful,” you whispered, hands twisting your skirt.
He kissed your temple, lips lingering. “I will, doll.” Then he vanished into the dark, coat flaring.
The dorm loomed a block away, but shadows moved, leaves rustled like footsteps, streetlights glinting ominously. You hurried inside, locking the door, sinking onto the couch, knees to chest. The nurse costume felt absurd now.
Tempted to text Bucky, you hesitated, his tense posture, the mask in his drawer, damp hoodie patches, metallic scent. Doubt crept in. You trusted him… didn’t you? But the silence felt like a trap, the line between protector and predator razor-thin.
Minutes dragged like hours, the small room suffocating under the weight of your fear. You paced, your sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, checking the locks, double-checking the windows, the blinds rattling as you twisted them shut.
Your chest tightened with every passing second Bucky was gone, the image of him slipping back into the chaotic party house, where blood had spilled, where screams still lingered burning in your mind.
You told yourself he’d be fine, that he was just grabbing his phone, but the memory of the black fabric in his drawer, the damp patches on his hoodie, the faint metallic scent you’d dismissed, gnawed at you. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if the Ghostface had found him?
Your phone rang, the shrill sound slicing through the silence like a blade. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you stared at the glowing screen.
No Caller ID.
You didn’t want to know, didn’t want to face it, but desperation and fear made your thumb swipe to answer before you could think.
“Oh god, Bucky! Please hurry,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, cracking under the weight of your panic, tears already pricking your eyes.
A rasping, familiar-sounding voice cut through the line, low and deliberate, dripping with a cruel, predatory hunger.
“Hmm… I don’t think it’s Bucky you’re speaking to, pretty girl,” it purred, each word twisted by the modulator, sinking into your bones like venom. “Try again, hm?”
Your blood ran cold, your body freezing as the memories of the past week flooded back, the calls, the shadows, the voice promising to spill your guts, to paint the walls with your blood. Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the couch, clutching the phone so tightly your knuckles ached.
What you didn’t know was that Bucky was on the other end, hidden in the shadows just outside the dorm, the Ghostface mask discarded but the modulator pressed to his lips. His free hand was wrapped around his cock, straining painfully against his jeans, stroking himself slowly as he fed off your fear, each tremble in your voice sending a jolt of pleasure through him, his arousal twisting with his obsession.
“Where’s Bucky? What did you do to him?!” you shrieked, tears streaking your cheeks, your voice raw with panic and desperation.
“Oh, don’t get mad at me now,” the voice rumbled, low and teasing, a sick edge of amusement lacing every word.
“God… you looked so fucking sexy in that little nurse costume tonight.” His voice dropped, a husky growl that made your stomach lurch with a mix of dread and shame.
The realization hit like a punch, he’d been watching you, his eyes hidden behind that hollow mask, drinking in every inch of you.
“W-what?” you squeaked, your body trembling, your thighs pressing together instinctively as heat bloomed despite your terror, a betrayal that made your cheeks burn with shame.
“If only you knew, pretty girl,” the voice rasped, deliberate and ravenous, each word dripping with lust.
“I wanted to rip that tight little skirt off you, pin you to the wall, and fuck you raw right there in front of everyone. Watch those pretty thighs shake as I spread you open, my knife tracing along your skin, just deep enough to make you beg.”
A shiver ran down your spine, your body betraying you again with a pulse of heat between your legs, your shorts suddenly too tight, too warm. You were utterly ashamed, horrified that his words twisted, vile, could spark anything but fear. The voice seemed to press into your ears, heavy, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a noose.
“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaking with both terror and the sickening pull of his words.
“Stop? Oh, I’m just getting started, sweets,” the voice purred, low and deliberate, each syllable a caress and a threat.
“I’d tie you up, wrists bound tight behind your back, that pretty mouth of yours gagged with your own panties, soaked from how fucking wet you’d be for me. I’d fuck that tight little cunt of yours, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, my knife gliding along those gorgeous thighs, carving my name into your skin so you’d never forget who owns you.”
Your breath hitched, your thighs clenching tighter, heat pooling low in your belly despite the horror screaming in your mind. Your hands twisted in your lap, nails digging into your palms until they stung, your body caught in a sick tug-of-war between fear and the shameful arousal his words ignited.
You wanted to hang up, to throw the phone across the room, but you couldn’t move, pinned by the weight of his voice, by the vivid images he painted his knife grazing your skin, his hands claiming you, his cock stretching you open.
“Please… don’t…” you begged, your voice shaking, tears streaming down your face as you fought to hold onto reason, to drown out the heat pulsing through you.
“Why? Afraid your little Bucky won’t like it?” the voice hissed, the words sharp and mocking, cutting through you like glass.
“Or are you afraid you’d like it too much, hm? That you’d come screaming my name while I fuck you bloody, my knife pressed to your throat, my hands buried in your guts, feeling you clench around me as you break?”
“Stop! Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking with desperation, your hands trembling so badly the phone nearly slipped from your grip.
You slammed it down onto the couch, ending the call before the horror could escalate further, before his words could pull you deeper into the twisted fantasy he was weaving.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breaths, your chest heaving as you curled in on yourself, trembling uncontrollably.
Your mind reeled, the rasping voice still echoing in your head, each word a blade carving into your sanity. The shame was overwhelming, the way your body had responded to his threats, to the sick promise of pain and pleasure, making you feel dirty, broken.
You didn’t know it was Bucky on the other end, his hand still stroking his cock, precum slicking his fingers as he groaned softly, the sound of your fear pushing him to the edge, his obsession with you burning hotter with every whimper you let slip. He was just outside, hidden in the shadows, the modulator discarded now, his breath heavy as he watched the dorm windows, knowing you were inside, trembling, his.
You sat there, curled into a ball on the couch, your heart pounding, your body still humming with the aftershocks of his words. The dorm was too quiet, every creak a threat, every shadow a reminder of the voice that had promised to claim you, to break you.
The city was hushed as Bucky returned, distant party shouts fading. You curled on the couch, nurse costume rumpled, stockings laddered, trembling from the Ghostface call’s lingering threats, knives, blood, carving his name into your thighs.
Shame burned; your body’s heated response to the terror felt filthy, your thighs clenching at the memory.
Bucky slipped inside, coat draped over his arm, mask hidden, his calm too perfect. A faint metallic tang clung to him, masked by rain and leather.
“Hey,” he murmured, locking the door, crossing to you in quiet strides. His blue eyes scanned, door, windows before settling on you, reading your tremors, your flushed cheeks.
“You okay, doll?” he asked softly, crouching, vibranium arm on his knee, flesh hand brushing your hair, lingering on your jaw. He knew your whimpers from the call, his cock twitching at the memory, your fear his creation.
“Fine,” you lied, voice cracking, avoiding his gaze, shame twisting inside.
He smiled, teasing yet dark, feeding on your dependence.
“Shower’ll help,” he coaxed, voice intimate, pulling you up. “Just us, wash the night away.”
You nodded, craving his safety despite doubts. In the steamy bathroom, he unzipped your costume, knuckles grazing your spine, exposing your bra, eyes darkening over your curves. You stepped under the hot spray, Bucky joining, his naked body pressing close, chest to your back, arm steadying your waist.
“Lean on me,” he whispered, lips brushing your shoulder, soaping his hands. They glided over your shoulders, kneading knots, trailing to your breasts, circling nipples until they pebbled, dipping between thighs, teasing your core just enough to make you gasp, arching into him. “Bucky…” you breathed, half-protest, half-plea.
“Just relaxing you,” he murmured, vibranium hand on your hip, flesh fingers parting your folds gently, stoking heat. Steam wrapped you, his touch blurring fear and want.
The water cooled; he wrapped you in a towel, drying you gently, then himself.
“Lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed. You sank face-down, towel loose, trusting. He straddled your hips, oil-slick hands kneading your shoulders, drawing moans.
“That’s it, doll,” he whispered, kissing your temple, thumbs grazing your ass, thighs, teasing close to your core, his arousal pressing against you.
“Breathe,” he murmured, lips at your ear, hand cupping your neck, stroking your pulse. You melted, fear fading, shame dulled by his possessive care. You didn’t mention the call, the doubts buried under his touch.
Bucky smiled against your skin, savoring your surrender, knowing the cycle, fear, salvation, control would continue, his darkness binding you tighter.
And then it hit you, the sharp, cold drag of metal against your inner thigh, sending a shiver ripping through every nerve in your body like electric fire. Your breath caught, your chest tightening as panic flared hot and vicious, choking you.
You turned toward him, eyes wide with dawning horror, and froze. He was already watching you, his gaze dark, intent, unblinking, a predator's stare, stripping you bare without a touch.
The knife gleamed in his hand, the blade slick with the promise of pain, its edge tracing lazy patterns on your skin, close enough to prick if you so much as breathed wrong.
“Remember what I said on the call…” His voice was low, husky, a rasping whisper that slithered down your spine like ice-cold fingers. “…how I’d love to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours… shove my cock down your throat until you choke on it, tears streaming, begging for air while I hold you there.”
Your brows furrowed, confusion mingling with terror, your mind reeling as the pieces slammed together. “B-Bucky…? You didn’t-”
“Oh, but I did, you stupid little slut.” The knife traced slow, deliberate lines along the tender skin of your inner thighs, light enough not to cut deep but enough to draw thin beads of blood, the sting making you jolt with every inch of contact.
The cold steel made your stomach clench, your pulse hammering in your ears like a war drum, fear and unwanted heat twisting in your gut.
“Every filthy word, every promise to gut you like a pig while I fucked your holes raw, that was me, doll. Your protector, your killer, your fucking owner.”
Before you could pull back, he shifted with brutal efficiency, twisting you effortlessly until you were facing him on your knees, the blade now pressing lightly at your stomach, the tip dimpling your skin, threatening to pierce if you resisted.
Your hands flew to your chest instinctively, trying to cover your heaving breasts, your hardened nipples, trying to keep some shred of dignity, some part of your body under your control. But he grabbed your wrists with his vibranium hand, pinning them above your head, the metal unyielding, cold as death.
“No…” you whispered, voice cracking, tears already brimming and spilling down your cheeks, hot and salty. Your thighs clenched together, slick leaking despite the terror, your pussy betraying you with a shameful throb.
“Hey, hey… shhh,” he murmured, cupping your jaw with his free hand, tilting your head gently, forcing you to look into his eyes, those same blue eyes that had whispered comfort now gleaming with sick hunger.
The contrast of his touch, soft, almost tender, against the threat of the knife pressing along your skin made your heart pound harder, your nerves alight with dread and disgust.
“It’s still me, doll. Still the same Bucky.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips warm, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“The one whose fingers you came on last week… squirting like a desperate whore while I finger-fucked that sloppy cunt.” His voice dropped lower, darker, almost predatory. “…the same fingers that held the knife that slit poor Lukie’s throat, gutted him like the pig he was, his intestines spilling out hot and steaming while he begged like a bitch.”
Your stomach turned violently, bile rising in your throat as the image flashed, Luke's body twitching, blood pooling thick and crimson, his guts writhing on the floor like worms.
Your hands trembled in his grip, pressing against your thighs as you tried to shrink into yourself, curling away from him, but he held you fast.
“B-Bucky… please…” you whispered, voice barely audible, a mixture of fear, shame, and revulsion churning in your gut. Your pussy clenched again, slick dripping down your inner thighs, the betrayal making you sob harder.
“Never liked him anyway,” he murmured, dragging the knife slowly down to rest against the flat of your stomach, the cold metal making you shiver uncontrollably, goosebumps erupting as it traced lower, teasing the edge of your pubic bone.
“Too pushy… hands all over you, thinking he could touch what's mine. I watched him bleed out, doll, his cock twitching in his pants as he died, probably thinking of you even then. Pathetic.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light, scanning every reaction on your face, the way your lips parted in horror, the tears streaking your cheeks, the flush of shame betraying your body's response.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” His tone was soft, almost coaxing, but every word carried the weight of threat, obsession, and control, the knife pressing just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood across your stomach, warm and sticky.
All you could do was cry, body trembling, breath shaking, snot mixing with tears as you shook your head, whispering "No, please, Bucky, don't-"
Suddenly, his hand was at your throat, fingers wrapping around your neck, not enough to choke the life out, but enough to make your pulse spike, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, your airway constricted just enough to remind you he could end it all.
The knife traced along your jaw, glinting as it moved with slow, deliberate menace, the tip pricking your chin, forcing your head up. “I asked you something, sweets,” he murmured, the rasp in his voice sending tremors down your spine, his breath reeking of blood and lust.
You nodded frantically, shivering violently, unable to speak through the sobs, your pussy clenching traitorously at the dominance, slick coating your thighs in a humiliating flood.
“Good,” he said with a satisfied hum, laying back on the bed beside you, the knife still pressed against your skin, a cold reminder of his control as he dragged it lower, teasing the blade against your swollen clit, making you buck and whimper in terror.
His other hand trailed lightly along your hip, then down your side, fingers dipping into the slick mess between your legs, smearing it across your stomach like war paint. “Now… come closer. Show me how good you can be, or I'll gut you right here, fuck your dying corpse while your blood soaks the sheets.”
Your mind was spinning, heart hammering, the room blurring through tears as he was the same Bucky you loved, the one who'd held you through nightmares, fucked you gentle and sweet and at the same time, the predator, the killer, the one who'd orchestrated every whispered threat, every terrifying phone call, who'd slit throats and spilled guts to claim you.
“Or,” he continued, voice low, dark, dripping with menace, “would you rather hang from a tree, your own guts wrapped around your neck like a noose, your pussy stuffed with my knife as you bleed out for me?”
You froze, shivering, caught between terror and the impossible thrill of knowing he could and might do it, your body responding with a gush of slick that made him laugh, low and filthy.
The knife pressed closer, tracing a line down your ribs, drawing another thin cut, blood welling hot and sticky, and your pulse raced, each thrum of fear mixing with something you couldn’t quite name, arousal, submission, horror twisted into need.
Every glance, every touch, every slow movement of the knife and his fingers was a test, and you were utterly, helplessly at his mercy, your sobs turning to whimpers as he forced your head down.
You knelt between his thighs, naked and trembling, palms pressed flat against the tops of his muscled thighs for balance, the knife's edge now resting against your back like a cold brand.
The room felt heavy, dim, the low light catching the edge of the blade on the nightstand, a silent reminder of who he really was, the killer who'd gutted your friends, who'd threatened to do the same to you while jerking off to your fear.
“Fuuuck, pretty girl,” he drawled out, voice low and gravelly, full of dark amusement as he lounged back, cock hard and leaking, veins throbbing under your gaze.
“Didn’t know my cute roomie could arch like that, like a desperate whore begging to be filled.” He smirked down at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip roughly, prying it open to test the stretch before he fed himself to you, his nail digging in until you tasted blood.
“Now come on,” he said, tapping his cock against your lips like a warning and a promise rolled into one, the salty precum smearing across your mouth.
“Suck it, or I'll carve that pretty throat open and fuck the hole myself.”
You obeyed, terror choking you as you opened your mouth, heat and adrenaline buzzing through you like poison. He was big, huge even, too big for your mouth, the girth stretching your lips obscenely, the head pushing against your tongue with a salty, musky taste that made you gag.
The stretch made your jaw ache, your throat protest, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you choked and drooled all over him, spit bubbling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down his balls in messy strings. He watched every reaction with a predator’s patience, his smirk curling darker as your saliva dripped onto his thighs, mixing with the blood from the shallow cuts he'd made.
“Yeahh, that’s right. Choke on it, you filthy cunt,” he growled, fisting your hair so hard your scalp burned, roots pulling as he yanked your head down, forcing more of his cock into your throat until you gagged, retching, snot and tears streaming down your face.
He started pounding into your mouth, slow at first, then faster, his hips rolling with a dangerous rhythm that made your throat convulse, bile rising as he fucked your face like a hole. Your whines and tears were muffled against him, vibrating around his cock, but he only moaned at the sensation, his balls slapping against your chin with wet smacks.
You felt yourself getting wetter, shame and heat twisting in your belly like a knife, a drop of slick running down your inner thigh, pooling on the sheets in a humiliating puddle.
“Fuck, doll, you suck me so good, like the cock-hungry slut you are,” he moaned, gripping you harder, his other hand grabbing the knife from the nightstand, pressing the flat blade against your cheek as he thrust deeper, the cold metal a threat that made your pussy clench.
“Gonna cum down this throat, huh? Fill you up until it leaks out your nose, you’d want that, right? Or should I cut you open now, fuck your bleeding mouth while you gargle on your own blood?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command, low and lethal, and your whole body trembled as he said it, your throat convulsing around him in terror and unwanted need.
And then he did, hot spurts of cum hitting the back of your throat, thick and bitter, filling you until you had no choice but to swallow or choke, the burn making you gag harder. It overflowed, leaking from your lips in sticky strings, dribbling down your chin as you licked up every drop like you were starving for him, your tongue swirling around the head to clean him, shame burning you alive.
You were utterly wrecked, eyes teary and red, mascara streaked in black rivers down your face, slick with spit and cum, your chest flushed and trembling as you tried to catch your breath, coughing up strings of saliva and semen.
He sat up, still looming over you, cupping your jaw with one large, rough hand, fingers digging in bruisingly.
“Open up,” he murmured, voice dark and commanding. You obeyed automatically, your lips parting, tongue out like a whore. He leaned over and spit into your mouth, a wet, obscene glob landing on your tongue, mixing with his cum.
“Now swallow,” he continued, voice dark velvet, and you did, shivering as he watched you gulp it down, his thumb forcing your mouth closed until you obeyed.
“You like this, huh?” he taunted, thumb dragging along your lower lip, smearing the mess.
“Getting wrecked by your killer roomie, choking on my cum like a good little fucktoy.” His words curled into your brain like smoke, filthy and degrading.
He kissed you then, slow but possessive, forcing his tongue into your mouth to taste the mix of himself and his spit, his teeth biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang mingling as he sucked it clean.
He didn’t have to say it, the knife glinting nearby, the darkness in his eyes, the way he held your jaw just a little too tight, it was all a reminder: you weren’t just with your roommate.
You were with the predator you couldn’t stop craving, the one who'd coerce you into every filthy act, horror and desire twisted until you broke.
You were trembling, slick and aching, your pussy dripping like a faucet, and Bucky’s eyes roamed over you like a predator studying its prey, the knife still in his hand, its edge catching the dim light, a cold promise that made your stomach flutter in a delicious, sick mix of fear and anticipation.
But tonight, that predator was going to coerce you into every filthy degradation, his obsession a chain around your neck.
He leaned closer, pressing warm, possessive hands along your sides, sliding one hand over your hip to spread your thighs roughly, the other brushing your back before gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.
“Look at you, doll,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous, a dark thrill woven through every word. “Every inch of you… mine to ruin.”
His lips trailed along your neck, teeth grazing lightly at first, then biting down hard, leaving purple marks that throbbed, making you whimper and squirm.
You moaned softly, pressing closer despite yourself, chest rising and falling, your pulse thundering as blood rushed to your swollen clit.
Then he shifted, dragging the knife slowly along your inner thigh, the flat side pressing against your slick folds, smearing your arousal on the blade. Not cutting, not yet, but the cold metal against your hot, dripping cunt made you jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat as fear spiked.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice low and rasping, his breath hot on your ear. "Knife against your sloppy pussy, slick and hot… mine to touch, mine to claim." He pressed it flat against your clit, just enough to make your knees buckle, your breath catch, your heart hammer in your chest like it was trying to escape.
The edge teased your entrance, dipping just slightly into your wetness, the threat of pain making your cunt clench around nothing.
“Everything about you is mine, you worthless slut,” he growled, the knife now tracing up to your tits, the tip circling your nipple until it hardened painfully, a thin line of blood welling as he nicked the skin. “Every sound, every tremble… it’s because of me. Beg for it, or I'll slice this pretty nipple off and make you eat it.”
You gasped, shivering, hips arching toward him instinctively despite the terror, your pussy gushing slick onto the blade.
“Yes… Bucky… please…” you breathed, voice trembling, heart racing, shame flooding you as your body craved the horror.
He pulled back just slightly, dark eyes locking with yours, filled with filthy hunger. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Mine. Every inch. And don’t forget… the knife isn’t for threat. It’s for thrill. For fear. For making you my bleeding, begging fucktoy.”
He pressed the blade against your throat now, the edge biting just enough to draw a shallow cut, blood trickling down your collarbone as he forced your head back.
And with that, he resumed, pressing his mouth to your bloody nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling the copper taste while his fingers plunged into your cunt, three at once, stretching you brutally.
"Filthy whore, getting wet from a knife at your throat," he snarled, biting down on your tit until you screamed, his fingers curling to hit your g-spot with vicious precision, making you squirt messily onto his hand, the wet slap echoing in the room. "Look at you, pissing yourself like a bitch in heat. Beg me to cut you deeper while I finger-fuck this sloppy hole."
You sobbed, hips bucking, "Please… cut me… fuck me bloody…" the words forced from your lips by coercion and need, horror twisting into ecstasy as he nicked your other nipple, blood dripping onto your stomach.
Bucky leaned over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress like a cage, his dark eyes locked on yours with a hungry intensity that made you whimper.
Every motion was controlled, deliberate, commanding, and every word dripped with obsession and filth, coercing you into submission.
“Feel me, doll?” he rasped, thrusting slowly at first, his thick cock splitting you open, the stretch burning as he forced inch after inch into your tight, dripping cunt, bottoming out with a grunt. “Every inch of this fat cock buried in your worthless hole… mine to wreck.”
You moaned, arching into him despite the knife at your throat, nails digging into his broad shoulders, body trembling under the rhythm of his dominance, blood from your cuts smearing across his chest.
He smirked, lips brushing against your temple as he nicked your earlobe, blood trickling warm. “Bet little Jaime could never make you feel like this, huh? That pathetic fuck couldn't even get you wet, let alone fuck you until you bleed for him.” His voice was low, rough, dark, possessive. “Couldn’t even come close to what I’m giving you… this cock owning your guts.”
Heat rushed through you, every nerve alight with horror and ecstasy. His words, coupled with the feel of him buried inside you, sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.
His hands gripped your hips firmly, nails digging into flesh until blood welled, tilting you, guiding your movements with his own, forcing you to feel every vein, every ridge as he slammed into your cervix.
“You’re so fucking perfect for me, my bloody little cumdump,” he growled, thrusts growing harder, faster, relentless, the wet slap of skin echoing, your slick and blood mixing in a filthy mess.
“Every moan, every tremble… it’s all because of me. Mine, doll. Mine to feel, mine to claim, mine to breed and break.”
You gasped and whimpered, hips rocking instinctively against your will, heart hammering as his lips latched onto a bloody nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing as he bit down, drawing more blood.
Every sound you made seemed to fuel him, his obsession dark and unrelenting, the knife now tracing your belly, carving shallow initials, his, into your skin, blood beading as you screamed in pain and pleasure.
“Look at you… trembling for me like a gutted whore,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
“Screaming silently, begging silently… you’re mine, doll. And no one else could ever touch you like I do, fuck you while I slice you open, make you cum with my knife in your guts.”
His thrusts became faster, harder, more commanding, pressing you fully into him, every inch of your bodies moving together in a dark, thrilling rhythm of horror.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, every nerve alive, utterly consumed by him, by his dominance, his obsession, his claim, your body surrendering even as your mind screamed.
“Cum for me, you filthy bitch, or I’ll gut you right now,” he snarled, pressing the knife to your throat, the edge biting deep enough to draw blood, and you shattered, squirting around his cock in a messy flood, sobbing as he laughed, pumping you full of his cum, marking you inside and out.
You sagged against Bucky, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and trembling from his raw intensity, skin stinging from shallow cuts he’d carved into you.
The air reeked of sex, blood, and his cologne, shadows jagged in the dim light. His vibranium hand gripped your hip like a vice, flesh hand tangled in your hair, pinning you to his chest, every touch a possessive brand.
“Bucky…” you whispered, voice shaky, fear and desire cracking through. “You’re not… gonna kill me, right?” Your heart pounded, the knife’s cold ghost lingering, his brutal fucking still pulsing in your core.
His dark eyes locked on yours, a slow, disarming smile spreading, warm and boyish, masking the predator beneath.
“Kill you, doll?” he murmured, voice soft, almost hurt, thumb gently brushing your lip, smearing blood, saliva, and cum.
“My sweet girl, why would I ever hurt you?” His gaze softened, blue eyes pleading innocence, drawing you in. “You’re my world, my everything. Those cuts? Just love bites, marking what’s mine.”
Your throat tightened, Luke’s spilled guts flashing, wet ropes, crunching ribs, but his tender tone, the way he cradled your face, melted doubt.
“The… killings… the call…” you stammered, the rasping threats, fucking you bloody, carving his name, echoing, shame slick between your thighs.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lips warm, lingering.
“Shh, doll, that was to keep you safe,” he coaxed, voice velvet, manipulative. “Guys like Luke, staring at you, wanting you, they’re dangers. I protected us.”
His hand slid to your hip, fingers tracing a cut gently, soothing the sting, his eyes wide with feigned vulnerability. “You trust me, don’t you? I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
“I… trust you,” you whispered, voice trembling, clinging to his warmth, his lie weaving safety around your fear. His smile deepened, manipulative, feeding on your surrender.
“Good girl,” he purred, thumb stroking your cheek, smearing blood like affection.
“You’re mine, doll. I’d kill to keep you safe, gut anyone who looks at you.” His voice stayed soft, convincing, masking the feral edge. “But you? I’d rather die than harm you.”
Your pussy clenched, terror and desire tangling, his words a drug. He tilted your chin, eyes earnest, fooling you into belief.
“I only give what you need,” he murmured, knife’s flat edge teasing your throat, cold but not cutting, a playful threat. “Your tears, your screams, your sweet cunt, they’re mine to cherish.”
“I’m yours,” you breathed, tears spilling, body leaning into him, trusting despite the horror.
He kissed you gently, lips tender, sucking your bloody lip, groaning softly, vibranium hand cupping your ass, pulling you onto his lap. His cock hardened against your thigh, slick with your mess.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice loving, grinding slowly. “That’s me, worshipping you. My perfect girl.”
“Bucky… please…” you whimpered, lost in his facade, needing his lie.
“Say it again,” he coaxed, eyes soft, knife nicking your back just enough to sting, love disguised as pain.
“Yours,” you sobbed, clinging tighter, pussy aching.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, sliding into you slow, stretching you with tender thrusts, each one a claim.
“Forever mine.” His movements were gentle, binding you in devotion, his obsession hidden behind love’s mask, the cycle complete, your trust his ultimate victory.
A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940’s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x f!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
your world crumbles when you're forced into a marriage with jeon jungkook, a man whose commanding presence terrifies you, reminding you of your father's cruelty. yet beneath his coldness, jungkook’s unexpected kindness stirs a spark of hope, making you question everything you fear. your life together starts—an emotional journey of two hearts seeking comfort, healing and a chance at love
pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader
genre — arranged marriage au, forced marriage, marriage of convenience, age gap, reader is of age, forbidden love, forced proximity, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, rich ceo!jungkook, shy!reader, virgin!reader, poor!reader, obsession and possessive love, pining, slow burn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, lots of angst, smut, fluff
warnings — 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, forced marriage, emotional abuse and trauma, dark aspects, daddy issues, domestic violence references, mental health themes and struggles, smoking and drinking, grief and loss, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the intense, dark and potentially triggering content)
status — ongoing
taglist — [open]
main masterlist
INDEX
⤷ 01 : a deal for her hand » 6.8k
“you’re getting married. in a week. to jeon jungkook.”
⤷ 02 : forced to say 'i do' » 5.2k
“you’re a monster just like him! i’ll never forgive you or think this is okay. you—you bought me and i'll hate you for it every day for the rest of my life!”
⤷ 03 : strangers under the same roof » 12.3k
“you’ve been through a lot, y/n. i see it in your eyes, but you're still here, still fighting… that’s not weakness. that’s a strength most people don’t have.”
⤷ 04 : an agreement between us » 8.9k
“i married you, y/n because i wanted you, because you made me feel something for the first time in years. i wanted to protect you, to give you everything and now i'm the one paying for your father's lies.”
⤷ 05 : unspoken truths and comfort » 7.2k
“until i saw you that day at your house, when your father brought you to me and you were so… alive, so sweet, even with all the sadness in your eyes. i wanted you.. not just to have you but to make you happy, to give you everything i never had.”
⤷ 06 : healing in his hold » 11.2k
“touch my wife again and you won’t live long enough to regret it. she’s my woman… and you know exactly how possessive i get when someone dares to lay a hand on what’s mine.”
⤷ 07 : soft edges of us » 9.3k
“you’ve been through enough. you don’t have to hide your pain, not from me. if you're hurting or if you need something—tell me. i’m here, i want to be here.”
⤷ 08 : losing ourselves in maldives » 10k
“you’re such a dirty little thing, aren’t you? sitting there watching me jerk off? you wish that i was fucking your pussy instead huh?”
⤷ 09 : another day in paradise » 14.6k
“i’ve never wanted a woman like this never begged on my knees for anyone but you, fuck… i’ve wanted you since the day i saw you.”
⤷ 10 : is it the end of us? » 12.6k
“you’re everything to me, y/n. i’d never hurt you, i’d rather die than do that. just let me explain once just hear me out—”
⤷ 11 : maybe it's really a sad ending » 5.4k
“you don't get to say anything about her or tell me to let her go. she's my everything you don't know what it's like to love her so much that it hurts, only for it to lose it all in a day.”
⤷ 12 : us against the world » 21.5k
“i’d chase you to the ends of the earth baby, no matter what it takes.”
⤷ 13 : sex & love » 26k
“tell me angel, do you want me to watch you being such a naughty girl? want me to see how wet you get thinking about me fucking you raw right there, bending you over and filling you up?”
⤷ 13.5 : our first time [ to be released. ]
“i want you to fuck me like you hate me. like you’ve wanted to break me for weeks.”
EXTRAS
⤷ Q&A with bbv!characters
⤷ teaser
⤷ bbv!jungkook
⤷ moodboard/aesthetic created by some of my lovely readers
summary: kidnapped by hydra and initially considered a mere “cog in a vast machine”, you are forced to serve as the asset's personal medical caretaker. violent with everyone else, he calms only in your presence, possessive and watchful. fear, trauma, and reluctant attachment blur, leaving you safe— and terrified— under his constant, inescapable gaze.
warnings: DUB-CON; dark; she/her pronouns for reader; doctor!reader; reader was kidnapped; angst; wounds & blood; trauma; violence; guilt; breeding program (doesn't involve reader; not depicted, only mentioned: non-con experimentation, captivity, coercive reproductive experimentation, non-con administration of chemical compound designed to suppress sexual inhibitions & resistance); unhealthy relationship (they basically bond over trauma); protective!bucky; possessiveness & obsession; size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); smut; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; creampie.
word count: 8.5k
a/n: this is a scheduled post because right now I’m off tumblr and discord until february due to personal stuff.
I know this isn’t for everyone but I wanted to explore something darker and more psychologically complex. you are responsible for your own media consumption, aka don’t like don’t read. big warning: I know nothing about medicine, procedures, etc. so please, just ignore any discrepancy/mistake for the sake of the story.
ps: I didn't use the tag list since the content of this one-shot is much darker and different from the stuff I usually post.
You had believed in medicine as something clean, helpful. HYDRA disabused you of that notion within the first forty-eight hours of your abduction.
They never called it what it was, kidnapping. No, they called it recruitment.
You woke up in a white room with no windows, no phone, no shoes, and a man in a black uniform calmly explaining that your credentials were impressive, your skill set rare, and your cooperation expected. When you refused, when you demanded to leave, he wordlessly slid a thin file across the table. Inside were photos of your sibling walking home from work, timestamps carefully highlighted in red.
You learned very quickly when to stop asking questions.
You told yourself you were just trying to survive, that every day you keeping the Winter Soldier alive without letting him become more of a weapon was a small act of defiance. And yet, guilt clawed at your chest relentlessly. You had no idea who he had been before HYDRA took him, what parts of his life had been stolen, what memories erased, what humanity suppressed. If he could even still be called a man, or if he was nothing more than an experiment, forged and trapped within these walls. All you know is that he is a human being, and no human being deserves to be reduced to a lab experiment, trained to kill, and denied any life of his own.
The truth is that here, forced into this role you never wanted, you are still part of it. Every dose you administer, every wound you clean, every monitoring protocol you follow— even if it is just to keep him from spiraling into uncontrollable violence— you are contributing to HYDRA’s system, keeping the gears turning. You are a cog, however unwilling, and the realization makes you nauseaus. You are a witness, a caretaker, a facilitator. You keep him alive, but in doing so, you keep their machine alive too.
Your hands remain steady, but each measured movement is heavy with a mix of fear, sorrow, and reluctant responsibility.
The Winter Soldier is HYDRA’s greatest asset and its most closely monitored prisoner.
Officially, you are not his handler. You don’t issue commands or mission parameters, you don’t activate him or wipe his mind. That work belongs to others— men who speak in clipped phrases and avoid eye contact with what they had turned him into.
You monitor his vitals, track the effects of the serum, treat injuries sustained in the field, and document behavioral anomalies. You make sure he eats when they remember to feed him, that his body remains functional between cryo cycles, that the scars don't fester.
You are the only one allowed to touch him without restraints, but no one had planned for that.
At first, they tried rotating doctors. Each one lasted less than a week. Some requested reassignment, some broke down. One had a panic attack so severe she had to be sedated and removed from the facility entirely.
You still remember the first time HYDRA insisted on assigning a second doctor, an older man with trembling hands and a voice that cracked when he gave instructions. The moment he’d stepped past the threshold, the Soldier had gone rigid, gaze snapping from you to the stranger, like a gun sight locking onto a target.
The doctor hadn’t even touched him. He’d reached for a stethoscope, and the Soldier had moved faster than you could shout. Metal collided with bone. The doctor went down screaming, clutching a shattered wrist.
Restraints were deployed seconds too late, sirens screaming as the Winter Soldier fought them with silent, feral fury.
But you… He tolerated you.
That’s the word they used. Tolerated. As if it was a neutral thing.
He doesn’t really speak. His responses are economical: a turn of the head, a shift of weight, the faint tightening of his jaw when something displeases him. You learned his language the way one learns a foreign alphabet— slowly, and terrified of making a fatal mistake. You learned the difference between stillness and readiness, between compliance and restraint. That when his shoulders went rigid and his metal hand flexed once, you needed to step back.
The change had not started with trust, but with fear.
The other handlers were afraid of him. They had every reason to be. In the weeks leading up to the incident, the Winter Soldier had grown volatile in a way HYDRA could not quantify away. Missions ended messier, recovery periods stretched. There were moments— brief, unsettling gaps— where commands lagged, where he hesitated just long enough for alarms to register before compliance snapped back into place.
HYDRA answered the way it always did: pressure, punishment, tighter restraints.
You saw the cost of it written across his body.
The Winter Soldier had been awake for six minutes when the alarms started. You knew this because you were watching the numbers climb in real time— heart rate spiking dangerously fast, blood pressure surging hard enough to trigger red warnings across the console. His respiration was shallow and uneven, each breath dragged through clenched teeth. The biometric sensors embedded in the containment room floor registered rapid, erratic movement.
Pacing.
That was already bad.
“Why isn’t he responding?” An agent snapped from behind you.
You didn’t answer immediately, your eyes were locked on the glass.
Inside the reinforced medical containment room, the Soldier moved like a caged animal. Back and forth. Bare feet silent against the white floor, metal arm flexing and unclenching with a soft mechanical whine. His head twitched at every sound, from the hum of the lights to the hiss of the vents, and then the distant echo of boots in the corridor.
He was awake, but he wasn’t present.
“Soldier.” His handler barked, activating the intercom. “Stand down.”
No response.
Another command. Louder. Sharper.
He stopped pacing for half a second, long enough for your chest to tighten with hope, then he turned abruptly toward the glass, eyes wild, unfocused, scanning not for authority, but for threat.
His vitals spiked again.
“Sedate him.” The handler commanded.
Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the console. “No.”
The word came out harsher than you intended.
You forced herself to breathe, to think clinically. “If you sedate him now, you’ll exacerbate the fever.”
“What do you suggest then, Doctor?” He mocked.
You swallowed, looking back at the glass. “I need to go in.”
The room went quiet.
“That’s not protocol.” He gritted out.
“I’m aware.” You replied, eyes hard on his.
Inside the containment room, the Winter Soldier struck the glass without warning, making the whole room flinch. The punch was not hard enough to crack it, but it made the impact reverberate through the observation wing. His metal hand connected first, producing a deep, resonant thud. His breathing was loud now, ragged, bordering on a growl.
His heart rate surged past one-sixty.
“Doctor—”
“If I don’t intervene,” you said quietly, “you’re going to deal with a full-scale breach in under two minutes.”
They hesitated, but you didn’t wait for permission.
The moment the door of the observation wing slid open, something changed– not immediately, but the monitors noticed before anyone else did.
His heart rate dipped just a fraction. From one-sixty to one-fifty-eight. His breathing hitched, then slowed, unevenly at first, as if his body had recognized something familiar before his mind could catch up.
You took a step into the containment room, and the Winter Soldier froze. Completely still, mid-motion. Like a machine that had received a conflicting input and stalled.
His head turned toward you, his eyes found your face… And locked.
His breathing slowed, each inhale deeper than the last. The harsh tension in his shoulders eased slightly, almost imperceptibly, but you noticed it. You always did.
The metal hand that had been clenched tight loosened, fingers uncurling one by one.
“Vitals stabilizing.” Someone murmured over the comms.
You ignored them and simply took another careful step.
“It’s alright.” You whispered, knowing only he could hear you. “You’re safe.”
You had no idea how much those words meant to him.
His gaze tracked you with unnerving precision, following your every movement as if pulled by an invisible thread. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away. It was the same way he watched you during examinations, during wound care, during the long hours when you sat beside the cot and pretended not to notice how close he leaned.
As if losing sight of you meant the world crumbling.
You stopped a few feet away from him.
“Good.” You murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Just breathe.”
He did, slowly. Controlled.
The monitors confirmed it: heart rate down to one-thirty. Blood pressure falling into safer ranges. Temperature still elevated, but no longer climbing.
Behind the glass, the agents stared.
“He didn’t respond to any commands.” One of them said quietly.
You swallowed.
You knew what they were realizing.
The Soldier took a step toward you, not aggressively. Deliberate.
Every muscle in your body went tight, but you didn’t back away. You had learned, painfully, that sudden motion broke whatever fragile equilibrium existed between you two.
He stopped when he was close enough that you could see the faint sheen of sweat along his temples, the subtle tremor in his flesh hand that only appeared when he was overstimulated.
His eyes never left yours.
That’s when you lifted a hand gently, palm open. “Easy.”
He watched the movement with intense focus, his own vibranium hand repeating your movement, until he placed it against yours. His pulse jumped for a second, and then settled.
“Heart rate’s down another ten.” Someone whispered.
You felt sick. Not because of him, but because of what this meant.
They had suspected it before. Documented it in cautious, clinical language.
Subject exhibits reduced agitation in presence of primary medical staff. Notable improvement in compliance during examinations conducted by you.
This wasn’t obedience. It was fixation.
And as the Winter Soldier stood in front of you— calm, silent, attention narrowed down to your voice, your hands, your presence— you realized that whatever HYDRA had done to him, whatever they had taken away, there was still something inside his brain that had latched onto you and refused to let go.
Without you, he spiraled: violent, unresponsive, lost in a haze of half-awareness and threat assessment. With you, his body remembered how to regulate itself. His fury quieted, his attention settled on you.
“Doctor.” The handler called slowly. “Step back.”
The Soldier’s head snapped up at the sound.
His chest heaved quicker than normal, but you didn’t move.
“If I step back.” You mumbled. “His vitals will spike again.”
No answer.
Inside the containment room, the Soldier leaned closer— not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. His posture was protective without being aggressive, his body subtly angled between you and the glass.
A warning.
Not to you, to everyone else.
Your presence had become a fixed point in the fog. An instinct. And instincts, once formed, were almost impossible to erase.
“Alright.” He sneered. “Maintain position.”
You closed your eyes for half a second, sighing in momentary relief. When you opened them, the Soldier was still watching you, following your breathing as if syncing his own to it.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
The containment wing is quiet. Not peaceful, simply empty. Everyone soon learned that lingering would only bring more troubles. The reinforced glass wall stands between you and the Winter Soldier once again, thick enough to stop a tank, threaded with sensors that track every shift of his weight, every minute change in his vitals.
You sit alone at the console, tablet tucked against your ribs, eyes flicking between the readouts and the man behind the glass. The room is all white and steel, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like insects trapped in your skull.
He is standing today, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed, eyes fixed on you with unnerving intensity. You don’t hold his gaze too long. Attention from him feels… Dangerous. Like stepping onto a frozen lake that might crack beneath your feet. You keep your eyes on the monitors instead, scrolling through vitals you don’t like and couldn’t fix fast enough.
His posture in itself told you how bad the night had been before you arrived. His heart rate is elevated, steady but high. Cortisol levels haven’t dropped back to baseline after his last wake cycle. The serum is working overtime to compensate for something HYDRA refuses to name.
The wound should have healed. A ballistic injury to the right side of the abdomen, deep. Under normal circumstances, the serum would have closed it in one day. You had seen him regenerate from worse: bones shattered, muscle reforming with brutal efficiency. This time, the tissue stayed angrily inflamed, and the sutures strained instead of dissolving.
An asset that doesn’t heal is an asset that can fail. So they caged him here, again.
“Vitals are holding,” you mumble. “That’s good.”
He doesn’t respond, but his breathing slows as you speak. The monitors reflect it instantly.
That night, a month ago, he hadn’t calmed until you had shoved past the guards and coaxed him with your voice shaking and his palm against yours.
HYDRA had taken note. Now, you are listed as essential personnel. Singular. The only one he allowed near him. The only one he doesn’t try to kill.
You shift your weight, the chair creaking slightly under you. His head tilts minutely, and the tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction. His metal hand lifts, fingers flexing once against the glass, not striking it. Just touching, claiming the boundary.
Your throat tightens, forcing yourself to move your eyes back on the medical charts.
You have been staring at the same line for too long, the numbers have stopped looking like numbers a long time ago, and started looking like shapes instead— meaningless, looping back on themselves. You drag a hand down your face and lean closer to the console, scrolling back up, then down again, as if repetition might force sense into it.
Serum markers should be stabilizing by now.
They aren’t.
They look like they’re fighting something.
Your fingers still. You pull up a secondary panel, overlay two datasets, and your stomach drops. Threaded through the Soldier’s bloodstream like a foreign language, there is an unfamiliar compound, its concentration not just elevated but persistent. It hasn’t degraded, nor maintained.
“That’s not right.” You murmur.
Behind the glass, the Soldier’s spine straightens, eyes narrowing as if he’s felt the shift in your mood.
You glance up at him automatically. “Wait a second,” already rising from your chair. “Just— wait.”
His brow furrows in displeasure.
You step toward the door and signal to the agent stationed there. “Call Dr. Keller,” you say quickly. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
The guard hesitates, then nods and turns away.
Behind you, there’s a dull thump.
You look back, the Soldier’s metal hand is resting against the glass now, fingers spread wide, pressing. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on you like you’ve drifted too far, out of reach.
“I’m right here.” You cajole. “I’ll be back soon.”
His answer comes in the form of his flesh hand curling slowly into a fist.
Dr. Keller arrives a few minutes later. He’s older, silver-haired, immaculate in a way that suggests choice rather than coercion. A man who belongs here because he wants to. He barely spares the Asset a glance as he enters the room.
“What is it?” He asks, already impatient.
You turn the screen toward him. “This compound,” your index finger taps the value. “It’s interfering with the serum. It shouldn’t be there at all. What is it?”
Keller squints, then his expression smooths.
“Oh. That.” he comments bored. “CX-17.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “And what exactly is CX-17?”
He hesitates just long enough for the answer to be deliberate. “A behavioral catalyst. Part of Project Genesis.”
You stare at him. “Project what?”
Keller exhales through his nose, annoyed. “You weren’t cleared for the full scope. The serum alone is limited. Replication has been unsuccessful. Subjects don’t survive long enough for meaningful results, so the Winter Soldier Program was suspended indefinitely.”
Your mouth dries. “So?”
He rolls his eyes. “The Asset remains the only viable template. Natural compatibility was… Explored.”
The word lands wrong.
“What do you mean ‘explored’?”
Keller’s eyes flick toward the glass, then back to you. “Attempts were made to encourage reproductive behavior. He resisted. Violently. So the directive was adjusted.”
Your stomach curls uncomfortably. “You drugged him.” You whisper.
“We enhanced instinctual drives and suppressed inhibitions.” Keller snaps. “CX-17 was designed to lower resistance. A necessary step to secure the future of HYDRA.”
“You created an untested compound.” Your voice gradually rises. “And pumped it into a body already under extreme physiological stress. And you didn’t even think to mention it to me?”
“It wasn’t your concern.”
You laugh, a sharp and hysterical noise. “You’re monsters.” You shriek. “You weakened the serum, you destabilized him, and you didn’t even notice because you were too busy trying to turn him into— into a breeding machine!”
Keller’s face darkens. “Watch your tone, you little insolent bitch.”
You take a step forward. “You don’t get to—”
A thunderous bang cuts you off.
The glass shudders as the Soldier slams his fist into it, once, then again. The sound is deafening up close. His breathing is ragged now, shoulders rising and falling fast, eyes blown wide and furious.
You turn toward him instinctively. “Hey—”
Keller swears under his breath and backs toward the door. “You think you matter to him?” He snaps at you. “You’re a variable, that’s all. And when you stop being useful, he—”
Another punch. Harder. Cracks spiderweb the reinforced glass.
Keller pales. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but turns and runs, shouting for guards.
What a pathetic worm.
Behind the glass, the Soldier roars, raw and wordless, and slams both hands against the barrier, rage finally breaking free of whatever fragile control he had left.
The monitor spikes.
“Don’t—” You start, but it’s too late. His heart rate surges, breathing going sharp and fast, pupils blown wide as his gaze locks onto the door behind you.
“No!” You shout, but another blow strikes the glass. “Hey! Stop. Look at me.”
He freezes mid-motion, eyes fixed on your face.
You move closer to the glass, palm lifting slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a skittish animal. “It’s me.” Your voice shakes but not enough to stop you. “It’s only me in here.”
He wheezes once, then his breathing slows. The fist lowers, fingers uncurling as the violent tension bleeds out of him gradually. His forehead drops to rest against the glass with a soft, hollow thud.
You press your palm to the glass, waiting for him to place his directly opposite to yours. “Good,” you whisper. “That’s it.” The monitors follow your lead.
You exhale shakily. Your reflection stares back at you from the glass, overlaid with his impassive face, impossibly close. The sight drags your mind back to a few weeks ago.
A handler shoved him inside the medical bay, scornfully laughing. “He didn’t move fast enough.” The man left as fast as he came, the metal door slamming shut behind him.
As your gaze returned to the still Soldier, you noticed a fresh cut sitting on his cheek. Without thinking, you brushed your fingertips gently over the wound.
For the first time, his pupils dilated noticeably— a flicker of surprise rippled through him. You didn’t see it, too focused on the cut, but he couldn’t take his eyes off your lips, the concern in your expression.
He inhaled deeply, overtaken by a sudden, overwhelming urge: a primal impulse that his programming couldn’t contain. And then, something small and almost absurd appeared from his gear: a crumpled, battered bouquet. Most of the petals were gone, leaving little more than a bundle of stems clutched carefully in his metal hand.
“Oh.” Your eyes blinked at the sad flowers. You squirmed under his expectant blue eyes, broad shoulders curled slightly, head tilted down, leaning in like he was waiting for some kind of verdict.
“Are these… For me?” A sharp, quick nod. “I, uhm– thank you.” You mumbled finally, gently taking the offered gift. “I… Can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.” An afterthought, only meant for you.
The Soldier straightened instantly, as if your approval had flipped a switch in him. He shifted his weight, fingers twitching at his sides, unsure what to do now that the flowers had been delivered. And before you could even process it, he leaned in, clumsy and desperate, and his lips found yours. It was a frantic kiss, impulsive, charged with urgent need. You froze, breath caught, heart slamming against your ribs as his hands closed around your waist, pulling you closer with possessive certainty. Like he needed to feel you there, solid and real, or he’d lose you.
He’d kissed you harder, searching, urgently.
You should have stopped him.
But you didn’t.
Your eyes closed and your lips moved against his, hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbones. All the caution, all the fear dissolved with a stolen, fragile human gesture, careful and awkward, but still sweet.
You tried to avoid it, you forbidden yourself from feeling anything, and yet, you grew used to the Soldier, to his silent presence, his constant, tense watch over you during long, lonely hours. And he, in turn, grew used to you: to your gentleness, to the calm only you could bring.
And in that moment, the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his lips, and the broken stems in your grasp. His grip tightened like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Mine, something in his eyes said.
Ownership.
And God help you— you let it happen.
The memory shatters as a sharp metallic creak resounds. Your eyes fly to your left, where the Winter Soldier had moved.
He is at the door, his metal hand wrapped around the reinforced handle, plates whirring as he tests it— pulling, twisting, applying calculated force.
He wants out. He wants you.
“Hey,” you call sharply, heart racing as you rush toward the console. “No, Soldier. Stop.”
He turns his head toward you, just enough to meet your eyes. Then, your name. Rough. Unused. The sound of it sends a chill down your spine.
“I’m here.” You rush out. “You don’t need to come out.”
He hesitates, grip weakening slightly, before all hell breaks loose.
The alarms begin their wail, red lights strobing the room, but he doesn’t look at them. He plants his feet too wide, like the floor might slide out from under him, and presses his metal hand to the seam of the door. Not striking, holding. His fingers curl, uncurl, as if they can’t decide how much strength to use.
His shoulders begin to shake, his jaw locks hard enough that you hear his teeth grind through the glass. Breath stutters out of him in short, broken pulls, fogging the reinforced pane in front of his face.
“Please.” You beg, barely louder than a breath.
The word hits something already fractured.
His hand slams flat against the door.
The impact booms through the room, a deep, concussive sound that rattles the console and thunders in your ribcage. The door doesn’t give, not immediately, but the frame shrieks in protest.
He hits it again.
This time he doesn’t pull back fully. He leans into it, forehead dropping to the steel, spine bowing as he pushes. The shaking gets worse, travels through him in violent tremors, like his body is overloading, like too much power is trying to move through too small a space.
His right arm joins in too.
He growls, a low, involuntary noise, and pulls.
Something pops.
A hinge shears halfway through with a sharp crack, the sound brief but catastrophic. The door tilts a fraction of an inch. Enough. The frame bends, bolts snap free one after another, pinging across the floor like shrapnel.
With one final, brutal surge, he rips the door free of its housing. It tears loose with a shriek that dies abruptly when the slab of reinforced steel crashes to the floor, denting it, skidding, coming to rest like a fallen shield.
He stands in the doorway, framed by ruin, chest rising and falling like he’s just surfaced from deep water, arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His gaze flicks over you quickly— hands, throat, face— checking. Cataloging. Then it softens, like tension easing from a drawn wire.
The room is open.
And all that force, all that damage, was only ever aimed at getting to you.
Every instinct you have– doctor, captive, human— screams at you to run. But you don’t.
You can’t.
The Soldier takes a step closer.
Your legs don’t listen, even if your mind supplies you with a thousand endings per minute, most of them terrible. You remember thinking once, when his anger started pouring out wild and unrestrained, that there would be a moment he’ll turn on you. That you were foolish to believe you were different.
He stops in front of you.
You can see the conflict still raging behind his eyes, the anger coiled tight, barely leashed. He smells like metal, antiseptic and something sharp, burned. He lifts a hand, hesitates, then drops it like he’s afraid of what it might do.
“I need you.” He says hoarsely. A confession.
Your throat tightens. Slowly, you decide to nod. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m here.”
That’s all it takes.
He closes the distance and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. It’s sudden, fierce, but controlled— tight without crushing, as if he’s holding something fragile he doesn’t trust himself to keep intact. His chin drops to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your neck.
Your hands hover uselessly for a heartbeat, before they uncertainly land on his back, delicate.
His body shudders, just once. The storm inside him doesn’t dissolve completely, but it quiets, contained by the simple fact of you being there.
Your eyes reluctantly close, an attempt to control your still racing heart. Fear is braided tightly with something warmer, heavier. You have always been terrified of him, of what he could do. And yet, in his arms, standing in a room littered with metal and dust, you feel safe enough to breathe.
With your cheek against his chest, you can hear his heart.
It’s beating too fast.
The sirens finally cut out one by one, as if even the system knows better than to challenge him now.
Your fingers on his back twitch, instinctively curling, then freezing again. Your body feels divided— half screaming to pull away, half unwilling to test what might happen if you do.
He tightens his arms at once, perceiving the hesitation.
This is wrong, you think. This is all so wrong.
Project Genesis.
The name pulses behind your eyes, nauseating in its simplicity. Creation. Beginning. As if what they had done, what they had planned, was anything other than abuse dressed up in language that made men feel important.
Your stomach twists violently.
You stood at this console for weeks, months. You read his vitals, adjusted dosages, charted reactions. You spoke softly to him when the others barked orders. And all the while, something else had been running through his veins.
Something meant to break him.
“I didn’t know.” You whisper. The words slip out without permission, thin and useless. Your eyes blur suddenly, tears welling too fast for dignity. You squeeze them shut, but it doesn’t help. They spill anyway, hot and uncontrollable, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.
“I didn’t know,” you sob, breaking. “I swear— I didn’t— I would have—”
Your voice collapses completely.
The weight of it crashes down on you all at once. Not just the revelation, but everything that came before it. Every order you followed, every time you told yourself this is the only way you could keep him alive. Every moment you chose caution over confrontation.
A stupid, complicit coward.
Your shoulders begin to shake, and once they start, you can’t stop them. You curl inward, forehead pressing harder against him as if you could disappear there.
You should have asked more questions, should have seen it. You’re a doctor, yet you just accepted it.
“I let them do this to you,” you choke. “I let them use you. I was there. I was right there.”
Each sharp, painful breath feels like a deserved punishment.
“I’m so sorry.” Your voice is feeble, almost inaudible. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The Soldier doesn’t move. For a terrifying second, you think you’ve gone too far, that your collapse has triggered something you can’t see.
Then, a subtle shift.
His chin lowers, resting awkwardly on the top of your head, as if he’s not entirely sure where it goes. His breath tickles your temple, warm and uneven.
“Stop.” He rasps out.
You try, you really do, but the apologies keep coming, tangled and desperate.
“I didn’t mean to— God, I didn’t— please believe me—”
“Not your fault.”
The words are blunt, stripped of softness, but they land like a hand braced against your back, steadying you.
You shake your head violently against him. “It is. It has to be. I was part of it, I was part of the machine–”
“No.”
No elaboration, no uncertainty.
You laugh weakly through tears, humorlessly. “You don’t understand.”
He exhales sharply, a sound akin to frustration. One arm loosens enough for him to pull back slightly, not releasing you, just enough that he can look down at your face.
His eyes are intense up close. Too aware.
“You didn’t hurt me.” He says. “They did.” He continues. “You fixed wounds. You talked. You stayed.”
“That’s not enough.” You shake your head.
“It is.” He answers immediately.
You break again at that. A sound tears out of your chest, raw and humiliating. You press your face back into him, fingers curling into his shirt like an anchor.
“I’m scared of you,” you admit, the truth tasting like blood. “And I hate myself for that too.”
His body stiffens almost imperceptibly.
“I know.” He exhales.
“I thought you would hurt me,” you continue, words spilling faster now that the seal has broken. “At first. Every day. I kept waiting for it, waiting for the moment you’d decide I was like them.”
You chuckle again, broken. “Maybe I am.”
He pulls you closer, tighter. “No.”
The word is rougher this time.
“You’re different.”
You sniffle, blinking up at him with your vision still swimming in tears. “How can you know that?”
He hesitates. You can see it— the pause where language fails him, where concepts don’t line up neatly because of the constant wipings.
“You don’t look at me like… Weapons.” He says slowly. “You don’t raise your voice. You ask.”
Your chin trembles dangerously.
“You listen.” He adds. “And you’re kind.” As if stating a fact. “And beautiful.”
The last word is quiet, almost uncertain.
It hits you like a physical blow. You had not expected that, not from him. Not now. The intimacy of it feels dangerous and precious all at once.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he confesses suddenly, tension creeping back into his shoulders. His grip tightens again, reflexive. “I didn’t want to… They were asleep.”
The information hits you like a bucket of icy water.
“They make me hurt people,” he continues. “I don’t want that. I–I refused.” His jaw clenches. “I just want you.”
The words are desperate. Simple.
Around you, the red lights finally dim until they go completely dark, the automated voice announcing containment failure cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence that pressed in on your ringing ears.
His arms lock around your waist, metal and flesh equally unyielding, anchoring you back against his torso as his chin hovers near the crown of your head. Every passing second, his grip tightens imperceptibly.
That’s when you feel it.
The hard press of something against your belly.
Your eyes widen.
You lift one trembling hand and press it flat against his chest, over his heart. He goes rigid right away, eyes flicking down to frown at the contact.
“You need to let me go.” You say softly.
The words are careful, measured. The same way you spoke to him when you adjusted his restraints or changed a dressing.
“No.” He replies. A single syllable that feels absolute.
Your stomach drops.
“Someone’s going to come.” You swallow, your voice lacking conviction even to your own ears. “They’ll want to secure the area, they'll... Punish you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Minutes pass and the weight of his erection gets more insistent.
Finally, footsteps echo somewhere far away, hard and fast.
But no one enters.
You perk up at the movement beyond the door— boots, murmured voices, the faint hiss of radios. Relief flares, sharp and sudden, so intense it makes you dizzy.
“They’re here.” You whisper.
His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt, just to remind.
“Stay.” He squeezes your waist.
Then, the voices outside grow clearer.
“… Not worth it.”
“… You saw the glass.”
“… Calm now.”
Your breath hitches.
A familiar voice cuts through the thick metal door. One of his handlers.
“Hold position,” he barks. “No further advance.”
A pause.
“But sir—”
“He’s not agitated,” the handler grits out. “Vitals stabilized the moment she stepped in. You go in there, you change the equation.”
Another voice, uneasy. “What about the doctor?”
Silence.
“If the Asset kills her,” the man states flatly, “then she’s no longer a stabilizing factor. That tells us what we need to know.”
Your blood turns to ice.
The handler goes on, indifferent. “She’s a variable, and variables get eliminated all the time.”
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
The Soldier’s grip shifts, pulling you closer, his body angling subtly between you and the door, as if he’d understood every word.
“You’re safe.” He says.
The lie is gentle.
You try again, weaker this time. “I need to leave.”
His breathing changes. Sharper. Faster.
“No.”
You press your palms against his chest, testing. “I have to—”
His arms squeeze instantly, a reflexive response, holding you immobile against him.
Ownership without chaos.
“Mine.” His voice repeats low, threaded with something dangerously close to panic. “Don’t go.”
Your vision blurs again.
This is the breaking point you hadn’t let yourself imagine. The certainty settles into your bones as the minutes drag on and no one intervenes. No door opening, no voice calling your name. No order shouted to stand down.
HYDRA had made a decision.
They had weighed your life against his compliance and found you expendable.
You sag slightly in his arms, the fight draining out of you as the truth takes root. “They’re not coming. They won’t help,” you mumble. “Even if you hurt me.”
He freezes. Slowly, carefully, the Soldier pulls back just enough to look at your face. His gaze searches yours with unnerving intensity, scanning for distress, for injury, for something he doesn't want to see.
“Hurt?” He asks.
“No.” You swallow. Then, after a beat, “But you could.”
He frowns, something akin to confusion twinkling in his blue eyes. Like the concept doesn't fit with the way the world works in his head.
“I won’t.”
Your gaze drifts past his shoulder to the sealed door, to the place where armed men stood listening and chose not to act. To the place where your life quietly stopped being worth the effort.
Your voice shakes. “Then… If I wanted to leave… Would you let me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hands slide from your waist to your wrists, thumbs pressed into the soft skin there, grounding himself.
“No.” He says with finality.
Simple. Honest.
“I need you.” He adds, as if that explained everything.
His breathing slows gradually, arms tightening in reflex before easing again once he realizes you aren't trying to pull away anymore. Your body turns pliant in his hold, hopeless and devoid of any belligerency.
Your forehead rests dejected against his shoulder, eyes closing as exhaustion finally catches up with you. Your nerves are stretched thin to the point of numbness.
You should have been terrified.
And you are, to a degree. Some part of you is acutely aware of the danger in being held like this by someone who could snap your spine without effort. The vivid sight of the door falling, the lethal efficiency of his movements, the violence he unleashed on anyone who wasn’t you... They're still too fresh in your mind.
But wrapped up in that fear is something else. Something warmer. Quieter. More shameful.
Safety.
He has never hurt you. Not once. Not with his hands, not with his voice. Even in his worst moments— when rage took him and the world narrowed to threats and obstacles— he always stopped when you spoke, always turned back to you like you were a fixed point in a spinning room.
You had told yourself, at first, that it was professional. Conditioning. That you are simply the constant variable in his care.
Then you told yourself it was pity. How could you not feel something for a man stripped of his name, his memories, his choices? A man used and discarded by the same people who had stolen your life. It was natural, you reasoned, to feel compassion. To want to be gentle with someone so thoroughly brutalized.
That explanation held, for a while.
But pity didn’t explain the way your breath caught when he stood too close. Or the way you’d begun to notice the lines of his muscles, the quiet intensity in his eyes, the strange, restrained grace in the way he moved when he wasn’t being weaponized.
Pity didn’t explain that kiss. Or the way your body had responded without thought.
You swallow around the knot in your throat.
Isolation. Trauma. A mind desperate to find meaning— or comfort— anywhere it could. You were kidnapped, imprisoned, stripped of agency. Of course you had latched onto the one person who didn’t treat you like an object.
Of course you’d mistaken that for something deeper.
And yet.
You lift your head slightly, looking at him from beneath your lashes. He is observing you again, always watching, expression unreadable but intent, like he is memorizing the shape of your face in case it’s taken from him.
He is beautiful, in a stark, broken way.
That frightens you, too.
You close your eyes, a tear slipping free despite your best efforts.
Maybe you should have fought harder; screamed. Try to break free while you still could. But the ugly, inescapable truth is that the idea of being dragged back into HYDRA’s hands, alone, is more terrifying than standing here with him.
He is a prisoner, and so are you. You are the same, in that way— both trapped, both owned, both reduced to functions. The only difference is that he is dangerous enough to be feared, and you aren’t worth fearing at all. The Soldier is the only one who has ever made room for your humanity in this place, even if he does it in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons, with a possessiveness that bleeds into obsession.
That doesn’t mean, however, that you feel completely safe. You know deep down in your heart that this bond is fragile, conditional, built on circumstances that can shift without warning. You know that one day, something might break, and you might be on the wrong side of it.
His chest starts rising and falling in ragged, silent heaves. His jaw flexes, and you reach out to gently brush your fingers against the tense muscle. You notice now the unbearable heat radiating off the solid wall that is his chest.
“Hey, what happened?” You whisper, unable to shut down the part of your brain that worries for him. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Calm down.”
He leans in close, eyes never leaving yours, staring you down in a way that makes you think of a predator studying its prey. His long locks tickle your skin as he tucks his chin, nose tracing your cheek, then the slope of your neck, inhaling you, hungry.
Your body locks in. It can’t be–
His hands move before you can think. Big fingers curl tight around your wrists, a yelp falling from your lips as he pins them flat against his chest. His other hand stays firm on your waist, flexing and digging into your skin painfully.
“S–Soldier.” Your voice comes out in a shaky whisper. “Please, listen to me. You need to let me go and–”
You don’t get the chance to finish. He pushes you back against the console, not harshly, but firmly enough to convey who has the upper hand. The edge digs into your back as he crowds you, pining you with his weight.
“I need–” He nuzzles your throat, mouth so close that you can feel his warm breath on your skin.
You try to push him back, squirm between his body and the console, twist away… But then he growls, a warning against your throat, and you swear your heart stops for a millisecond. He uses the hand on your waist to press you closer, and you gasp as his hips jerk onto yours, humping you in search of some relief.
“Please– help me, need you, only you please.”
“I–I–” Your fingers curl against the rough fabric of his shirt. “I don’t–”
You choke on your next words as his hand lands on your thigh, squeezing the flesh hard.
“We stay quiet.” He commands roughly. “So they don’t hear and– they can’t use you like those women.”
You gasp, eyes going wide at the implication. “No no no no.” You whisper, petrified at the possibility of the agents potentially hearing you and...
“Please, no.”
The Soldier pulls back just enough to look at you, dark and hazy eyes flicking from your own, down to your mouth, and then on your chest. The hand on your thigh moves up, slowly, gripping your hip before moving around to palm your ass.
“Soldier, please.” Your breath hitches.
“Need only you, help me. Please, please only want you, want you always.”
The sex is silent, primal, desperate. His strength barely restrained as you cling onto his shoulders.
He is far bigger than you’d even dared to imagine and there is no time to prepare for it, not when he’s been fighting off every single sexual instinct for who knows how many weeks. There is no warning, no slow build, just the sudden stretch of him forcing his big cock inside you. You gasp, one of your hands smacking onto your mouth to stifle your wanton sounds. Your nails dig into the hard flesh of his right shoulder, his own groans muffled against the slope of your neck.
“Mine.” He grunts in your ear, stubble rubbing raw against your smooth skin. “Mine, only mine.” He insists, eyes wild and hips thrusting frantically.
You barely say a word. All you can do is take it, overwhelmed by the sheer force of him and the way he keeps driving deeper, each time feels like the Soldier is trying his hardest to imprint on your body, mark you up. Show everyone who you belong to, over and over again. Sliding in and out so fast and hard, his balls smack against your ass as his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping them nice and open for him.
“Say it.” You cry out once his lips devour yours, your first kiss since that time in the med bay, when he clumsily tried to express how much he desired you. Arching up, you meet him because it just feels right.
“Yours! Only yours– only you. Yours–”
And you climax. The sheer intensity of your orgasm shocks you and makes you cling to him harder. Your body contorts and clenches around him and the Soldier never slows down. He continues to rut into you furiously, slamming into your wet pussy, pounding without restraint, completely ecstatic that he’d made you come on his cock, that he got to make you feel this good. Because now your body would fucking know who it belongs to.
Your mouth opens in a soundless scream as the Soldier loses himself in your body, again and again, rocking you back against that damn panel.
You mewl and pant and cry out against your hand, sweaty and tired, until he does it again. He makes you come again, and you are squeezing him, clenching around his erection so tight, so wet, sucking him so deep.
You are left breathless, nails sinking into his bare sweaty back and fuck, he is going to come.
Quickly.
Your mouth is on his again, hands clutching his cheeks, and the Soldier is coming. He presses his pitiful whine against your lips.
His hips jerk so hard in his clenching spasm that he sees stars when your hand shoots down, gently rolling his balls between your fingers and then moving your head back to suck on his neck.
Coming for what seems like forever, he fills you with his cum, warm and endless, shaking as he leaves a part of himself in you.
The silence after stretches, charged, until he finally breaks it, breathless.
“Mine.”
They don’t call it a reassignment.
They call it a logistical adjustment.
You find it out while standing in a narrow administrative corridor that smells faintly of printed paper, from a handler who doesn't even bother to look you in the eyes.
“Given recent containment failures,” he reads from a folder, voice clipped and disinterested. “It has been determined that subject stability increases exponentially with your prolonged presence.”
Your fingers curl around the hem of your white coat. “I’m already his doctor.”
“Yes.” He says annoyed. “But you are not always with him.”
The meaning settles heavily.
“You’re moving me.” You realize, squinting your eyes at him.
The handler finally glances up, eyes flat. “We are relocating you.”
Your stomach drops.
“To the same unit,” he continues. “Sleeping quarters, monitoring station, medical access. All integrated. You will remain within visual range of the Asset at all times unless otherwise authorized.”
You swallow. “And if I refuse?”
He doesn’t even blink. “You won’t.”
“The subject becomes unmanageable without you. This arrangement minimizes risk to personnel and infrastructure.”
“What about risk to me?” You grit out.
He gives you a faint, irked exhale. “If the Asset harms you, Doctor, then your presence is no longer stabilizing. In that case, your loss will be… Regrettable, but informative.”
You are escorted through corridors you had never been allowed to see before. Darker, quieter. Past reinforced doors and biometric locks until you and the two handlers reach a unit that feels less like a cell and more like a sealed habitat.
One large room: low lighting, padded walls, embedded sensors. One bed: reinforced, stripped of anything that could be turned into a weapon.
“He’s already inside.”
The door opens, and you step in with a shaky exhale.
The Soldier is standing near the center of the room, motionless, as if he’s been waiting. He turns the moment he senses you, eyes locking onto you with immediate intensity.
Relief, raw and unmistakable, washes across his face.
“You’re here.”
“Yes.” You whisper.
The door seals shut behind you with a sense of finality.
You flinch at the sound and that promptly gets him closer to you.
“Safe.” He nods.
You don’t know if the word is meant for you, or for himself.
Your eyes wander around the cell, taking in the absence of exits, the quiet hum of surveillance embedded into every surface.
They reduced you to a sedative with a pulse.
You set your bag on the floor slowly, hands shaking.
“This doesn’t mean…” You start, then stop. You don’t even know how to finish the thought.
He watches you, head tilted slightly, reading you the way he always does: body language, breath, tension. His fingers catch your wrist when your hand trembles too hard to hide.
“Stay.” He states.
You sigh. “Yes.”
Understanding flickers, incomplete but earnest.
“Mine.”
That word should have terrified you.
Instead, it wraps around something deep and aching inside your chest.
You exhale, your free hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. Up close, you could see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the scar along his cheek you had touched weeks ago without thinking... You remembered the way he reacted— how something human and untrained surfaced in him, clumsy and desperate.
You blame yourself for that moment.
He has never been gentle with the world, but he has always been gentle with you. And sometimes that terrifies you more than his violence ever has.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t be afraid.” You add, voice barely above a whisper. “Some days I will be.”
His hand squeezes gently around your wrist.
“Mine.” He says again.
That’s the final truth you have to face.
Not because you are naïve, or foolish, but because in a place that has taken everything from you, he is the only one who has ever chosen you.
Even if that choice comes wrapped in possession. Even if it means you would never truly leave.
You let your shoulders relax, just a little, and allow your forehead to rest against his shoulder.
Two prisoners, standing in the aftermath of a broken cage.
Outside, HYDRA recalibrates, adjusts protocols, writes new rules that reduce your existence to an item in a report.
Inside, the Winter Soldier reverently watches over the only thing that has ever quieted the noise in his head.
And you, caught between fear and comfort, between horror and something dangerously close to affection, understand that this is not a rescue story.
This is containment.
And this time, you are on the inside.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
synopsis: jeon jungkook is a clean freak who can’t stand dust, noise or the way you chew. you’re a mess who forgets bin days, leaves dirty laundry everywhere and hates the smell of his chicken breast smoothie. you argue in passing, coexist at a distance, and survive each other only because your schedules never overlap—he works night shifts as a nurse, and you’re an underpaid teacher. until one night, they do. he comes home early. you don’t expect him to. he walks into the living room, catching you with a wine glass, panties on the floor and a vibrator between your legs.
ᥫ᭡ pairing: nurse!jeon jungkook x teacher!female reader
ᥫ᭡ genre/warnings: roommates au, e2l, control-freak x messy roommate, explicit sexual content, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, masturbation, oral sex, rough sex (with protection, doggy), dom/sub vibes, choking, spanking, degradation/dirty talk, exhibitionism, non-verbal consent
ᥫ᭡ wc: 5.5k
As usual, the blender starts at 06:02am exactly.
After nearly two years, your brain has learnt the exact pitch. It’s the smell that does you in. The scent of warm, boiled chicken breast being murdered into paste. It creeps under your door, sits on your tongue, turns your stomach before you’ve even sat up.
You lie there for three long seconds, staring at the ceiling—trying to decide if you can call in sick from poultry-related trauma. You can’t.
You shove the duvet off, hair sticking to your cheek, and swing your legs out of bed with the grace of a woman dragged out of sleep against her will. The floor is cold. Your eyes burn. Your throat feels dry because you’ve slept too little and lived too loudly the day before.
The blender keeps going. You stomp to your door and yank it open. The kitchen lights are on, bright and rude. He’s there, exactly where he always is at this hour.
Jeon Jungkook stands at the counter in his nurse uniform—scrubs that fit him offensively well, sleeves pushed up far enough that you catch the dark ink creeping along his forearm. A glimpse of metal at his mouth when he turns his head. He doesn’t look tired. The blender is under one of his hands. The other hand holds the bottle.
You stare at him for half a second too long. It’s annoying—genuinely irritating—how good he looks. A man who knows exactly what he’s doing with his hands. A man anyone would happily ruin their life over if he wasn’t also the kind of person who wipes down the counter after pouring a glass of water.
He glances up, clocking your presence. “You’re up,” he says, flat. “Your laundry is still in the dryer.”
“Am I up?” you reply, voice hoarse, purposely ignoring the last part. “I thought I was hallucinating the sound of a blender trying to break through the wall.”
His eyes flick to the doorway, then to your face. He gives you that look—the one people give to badly behaved children. It annoys you because you’re a grown woman who pays rent and buys her own groceries.
“It’s been there since yesterday,” he says, again.
“Aaand?” You drag the word out. “It’s also a weekday. People are asleep. Some of us have jobs that don’t involve terrorising innocent kitchen appliances.”
He looks down at the blender and he turns it off. Silence drops—unfortunately, the smell remains.
You walk into the kitchen with purpose, which is mostly to stop yourself from walking into the wall. The tiled floor is cold under your feet. Your eyes flick to the blender jug without permission—it’s pale, dense and horrifying.
“Ew,” you say, disgusted.
He lifts one shoulder. “Protein.”
You reach past him for the bread because you’re already up and you’re already suffering, so you might as well suffer with toast. You shove a slice in the toaster, wait for it to pop, and take a bite.
His gaze snaps to your mouth. “Can you not chew like that?” he says, already reaching for a cloth.
You pause mid-chew, stare at him, then chew louder, with your mouth open.
Jungkook wipes the counter in front of you like you’re shedding crumbs by breathing. He catches a few that fall and wipes again immediately, as if the crumbs have personally offended him.
“It’s disgusting,” he adds. “And you’re eating before you’ve even brushed your teeth.”
“Oh my God,” you say, still chewing.
He doesn’t stop—Jungkook never stops once he starts. “All that bacteria just goes straight into your stomach.”
You swallow. “Fuck off.”
His jaw shifts. “Brush your teeth.”
You take another bite. “You’re such a heter,” you mutter, passing him for the bathroom. You make sure your shoulder bumps his on the way through, just to be petty.
He doesn’t move, not even flinch. But his gaze drops to where your shoulder touches his chest for a fraction of a second, like you’ve burnt him. “Don’t touch me,” he says.
You stop in the doorway of the bathroom and look back at him. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you only let Dettol touch you.”
His jaw shifts. “You’re not funny.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my class. They think I’m a stand-up comedian. Mostly because they’re laughing at me, but still.”
He picks up his bottle and starts rinsing the blender jug. “You left a bowl in the sink last night,” he says again without looking at you.
It’s way too early for his nagging. You stare at the back of his head. “I left a bowl in the sink because I ate dinner like a normal person and then I fell asleep. At night. Like someone who doesn’t work the hours of a vampire.”
Jungkook turns around and looks you up and down once—a quick assessment that manages to make your skin tighten. “Make sure you leave the bathroom window open and turn the fan on.”
You pause. “Why?”
“Steam,” he says, clipped. “Mould.”
You laugh once, without humour, and shut the bathroom door hard enough that the frame rattles.
When you’re finally ready for the day and tugging your shoes on by the front door—bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand— his bedroom door opens.
Jungkook steps out shirtless, towel looped around his neck and another in his hands. His hair falls in wet waves on his forehead. Water glistens on his chest. His tattoos are more visible like this—dark lines disappearing over his ribs, into places you don’t get to see.
You hate your body for noticing. For scanning. For imagining.
He looks at you and his gaze lands on your shoes first, then your bag, then your face. “Bins,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods towards the door with his chin. “It’s bin day. Take them down when you get back.”
“You love bossing me around,” you say.
“You love needing it.”
You swallow your comeback because you don’t have time for a full-scale war before work. You also don’t have time to stare at his chest, so you don’t—making sure your eyes behave.
“Fine,” you say. “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” One beat. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Don’t forget.”
You grab your keys tighter. “I won’t.” You step out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind you.
Today has been miserable. You get home with your keys already digging into your palm, jaw tight from clenching it all day.
The flat greets you the way it always does when Jungkook’s been through it—offensively spotless. No shoes by the door unless they’re lined up. No mug in the sink. Not even crumbs. The air even smells clean—the scent of the very specific disinfectant he likes.
You toe your heels off and kick the door shut behind you.
Your eyes land on the hallway mirror. You look like you’ve been chewed up by fifteen-year-olds and spat back out again. Hair escaping your clip, mascara smudged at the edges, shoulders slumped. Your throat hurts from talking over classroom noise. Your head is full of the headmaster’s voice—targets, targets, targets—like you can single-handedly bully kids into better grades with worksheets and hope.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Another email. Another deadline. You don’t even check it. You exhale and drop your bag to the floor.
The bins.
He told you this morning. Bin day. Don’t forget.
You glance at the kitchen corner where the bin lives. “I won’t forget,” you mutter out loud.
You walk past it anyway, telling yourself you’ll do it in a minute—after you’ve had a shower; after your shoulders stop feeling like they’re made of stone; after you remember the feeling of being in your own skin.
You strip your clothes off in the bathroom, step under the water, and let it hit you hot. It loosens something in you—not the stress, not really, but the surface of it. The day washes down the drain in pieces: students arguing over calculators, the constant low anxiety of exams, the headmaster’s tight smile that never reaches his eyes.
You press your forehead to the tiles and breathe.
When you step out, towel around your hair, your body feels lighter and your mind feels emptier. Better. Not fixed—just quieter.
You don’t even bother with dinner. The thought of standing in the kitchen, choosing food, chewing, washing up—it all feels like too much effort for a Friday night you’ve earned through sheer survival.
So you go for the only thing that doesn’t ask questions. Wine.
You pull the red from the cupboard and pour yourself a glass that’s a little too generous. No one’s here to comment on the amount. No one’s here to tell you to use a coaster. No one’s here to wipe the counter behind you the second you turn away.
Jungkook’s meant to be on nights. He’ll come in at stupid o’clock, make his disgusting smoothie, glare at the state of the world, and go to sleep. That’s the arrangement. Your lives brushing past each other like strangers.
You take the wine to the sofa, drop down, and turn on Netflix. Something mindless with attractive people and predictable problems. You let it play while you drink and let your body unclench.
Halfway through the film, two characters start kissing. Hungry kissing—hands in hair, mouth open, bodies grinding against one another.
You swallow a mouthful of wine and stare at the screen for a second longer than you mean to. It’s been—what? Eight months since you got laid? Maybe longer. You can’t even remember the last time someone else’s hands were on you with intent.
You shift on the sofa. Your damp hair sticks to the back of your neck. Your skin feels too awake all of a sudden. That restless, irritated ache that sits low in your belly and refuses to be ignored.
“Tired, stressed, horny,” you mutter. “Amazing.”
You take another sip, bigger this time, as if you can drown the feeling. It doesn’t work.
Your gaze flicks to the hallway. To your bedroom. To the drawer you keep things in—the drawer you pretend isn’t important until nights like this, when your body starts demanding attention.
You stand up.
The film keeps playing behind you, the actors going at each other. You walk to your room, open the drawer, and pull out your vibrator. You pause with it in your hand, considering your bed. The problem is the wine. The glass you left on the coffee table—also the fact that you don’t want to get up again once you start and you’re already too keyed up to be patient with yourself.
You go back to the living room.
You stand there for a moment, looking at the sofa, then at the glass, then at the corridor again. As if Jungkook might suddenly appear and scold you for existing.
He won’t. He’s at work.
You sit.
Leather under your thighs. Cool at first, then warming. You set the vibrator on the cushion beside you and take a gulp of wine that burns a little on the way down.
“Who cares,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone. “It’s my sofa too.”
Your fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. You slide them down, step out, and kick them away without thinking. They land near the coffee table, a soft pile of fabric that would make Jungkook visibly twitch if he saw it.
You sink back into the sofa, the leather sticking slightly to your bare thighs, and grab the vibrator. The wine's buzzing in your veins, making everything feel a little sharper and dirtier.
You flick the toy on—the low hum is too loud in the flat’s quiet—and spread your legs to press it against your clit. The first vibration jolts through you, and you bite your lip to stifle the gasp that wants to escape.
Fuck, it's been too long.
You don’t have patience for slow. Your hips shift instinctively as you circle the tip over your folds. You close your eyes, letting your head fall back. That's when your mind betrays you.
Jeon Jungkook. That asshole with that metal at his mouth and his infuriating control.
You imagine him in the kitchen, not blending his stupid chicken breast shake, but pinning you against the counter instead. His hands—those dry-knuckled, impatient hands that scrub everything spotless—digging hard enough to bruise. Him yanking your panties down your hips.
"You can’t do anything clean, can you?" he'd growl, voice annoyed as usual.
But he'd be hard against you, pressing between your arse cheeks as he bends you forward. Your face pushed against the cold countertop.
You slide the vibrator lower, pushing it inside yourself with an easy glide. Your breath hitches. Fuck, it feels good, but it's not enough—not like how it would feel to have him shoving your thighs apart with his knee.
One of his hands fisting your hair to keep you arched, the other undoing his pants. You can almost feel the length of his cock before he thrusts in with no warning—stretching you open until you're gasping, gripping around him like you'd never let go.
"Fuck, Jungkook," you whisper, the name slipping out desperate as you pump the vibrator faster.
The buzz is sending shocks up your spine. Your free hand claws at the throw blanket, bunching it up, while your hips buck against the toy.
Jungkook’s relentless. His balls are slapping against your clit with every snap of his hips. His tattooed arm wraps around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing circles that make your legs shake.
"Take it," he’d mutter, breath hot against your neck, his ring scraping your shoulder as he bites. "You want this, don't you? Acting like a brat all day just to get fucked like one."
The image burns behind your eyelids—his sweat-slick chest pressed to your back. The wet sounds of skin on skin. The way your pussy would grip him until he's groaning your name—losing that perfect composure.
Your toes curl into the carpet, thighs trembling as the pressure builds in your core. The sofa is pooling with your juices. You're so close, chasing the edge where everything explodes.
“Jungkook—” you moan, louder.
One more thrust in your mind—him slamming home, grinding deep—and you're there, body arching as the orgasm rushes up—
A throat clears.
Your eyes snap open. The vibrator is still buried inside you, still buzzing as your hand freezes. Your heart slams against your ribs; your breath caught in a choke.
He's there. In the doorway. Jungkook, in his scrubs, staring like he's walked into a nightmare. His jaw is clenched. His grip tightens on the strap of his bag.
You yank the toy out with a gasp, thighs snapping shut. You scramble for the blanket, face burning. "Oh my God," you stammer, voice wrecked. "It's not what it looks—fuck. Okay. It is exactly what it looks like."
He doesn't say a word. Just swallows hard, gaze dropping for a split second to your discarded panties on the floor, then away. He turns on his heel, and you can then hear his door slamming.
You want to die.
You’ve pulled on a fresh pair of panties. The cotton is soft against your still-sensitive skin. Your shirt is tugged down over your hips—trying to erase the last fifteen minutes.
You have cleaned up the living room's crime scene. The vibrator is safely stashed back in your drawer. You’ve wiped down the sofa and the throw blanket has been haphazardly folded. Your abandoned wine glass is rinsed and set in the drainer.
But none of it helps settle the pulse under your collarbone.
You stare at his closed door from the hallway, chewing the inside of your cheek until it stings.
This is stupid. You should let it blow over, pretend it never happened. You’re adults who share a flat and nothing else.
But the silence from his room feels heavier than usual—and you know that if you don't deal with it now, it'll turn worse. Awkward glances in the kitchen, him wiping surfaces longer than necessary, you slamming cabinets louder than needed.
Your bare feet pad across the cool floorboards. You knock twice and immediately regret it. There are shuffling sounds from inside, muffled footsteps, and then the door cracks open.
He's changed out of his scrubs into loose sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair's pushed off his forehead, and his eyes are narrowed at you with that familiar edge.
"What?" he says, voice clipped.
You shift your weight, arms crossing over your chest—as if that might shield you from the humiliation crawling up your back. "Can I come in?"
He doesn't move at first, just stares. Then he steps aside with a sigh, letting the door swing wider.
You slip past him, careful not to brush against his arm, and the room envelops you. It’s clean, almost sterile, with the faint scent of his body wash hanging in the air. It’s crisp and minty and it makes your stomach twist.
It's the first time you've been in here, and it's exactly what you'd expect—bed made with military precision, sheets tucked tight, no stray clothes on the floor. His desk is against the far wall, a sleek gaming setup taking up most of it—dual monitors, a keyboard with RGB lights turned off, headset draped over the back of the chair. There is a framed anatomical diagram on the wall that screams nurse vibes.
No clutter, no personality spilling out—just freakishly controlled, like him.
You head straight for the swivel chair at the desk. You spin it around to face him and drop into it, knees pressed together because the bed feels too intimate. He closes the door behind you with a soft click, leaning against it—arms folded, waiting.
The room feels smaller with both of you in it, the air thicker.
"Look," you start, forcing your voice steady even though your throat's dry, "about what you walked in on—it's not what you think. I mean, it is, but—I didn't know you'd be home early. You’re always on nights and never early—and—and yeah."
“They moved my shift,” he says. “Roster change. I got sent home.”
“And you didn’t think to text?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.” He pushes off the door and takes a step closer. His expression remains unchanged—brows furrowed, mouth a flat line. "I also didn't ask for an explanation."
"Yeah, well, I'm giving one anyway," you snap back, heat rising in your cheeks. "Because now it's awkward as hell—and I don't want you thinking I'm some kind of exhibitionist or whatever. It was private—you— you weren't even supposed to see that."
"Private in the living room?" He scoffs, voice low. He moves to stand by the bed, hands shoved in his pockets, posture rigid.
You roll your eyes, swiveling the chair a little to face him fully. "Oh, come on. Like you've never done anything in a common area. The flat was empty—or I thought it was—annd don't act like you're scandalised—we're adults, okay?"
"I'm not scandalised," he mutters, gaze flicking to the floor, then back to you. "Just—didn't expect it."
That’s when your eyes drop, unintentionally, to his sweatpants.
The fabric's loose, but not loose enough to hide the outline straining against it. The unmistakable bulge that's impossible to ignore now that you've seen it. Your breath catches, a fresh wave of heat, mixing with the embarrassment.
"Are you horny?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be—your gaze lifting to his face.
He goes still and doesn't answer. But you see it—the flush creeping up his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His hands flex in his pockets, and he shifts his stance, trying to adjust without admitting it.
You lean forward in the chair, heart hammering. "Is it because of me?"
Silence stretches, until you can't take it.
"If it's my fault—I can take care of it. For you."
His eyes snap to yours, but he doesn't move nor speak.
You push the chair forward with your feet, wheels rolling silently across the floor until you're right in front of him. You slide off the seat, knees hitting the rug with a soft thud, and look up at him.
You wait for the rejection, the bickering—the get out or you're annoying or any of the usual barbs that fly between you.
He doesn't say a word. Just stares down—breath coming a little faster, chest rising and falling under his shirt.
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for him, palms pressing against the bulge. He’s hard under your touch. Jungkook hisses—a sharp intake of breath that sounds more like pain than anything, but his hips twitch forward, betraying him.
Still no words.
You hook your fingers into the waistband, tugging it down slowly. His sweatpants part, and you slide your hand inside. You palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. The fabric's damp at the tip, and he groans low in his throat.
His head tips back against the wall with a thunk, eyes squeezing shut. His cock is throbbing, veins pulsing as you stroke him firmly.
"Jungkook," you murmur, your own arousal building again.
You’re slick between your thighs despite the fresh panties. You tug his boxers down, and he springs out—thick, flushed, the head glistening with precum beading at the slit.
You lean in, wrapping your lips around the tip, tongue swirling to taste the salt of him.
He gasps. One of his hands comes to grip the edge of the desk beside him, knuckles whitening.
You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You bob slowly at first, then faster. His free hand tangles in your hair—fingers flexing as you suck him harder, your hand stroking what doesn't fit. His thighs tense under your other palm, and you feel his cock swell on your tongue—twitching with every flick against the underside.
His breathing turns ragged, hips starting to buck into your mouth. Sweat beads on his neck, trickling under his shirt. His face is flushed, lips parted as soft curses slip out—too low to catch fully.
You pull back when you feel him throb harder, close to the edge. Your lips are shiny and swollen as you look up at him, meeting his gaze.
"Jungkook, do you have any condoms?"
For a beat, he just stares—pupils are blown wide, chest heaving.: “I really can’t stand you,” he says eventually.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
“You’re a mess,” he spits. “You make everything worse.”
“And you still want me,” you say, breathing hard.
That’s all it takes for his hand to shoot out, fingers wrapping around your throat as he hauls you up, crashing his mouth against yours. The kiss is all teeth and tongue. His piercing is cool against your lip as he devours you, tasting himself on your tongue.
His other arm bands around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His cock is still hard and pressing into your stomach, smearing saliva and precum on your shirt. The grip on your throat sends sparks down your spine. Your nipples harden against his chest through the fabric.
You taste the faint mint from his toothpaste mixed with the salt of his skin. Your fingers dig into his shirt, bunching the fabric as you kiss him back.
He breaks the kiss first, pulling back to look at you. His breath comes out in hot puffs against your lips. "You sure about this?" he asks, like he's forcing the words out past whatever restraint he's clinging to.
His grip on your throat loosens, fingers trailing down to your collarbone instead.
You nod, swallowing hard, your own voice shaky but certain. "Yeah. I want this. Do you?"
"Fuck yes," he mutters.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you murmur back.
“Good,” he says, mouth on your neck, “I don’t need you to.”
His hands slide under your shirt, draggin up your sides and tugging the fabric. You lift your arms without thinking and let him peel your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your bare skin and makes your nipples pebble instantly. He tosses the shirt aside, gaze dropping to your chest.
“Try not to sanitise me,” you say, with a giggle.
“Try not to ruin my sheets,” he grins back.
You grab the hem of his t-shirt and he helps, shrugging it off in one fluid motion. His chest is right there, inked skin glistening faintly from earlier sweat. You run your palms over his pecs, down to his abs. He's built solid, every ridge and dip warm and firm.
"What are you even made out of?" you breathe—half-laughing, half-awed, as your fingers trace the lines of his tattoos.
He smirks, but it's strained, like he's barely holding back. "Condoms," he says, nodding towards the nightstand. "In the drawer."
“You plan for everything, huh?” you say, glancing over.
But he beats you to it and leans across the bed to pull one out. “I didn’t plan you,” he says, foil packet crinkling in his hand.
While he's distracted, you slip out of your panties again, kicking them off. You then tug at his sweatpants and boxers, shoving them down to his thighs.
He kicks his pants the rest of the way off, tears the packet open with his teeth, and rolls the condom on with quick movements.
You watch, thighs pressing together, your clit throbbing. "Come here," he says, grabbing your hips and guiding you onto the bed.
“You’re always telling me what to do,” you say, already crawling back.
“And you always do the apposite,” he answers, not letting you get far. He flips you onto your stomach with surprising ease, his hands strong on your waist. "Like this.”.
You’re positioned on all fours, knees sinking into the mattress. You arch your back instinctively, ass up, and feel the bed dip as he kneels behind you.
"Ready?" he asks. His hand slides between your thighs to check, fingers slipping through your folds. He finds you soaked. He groans at the feel, circling your clit once. It makes you jolt. "Shit, you're so wet."
"Yeah, well, you interrupted me earlier," you shoot back, voice muffled against the sheets.
He chuckles, then lines the blunt head of his cock to your entrance. "I won’t let it happen again."
He pushes in—inch by inch, stretching you open with a burn that's equal parts pain and pleasure. You gasp and he stills for a second, letting you adjust.
His breath is ragged behind you. "Fuck, you feel so fucking good—so tight," he grits out, like he's fighting not to move yet.
You feel him throbbing inside you, every twitch sending sparks up your spine. "Move," you beg, pushing against him. "Please."
He does—pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in hard; the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.
You moan as he sets a rhythm, his cock dragging against that spot inside you with every stroke. You’re flooded by the stretch, the friction, the way your walls clench around him.
His hands roam. One slides up your back to press between your shoulder blades, keeping you arched. The other gripps your ass. Then his palm comes down—spanking you once.
Heat blooms across your skin, and you yelp. But it's good, the pain twists into pleasure.
"Is this okay?" he asks.
You don’t get the chance to answer before he does it again, harder this time.
"Yes—fuck, yes," you gasp, rocking back to meet his thrusts.
He's pounding into you and you feel him filling you up. His sweat drips onto your back as he leans over you slightly, breath hot on your neck.
"I’m so close—to cumming," your voice breaks.
The edge is right there, building with each drag of his cock.
"Not yet," he growls, and suddenly stops.
He pulls out completely, leaving you empty and whining at the loss. “I hate you,” you say.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
Before you can respond, his hands are on you, flipping you onto your back. The mattress bounces as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and slides back in—deeper this time, the angle hitting new places that make stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Oh fuck," you cry out, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails digging into his biceps.
He's looming over you, face inches from yours. His eyes are locked on your face as he starts thrusting again, each one punching the air from your lungs. His cock is buried to the hilt, grinding against your cervix.
"I want to see you while I fuck you," he says, one hand bracing beside your head, the other holding your thighs in place. "I want to watch you when you cum on my cock."
Tears prick your eyes—from the pleasure crashing over you in waves.
He notices, thumb brushing under your eye. He flicks a tear away gently, his expression softening for a split second amid the heat. "Is this too much?" he checks, slowing his pace for a fraction.
"No—don't stop," you plead, shaking your head, hips lifting to urge him on. "I feel so good, Jungkook."
He nods and picks up speed again. His face twists with effort—brows furrowed, lips parted as soft grunts escape him. Sweat slicks his forehead, dripping down his temple. You feel the tension in his thighs, the way his abs clench with every movement.
"I’m close," he warns. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so hard."
You cum first—vision blurring as it rips through you. Your whole body shakes, walls fluttering around him in pulses that make you sob his name. "Jungkook—yes, fuck—"
He follows right after, burying himself with a groan. He spills into the condom, cock twitching inside you. His arms tremble, holding himself up—but then he collapses forward, weight pressing you into the mattress.
The both of you are panting, slick with sweat.
He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it towards the trash. He then flops back on top of you, face buried in your neck. His heart hammers against your chest in time with yours.
For a moment, it's just that—exhausted quiet, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the muscles relax under your touch.
Then sis hand slides down your body, fingers finding your clit—still sensitive and swollen—and he starts circling it slowly.
You jolt, a whimper escaping as fresh sparks ignite. "Jungkook—what—"
"I’m not done yet," he mumbles against your skin.
He lifts his head to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, tongue flicking over the peak. His other hand squeezes your breast, thumb rolling the nipple until it's hard and aching. He takes turns switching sides, mouth latching onto each bud.
Pleasure builds again, faster this time, your body oversensitive from the first orgasm.
His fingers on your clit speed up, pressing firmer. He leaves marks—sucking hickeys across your breasts, red blooms that sting under his lips. His hand knead the soft flesh like he can't get enough.
"Jungkook, I—oh fuck," you gasp, hips bucking into his hand, tears threatening again from the overload.
It's too much, too good, every nerve ending lit up.
"Come on," he urges, voice muffled against your skin, lifting his head to watch your face again. "Come one more time for me."
You shatter—body convulsing, a cry tearing from your throat as the second orgasm hits. It’s harder than the first, leaving you trembling.
It's the best you've ever had, waves crashing endlessly, your mind blanking out.
He slows his hand, easing you down. Jungkook then pulls you close as you both catch your breath.
"Holy shit," you whisper finally.
He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah."
“Don’t get smug,” you mumble, leaning into to him.
“Don’t get sentimental,” he answers immediately, wrapping around you.
You lie there for what feels like hours, bodies slick and spent. The room smells of sex and sweat and that faint body wash scent from his skin. Your limbs feel heavy, every muscle humming from the aftershocks of what has to be the best fucking of your life.
His arm is draped over your waist, chest rising and falling against your side—and for the first time since you met him, the silence between you isn't loaded with tension. It's comfortable, almost.
"Did you take the bins down?" he asks suddenly, still panting a little. His voice muffled against your shoulder.
You blink, brain sluggish, then it hits you—the morning reminder, the one you'd blown off in your post-work haze. "Oh, shit, I forgot."
Jungkook scoffs. The familiar edge creeps back in, but there's a playful glint in his eyes as he shifts. He rolls on top of you again, pinning you with his weight. His elbows bracket your head.
"Now, what shall I do to get rid of those bad habits of yours?"
ᥫ᭡ main masterlist
a/n: hi hi hi my loves!! thank you so much for reading. just a note that i wrote this in one night while ovulating (like this is prolly the freakiest thing i have written in my life), and i've been trying to edit it for the past two days, but i'm in the middle of a raging migraine (day 3 of it now yayyy for me), and when i get my migraines, i genuinely cannot function. so ik there are a lot of spelling/grammar errors, and i will try to go back and edit again when the migraine decides it had enough. also, smut is not my best genre, so please do leave me feedback/constructive criticism on where i can improve! (but also pls be kind i have a soft heart). as usual, your comments, reblogs and asks mean so much to me and really fuel my fingers! much love <3
Loving you was never part of the responsibility he accepted, but it became his greatest strength and his greatest flaw. And the more he loved you, the clearer the truth became. Villains don’t just target the hero, they target the people he cares about. So when the choice is no longer about just saving the city, but about protecting you, Jungkook is forced to make the hardest decision of his life. Love becomes the one thing he cannot afford to keep, and to keep you safe from the shadows that come with being Spider-Man, he chooses to walk away and let you go.
⟢ TAGS; spider-man jk au, established relationship, university students, jk is in LOVE love, emotional, nursing student reader, chemical engineering major jk, THIS JK, warnings: minor sexual content, triggering/sensitive themes, a lot of action and violence, blood/injuries [specified warnings will be highlighted in each chapters]
⟢ WORDCOUNT; TBD
CHAPTER INDEX
prologue — safe with you
chapter one — the illusion of ‘perfect’
chapter two — the agony of letting go
chapter three — when the city burns
chapter four — what webs can’t save
chapter five — when the spider breaks
epilogue — the fight never ends
join taglist: CLOSED ↪︎ main masterlist
a/n; i’m alive and I’m cooking something [updates will be slow so please bare with me] TOOK ME SO LONG TO CREATE THE HEADER OMFG
pairing: viscount!james bucky barnes x lady stark!reader
series status: in progress 🔄 || last update: 12/18/2025
summary: regency/bridgerton au. being the younger sibling afforded lady stark the luxury to disregard the marriage market entirely. relinquished from the pressure to marry well, you still find yourself in London for the social season to reconnect with old friends. unfortunately, that also meant that you'd likely have to exchange pleasantries with a scoundrel of a man, viscount james buchanan barnes.
word count: 9.6k & counting
warnings/tags: enemies-to-lovers. sloooow burn. angst. regency era social norms. smut (18+, mdni) [other tags tbd]
: ̗̀➛ 📕 main masterlist 📕 || 💌 send requests 💌
𐙚 series parts
prologue || part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || epilogue
𐙚 character list
𐙚 writing & world building aids [because i can't help but share resources]
author's note: i was inspired to write this after reading @blowingbarnes' bucky fic! both fics are inspired by netflix's bridgerton because honestly...it’s classic text atp. this is my first time writing a "period piece" and smut so be kind!
dividers by @bronzewasp (gold frame) & @cursed-carmine (pink bow)
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?
word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab
author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.
i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Soulmate.
A word that fills most people with hope and peace.
Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.
For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.
But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.
Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.
“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”
She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.
You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.
It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!
It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.
“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.
Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.
It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.
Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.
You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.
But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.
They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.
Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.
“Chocolate chip?”
A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.
“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.
“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”
“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”
“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”
Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.
No matter how much you may wish that was the case.
You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.
You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?
Or is he still searching, all these decades later?
As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.
You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”
There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”
“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”
“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”
“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”
You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.
“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”
He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.
You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”
He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”
“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”
“I think I can handle that.”
You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.
Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.
It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.
It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.
For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.
He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.
“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.
So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.
Well, partially lied.
Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.
But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.
What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.
No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.
You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.
Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.
He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.
Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?
But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.
He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.
Right where his soul mark used to be.
Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.
It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.
He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.
He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.
Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.
Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.
But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.
So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”
The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.
There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.
Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”
You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—
Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.
You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.
“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.
“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”
Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”
“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.
He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.
“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.
“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—
Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”
Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.
As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.
“I have a confession to make.”
You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”
“Nope.”
You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.
“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”
You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.
From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”
“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”
You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.
“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”
The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.
You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.
“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.
“Soulmates?”
“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.
“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”
You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”
“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”
When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”
You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”
You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.
Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.
But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.
That was before Bucky.
“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”
She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”
“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”
“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”
As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?
No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.
Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.
He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.
You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.
You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.
It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.
Reality is never quite as sweet.
Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.
You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.
“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.
“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.
Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.
“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.
Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.
He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.
Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.
“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”
“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”
“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”
Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.
“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”
Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.
Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.
“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”
“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”
“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”
“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”
“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”
And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.
Bucky doesn’t move.
You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.
“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”
You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”
You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”
He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”
“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”
You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.
He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.
It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
You don’t go back to your room.
You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.
There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.
There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.
You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.
Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.
Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.
Archives with information about you.
You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.
It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.
And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?
You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.
You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.
Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.
Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?
If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?
Or would you still love him?
Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.
But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.
That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.
“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”
The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.
“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”
You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”
Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.
“Like I said. I know you well enough.”
You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.
Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.
He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”
You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.
“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”
He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”
You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.
“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”
For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—
“Okay,” he murmurs.
Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”
We.
You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.
It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.
It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?
But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.
“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”
“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.
Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.
And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.
But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.
Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.
Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”
Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.
A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.
“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”
“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”
He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”
You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.
“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”
You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”
He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”
That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.
For better or for worse.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.
Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.
You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.
Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.
The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.
“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”
Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”
You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.
A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.
Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”
You swallow and nod once.
Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.
Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.
You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.
Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”
He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?
You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.
“Okay,” you whisper.
You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.
Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.
Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.
You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.
You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.
Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.
You grab one at random and flip it open.
Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.
You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?
“Any luck yet?”
Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.
“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”
You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.
Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—
Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.
“Bucky.”
Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.
“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.
You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.
Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.
But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.
You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.
“Wait.”
Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.
“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”
He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.
You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.
“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.
You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.
Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”
You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.
“Bucky—”
Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.
Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.
“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”
Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.
Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.
“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”
You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”
It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.
And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.
You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.
You do none of these things, of course.
Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.
You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.
“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”
You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.
But you don’t pull your hand away, either.
“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”
His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”
God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.
You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.
Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.
Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.
Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.
As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.
You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.
Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.
You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.
I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.
Say something. Anything.
But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.
Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.
The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.
Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.
The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.
The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.
He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.
And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.
Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.
You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.
Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.
And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.
He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.
He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.
He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.
Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.
And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.
That wasn’t fair.
He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.
A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.
He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.
“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.
He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.
“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.
Bucky swallows. “Hi.”
“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”
For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.
He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.
He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”
“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.
“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”
His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”
“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”
You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.
He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.
Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.
The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.
He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.
You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.
He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.
You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.
He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.
“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.
He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.
“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”
You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”
He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.
I love you, Bucky. I choose you.
Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.
It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.
Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.
“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.
Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.
You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”
“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”
You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”
“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”
You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”
He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”
You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.
His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.
You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.
He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.
“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.
His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.
A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.
“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.
The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.
His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.
Home.
“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.
He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.
The picture nearly falls out of his hands.
“дом.”
“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”
But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.
“Bucky?”
He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.
He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.
In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.
He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—
There.
A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.
Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.
A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.
Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.
Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.
That you’re his soulmate.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.
You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.
He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”
He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.
“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.
“Home?”
You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.
Home.
It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.
You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.
“Does this really mean what I hope—”
“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”
You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”
They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.
“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”
You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.
He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.
He’s really yours.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.
“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.
His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.
“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.
“Yeah? You should do that now.”
Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.
This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.
You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.
He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.
There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.
You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.
With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.
“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.
He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”
“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”
He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.
You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.
His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.
Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.
“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.
He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.
Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”
You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.
He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.
“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”
Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.
“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.
“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”
“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”
His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.
He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.
The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.
Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.
When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”
Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”
“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.
“All of me.”
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”
Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.
It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.
But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.
Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.
Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.
Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.
“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”
Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.
“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”
You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”
You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.
“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.
“Dead serious.”
“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”
By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.
“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.
His soulmate.
“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”
“Okay.”
“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”
You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”
A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”
“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”
He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”
He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.
“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”
The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”
You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.
Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”
“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”
He was so hoping you would say that.
✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑
if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3
SUMMARY. Namhae Valley was supposed to be your definition of a “break,” a vacation from all the stress you’ve endured at work. What you didn’t plan for? A broken-down car and a grease-stained, smug mechanic who comes with it.
pairing. jeon jungkook x reader
word count. 15.8k
warnings/genre. BLUE COLLAR DICK!!!!!!, mechanic!kook, rich girl!oc, jungkook is a little shit, jungkook jerking off lol, kinda public sex, fingering, he bends you over the car, cowgirl in the drivers seat, creampie
note. blue collar!jk is back by VERY popular demand. handle with care was such a hit so why not take it one step further and double it.. except this time jeon jungkook is a mechanic. a smug, sexy mechanic with a massive cock that is barely hidden by his overalls. i love it here. 🩷 this is very smutty so beware like there is quite literally no plot besides sheer horniness
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| should i stay or should i go by the clash
banner creds | masterlist
“Fuck me.”
Okay, breathe. Your therapist told you to work on your breathing exercises when you’re in tough situations.
But the thing is, this car is utterly and completely fucking useless. This piece of scrap, this poor excuse of a functional vehicle, is going to send your last working brain cell into oblivion.
You know you’re exaggerating. (It’s actually a 2023 Range Rover with all the fixings—your father wouldn’t allow anything less, but that’s not relevant.)
However, maybe you’re not entirely overreacting; your car has started making a noise that can only be described as a “possessed blender” on the side of a dead road in Namhae Valley.
Namhae Valley is not the place one wants to be stranded. In fact, all you currently hear in the night sky are birds chirping, a wind chime in the distance, and your own thoughts echoing back at you.
It’s driving you to the brink of insanity. Maybe you can ask it for a ride.
This was all your dad’s genius plan: Jagiya, get out of the city. Breathe some fresh air. Take a break before you have a heart attack at a young age.
He’s been saying it for months. Ever since you got your third promotion, started drinking black coffee like it was water, and developed the nervous habit of answering emails out loud before typing them, you were all of a sudden “running on fumes and overworked.”
So you got shipped off to Namhae Valley like a psych ward patient waiting for admission. Working remotely from a rental home that smells vaguely like lavender and chai tea. You’ve started wearing linen and eating things with roots.
Technically, it’s all going okay. You’re only kind of losing it.
But this car situation is really throwing a wrench in the serenity you’ve tried so hard to maintain.
You sigh loudly to yourself and open your door, the k-pop you were blasting coming to a full dead stop. Just silence for miles.
Once you round the hood, it becomes pretty clear there will not be anymore driving tonight. Besides the weird rattling sound your car won’t stop emitting, when you do finally pop the hood like you’re a seasoned mechanic of ten years, smoke erupts from the pipes, nearly causing you to hack up a lung. This is great. Fucking great.
If you die from smoke inhalation, there will be no one to save you. Perhaps the birds from earlier will sing a sweet song as you drift off into the next life.
Okay, no need to panic. You pull out your phone from your back pocket, manicured fingers typing into Google “auto repairs nearby in Namhae Valley.”
Not many options open at this hour. There’s one three miles away but it’s closed for the night. As you scroll, you see a few more—all closed, because why would anything go smoothly for you? — until you finally stumble upon Jeon’s Auto Repair, which is only a convenient five minute drive away from where you are.
No reviews. No website. There’s a phone number and a blurry street view image of a garage that looks like it might also sell fireworks or questionable DVDs.
Nothing says ‘peaceful break’ like your car breaking down in a town where there’s a high probability the local mechanic could also be the mayor.
You sigh loudly into the world, giving the hood a scolding slap like that’ll teach it how to behave, and angrily get back in your car. It’s worth a shot to see if this thing can at least get you to the repair shop.
Currently, you’re on hour three of mentally drafting a novel-length apology to yourself for ever thinking this break was a good idea. Or that your father should've been trusted with any kind of life advice.
As you drive down the windy road, you realize how terrifyingly dark it is with zero streetlights. You grip the steering wheel a little tighter, muttering a few curses under your breath. You flinch when the car lets out another guttural wheeze like it’s being exorcized in real time.
Up ahead, you spot a flickering sign that’s slightly crooked, barely lit by the neon LEDs attached to it: Jeon’s Auto Repair.
It looks horrifying, to put it so very nicely.
You pull into the front parking lot, gravel and dirt crunching beneath your tires. There’s a few cars scattered around that may or may not be abandoned. The little house itself is peeling, red paint rusting down the door. The only real source of light is coming from an office inside—a small glass window glowing a yellow hue behind a screen door that’s definitely seen some things.
You sit in your car for another second, engine still groaning like it’s on its last leg of life, and consider flooring it down the highway back to Seoul.
The only way you’ll be able to do that though, is with a working car. So Jeon’s Auto Repair Shop it is. You shudder, unbuckling your seatbelt and snatching up your designer purse from the passenger seat, and step into the brisk night air.
You walk toward the shop cautiously, as if you were approaching a wild animal on the loose. The outer door creaks when you push it open, and you’re greeted with… absolutely no one.
The room is barren; fluorescent lights hum above a counter, a single plastic chair in the corner next to a fake plant. On the wall, there’s a dusty calendar from 2021 and a hand-painted sign that says “NO REFUNDS.”
You’re starting to become highly suspicious that this is an actual auto repair store. There’s no footsteps, no sounds of work from the garage, not even the ghost of a receptionist.
Clearing your throat, you tap the metal bell on the counter. The sound bounces off the walls and ricochets back to your ears.
Nothing.
You tap it again. Your eyes dart to the side hallway, kind of expecting someone to jump out with a wrench and a chainsaw. Or maybe an old man in overalls who smells like cigarettes.
You hit the bell one more time. Does the owner even want customers at this point?
This is ridiculous. You’re about to hit the bell again, planning your scalding google review in your head, when a clearing of a man’s throat slices through the room.
Your body jolts backwards, immediately looking for the source of the sound. When you look left, you see a man, leaning casually in the shadow of the garage door.
A very large, very beefy man. All you can make out at first is his silhouette: broad shoulders, thick biceps, one hand resting on the doorframe like he makes thirst trap TikToks for a living.
Then he steps forward and—fucking shit.
He’s tall, taller than you and most other things. He has dark hair that curls slightly into the nape of his neck. There’s a lip ring hanging off his bottom lip that sparkles when it catches on the shitty overhead light. His overalls are buckled only on one side. Clearly this man has never known shame.
The wife beater underneath is grease-stained, clinging to his sculpted body. You notice a tattoo sleeve creeping down one arm, black ink winding across veiny forearms that are—not to be dramatic—downright pornographic.
You gulp loudly. What did you come here for again? Right. That stupid car of yours.
His lips twitch, head tilted slightly towards you. “Can I help you, princess?”
Yes you can, Mr. Sexy Mechanic, you just need to remember how to speak in coherent sentences
“I.. I have a car.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Good start,” he deadpans. His voice is deep, a little scratchy. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps straining as he waits for you to elaborate.
“No, I mean—” you fumble. “I have a broken car, I think. It made a sound.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods slowly. “You’ll have to be more specific, princess. Most cars make sounds.”
You nearly melt into a puddle on his dirty floor. You’re going to walk straight into oncoming traffic. Maybe your Range Rover will hit you and put you out of your misery.
You blink fast, struggling to keep yourself composed. “It sounded like… grinding? Or rattling a little?”
He raises his eyebrows at you. Takes a thoughtful once-over—you note that he pauses at your legs, your hips in these admittedly very flattering jeans (thank god your other pair was dirty.) His eyes meet yours again shamelessly, "That so?”
You ignore the obvious ache in your pussy.
“I’m not a mechanic,” you retort defensively. “I work in marketing.”
“Yeah?” He shifts a little on his feet. “That why you brought your engine to its knees?’
“Are you insulting my driving?” You gape at him, mirroring his pose and crossing your arms over your chest. Obviously not to make your tits look bigger or anything like that.
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to find out what’s wrong with her tomorrow.”
“Her?”
“The car.” A delicious grin spreads across his features. “Unless you name your car after a boy, which in that case… bold move.”
You stare at him blankly. “My car doesn’t have a name.”
“Shame.” He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer. His boots stomp against concrete. “She deserves a name if she’s gonna break down.”
You feel the need to correct him. “She is a very expensive vehicle that was working perfectly fine until tonight.”
“Uhu.” He stops in front of the counter, resting his forearms on it. You do your best not to hone in on the vein protruding. Your nostrils catch a whiff of motor oil and a fading woodsy scent. “And what exactly was she doing before she decided to quit on you?”
“I told you. She was making a noise.”
His lips twitch. “Super helpful, thank you.”
You huff a breath. Your fingers find the diamond ring on your right hand, a family heirloom, twisting it around and around. It’s a nervous habit you've had since you got the damn thing. “Grinding and rattling is all I’ve got.”
He raises an eyebrow. God, he’s fucking cocky. You’re a girl—did he expect you would walk in here with a plethora of knowledge on expensive cars? The only subject you contain vast amounts of intel on are wine pairings and jewelry brands.
“I’m not a mechanic, I don’t have the vocabulary for this,” you snap.
“Clearly.” His eyes track the way your nimble fingers twist your ring. “So grinding and rattling? At the same time?”
You roll your eyes. Men making a mockery out of you is not something you take lightly—no matter how undeniably sexy he is. “I don’t know. It happened pretty fast.”
“And where were you when it started?”
“Driving.”
He blinks. “Well, duh. Figured that much.”
Your face burns, eye twitching at his mockery. “On the road, smartass. The empty one with no lights. Which by the way, how fucking helpful that this town doesn’t believe in streetlights.”
The man lifts his shoulder in a shrug, something smug playing about his mouth. “Budget cuts.”
This stupid fucking town. Your father will be getting a lengthy phone call from you tomorrow morning.
“So you were driving on a dark road, and she started making a grinding-rattling-kind-of noise. Was the check engine light on?” he chuckles.
You pause. Twist your ring three more times. Truthfully, you don’t know a damn thing about cars, especially not your own. In Seoul, your father has a mechanic on retainer for your Range Rover, so this is uncharted territory. “Maybe?” you mumble.
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know what the fuck an engine check light is or whatever.”
“You don’t—” He stops himself, dragging a hand down his face. When he looks back at you, there’s a mix of amusement and disbelief in his eyes. “Okay. Was there smoke?”
“Uh.. a little. When I opened the hood.”
“Did you turn the engine off first?”
You twist your ring so hard it nearly catapults off your finger. “…Should I have?”
He laughs smugly. Damn him. Damn mechanics and their misogynistic beliefs. You may not know a lot about cars, but you know how to use Excel. “Jesus Christ. Okay. So we’ve got mystery grinding, possible rattling, a possible check engine light, and you opened the hood while it was still running.”
“And?”
By the look on his face, all the things he listed are not ideal for your expensive car.
“And your car’s probably overheated. Could be the cooling system, could be a belt, could be about fifteen other things I won’t know until I actually take a look at her.”
Phew. At least there’s still a sliver of hope your car can be fixed. You smile sweetly, twirling your hair around your finger. “So can you fix it tonight?”
“Tonight?” He glances at his watch. It’s a worn silver piece of jewelry that looks like an heirloom. “Princess, it’s late. I’m off the clock.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow,” he says firmly. “I’ll fix it first thing in the morning.”
Your stomach drops to your feet. “But-but I need my car.”
“Yeah, well.” he shrugs, entirely unbothered by your dilemma. “She needs a mechanic. Guess we’re both disappointed.”
“Wha-but—” Your brain struggles to make sense of the nonsensical event unfolding in front of you, but yet again, all you see is a very sexy mechanic, a smug smirk, and no solution to your problem. “So what am I supposed to do? Just… walk back to my place?”
He tilts his head as though doing the math himself. “Possibly. How far is it?”
“I don’t know. I drove here.” You tap your foot impatiently.
“How could we forget the car that doesn’t work?” he snorts, pulling a clipboard from the stack and jotting down a few things.
There’s some not-very-nice words lingering on the tip of your tongue, but you catch yourself. Deep breaths. Your therapist would not approve of where this conversation is heading. “I just—I can’t be without a car. I have to go home. I have things to do.”
“In Namhae?” He looks up from his scribbling. “At ten at night?”
“Well, no, not tonight, but tomorrow I—” you falter. You actually have nothing to do tomorrow… Or the day after. Pretty much the whole reason why you got shipped off. “That’s not my point.”
“And so then what is your point?” He balances the clipboard on his hip, eyeing you with those beady little orbs that are just as sultry as disappointing.
“The point is I need my car!”
The words burst out of you, like a kid went berzerk on a pinata and candy exploded everywhere. Wonderful. Spectacular, even. You’re losing it. You are fully losing it in front of this smug, tattooed, annoyingly sexy mechanic who thinks you’re the most useless human being he’s ever encountered.
You might be proving him right.
“Okaaaay…” he says slowly as though he’s talking to a spooked animal. “But like I said, you’re not getting it tonight. So unless you plan on sleeping in my waiting room—which, fair warning, that plastic chair is not comfortable—you’re gonna need a ride.”
Glancing over at the sad little plastic chair in the corner, you flinch. “I’ll call an Uber.”
He laughs. Laughs so loud you swear you feel the floor shake and hear the windows rattle. “An Uber? Princess, this is Namhae Valley, not Gangnam. We’ve got one taxi driver and he goes to bed at nine.”
Shit.
“Then I’ll…” You rack your brain, twisting your ring on your finger so fast you’re surprised there’s no marks yet. “I’ll call someone.”
“Who?” He sets down the clipboard, genuinely interested in which poor civilian you’ll conjure up at this hour.
Unfortunately, you only know your neighbor, her three cats, and now this mechanic who’s name you somehow still don’t know.
“I don’t know! Someone!”
He flashes a grin, pearly whites on full display. “You got a lot of friends in town?”
You sigh. “No.”
“Family?”
“All in Seoul.”
He crosses his arms, bicep veins bulging like they’re begging to be ogled at by you. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna give you a ride to wherever you’re staying, you’re gonna come back tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with your fancy car.”
You want to retaliate and argue it’s not even that upper echelon, but it kind of, maybe is. It’s a fucking 2023 Range Rover, for crying out loud, and it costs more than most people’s rent.
He moves toward the door of your car, tugging it open. You reach in, pulling out your bag. For a moment, you debate taking any other valuables with you, but this mechanic doesn’t look like he cares for your Dior lip glosses.
“How much this bad boy worth, hm? Hundred million won?”
You close the door shut. “I didn’t buy it. My dad did.”
“‘Course he did.” He starts migrating towards the rusty front door, turning lights off in his wake. You mindlessly follow, considering the man is now all you have as a means of transportation. “Let me guess, he also got you that bag?”
You clutch your Louis Vuitton bag closer to you. “What’s wrong with my bag?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. If you’re into walking billboards.”
You gasp. You shouldn’t be shocked, because why would anyone in Namhae appreciate fine leather? Seoul is where your heart is, where your passion is. You need to get back.
“Just saying,” he continues, enjoying himself as he leads you toward a run-down truck. “You show up here in your Range Rover, waving around your designer bag. It’s a small town. People are gonna talk.”
There’s not a single word that leaves your mouth. Instead, just a puff of air. A gust of breath in sheer shock at what he’s saying. “If you’re going to say things like that, I should at least know your name.”
He stops in front of the truck—if you can even call it that. It’s a pickup truck. Rusty, dented, appears to be held together by duct tape and prayers. The paint is chipping in certain places, but it’s clear he’s done his best to try and patch it up. “Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”
You stare at the vehicle. “You cannot be serious.”
His brows furrow. “That’s… my name?”
“No, you dimwit, the car!” Your arms flail as you gesture toward the piece of metal. “This is what you’re offering me a ride in?”
“She runs great,” he says, patting the hood affectionately. “Unlike your car.”
“She looks like she’s going to give me tetanus.”
He rolls his eyes, running a hand through his dark brown tresses. God, if he wasn’t constantly finding new ways to antagonize you, you would totally jump his bones. Well, actually, that’s a complete bluff on your part. If he gives you the chance, you’ll show him how they fuck in Seoul. “Princess, you’re gonna be fine. I promise my truck won’t ruin your rich girl aesthetic.”
And here’s the thing that’s really messing with your head: no one talks to you like this. No one dares. You’re used to people nodding along, agreeing with you, gently suggesting alternatives but never outright mocking you or your very reasonable concerns about tetanus. Your colleagues don’t do it. Your father definitely doesn’t. Even your therapist treads carefully, like you're held together by glue and used popsicle sticks.
But not Jungkook.
“Come on,” He walks around to the drivers side. He pulls the door open with a metal screech that makes you cringe, then hauls himself up into the seat. The key turns in the ignition and the engine roars to life. The truck shudders, letting out a noise that would be concerning if you weren’t with a mechanic.
He notices your reaction and rolls his eyes for the nth time. “Relax. She’s just got character.”
You mutter unintelligible, hateful words under your breath, quiet enough so that he can’t make them out. The last thing you need him doing is swerving this car off the road, killing you both in a fit of rage. Reaching for the handle, you tug open the passenger door, and meet your next dilemma (as if the pile of the ones currently on your plate weren’t enough). The seat is high. Unnecessarily high. And you’re wearing Prada kitten heels because even in your stressed, overworked state, you weren’t raised in a barn.
You look down at your shoes, then up at the seat, then back at your shoes. The math isn’t mathing.
“You gonna stand there all night?” he calls over the rumble of the engine.
“Figuring it out,” you retort through gritted teeth. Gripping the door frame, you place one Prada-covered foot on the small step, testing it. The heel slides like the bottom of it was slathered in baby oil.
“Jesus Christ,” you hear him mutter, and then the engine cuts off.
Great. Sexy mechanic is so deeply disturbed by your antics he won’t give you a ride anymore and you’ll be left as dinner for the wild animals.
“What are you—”
He rounds the front of the truck with long strides. “Move.”
“I can do it myself—”
He snorts. “Princess, you’ve been standing there for thirty seconds looking at this truck like it’s the fucking crack mobile. Move.”
“It’s ‘cause I’m wearing heels—”
“I can see that,” he says, and before you can protest even further, his calloused hands are on your waist. They’re big, take up the expanse of your waist. Warm, too. He lifts you and sets you in the passenger seat like you’re his weekly groceries.
You catch a glimpse of his tattoos up close. Black ink that disappears under his wife beater, although you can make out lines on his chest. Your fingers itch with the desire to trace them.
“There,” He steps back. His hands leave your waist and you miss the weight of them. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
You gape at him. More like staring, but that’s neither here nor there. Mostly, you’ve just forgotten how to form words because you’re too busy processing the fact that he just manhandled you into his truck and your panties are soaking through your jeans.
“You good?” he asks, hand on the door.
“Fine,” you gulp. “I’m fine. Ready for takeoff, captain.”
“Uhu.” He smirks lightly, and you swear he knows what you’re thinking. “Seatbelt, princess.”
He slams the door shut before you can respond. The truck comes back to life and he shifts into gear, arm flexing as he moves the stick shift. Under the dim streetlights, his tattooed forearm keeps you plenty distracted. His long fingers tap the steering wheel, drumming to whatever tune is in his head.
You perform a quick sweep of his side profile. His jaw is sculpted, top teeth fiddling with his lip ring. You can see the definition in his shoulders, his built chest rising and falling with each breath. There’s a small grease stain near his collarbone that you want to lick off him.
It’s silent for miles, save for the sound of his humming and the creak of the truck as it drives along the road. You want to ask questions, want to know more about this dangerously mysterious man. You doubt he’ll answer anything you ask, but curiosity swells inside you.
But it’s not you who breaks the silence. It’s him. “So where is the princess from?”
You bristle. It was funny the first few times, but now you’re decidedly offended by this pet name he’s branded you with. The only time he should be calling you princess is in bed, and right now, there’s about a 2% chance of that happening. “I’m not ‘princess.’ My name is [Y/N].”
He raises a brow, tossing you a side glance. “I know. But I think princess suits you more.”
“Yeah, well I’m not some frilly little princess. I work hard where I’m from.”
“Which is… where, exactly?”
“It’s just—” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m from Seoul.”
He makes a sound of indignation. “Not shocking.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
You’re entirely aware you’re not exactly small town material. You get stares when you go to the farmers market, and awkward questions at the post office. But you’re not going to lose more pieces of yourself than your job has already taken from you.
“It just explains a lot. The Range Rover, the bag, the whole,” he gestured at you with one hand, “thing you’ve got going on.”
“There’s no thing.”
“So what are you doing out here then?” He turns onto another dark road, this one somehow even more poorly lit than the last. “Seoul princess slumming it in Namhae?”
Sighing, you reply, “My dad wanted me to chill out.”
“From what? Too many yacht parties?” he jokes.
“I work a real corporate job,” you snap at him, and that makes his shoulders slump. “I got promoted three times this year, working crazy hours, and my dad was worried I was going to have a heart attack before thirty, so he made me take a break. Happy?”
He nods slowly, soaking the information in. He probably doesn’t even believe you, if you had to guess. “Three promotions? Sheesh.”
“Yeah, well.” You scoff. “Some of us have to work for our money.”
That elicits a chuckle from him. “Okay, princess. Sure.”
“If you offered me a ride just to make fun of me, you can drop me off right here.”
“Here?” He takes a look at the darkness outside the window. There’s trees, more trees, and what could be a rice field if there weren’t so many goddamn trees. “You gonna walk the rest of the way in your little heels?”
“I could.”
“Princess, you cannot handle Namhae at night. You’d last five minutes before something spooked you.”
You take another look out your window. Unfortunately, he’s right.
You don’t have a comeback for that. Sitting back in your seat, you glare out the windshield. It’s silent again for a few minutes, just you trapped with your thoughts, none of which are productive or useful.
You’re desperate for a distraction. “Have you always lived here?”
“Yep.”
Jungkook, ever the charmer. “And you… like it?”
“It’s home.”
“Right.” It’s clear he has no interest once you’re the one interrogating him, but you don’t care. “Is the shop yours?”
The muscles in his jaw clench. “Was my dad’s. Now it’s mine.”
By the look on his face, you don’t press. “It’s nice that you kept it going.”
“Yeah, well, someone had to.”
More silence descends upon you. This is like pulling teeth. Sexy, tattooed teeth.
“Do you ever think about leaving?”
“Nah.” He turns onto another street, and you recognize it as the main road that you take to get to their version of ‘downtown.’ “Got everything I need here.”
“Everything?”
“Food, work, a bed.” He lists them like he’s checking them off an errands list. “What else is there?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” You roll your eyes. “Culture? Excitement? More than one restaurant?”
“We have three restaurants, mind you.”
“Oh, wow. Three whole restaurants. Namhae, calm down, you’re too much for me.”
Jungkook laughs at that heartedly, and in that moment, you decide that you don’t just like the sound—you love it.
“Hey, I think it’s better than working 70 hour weeks and stress-buying designer clothes.”
“Whatever,” you huff. Actually, you did stress-buy half your closet. Especially that Roberto Cavelli dress you still haven’t found a reason to wear.
Your head lolls back against the headrest, eyes trained on the rows of trees passing by. It’s peaceful at this hour. Even if it’s not the vacation you dreamed of, it was still nice, and you could appreciate what it had to offer.
Surprisingly enough, Jungkook’s truck smells like pine, and it’s fairly clean besides the few gum wrappers lying around. You’re noticing all the little things about him, filling into places in your brain that will no longer be of use when you leave Namhae in a month.
“How’s dating here?”
What a weird question. Why did you ask that. Oh god. You had let your mind wander too far and it took you to a place you should have never gone.
He side-eyes you. “Huh?”
“I mean, small town, probably everyone knows everyone, so I was just curious—”
“It’s good,” he swiftly cuts you off. “I like casual things.”
Oh.
“Me too,” you rush to agree, which is not… exactly true? You’ve had plenty of relationships, most of them with men that your father approved of. Men that were wealthy, driven, working jobs like yours. Lately, however, everything’s been too busy for anything serious, so casual has been the default.
The truck rolls to a stop at a red light. The only red light you’ve seen this entire drive. You don’t need to look at him to feel the way his eyes drag up and down your figure. You stare straight ahead.
“You a princess in bed too, or…?”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, mouth falling open.
“Just curious,” he repeats your words. “If the high maintenance thing extends to all areas of life.”
What are you supposed to say to that? That you’re absolutely not a princess in bed, that you’re adventurous and spontaneous and a mean dominatrix.
You can’t say that because: a) It would sound defensive as hell, b) He’d probably laugh and c) You’d be lying because you have no idea what you are in bed anymore. It’s been a while since your last situationship fizzled out.
“That is so inappropriate.”
“You started it by asking about my dating life.”
“I wanted to know what to expect, asshole.”
“Mhm.” The light turns green and he accelerates, a big goofy smile plastered on his face. “So that’s a yes on the princess thing.”
“Shut up.”
“Why? It fits.” There’s a challenging lilt evident in his tone. “Or are you gonna prove me wrong?”
It’s an offer as much as it is an out. If you pull back, you think he’d ride in silence altogether. But if you give in… he might give you just what you want.
“I’m very fun.”
“Yeah?”
“I do fun things.”
His lips twitch. “Like what?”
“In Seoul. I go out, party, get drunk with my friends,” you say. It’s been a while since you’ve partaken in those things, but you still do them like the rest of the adult population.
“Mmm.” He nods. “Porbably off bottles that costs thousands of won, I bet.”
You roll your eyes so hard you’re shocked they don’t fall out of your head. “Not everyone drinks expensive stuff.”
“You definitely do.”
“Sometimes,” you lie.
“Here in Namhae,” he exhales. “We drink beers.”
“I like beer,” you protest, frowning. Beer and fried chicken is the only unhealthy delicacy you enjoy. Sue a girl.
“What kind?”
“IPAs are good.”
He throws his head back, shoulders shaking as he barks out an unaffectionate laugh. “IPAs are for pussies, princess.”
“No, they’re not—”
“They’re fancy craft beers that taste like plant water and cost twice as much as regular beer. That’s pussy beer.”
A rebuttal lingers on the tip of your tongue, but before you can say another word, he pulls up in front of your rental. It’s an adorable, quaint townhouse at the end of a quiet street. The house is painted a soft lavender color and the owner placed flower boxes in the windows that you haven’t managed to kill yet. Miracle of miracles.
He slows to a stop in front of it, engine rumbling low, and lets out a low whistle. “Nice lil place you got, princess.”
“Mhm.” You twist your ring again and again. On the one hand, you can enter your home, sip a glass of wine, and go right to bed. Maybe get in a little time with your rose toy. But on the other hand… well, your other option is sitting cozy in the driver's seat.
This is stupid. This is so stupid. But you say it anyway: “Wanna come inside?”
He turns to look at you, one eyebrow arched. The smirk is gone, jaw clenching. His eyes drag over your face. “Whaddya want me to do if I come in?”
Oh fuck. He’s calling your bluff but you’re in too deep now to untangle yourself from the mess you’ve made.
You smile at him innocently. Your hand comes up to twirl a strand of hair around your finger. You know you’re laying it on thick, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “We could drink tea.”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah? You like tea?”
You nod, batting your eyelashes. “Love it. It’s very relaxing.”
He grunts in response to that.
You drone on, “I have chamomile, lavender, green tea—”
His hand lands on your thigh. It’s heavy and warm and his fingers splay across your skin, just above your knee, thumb pressing into the inside of your thigh through your jeans. So big it practically takes up your entire leg.
His eyes are dark, locked on yours. “If I come into your house, we’re not drinking tea.”
Your mouth goes dry. “Oh yeah? What would we do?”
His hand slides higher. Not by much, but enough that your thighs involuntarily clench. The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I’d get you out of these tight little jeans,” he says, casual as anything, like he’s talking about the weather or those stupid teas you brought up. “Spread you out on whatever expensive furniture you got in there. And I’d make you admit you’re a princess everywhere… including in bed.”
Oh good god.
Your thighs clench again, trapping his hand between them. You can feel how wet you are, how your body is screaming yes, please, take me upstairs right now and have your way with me while your brain tries to maintain some composure.
His eyes drop to where your thighs have trapped his hand, grin turning downright filthy. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Then he pulls his hand away. A whimper escapes your lips at the loss of contact.
“But I gotta head home,” he says, settling both hands back on the steering wheel. “Long day tomorrow. Your car’s not gonna fix itself.”
You stare at him. “Are you—you’re serious?”
“Deadly.” He looks over at you nonchalantly, like you’re now nothing more than a pest in his truck. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the afternoon for your car.”
You’re hot. You’re rich. You get whatever you want, whenever you want. Men fall over themselves to get your attention. You’ve had guys offer to fly you to Jeju for the weekend, buy you jewelry, take you to Michelin-star restaurants. But this conceited mechanic in his beat-up truck with his stupid tattoos and wife beater and overalls just turned you down.
It makes you want him even more.
You fumble for the door handle. “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.”
“Need help getting down?”
“I’m fine,” you quickly argue, because if he touches you again you might actually burst into flames. You push the door open and slide out, your heels hitting the pavement.
Alas, you completely disregard the height, and you stumble out of the vehicle, catching yourself on the truck’s frame. Very suave of you.
“Careful, princess,” he says, but you can hear the laughter in his voice.
You slam the door shut, harder than necessary, and step back, trying to salvage whatever dignity you have left. Jungkook watches you through the window. When you turn fully to face him, he flashes you a grin that’s all pearly teeth and dimples, and you feel your panties literally get wetter.
Then he pulls away, truck rumbling down the quiet street, taillights disappearing into darkness.
For a solid thirty seconds, you stand there, knees weak, pussy throbbing, utterly dumbfounded. What the actual fuck just happened?
You’ve been rejected once before (okay, maybe twice, but who’s counting?). Usually it’s a polite “I’m not looking for anything serious” or “I don’t think we’re compatible.” But this was far worse. This was a promise of what could happen if you came back tomorrow. If you played along.
You need to have him. It’s a carnal desire now. Like, physically, desperately need to.
Your hands shake as you unlock your front door, stepping into your lavender and chai scented home that feels emptier than when you left it. Flopping down on the pristine couch, you stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow afternoon, you’re showing up in the shortest fucking skirt you packed.
Jungkook loves IPAs. Fuck anyone who says they’re pussy beers.
In fact, the minute he steps through his rusty apartment door, he opens up his fridge and plucks one from the side. He deserves it after tonight, anyway.
Jungkook doesn’t live in luxury. It’s quite the opposite. His studio apartment is cramped. The walls are beige and peeling in the corners, and there’s a futon that doubles as his couch and bed shoved against one wall. His kitchen is basically a microwave and a mini fridge. The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way, and there’s a persistent water stain on the ceiling he’s been meaning to paint over for six months.
It’s not much, but it’s his.
He chugs a few sips of the IPA—because yeah, he does like them, and fuck anyone who says they’re pussy beers—before settling onto his futon. It creaks under his weight, springs adjusting to hold him. He grabs his phone from his pocket, clicking through it aimlessly.
Instagram. Nothing interesting. A few DMs from girls he’s hooked up with before, asking what he’s doing tonight. He ignores them. He moves onto YouTube. Closes that too. Opens a mobile game he hasn’t played in weeks. Closes that with a groan.
He’s trying to distract himself, he really is, but fuck. You’re so fucking hot. Genuinely, stupidly hot in a way that has him shifting on the futon, adjusting himself in his overalls because his dick has no chill tonight. It’s not just that you’re pretty—though you definitely are— but it’s the way you dress, maybe. He knows you’re unattainable for someone like him.
A girl like you doesn’t end up with a mechanic who lives in a studio with a water-stained ceiling.
But never mind all that—the things he would do to you in bed.
He’d start slow. Peel those tight jeans off inch by inch, watch you squirm under his hands. You’d probably try to stay composed at first, all princess-like, but he’d wear you down. Get you on your back, spread those thighs, and bury his face between them until you forgot your own name. And you would taste good, he just knows. Sweet and sensitive. Then he’d flip you over, get his hands on your hips, and—
His phone buzzes in his hand and it almost flies out of his hand as if it’s on fire.
It’s a work reminder he set for tomorrow.
Jungkook groans, dragging a hand down his face. He’s pissed at himself for not just saying fuck it and following you through that door when you offered. He could’ve had you pressed against your wall within thirty seconds. Could’ve kissed you until you were breathless and begging for it. He bets your apartment smells like fucking daisies, just like you do. All clean and floral.
He just had to be responsible. Had to say some shit about going home, about fixing your car tomorrow, because—what? Because he was trying to prove a point? Make you work for it? Stupid, stupid Jungkook.
He takes another long sip of his IPA, letting the bitterness soak his tongue.
Now he’s just sitting alone in his shitty apartment, hard as a rock, thinking about a girl who’s probably worth millions of won.
He swipes back to Instagram, scrolling through his DMs. There’s one from Yoonchae, a girl he’s hooked up with a few times over the past couple months. She works at the convenience store two blocks over, and their arrangement is simple: no strings, no expectations, just someone to text when the need arises.
yoonchae: hey you round tn? been thinking about last time
The messages came in an hour ago. He stares at them, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last time they fucked was good. Yoonchae knows what she’s doing, knows what he likes and wants. It’s an uncomplicated situation. Exactly the kind of thing he usually goes for, because complicated is the last thing he needs in his life.
His life is already messy enough.
Between running his dad's shop alone—because his dad decided to up and die of a heart attack two years ago, leaving Jungkook with a business and a shit-ton of debt he’s still paying off—and dealing with his mom who won’t stop calling from Busan asking for money he doesn’t have, and his older brother who fucked off to Seoul five years ago and hasn’t looked back... yeah. Complicated is not what he’s looking for in his bed.
That’s why he keeps things casual. A few hookups here and there, nothing that requires meeting families or talking about feelings or any of that heavy shit. Yoonchae gets that, and she’s never asked for more.
Jungkook: not tonight.
Before sending, he deletes it. Tries again.
Jungkook: can’t tonight, working early
Deletes that too.
He really just could text her back. Could tell her to come over, let her distract him from the spoiled little rich girl who’s somehow managed to burrow under his skin in the span of an hour.
But he doesn’t really want to. He wants you.
That’s a problem, because you’re everything he hates about Seoul. High maintenance, expensive, the type of girl who needs three hours to get ready and has opinions about thread counts. You’re a walking red flag for someone like him, someone who can barely afford his rent, let alone keep up with whatever lifestyle you’re used to.
There is that small, tiny fact that still bothers him, though. You want him. A girl like you, and you want him.
He locks his phone without responding to Yoonchae, tossing it onto the futon beside him. Takes another gulp of his IPA, letting the cold liquid slide down his throat.
Jungkook can’t even believe what he’s about to do—actually, no, he can believe it. His dick has been half-hard since he lifted you into his truck, and it’s only gotten worse since he dropped you off. Since he watched you stumble in those ridiculous heels, all flustered.
Setting the beer down on the floor, he reaches for the buckles of his overalls. They fall open easily, the straps sliding off his shoulders. He shoves them down his hips along with his jeans, letting them pool at his ankles before kicking them off entirely.
He pulls down his boxers to free his cock, and lo and behold, all nine inches of him are rock solid. The head is flushed, a bead of precum already forming at the tip. Jungkook wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly from base to tip, and his head falls back against the futon with a low groan.
This is pathetic. Rock bottom. Getting himself off to the thought of some girl he met an hour ago, some princess who probably wouldn’t even look twice at him under normal circumstances. Fuck that if he cares right now. He strokes himself again, tightening his grip, and lets his mind wander back to you in his truck. The way you looked at him with those big eyes, biting your lip. The expensive floral scent of you filling the small space. How your voice went all breathy when he put his hand on your thigh.
He imagines what would’ve happened if he’d gone inside with you.
He thinks he would’ve kissed you hard, swallowing whatever smartass comment you were about to make. You would have melted into him—he knows you would’ve. Would’ve grabbed onto his shirt, his shoulders, anywhere you could reach, trying to pull him closer.
Jungkook’s hand moves faster, thump swiping over the sensitive head.
He would have gotten his hands under your shirt, felt you up properly. You’d probably be wearing some lacy expensive bra, and he’d have taken his time getting it off. Watched you squirm while he palmed your tits, rolled your nipples between his fingers until you were whimpering. Then he would work your jeans off. Peeled them down your legs to reveal matching panties, already soaked through the fabric. He would drop to his knees right there, hook his fingers in the waistband and drag them down. Spread you open with his thumbs.
“Fuck,” he mutters, biting his bottom lip. His strokes get faster, more desperate.
He would eat you out until your legs were shaking, until you were pulling his hair and grinding against his face. Make you cum on his tongue before he even whipped his dick out.
Jungkook’s hand is slick with precum, working his cock as he pumps to completion.
He’d stand up, spin you around, press you face first against that door. You’d brace yourself with your hands, looking back at him over your shoulder with those needy eyes. He’d line himself up and push in slow—because you’d be so fucking tight, he just knows it—and watch your mouth fall open. He would fuck you against the door, deep and hard until you cried out with each thrust, make you take every inch.
“Shit.” His abs tense, thighs clenching as he feels his orgasm burning in his lower stomach.
You would cum again with him inside you. He’d feel you clench around his cock, hear you fall apart, and that would be it for him. He’d finish deep inside you, fill you up, mark you as his even though you’re not and never will be.
His orgasm hits hard, pleasure coursing through his veins. White, hot spurts of semen splatter across his hand and stomach, hand working himself through it until he’s empty and oversensitive. For a moment, he sits there and stares at his crusty ceiling.
He just jerked off to a girl who’s probably going to pick up her Range Rover tomorrow, pay whatever ridiculous amount he charges, and drive straight back to her cute little house without a second thought.
Reaching for a random towel near his laundry basket, he wipes himself clean with it.
He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he knows one thing: tomorrow, he cannot fall victim to your advances.
If anyone asks you ten years from now why you wore a black miniskirt to pick up your Range Rover from the mechanic, you’ll say it was laundry day.
It really is a complete lie, because you have about a hundred other outfits hanging in your closet that would’ve been more appropriate for a simple car pickup. But here you are, standing in front of your mirror at 1:30 PM, wearing a black miniskirt that barely hits mid-thigh, a fitted black top that shows just a sliver of stomach, and your favorite Louboutin heels. The nude ones with the red bottoms that make your legs look like they belong to Aphrodite herself.
This morning, you had convinced yourself you weren’t going to do anything rash. You were going to show up in jeans, possibly wear sneakers. But then you remembered the way he looked at you last night and how his hand felt on your thigh. The jeans went back in the drawer.
A full 45 minutes are spent on makeup, and your hair is down to appear more sultry. You’re not trying to look good—you can do that on your own, have been doing it your whole life—but it won’t hurt to remind him exactly what he turned down last night. Not that you’re bitter about it by any means.
(You are incredibly bitter about it.)
Half the night was spent tossing and turning, debating whether masturbating was a good idea. Would it help you get him out of your system, or would it just make things worse?
You ended up using your vibrator twice. It didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse, because the whole time you were imagining his hands instead of the silicone, his mouth instead of your own fingers. Your rose toy has never felt more inadequate.
When your taxi driver finally pulls up to Jeon’s Auto Repair, the Namhae sun is beating down mercilessly. You’re really starting to regret the heels because the parking lot is still just gravel and dirt. Even in the daytime, the shop looks exactly the same. Dead, empty, threatening. The red paint is still peeling, the flickering neon sign still crooked. There’s a few more cars scattered around today, but they still look abandoned.
Taking a deep breath, you adjust your skirt and push through the door. Your heels click against the floor.
But it’s not Jungkook behind the front counter.
It’s another man. He’s shorter than Jungkook, with soft, feminine features and blonde hair. He’s wearing the same style of overalls, though his are actually buckled on both sides like a normal person. When he sees you, his mouth breaks into a friendly smile.
“Hey there,” he says, straightening up from whatever he was writing. His name tag reads Jimin in faded lettering. “You here to pick up?”
He’s attractive. Incredibly attractive, with full, puckered lips and warm eyes. But he’s not Jungkook.
And your body has already decided it’s only interested in one mechanic.
“Um yeah,” you say. God, you feel so fucking ridiculous in this outfit. What are you even doing? Why did you dress like this? “The Range Rover?”
“Oh yeah!” Jimin’s smile widens. “Jungkook’s been working on it all morning. She’s good to go now.” He starts rifling through some papers on the counter. “There was an overheating issue. Coolant system was fucked. He replaced the—”
“Is he here?” you interrupt.
Jimin glances up. “Jungkook? Uh… yeah. He’s in the garage. Want me to grab him?”
“No, I—” Take a breath. Get it the fuck together. “Yes, please.”
You’re nervous. For the first time in your life, you can feel the butterflies kicking up in your stomach. You’ve never felt like this before, not about men, not about anything. You’ve given presentations to rooms full of executives, negotiated six-figure deals, stared down your father when he tried to micromanage your career. Nerves are not something you do. But your heart is racing, palms sweaty.
Jimin nods and disappears through the doorway into the garage. You hear the distant sound of tools clanging, muffled voices. Then... nothing. You shift your weight from one Louboutin to the other.
A minute passes. Two. Three whole fucking minutes.
What are they doing back there? Writing a dissertation on your coolant system? Discussing the meaning of life?
You stare at the dusty clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick forward at an agonizing pace. Maybe this was all a mistake. You should’ve just showed up in sweatpants.
Maybe they’re in there laughing at you. Maybe Jungkook is showing Jimin a picture of you and they’re both dying at the desperate rich girl who showed up in a miniskirt. Maybe you should just flee the country.
Finally, Jimin emerges from the garage. “He’ll be out in a sec.” Then, almost too casually: “I actually think I’m gonna head out to lunch, so it’ll just be you two.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Jimin grabs a jacket from behind the counter, and you try very hard not to spiral. Why is he leaving? Did Jungkook tell him to leave? Is that why they were talking for three minutes? Or is this just a coincidence, just normal lunch break timing, and you're reading way too much into all this?
He heads towards the door, and before he pushes it open, he gives you a knowing smile. Okay, yeah. He knows his coworker is about to get cracked like a lobster.
The bell above the door chimes as he exits, the sound echoing in the empty shop.
And then you hear a throat clearing, a very familiar one.
You whip around, and Jungkook’s leaned against the doorframe leading to the garage, one hand shoved in his overall pocket, the other holding a toothpick between his teeth. He chews on it slowly, eyes locked on you.
Today he’s wearing a black wife beater that hugs his sculpted abdomen tightly. There's a silver chain hanging around his neck, resting against his collarbones. You want that chain smacking against your face. You want it swinging above you while he pounds into you.
Jesus Christ, pull it together.
Slowly, his eyes rake over your body. Starting at your face, trailing down your neck, your chest, your bare legs, all the way to your Louboutin heels. Then back up again, even slower this time. The toothpick shifts to the other side of his mouth.
“You always dress like this to pick up cars?” he drawls.
You’re basically drooling, which is mortifying in its own way, but you also can’t seem to form a coherent thought because he looks so fucking good and he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you whole.
“I…” you swallow thickly. “I had... plans. After this.”
“What kind of plans?” The smirk widens as he pushes off the doorframe, taking one step toward you.
Absolutely none. Zero plans. Your only plan was to come here and see him and maybe, maybe, finish what you started last night.
“Just hanging with some friends,” you lie, lifting your chin in indignation.
“Mm.” He stares at you, seeing through all your bullshit. “Cool.”
He shifts the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Well,” he finally says, “You wanna see your car?”
You deadpan. “Uh.. yeah?”
“Come on.” He turns and walks back toward the garage, and you follow, heels clacking against the concrete. Your body starts to deflate a little. He’s being oddly professional. Like you’re just another customer picking up their vehicle and not someone who spent half the night getting off to the thought of him. Like he didn’t have his hand on your thigh last night saying the filthiest things.
What the fuck? Did you misread this entire situation? Did you really get this dressed up, spend 45 minutes on your makeup, wear your sluttiest heels, all for him to just... show you your car and send you on your way?
When you enter the garage, it’s bigger than you expected. There’s multiple bays, tools hanging from every wall. It smells like motor oil, mixed in with Jungkook’s familiar manly scent. And there, in the center bay under a fluorescent light, is your Range Rover.
It gleams under the light. The hood is closed, no smoke, no weird rattling sounds. Brand spanking new.
“There she is,” Jungkook says, patting the hood. “Good as new.”
You walk around it slowly, inspecting it from every angle. Not that you know what you’re looking for, but it feels like something you should do.
He follows your movements, hands in his pockets. “The coolant was broken,” he explains, leaning against his workbench. “I replaced the radiator, checked the hoses. You should be good for another thousand miles, easily.”
“Okay,” you reply, running your hand along the sleek metal of the car.
“Also rotated your tires, topped off all your fluids. Oil change is due soon, so keep an eye on that.”
“Yup,” The sound of you popping the p echoes across the room. You’re trying so hard not to just openly stare at him. At the way his arms flex when he crosses them, at the small bead of sweat rolling down his neck despite the fans running overhead.
This is torture.
“Air conditioning’s working now too,” he continues. “It was blowing a little warm yesterday, so I fixed that.”
“Great.”
“And I, uh, found about 15 empty iced coffee cups in your backseat.”
Your neck burns. Your coffee addiction started from a young age and only got more dire during adulthood. “I was going to throw those away.”
“When? Next year?”
“I’m busy.”
“Ah, yes, with your treacherous work weeks,” He smiles widely. Okay, there’s the guy from last night. “Don’t worry, I threw them out for you. No charge.”
“How so very kind of you.”
“I thought so.” He pushes off the workbench. “So, what do you think?”
You look at your Range Rover. Looks like your car. Looks completely fucking fine. “It looks good.”
“Yeah?”
Your eyes are stuck on his now, not the car. “I’ll need to take it for a ride, I guess, to make sure it’s all working properly.”
Your brain jumps to a very different kind of ride, and judging by the way his jaw ticks, his did too. “Yeah, you do.”
Metaphorical devil horns start to grow on your head. The horny demon on your shoulder screams at you, begs for release. “Should you come with me? You know, to make sure it's really fixed?”
His eyes darken. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“But what if something goes wrong?”
“Then you can come back.”
“Well what if it breaks down on the road?”
“It won’t. I’m good at my job.”
“But what if—”
He cuts you off sternly, “Your car is fine.”
You hold his gaze for as long as you possibly can, hoping to wear him down blink by blink. But he breaks first, looking away to find something. “Let me go get the paperwork for you to sign. Then we can walk through payment.”
He walks back toward the front office, and the moment he’s out of sight, you deflate. Slump against your car, staring at the ceiling. What is happening? Did you completely imagine the chemistry last night? You catch your reflection in the side mirror and move to the driver’s side, opening the door to check yourself out in the rearview mirror. Your makeup is perfect. Your hair still looks good. The skirt is... yeah, the skirt is doing what it’s supposed to do. He must want to fuck you… right?
Because if not, this is the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, and you once accidentally replied-all to a company-wide email with just the letter ‘k’.
Smoothing down your skirt, you check your teeth in the mirror. Maybe he’s just playing it cool. Maybe he’s making you work for it. Or, then again, maybe you’re just a delusional rich girl and he was just being nice by giving you a ride home and you constructed this entire fantasy in your head.
“Find anything interesting?”
You jump, nearly hitting your head on the doorframe.
Jungkook holds a clipboard, a knowing smirk painted on his lips.
“Just checking my makeup,” You slam the door shut.
“Looks good to me.”
Your stomach flip-flops like a dead fish on dry land. “Thanks.”
He holds out the clipboard. “I just need your signature here, here, and here.” He points with the pen, and you reach for it.
Your fingers brush against his, but it feels like an electric shock. He jolts a little too, as though stung by a bee. So you’re not imagining this.
Taking the clipboard, you try to focus on the paperwork and not on the fact that you’re so horny you could actually die right here in this garage. The charges are itemized: radiator replacement, coolant, labor, some other random words. The total at the bottom does make you blink a few times, though.
You look up at him. “How do I know you didn’t overcharge me?”
His eyebrows raise. “You think I’m scamming you?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, playing with the pen. “Rich girl, fancy car. Easy target.”
“Princess.” He leans against the car, arms crossed in a way that makes his biceps somehow look even more scrumptious. “If I was gonna scam you, I’d have charged way more. That’s actually a pretty fair price.”
“How would I know? I don’t know anything about cars.”
“Which is why you should trust me.” Amusement flickers over his expression. “Besides, you can handle a few extra dollars.”
“Okay, that’s not the point. Integrity is.”
“Oh, really? Integrity and what else?”
You don’t have a single other point to make. You’re just stalling, trying to keep this interaction going for as long as possible before you have to leave and accept that nothing is going to happen.
“The point is…” you trail off. You look down at the clipboard. Scribble your signature on the papers. “Never mind."
He takes the clipboard back, fingers brushing yours again. “Payment?” he asks.
You pull out your black AMEX and hand it to him. He takes it to a small machine on the workbench, swiping it through. The machine beeps with approval (duh. You could probably buy his entire garage and not make a dent in your account.)
Jungkook brings the card back, along with a receipt and a business card. “Here’s your receipt,” He places it in your palm. “And my business card. It’s got my number on it. If you need anything for your car fixed, give me a call.”
This entire time—the miniskirt, the heels, the makeup, the flirting—and he’s just... giving you his business card. He might as well have just friendzoned you, except worse, because he carzoned you.
Whatever. You’re just going to leave and thank him with whatever dignity you have left.
Or…
Fuck it. You have one more shot. One last chance. You did not spend two hours getting ready to walk out of here without trying. You peer up at him, twirling the business card between your fingers. “Any other reason I should give you a call?”
His features contort. “What?”
“Your number,” you clarify. “Is it just for car emergencies or…?
“Or?”
“Or can I call if I need something else fixed?” You’re aiming for confident and flirty, but your heart is hammering so hard you’re surprised he can’t hear it.
The corner of his lip twitches. “What else do you need fixed, princess?”
Realistically, everything. Your brain, your self-control, the ache between your thighs.
“I don’t know,” you reply innocently. You take a step toward him. “Maybe I’ll think of something.”
“Yeah?” He lets his toothpick fall to the floor. “Like what?”
“Maybe I’m worried about the durability of my car,” is what you come up with, and even as the words leave your mouth, you’re not entirely sure where you’re going with this. “Is it strong enough to withstand... certain things?”
“What kind of things?” He might actually be confused now.
You swallow. “I don’t know, like rough terrain. Or…” Oh, good god. “...heavy loads?”
He blinks twice at you.
“Not like that,” you argue, “I just mean like structural integrity of the vehicle and stuff—”
“Princess,” he interjects. His biceps pop against the black fabric of his wife beater and you lose your train of thought completely. “What are you actually asking me?”
“I’m asking if my car is durable.”
“Depends on what you mean.”
You try to find a way to explain this that doesn't sound insane. “Like if there was pressure on the hood, or movement inside. Would it hold up?”
This is the worst attempt at seduction in human history and you want the garage floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Since you’re already committed to this disaster of a conversation, you lean back against the hood of your Range Rover. Cross your legs slowly. Your skirt rides up, just enough to show a tad more thigh.
His eyes drop immediately, throat working as he swallows.
Got him.
“Maybe I just mean we should double check,” You uncross your legs only to cross them the other way, “that everything’s really working properly.”
His pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any brown visible. He’s staring right at your mouth. Trepidly, he takes a step toward you. Then another.
Your hands move behind you, bracing against the hood of your car. The business card and receipt flutter to the floor, forgotten. Fuck it all. Fuck everything. You need to fuck the shit out of this man, or rather, he needs to fuck you hard against this car. This is not the de-stressing your father had in mind, but it’s definitely what you need.
“That what you want?” He stands a mere few inches away from you, hardly leaving any space.
You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, trying to keep your voice steady even though your heart is about to explode out of your chest. “You’re the expert. Don’t you always do a test run after repairs?”
“Usually, yeah.” His eyes drop to your lips.
You can smell the motor oil and cologne on him that lingers. You want to grab him by his chain, pull him closer.
His eyes drop to where your skirt has ridden up. “You want me to take her for a spin? Make sure everything’s in working order?”
“I think that would be the responsible thing to do.”
He takes one more step, and now he’s right there, standing between your legs. His hand comes up to rest on the hood beside your hip, caging you in. “That’s what we’re calling this?”
“What would you call it?”
“I’d call it you showing up in a tiny fucking skirt,” he starts, “batting your eyelashes at me, asking me to take your car for a ride when we both know that’s not what you actually want.”
“What do I actually want then?” you challenge.
His free hand comes up to your thigh, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “You want me to bend you over this hood,” he asks matter-of-factly, “Don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt in your mind.
“You wore those heels for me?” His hand slides higher an inch.
“I told you, I have plans—”
“Bullshit.” His hand moves higher. “You wore them because you knew they’d make your legs look fucking incredible. And you wore this skirt because you wanted me to think about what’s underneath it.”
He’s right. He’s completely right, and you’re not even going to pretend otherwise.
“Is it working?” you ask.
His jaw clenches. “What do you think?“
Words don’t seem to be an appropriate response. Instead, you grab his hand, the one resting on your thigh, and slide it higher. Up, up, until it’s under your skirt, and his fingers brush against the lace of your panties.
They’re completely fucking soaked through.
He sharply inhales, eyes glazing over. “Fuck. How long have you been like this?”
“Since last night,” you admit, because fuck it, you’re past the point of playing coy. “Since you put your hand on my thigh in the truck.”
His fingers move, stroking over your panties, and you can’t help the small whimper that escapes. “All night?”
“Yes.”
“This morning?”
“Y-Yes.”
“When you were getting dressed? Putting on this little skirt?”
“Yes.”
His other hand comes up to grab your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His grip is firm, possessive. Makes you clench around nothing. “You need to be fucked that bad, princess? What, no rich man in Seoul fucking you right?”
“Nope,” you smile sweetly, innocently. “No one’s fucking me right.”
“No one?”
“No one.” Your lips brush his ear, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat thumps erratically. “Besides,” you whisper, “I think we both know you can fuck me better than any of them could.”
He’s on you within seconds.
His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and that toothpick and it’s addicting. You want more. Need more.
You crawl backward on the hood, your back barely touching the windshield, legs spreading to make room for him. He follows without breaking the kiss, settling between your thighs and fuck—you can feel how hard he is through his overalls. His hands travel under your skirt, pushing the fabric up higher. Sliding up your sides, taking your crop top with them. Rough and calloused and so fucking big against your skin. You arch into him, grinding against the bulge in his overalls, and he groans against your lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, “You already feel so good.”
“Touch me properly,” you gasp, keen into his touch.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear. “Want me to touch you, princess?”
“God, yes,” you moan. He pulls your panties to the side, fingers sliding through your slick folds. Actually slides through how wet you are, and you both moan at the contact.
“Holy shit,” he exhales. Your lipstick is smeared, you’re sure of it, but he looks just as disheveled. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“I told you—”
“No, like,” His fingers circle your clit and your hips buck. “I’ve never felt anyone this wet before, princess.”
“Jungkook,” you whimper. You react on instinct, putty in his hands.
His fingers move faster, and you’re already so worked up that you know you’re not going to last long. “What do you need?”
“More,” you gasp, “I need more.”
He slides one finger inside, and your head lolls back against your car. Even his finger is big, stretches you out, and you salivate at what his cock might feel like. “Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, starting to pump his finger in and out. “How long has it been?”
“Six months,” you admit breathlessly.
He adds a second finger and you keen, hips rolling to meet his movements. “Jesus Christ. No wonder you’re so desperate.”
“Shut up—oh fuck—”
His fingers curl inside you, pressing against your g-spot. His thumb finds your clit with ease, rubbing circles into the sensitive nub. One of your hands fists in his wife beater, the other bracing against the hood. “That’s it,” he murmurs. His eyes are glued to where his fingers disappear inside you, watching your pussy suck them in greedily. “Let me hear you, princess. Wanna know how good I’m making you feel.”
“So good,” You tremble in his hold. Already so close it’s embarrassing. “Fuck, it’s so good—”
“Yeah?” He adds a third finger and you actually sob at the stretch. It’s almost too much, almost, but then he curls all three and you’re moaning so loudly you’re grateful Jimin left. “Taking my fingers so well. Such a good girl.” Your walls clench around his fingers and he groans, feeling it.
“You like that.” He grins stupidly. “Like being called a good girl?”
Your arousal drips down his hand, down your thighs, probably onto your car and you don’t even care.
Whimpers escape your mouth as his thumb speeds up on your clit, fingers pumping faster, and you might pass out or see god or—
“Gonna cum for me, princess?” His voice is in your ear. “Gonna cum all over my fingers?”
“Yes—yes—I’m so close—”
“Look at me,” he demands. Your eyes force open, meeting his gaze. His jaw is clenched, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. The silver chain around his neck is swinging slightly with his movements, catching the fluorescent light. He’s never looked hotter.
“That’s it,” he breathes, holding your gaze. “Come on, princess. Let go. Cum for me.”
You’re right there—right there—you can feel it building in your lower stomach, thighs shaking, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers.
He pulls out.
Your orgasm retreats, leaving you trembling. What the actual fuck. “What—why—Jungkook—”
“Because,” he brings his fingers to his mouth. They’re glistening with your juices, and you watch, utterly transfixed, as he slides all three into his mouth and sucks them clean. His eyes close like he’s tasting candy, and he moans around his own fingers. “Fuck. You taste as good as I thought you would.”
“But,” he continues, pulling his fingers from his mouth with an obscene pop, “when you cum, I want it to be on my cock.”
He reaches for the buckles on his overalls, undoing them one by one. The denim falls to his hips, and then he’s shoving everything down—overalls, boxers, all of it—until his cock springs free.
You’re going to pass away.
He’s massive. You shouldn’t be shocked, because only a man as good looking as him would have a pretty cock to match. His length is thick and long and already rock hard, the head flushed dark and leaking. There’s a vein running along the underside that you want to trace with your tongue, and he’s so hard it’s practically standing straight up against his toned stomach.
“See something you like, princess?” He smirks. God, you hate him.
“I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “That’s not going to fit.”
He laughs, wrapping his hand around his cock and giving a slow stroke from base to tip. “It’ll fit.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’ll fit,” he repeats, and you realize this isn’t up for debate. His hand moves again, thumb swiping over the head and spreading precum. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch, aren’t you, princess?”
Your pussy clenches around nothing at his words. Up close, you can see more ink you never noticed before. There’s little letters on his knuckles.
“Answer me,” he instructs, still stroking himself. His other hand comes up to grip your thigh, spreading your legs wider. “You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?”
“Yes,” you exhale on a moan, but it’s not good enough for him. His hand is on your jaw instantaneously.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I’ll take all of it.”
“Good.” He releases you, and you almost protest at the loss of contact. “Now get up and bend over the hood.”
Your brain is hazy with lust, but you scramble to obey. You slide off the hood, your Louboutins clicking against the concrete as your feet hit the floor.
“Turn around.”
You follow. Bracing your hands against the hood of your expensive car, the metal is cold under your palms. Your top is pushed up, breasts smushed against the surface. Behind you, his hands slide up the back of your thighs. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
His hands hook into your panties, and instead of pulling them down, he just pulls them to the side, exposing you completely. “Stay just like this,” he orders, and you feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. “Feet on the floor. Hands on the hood. And that pretty little skirt stays on.”
“Ah—fuck, Jungkook, fuck—”
“Say please.”
And, like… fuck him, seriously.
“Please fuck me,” you whine.
“Not good enough.” The head of his cock pushes in an inch more. “Beg me properly, princess. Tell me what you need.”
“I need,” you pant, trying to push back against him, trying to get more of him, but his hands hold you still. “I need you inside me. Need you to fuck me. Please, Jungkook, I need your cock—”
He pushes in one more inch.
“Keep going,” he tuts. “Keep begging.”
“Please,” and you’re not even embarrassed anymore, not when you’re this desperate. “Please, I’ve been thinking about this since last night, I need it so bad, need you so bad, please just fuck me.”
He slides in another inch, then another, stretching you so wide you swear you feel him in your lungs. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the thickness of him splitting you open. “Fuck,” he groans, “You’re so tight, princess.”
You can’t speak, can’t do anything but gasp and whimper as he continues pushing in, inch by agonizing inch. It’s all so wet, he slides in easily despite the stretch, and you can already feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, coating his cock. When you glance back, you see a ring of cream around where he’s entering you, white against the golden hue of his skin. You’re making such a mess of him and he’s not even all the way in yet.
One of his hands leaves your hip to grip his length, watching himself disappear inside you. “Taking me so well. Making such a pretty mess on my cock.”
He gives you more, pushes in until he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against your ass. You've never felt this full in your life. “Holy shit,” you gasp, fingers scrambling for purchase on the hood. “You’re so—so deep.”
“Too much for you, princess? Too big?” he teases, a cocky lilt to his voice.
“I—it’s—”
“Use your words,” he taunts, one of his hands sliding up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is pressed completely flat against the hood. “Tell me how it feels.”
“I’m so full,” is all you can think to respond.
“But you like it, don’t you?” His hips pull back before pushing back in, and you keen. “You like being stretched on my cock. Like being so full you can’t think straight.”
He’s absolutely right and you hate how smug he sounds about it. “Fuck, yes.”
“That’s what I thought.” He almost pulls all the way out. “Now be a good girl and take it.”
Jungkook slams his full length inside you. The force punches air from your lungs, makes you cry out so loudly it echoes in the garage. He doesn’t care to let you adjust, or take a moment to breathe, just pounds into you brutally.
“Fuck–” You can barely get the word out before he’s thrusting again, harder, deeper, and your hands scramble against the hood. Your breasts drag against the cool metal with each thrust, nipples hardening from the friction and the cold. His hand comes down on your ass, a slap that you know will leave a mark for days.
“That’s it,” he groans, hand soothing over the sting before gripping your hip. “Take it, princess. Take my fucking cock.”
Each thrust drives you forward, heels slipping slightly on the concrete as he fucks into you. The angle has him hitting that sweet spot inside you, already so worked up from the edging that you can feel your orgasm building embarrassingly fast.
You haven’t been fucked like this in years, or maybe, like… ever. Your last hookup was with some finance guy you met at a cocktail bar in Gangnam. He was attractive, confident, took you back to his skyrise condo. But the sex had been... fine. He’d lasted maybe ten minutes, spent most of it jackhammering into you without any rhythm or skill, came without making sure you did, then had the audacity to ask if it was good for you.
Safe to say you never texted him back.
Jungkook fucks you like he wants to. Like he’s been craving it, aching for it for decades.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moans, and one of his hands leaves your hip to grip your shoulder, using it as leverage to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust.
“Jungkook—oh—”
“Yeah? Feel good, princess?” He sounds out of breath, which somehow makes this whole thing hotter. “Better than those rich boys in Seoul?”
“Fuck, so much better,” you whimper.
“Goddamn right it is.” Another slap to your ass, harder this time. “Never gonna want anyone else after this, are you? Gonna think about my cock everytime you’re alone in that big empty bed.”
This is going to ruin you for everyone else.
His hand slides up from your shoulder to fist in your hair, pulling your head back. The angle makes your back arch deeper, and he groans at the new position. “Want you to feel me for days. Want you to be sore tomorrow and remember exactly who fucked you like this.”
The hand entangled in your hair tugs harder, pulling you up enough so that he can slot your mouths together. More tongue and teeth and panting breaths than anything else. You can taste yourself on his lips from earlier, and it makes you moan into his mouth. He releases you back down, fingers digging into your skin. The vulgar sounds bounce off the garage walls. The slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch of your pussy taking him, his balls slapping against your cunt. Your moans and his grunts echoing off the garage walls. The creak of your Range Rover rocking with the force of it.
“Listen to how wet you are for me. Fucking soaked, princess.” he pants. You can hear it, can feel it dripping down your thighs
You’re getting close again. Can feel it building in your lower stomach, thighs starting to shake. “I’m gonna—I’m so close—”
“Already?” Jungkook taunts. “Haven’t even been inside you five minutes and you’re gonna cum?”
His hips piston in and out, pace somehow getting even faster until you’re seeing stars explode across your vision. “Gonna cum on my cock, princess? Make a mess everywhere?”
“Yes please, don’t stop,” you whine, mouth dropping open to release sounds that could put most porn actresses to shame.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Your walls flutter around his cock at the words, and you do it again, squeezing yourself as tight as you can until he lets a string of profanities escape.
“Cum for me,” he demands, finding your clit, circling roughly, and that’s really all it takes. You cum with a strangled moan, a gust of wetness leaking from your abused cunt, gummy walls suctioning him. Your legs give out, only his hands on your hips keeping you upright as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He’s still thrusting, working you through it, and it’s so much, too much, overwhelming in the best possible way. “That’s it, princess. That’s my good girl.”
You feel boneless. You expect to feel him pull out, let you catch your breath. He doesn’t. Instead, his pace resumes, and tears brim your eyes. A sob rattles through you. “I-I can’t, I’m too s-sensitive.”
“You can, and you will,” His thumb finds your clit again and your body jerks forward. “Gonna make you cum again.”
He fucks you through the oversensitivity, your head somewhere in the clouds, with blood rushing in your ears and your limbs like jell-o. It hurts—not quite pain, but so intense it borders on it—but then something shifts and oh fuck—
“There she is,” he murmurs in your ear. “Knew you could take it.”
You’re climbing again, your walls clenching incessantly, uncontrollably. Every thrust punches another moan out of you, every circle of his fingers makes your thighs shake harder. “C’mon princess. Be a good girl and cum for me again.”
It’s somehow more intense than the first, vision whiting out as it rips through you. You don’t even realize when he stops, buried so deep inside you as you fall apart on his cock.
“Jesus,” he chokes, and he pulls out, but not before your legs entirely give out. Jungkook catches you before you can hit the ground, an arm wrapping around your waist and hauling you to his chest. “Easy,” he whispers, “I got you.”
You brace yourself against the car, trying to remember how to breathe. In your peripheral, you hear him moving behind you, and when you look back, he’s opening your driver door. He slides into the seat, legs spread, and his cock is angry red now, wet with your arousal, leaking. He wraps his tattooed hand around himself, stroking slowly. “Come here,” he commands, voice strained.
You move like you’re on autopilot. Stumble slightly in your heels but catch yourself on the door. Jungkook latches onto your wrist, and tugs you toward him. “Get in. Sit on my cock.”
And you want to, you really want to, can feel your mouth salivating, but you’ve never been so spent.
I don’t know if I can—”
His free hand grips your hip, guiding you to straddle him. “I wanna watch your face when you take me this time.”
You position yourself over him, one knee on either side of his thighs in the driver’s seat. It’s cramped—your back is against the steering wheel, your head nearly hitting the roof—but neither of you seem to care. He lines himself with your entrance, and you sink down, inch by inch, vein by vein. It’s deeper, and you need to go slow but he watches you the whole time, pouring buckets of praise into your ear. “That’s it. Nice and slow, princess. Let me see that pretty face while you take me.”
Sinking down another inch, you whimper at the stretch. You’re so sensitive that every ridge feels magnified, and he’s thick enough to give you pause, adjusting. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “Taking me so well. Such a good fucking girl.”
“All those rich boys in Seoul,” he says, hand sliding down to grip your throat. “Bet none of them fucked you like this, hm?”
“No,” you gasp, sinking onto the last few inches until you’re flush against his pubic bone.
“None of ‘em made you cum twice?”
You shake your head no.
“Mhm.” He smirks. “Now ride me, princess. Show me how badly you want it.”
You kind of expect him to help—to grip your hips and move you, to thrust up into you—but he doesn’t. He just sits there, hands sliding up to rest on your waist. “Well?” He raises a brow. “I’m waiting.”
Picking up speed, you roll your hips, bouncing on him. Your thighs burn from the effort, but you don’t stop, even as his hands push your top up higher until your naked breasts are exposed. His tongue wraps around your hardened nipple, sucking, nipping.
“Oh fuck,” Your head lolls back, holding onto his meaty thighs for leverage.
He switches to the other breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, and your movements get more frantic. You're chasing the pleasure, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the car. Jungkook’s tongue flicks over your nipple before he releases it with a pop, looking up at you. “So desperate for it. Richest girl in Seoul, probably, riding my cock in a garage.”
You have to muffle a full-on scream with your hand, and it’s almost scary how large your orgasm feels, looming in the distance.
“What would daddy think?” He grins. “His precious princess, letting some mechanic fuck her in her expensive car.”
“Shut the fuck up,” you say with no bite, tucked into a moan. He flexes his hips, thrusting up to meet you. Your lips crash into his sloppily, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you there.
“You’re so spoiled,” he mutters between kisses. “Everything handed to you on a silver platter. But you came here, dressed like that, begging for my cock.”
“Y-yes,” you whimper, not even embarrassed anymore.
“All those rich boys were probably so careful with you, so gentle and boring.”
They were. All of them worried about being too rough, too demanding. Treating you like you might break.
“But not me.” His hand smacks your ass playfully. “I’m fucking you like you deserve.”
The car is rocking now, probably obvious to anyone who might walk by, but you don’t care. Can’t care when you’re so full of him, when every bounce makes your clit drag against his pelvis. You break the kiss, gasping, “I’m so fucking c-close.”
“God, you’re so greedy. Always cumming.”
“Can’t help it, you feel so good.” All you can think of is how you never want him to let you go, never want his warm arms to stray too far away from you. His head falls back against the headrest, exposing the long line of his throat. Sculpted chest glistening with sweat, the silver chain sparkling against his skin with each bounce. His jaw is clenched, eyes squeezed shut, and he’s so fucking beautiful like this.
Your fingers catch on his chain and you tug slightly, making him groan. “You’re so fucking hot, Jungkook.”
What was left of your dignity has left the chat.
“Love it—love your cock—love how you fuck me,” you babble, words spilling out so quickly you can’t even catch them. “So deep, filling me so good—never felt this good.”
His cock throbs inside you, tendons in his neck standing out, his chest heaving with each breath. You ignore the pain and burn in your thighs. Just need to see him come undone, need to be the one who does it to him. “Cum for me,” you gasp, pressing chaste kisses to his jawline. “Want you to cum.”
“Where?” he asks, and it’s rushed in a way that you know he’s teetering the edge.
You don’t even hesitate when you say, “Inside, please fill me up, want to feel you cum inside me.”
“Holy shit.” His hands tremble against your hips. “Fuck—I’m gonna cum—shit.”
His delicious brown eyes snap shut, mouth falling open in a silent moan that converts into a groan. He pulses inside you, warmth flooding your pussy as his seed paints your walls. He holds you down on him as he empties every last drop, and you milk him through it.
Your third orgasm is quieter, but no less intense. Your entire body collapses onto him, and his arms come to encircle around you. For a long moment, you two sit there in the driver’s seat, inhaling each other’s scent. One of his hands slides down your back, tracing incoherent patterns along your spine. The gesture is surprisingly gentle after everything that just happened—after he fucked you senseless over your car hood and made you ride him until you couldn’t think straight.
“You good?” he finally asks.
You giggle. “Not really, no.”
“Yeah, me neither.” His chest rumbles with a chuckle. “Might need to sit here for a minute.”
“Works for me,” you mumble. Even if you wanted to, you’re not sure you could move.
You were half expecting him to pull out immediately, make some cocky comment, maybe smack your ass one more time for good measure. But he’s being sweet with you, unexpectedly so.
Eventually, you gather enough strength to lift your head from his shoulder. You’re suddenly shy, which is ludicrous considering what you just did.
“Ready to move?” he asks.
“I guess,” you wince. “This is gonna be gross, isn’t?”
“Oh, extremely,” he agrees, but his eyes are twinkling as he smiles. “On three?”
You nod, and he counts down. Slowly, you lift yourself off him, and yeah, it’s exactly as gross as you expected. You feel his cum immediately start to drip out of you, and you make a face. “Told ya,” he says, even as his eyes are glued to your dripping folds. “Fuck, that’s hot though.”
“You’re so gross.”
“You literally begged me to cum inside you.”
Well played.
He helps you climb off him and out of the car. Once you’re stabilized, he starts helping you redress. Pulling your top back down over your breasts, smoothing your skirt down your thighs.
“Your panties are ruined,” he observes, and you roll your eyes. They’re stretched out entirely from being pushed aside, a tiny hole starting to form.
“Great,” you mutter, “Guess I’m going commando.”
He fumbles into his overalls pocket and pulls out a rag. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but—”
“You want me to stuff a fucking rag in my panties?”
“I’m trying to be helpful!” he laughs. “Unless you want to drive home with my cum dripping down your legs.”
You snatch the rag from him. You have no intentions of using it, but appeasing him seems like your best bet. “Shut up.”
While you’re awkwardly trying to sort yourself out, he pulls his boxers and overalls back up, refastening the buckles. There’s a hickey forming on his collarbone, one you don’t remember giving him. Oops.
He leans against your car, a tiny smile on his lips as he watches you try to get your shit together. “So your Range Rover should be good to go now. It’s been fully tested. Everything’s in working order.”
“Great.”
“Suspension held up great. Really took a pounding.”
“Oh my god—”
“What? I’m talking about the car,” he snickers.
“I really doubt that.”
“I don’t joke about cars. What did you think I meant?” You get the urge to slap the smirk right off his face.
You take a moment to check yourself in the side mirror, and yeah, you look exactly as destroyed as you expected. Your father is going to have an aneurysm if he video calls you.
“Here,” Jungkook appears with a water bottle. “Drink something. You need to rehydrate.”
“Where did that come from?”
And it’s a double entendre, because he’s so different from the Jungkook you met last night, the cocky, arrogant mechanic who knows what he’s doing.
“I keep them in the office.” He unscrews the cap, hands it to you. “Drink.”
You’re grateful, if nothing else. The cold water feels amazing on your throat which is raw from screaming his name. Once you’ve caught your breath, fixed yourself as much as possible, and accepted that you’re going to have to burn these panties, you turn to face him.
Suddenly you’re nervous again, which is stupid. You literally just had this man inside you, but now you’re worried about how to ask to see him again without sounding desperate. “I gotta head out before it gets dark.” It’s the last thing you want to do.
“My car is fixed,” you add.
He nods.
“So there’s no reason for me to come back.”
He arches his brow. “Not one?”
“Well, something else could break, I guess.”
“Could happen,” He smiles. “Cars are unpredictable. It might need regular maintenance.”
“How regular are we talking?”
And it’s like you two have always been on the same page, reading each other despite the gap in upbringing. “Depends. How often do you think you’ll need a... tune-up?”
You pretend to think about it. “Daily?”
He laughs loudly, and your heart soars. Feels a little like it’s flying. “Daily?”
“I’m very concerned about my car’s performance.”
He tugs you closer by your skirt. “Maybe we start with weekly? Don’t want to wear out the equipment.”
“I think I can work with that.” There’s a stupidly wide grin on your face, but you don’t care.
His hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking through the fabric. “Good. I’m not done with you yet, princess.”
He shakes his head. God, he really is beautiful. Nothing like what you’re used to, but maybe everything that you need.
“Well,” you sigh. “Guess I’ll be back tomorrow then for that tune-up.”
“Tomorrow? Thought you said weekly,” he jokes, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen lips.
“I changed my mind. My car is very high maintenance.”
“She definitely is,” he says, looking at you like he wants to devour you all over again.
Jungkook presses a few chaste kisses to your lips, your cheeks. You eagerly accept them.
“I’ll head out now,” you giggle.
He holds your hand, then presses his lips to it. “Tomorrow,” he says. “10 PM. Don’t be late.”
Summary: When a cheating scandal rocks your marriage, the life you built with your husband begins to unravel. The alleged other woman? His best friend, Sharon, newly unemployed, newly working by his side, and now at the center of every headline. Now, as the world questions his integrity, you’re forced to question his heart. Did Bucky give in to something he couldn’t resist, or is he the victim of a cruel illusion? And how can he possibly convince you to believe him again?
Content Warning: English is not my first language.
This will be a mini-series AU, probably consisting of three to four parts, and will contain fluff, angst, and eventually smut.
Please let me know if you like it. Likes, comments, and reblogs are really, really appreciated. Also, please, please let me know if there are any mistakes.
synopsis: he doesn’t have to explicitly say it but you can tell bucky doesn’t like you. he makes your life infinitely harder as the newest recruit. so when he purposefully sabotages your mission, tensions rise because you’re not taking shit from someone that’s not even your superior—no matter how hot he is.
tags: enemies to lovers. angst. hurt!comfort. jealousy. violence. pining. yearning. miscommunication. buckys kinda mean cause he doesn’t know how to handle his emotions. reader is lwk a crashout. eventual smut. rivals who hookup heh.
a/n: first fic of 2026. avengers tower fics are SO back idcc. if you saw me post this yesterday, this is a repost with some more parts added cause i didn’t like it before lol.
the first thing you noticed about bucky barnes was his stature.
the way he carried himself and was sure of his instincts. his huge arms were pretty hard to miss and his piercing blue eyes made you feel a little weak in the knees—until you tried talking to him.
then anger and unresolved sexual frustration was all you felt around him.
the rest of the team was nice, including you on trips out and training with you like you were already a part of the team. treating you like you were in their family.
you’d been there for nearly five months now and bucky continued to act like you didn’t exist. he always hung out around steve so you quickly noticed how close he was to him rather than anyone else. stubborn as ever, you wanted the team to like you, including bucky. so naturally, you thought to befriend both of them and started hanging out with steve and sam more outside of work. steve was entirely a sweetheart and full of smiles, making a huge effort to make you feel welcomed into the team.
bucky, however, he kept his distance from you, trying not to talk much even when he did with others. purposefully keeping conversations short and painfully professional. making sure you weren’t part of any missions he was involved with. you didn’t think much of it, taking his lack of regard to the chin and pretending it didn’t hurt your ego. but as soon as he saw you hanging out with steve alone in the kitchen one late night, he started being entirely cold towards you.
sure, you hadn’t been part of the team for long, but he particularly didn’t like how everyone else accepted you almost immediately. he definitely didn’t like how you always had an answer for everything or how steve always came to your defense.
after six long months of working with the avengers, bucky barnes never warmed up to you. in fact he became hostile, dismissive, and borderline rude when you tried to talk to him. you’d walk up with a file in hand, ready to ask him about it, and he’d actively ignore you or put you off to be someone else’s problem. when you were walking by him in the hallways, it felt like walking past a ghost sometimes just from how faraway he felt from everyone else.
if he wasn’t such a dickhead without reason, you might actually feel bad for him.
then one day, you’re walking with tony and steve, but bucky makes it a point to make sure you see him too. a visible scowl on his face as he approaches you while you’re laughing at something one of them said. oblivious until his shoulder roughly touches yours as he passes by in the corridor, so much so that you nearly topple over. you catch yourself on the wall just to look up and see him staring back at you. he almost seems like he regrets it, but then he gives you a stupid, knowing smile, and you feel anger boil low in your belly.
“should watch your step there, rookie.”
you scoff and brush yourself off, giving him a tight smile right back that only seems to make him grow more annoyed. steve even asks him what his problem was, but he responded with a grunt and a long cold stare like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
over the next couple weeks he gets even more apparent in his attempts to be a nuisance to you. he makes you do extra work, makes sure you get your ass handed to you during training and reminds steve of everyone’s curfew specifically when he knows you were gonna go out that night. smugly watching you as you walk downstairs cause he knew you’d just go back up.
it’s not like you were gonna be nice back either. he’s clearly shown his feelings of distaste, so you stopped tried to coddle a grown man.
but when he purposefully makes you look like a rookie on a mission you were desperately trying to prove yourself on—you’re seeing red. you’re stomping hard across the hall, muttering profanities and threats under your breath. bruce, being the sweet guy he was, is trying to calm you dow but is careful not to touch you.
“hey, i don’t think he meant anything by it,” he starts again, the same excuse he made for bucky in jet ride back to the tower.
you huff and turn to bruce, his expression immediately falls at the disdain on your face.
“he shouldn’t have disarmed me in front of the fucking target.”
bruce nearly cowers in on himself despite being the easiest person to ragebait and you feel horrible for projecting onto him. you soften your tone and sigh deeply, putting a hand on your brow.
“fuck, i’m sorry bruce. i’m just frustrated with this whole situation right now,” biting the inside of your cheek.
he nods in understanding, giving you a knowing, small smile and soft hand on your shoulder.
if anyone could understand uncontrollable anger, it’s bruce. if anyone could hone in on it, it’s also probably bruce, but you’re not looking for logic right now. you’re just pissed off beyond your limits and a certain super soldier who couldn’t help himself on the mission was the cause.
bucky wasn’t even supposed to be on that mission. you literally had the target in your line of sight and had already disarmed and cornered him but bucky claimed that he saw otherwise. he caught you by surprise and toppled you over, pushing your gun out of your hands, practically wheel-barrelling into the guy, which you were sure was for no apparent reason other than to fuck with you. sam and sharon walked in moments later with confusion plastered over their face while you had annoyance over yours. sharon whispered something to sam about you holding them back but clearly loud enough for you to hear.
the heavy footsteps of the culprit ascending down the towers hall makes your blood boil all over. you apologize to bruce again as bucky and steve emerge from the elevator. steve shoots you a knowing glance before slipping away from bucky and joining sam in the kitchen. when you look up, bucky eyes already found yours, dirt across his brow. he says your name once but you ignore him, stomping away and needing distance from him before you got violent.
bucky is hot on your tail, chasing after you until you reach the kitchen, “you can’t avoid this forever.”
you say nothing, zipping off your tactical vest and dropping it on the bench in the hall. he scoffs like he were the one who should be mad.
as if he didn’t just make you look like an amateur in front of the target for the last fucking time.
“hey, i’m talking to you brat!”
that was it. it felt like steam was coming out of your ears at this point and you turn abruptly— tossing your gear at him hard and pushing your palms into his chest.
“what the hell is your problem?!” you yelled, shoving him backwards.
he rolls his eyes and lets you push him. he makes no point to take your hands off of him, but wraps his fingers, metal and flesh, around your wrists. “me? are you dense? you messed up the whole mission running in like the damn rookie you are.”
you feel your face grow warm with anger. you yank your hands from his grip. he’s not your damn superior, even if you were a rookie on the team. steve and tony didn’t give you a choice when you joined the team, it was a no brainer.
“don’t talk to me like i’m a child barnes.”
he glares at you, chest heaving as he leans in closer. his breath his hot against your face.
“well you sure as hell act like one, sweetheart.” his words laced with malice.
you bite back a harsh word and lean your chin upwards, “you weren’t even supposed to be in there, i had him.”
he laughs, “you didn’t have anything but a bullet about to be lodged into your thick skull.”
your grit your teeth, “oh, fuck you.”
“fuck me? fuck you!”
neither of you making any effort to move away, you press on, “quit being such a dick.”
bucky leans even closer, “quit being a brat.”
then you finally shove him away, annoyed at how he copied your words, “you’ve been a dickhead to me for months now all because your ego is inflated since steve let you take the lead on this,” you spat. he looked unamused, so you wanted your words to stick, “but we both know that if you didn’t run point, it would have concluded by now and i would’ve had him.”
having struck a cord she didn’t even know was there, his hands clench on his side, “yeah, you needed someone who actually knows what they’re doing to come with you. i run point cause i’m simply more skilled than you are sweetheart. i have more experience, more tactical knowledge. what are you anyway, twenty-something?”
with a heavy scoff, you berate him, “fuck off, my age means nothing here, we both know i know what the hell i’m doing. the question is, do you old man?”
“old man—” he mutters, without thinking he bites back, “well you’re a spoilt brat who only got here cause of steve.”
incredulous, you laugh, “the joke writes itself barnes.”
his expression falters and he glares at you as he wets his lips, “you’re a damn liability.”
shifting on the balls of your feet to get a closer reach at him, "and you need to stop acting like you know what is best when you clearly don't."
he barks out a humoured laugh, "and you do? you almost got yourself killed, taking unnecessary risks like you’re invincible. sorry sweetheart, you’re gonna get yourself of someone else killed one day."
“stop calling me that,” glaring daggers at him, "nothing was going to happen until you chose to expose everything and blow my cover."
"yeah?" he asks, like he knows something you don't, condescending in his tone, "maybe cause you're acting like a child getting their first bit of freedom. trying to prove yourself for people who couldn’t care less about what you do, sweetheart."
at this point you’re clenching your jaw so hard, it feels like it might break. he always knows how to push your buttons.
you don't think as you put a hand to his chest and he raises his brows in question, but doesn't withdraw from you. without another thought, you grip the fabric over his chest and draw him in fast while dragging your head back to snap it forward—hitting his nose hard with your forehead. to your petty victory, his nose bleeds down his cupids bow, and he extends his tongue just a little further to touch it with the tip before cracking the faintest bit of a smirk.
you lock your ankle at the backs of his knees and drag them forward, grabbing his throat with the other and shoving him down hard. you only get the better of him cause he’s letting you, you know that. still, in that one fluid move you knock him on his ass. but bucky knows you too well—he anticipates what you’d do and anchors his arm around your waist, and dragging you down on top of him. you go down with an oof.
“don’t you ever put me in that position on a mission again barnes. i don’t care how fucking old you are.” pushing yourself up onto your elbows as he doesn’t budge, hooking his fingers into your belt loops.
his other hand snakes to the small of your back and up your spine, sending shivers up. he almost looks proud of you, not even a little angry. you can’t help the slight tremble you have as he pushes you downward so you’re inches away from his face now. the warmth of his body radiating off of him and onto you as you straddles his waist. he wets his lips whilst shamelessly staring at yours and your lips part instinctively at the sight that was turning you on despite it all.
bucky smirks like he can read your mind.
“you play dirty, you know that?” the most smug smile on his face like he wasn’t bleeding all down his neck, “it’s kinda doing it for me.”
you slap his hand off your waist and stand, kicking his shoulder, softer than you could have. pushing off of him, his back goes flat on the ground. surprised by how easily he let you go.
he licks his lips again in that stupidly attractive way and you try not to watch him. when you move away, bucky laughs softly as you walk, ignoring how you calling him a “pervert,” under your breath.
sam hears the commotion and comes lightly jogging out of the kitchen where steve had gone into, seeing bucky spawled out on his back. bucky is grinning like an idiot with his head slightly lifted off the ground as he watches you walk away. the dull clicks of your shoes echo as you storm off with a little bounce that showcased your annoyance. sam shifts his eyes from down the hall, back to bucky and back to you again as though he were putting together the situation at hand.
sam scratches at his head and sighs, "you need to leave that woman alone barnes. i swear, one day you're both gonna tear each other's throats out."
with genuine reluctance, bucky starts tearing his gaze away from the sway of your hips and makes a hum of acknowledgement. once you’re out of his view, he drops his head against the floor with a soft thud. the sound of you slamming your door shut echoes far enough for them to hear it.
a ridiculously handsome smile still plastered across his face, bucky sits up.
“yeah? you really think so?”
🏷️ add yourself to the taglist
a/n: name something you’d like yo wife to do to yo face?
Summary: In which Steve doesn't realize that his way of coping with Nancy and his breakup is hurting Y/N in the process. He also doesn't notice that Billy Hargrove is not only trying to take his throne, but the girl he's loved forever too
Warning(s): Angst, mutual pining, Billy being bff material, smut, light choking if you squint, fluff, Steve being a dummy, riding, oral (f receiving), cockwarming if you squint
A/N: was listening to Forever by Jessie Murph while writing this
She didn’t really understand how she got to where she was. How she wound up in this position. Truth be told, she somewhat did, cons of asking Steve for a ride to the party.
She would’ve expected him to wander off with Nancy, and do his own thing as usual while she would go join some of her friends for beer pong. She’d expect him to tell her when he and Nance were ready to head out, as she always made sure they got Y/N home okay. Y/N would also expect for him to let her know if he got her a backup ride in case they left before she wanted to.
What she didn’t expect was to watch him storm away, eyes glossed with tears as pure anger set throughout his entire face, pushing past the people in the crowd. Her gaze dropped and frowning as she gulped another sip of her beer. “Steve?” Y/N called out towards his direction.
She followed when he didn’t even so much as acknowledge her, setting her cup somewhere on some random table, the music going to a soft hum as she stepped outside. “Steve, where are you going? What happened?” she calls out, watching him unlock his car. He still said nothing as he clenched his jaw.
“Steve?” she says once more, rushing down the yard as he started up his engine. “Steve!” her voice rises as he begins to drive off without her. Y/N lets out a few curse words as she flips off his car while it sped down the street.
She tried searching for Nancy when she got back inside, only to find her being carried out by Jonathan, explaining she was drunk off of her ass. She nods, thanking him while letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. When Jonathan offered her a ride, she politely declined, saying she would ask one of her friends to bring her back. Explaining that he should worry about getting Nancy home safely.
Which now led her to where she stood on the porch, drink in hand as she let out a frustrated huff. Her friends had all been long gone by the time she tracked down one of their boyfriends, stating how they were all planning to stay put for the night. She usually would’ve stuck with that idea, but she had to be home to bring Dustin to Mike’s the next morning.
“The party’s inside, sweetheart,” a voice chuckles behind her, making her roll her eyes.
She didn’t have to turn around to know who the voice belonged to. “Too overstimulating, and I’m trying to sober up enough to walk home.”
Billy Hargrove takes a seat next to her, cigarette in hand as he blows out a puff of smoke. “Thought King Steve was your chauffeur,” he snorted. “At least I see you following him like a lost puppy. How does Nancy not hate that?”
Y/N scoffs. “I do not follow him around like that. We’re best friends, and on top of that, they both want me to stay close by in case we need to leave. So don’t act all snarky, Hargrove.”
Billy lets out a loud laugh, taking in another drag. “I’m just saying,” he starts. “You’re a little obvious for how in love you are with Harrington. Maybe back off a bit, or better yet, leave the guy be.”
Y/N’s gaze snaps toward him, glaring hard. “What the fuck are you on, Hargrove?” she snaps, watching his eyebrows raise as his smirk widens.
“Struck a nerve, have I?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
He purses his lips while shaking his head. “Not a bit,” he takes another drag. “But he’s gotta watch his own actions before Nancy realizes he loves you too.”
Y/N’s eyes widened at his words.
“What are you talking about?” she snips, and he shrugs as he stands up, blowing out the last of his cigarette.
He turns back to her, holding out his hands for her to take. “I’m gonna head home, I’ll drop you on the way.”
“I’d rather take another gulp of whatever is in Tommy’s mystery punch bowl than ride anywhere with you,” she scoffs, Billy rolling his eyes as he lets out a huff.
“It’s the least I can do for being an ass-”
“You’re always an ass-”
“Are you always this much of a fucking headache, Henderson?”
Y/N just stares up at him in shock at his tone, watching as he stands in front of her with his hands on his hips. She then sighs, crossing her arms. “You’ve been drinking, Billy.”
He purses his lips once more with a smirk, shaking his head lightly. “I can take more than you think, honey. I am sober enough to drive with my eyes closed if I wanted to.”
She eyes him once more before taking his hands he then offers her once more, Billy helping her stand upright as he leads her to his car. He even opened up the passenger side for her, closing it once she was inside.
The engine revved to life, Billy giving her a smug expression before he sped off into the night.
It was quiet for the first few moments, Y/N’s gaze looking out the window with her hands picking at one another in her lap.
“So what is it about King Steve that makes you so obsessed with him? Let alone every girl I’ve met at that shit school of yours?” he starts up, making her groan and shake her head. “He seems like he’s so up his own ass, you can see his head coming up his throat.”
“Oh fuck off, you’re just as cocky. I don’t even know what you’re talking about, just let it go.”
He tuts. “Nope, I’m driving you home so I deserve to know what it is. You owe me that.”
“I’d rather jump out of the moving car-”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Well you’re wrong.”
Billy grabs her jaw to make her look at him as they rolled up to a stoplight. “Am I? Because it seems like you can’t see how you stare at him like he hung the moon.”
His tone is a bit more serious, nothing playful whatsoever as he looks at her, her eyes deflating as she sighs. She takes his hand off of her when the light turns green, rubbing her face in exhaustion. “There’s a lot to it,” she admits. “But he’s just always been there. Even in the worst circumstances, I’ve never had to question if he would be there for me. Even for my brother, he’s there at the drop of a dime.”
“Seems like tonight was the opposite.”
She rolled her eyes before sending him a scowl. “Something happened, so he probably needed to be alone. I get that way too when things happen. I’m gonna give him his space if so,” she explains, Billy snickering at her words.
“Wow you really are down bad, sweetheart,” he jokes. “Here I thought I’d be able to woo you somehow.”
“Not like I’d give you the time of day, Hargrove. That dick of yours has been in every girl known at Hawkins high school,” she shot back with a chuckle, watching as his jaw dropped lightly at her words. He puts a hand to his chest as he acts hurt playfully.
“Well played, Henderson. I’ll give you that,” he laughs, making her smile at him in amusement. “I like you, you’ve got some spunk to you.”
“You think I do, you should hear half the things my brother says.”
“Ah yes, the famous Dustin Henderson. I know all about that kid and his little shits of a friendgroup.”
She narrows her eyes and smacks his arm, making him hiss. “They’re good kids. Don’t you dare start.”
“They cause my sister to get into trouble, which causes me to get into trouble with our parents.”
“Well from now on if she goes off, you can tell your parents she’s with Dustin at my house. Have them call me and I’ll happily help you out. That way you don’t have to cancel any hookups of yours,” she jokes. “Fair trade?”
He rolls his eyes. “Noted.”
He pulled into her driveway, Y/N opening the door to step out, only for him to say her name softly. She bends down to look at him in the low car.
“Don’t wait around for a guy that’ll make you his second choice.”
She bit her lip. “He’s not like that.”
Billy gives her a look. “If you need help with igniting the fire, give me a ring.”
She laughs before closing his car door, waving goodbye as she begins to walk back to her doorstep.
It was the next morning, and Y/N had been stressing at the fact that she knew Steve was coming to pick her up this morning. She didn’t really want to deal with the awkward tension right away in that car, especially if things went down between him and Nancy.
She hesitated picking up the phone in the kitchen, dialing the number written down on a piece of gum wrapper from the night before. Her fingers slowly dialed the numbers into the keypad, biting her bottom lip as she held the phoneline to her ear. It didn’t ring for long, someone picking up the landline after a couple rings. “Hargrove residence, who’s calling?” a smaller voice, that didn’t take long for Y/N to know it was Max. She smiles softly to herself.
“Hey Max, it’s Y/N. I know this is going to sound weird, but is Billy there? He gave me a ride home last night, and I had to ask him something.”
She hears Max chuckle on the other line. “What in the world did you get yourself into last night?” she jokes, making Y/N run a hand over her face. “I swear it’s not what it sounds like. Steve ditched me, and Billy was nice to just give me a ride home.”
“If you say so,” Max snickered. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to lose you because my brother is an asshole.”
“It’s not like that, but I’ve got it.”
There’s some rummaging on the other side for a few moments, before it was just quiet for a small second. Bily’s voice booming through the phone softly. “Well if it isn't a little miss lovergirl. You change your mind?”
“Very funny,” she chuckles dryly, twisting the phoneline between her fingertips. “I really don’t want to be stuck in that awkward tension with him this morning. Are you able to pick me up?”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, Y/N shaking her head to herself before rubbing her forehead. “It’s fine if not,” she says quickly. “I will just walk if anything. I just cannot deal with all of that first thing in the morning.”
Billy hums for a second, leaning against the doorway with a smug look on his face. “Now what kind of gentleman would I be to let a girl walk to school, hm? Especially if it’s the one that’s going to cause Harrington a hard time?” he jokes back, making her roll her eyes.
“I’ll just walk at this point-”
“Okay, alright fine. Sorry. Yes I’ll be there in a few. Hang tight.”
With that the line clicks, and Y/N let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She finishes up her morning routine and eats breakfast with Dustin across from one another.
As she is finishing up putting her dish in the sink, a car honks outside and it makes her freeze. Dustin eyes her with a confused look. “That’s not Steve’s car,” he says matter of factly. Y/N shuts her eyes for a second before huffing.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Dustin smirks. “Oh I’m not worried,” he says slyly. “But Steve might.”
She shrugs. “Not my problem,” she mumbles before grabbing her bag, and going to give him a small hug. “Stay out of trouble today, please? Or at least wait till I’m home to go back into the woods.”
Dustin rolls his eyes, and nods. “No promises.”
With that she walks out the door, and looks up to see Billy’s car pulled up. Max is in the passenger seat, her smile widening at the sight of Y/N. Billy pushes Max’s arm, making her snap her head back at him with a glare. He nods to the backseat, making her huff and slide to the back.
Y/N smiles down at Max as she opens the car door to get inside. “Well good morning Maxine,” she chuckles.
Max smiles as Y/N hops into the passenger seat in front of her, squeezing her shoulders once she is inside. Once the door is shut, Billy sped off without warning, making both girls hold onto some part of the car while he laughs.
“Thank you,” Y/N says after a bit of driving. “For last night, and this morning. I mean.”
Billy shrugs. “Anything to make Harrington shake in his boots, I’m for it.”
She narrows her eyes while crossing her arms. “Is that all you’re keen on doing? To take some stupid title in the school that’s his?” she shoots, shaking her head. “If that’s your goal, you really have a low satisfaction line. Which is kind of sad.”
“That’s how he is,” Max sighs, making Billy glare at her through the rearview.
“Shut up, Max.”
“You’re not going to be an ass to her, not while I’m around. Especially if she’s right,” Y/N cuts in, making Billy roll his eyes.
“You sure have some spunk to you, don’t you princess?”
She grimaces at the nickname, smacking his arm. “Never that. Disgusting.”
“Okay fine,” he huffs. “No, I’m not just doing it to get on Harrington’s nerves. It is fun, yes, but I’m also doing it because I didn’t think you deserved to be ditched like that. I may be an asshole and go through girls like I do, but I’m not past letting a girl get left like that.”
Y/N raised her brows in shock at his words, but nodded slowly. “I don’t know how that really cancels out with how you treat women, but I guess that’s nice? Of you?” she trails off, not missing the way Max holds in a snort. Y/N trying to hide a smirk herself, and Billy eyes her.
“I’m half tempted to make you walk the rest of the way.”
“Do it, then. I said I was fine walking.”
Billy huffs out a laugh, turning down the street as the school comes to view slowly. “You really are a little shit like your brother.”
“If that’s what you think, then sure,” she shot back, not missing the way he coughs over a snort leaving his lips.
Y/N had a few side conversations with Billy after that throughout the schoolday, only when they walked past one another in the school’s hallways. Or if they were in the same class, he would come sit next to her instead, and just talk to her. Nothing more than platonic, Billy enjoying having a girl that didn’t want him just to say she had him, but because she actually wanted to be his friend.
The bell rang, signalling that second period was over. Y/N grabbing her books as she headed to her locker. She put away her history books and grabbed her things for physics, shutting her locker and jumped at the sight of Steve coming to view behind it. She held a hand up to her chest, letting out a breath. “Fuck, Steve,” she sighs. “You can’t just show up like that unannounced.”
Steve is looking at her with a hardened face, but his eyes are soft as he crosses his arms. “I showed up to your place this morning, Dustin said you were already gone. I was almost late to school. Where were you?” he asked her, making her eyes flick away from his. She tightened her grip on her books.
“I’m gonna be late for physics,” she mutters before trying to breeze past him. Steve grabs her arm and turns her back to him. Y/N’s eyebrows furrow, looking at where his hand was and then back up into his eyes. “Steve I have a test this period, I can’t be late-”
“Where were you this morning?”
Y/N sighs. “You now care? It seemed quite the opposite last night,” she shot, making his face drop.
“I was upset about the fight that happened between Nance and I. I just needed to get out of there,” he sighs, his voice getting quieter after each word he spoke. Y/N looked between his eyes. “I also just thought you’d be able to get a ride home from Tina or Rachel. So I didn’t really think about it after that.”
“Well then there you go. One of them picked me up this morning. End of story.”
Steve looks straight through her and frowns. “They’re not here today. Too hungover,” he shot back, Y/N snatching her arm away from his grip.
“Well either way I got home, okay? Just leave it alone.”
“Y/N-”
“I’ve gotta go Steve.”
She turns to walk away, only stuttering in her steps slightly when she sees Billy walking by. Based on the look on his face, he had seen the interaction and gave her a questioning look as if asking if she was okay. She nods curtly before breezing past him, taking a sharp turn down the hallway towards the labs.
Billy’s face turns back to Steve, he doesn’t miss the way Steve’s expression hardens at the small interaction he had with his best friend. Billy gave him a snide smirk before walking off, patting his chest when he passed. He was going to get under Steve’s skin if it was the last thing he did.
After Billy found out through Tommy and Carol that Steve and Nancy had gotten into a fight, pretty much breaking up at the party, he was going to get Steve to crack. He was going to make sure he pissed Steve off in every way possible, to the point he finally realized how much he wanted Y/N too.
At least, if Y/N wasn’t going to do it, Billy was going to do it. In the most menace way possible.
Especially when lunchtime came, he noticed Y/N was sitting at the familiar table that their entire group sat at, his eyes seeing Steve was still getting his food at the lunch line. Billy made his way over, sitting right next to her, leaning his elbow on the table causing her to jump at his sudden figure next to her.
She smacked his chest. “You cannot sneak up on a girl like that, Hargrove!” she hissed, wiping her mouth with a napkin. He smiles widely at her.
“When’s your free period?” he asked her, and she hummed while thinking and taking a bite of her food.
“Fifth, why?”
He leans toward her. “You should come sit in the gym for a bit. Watch me humble your little boyfriend for a change.”
She eyes him. “This again?”
He chuckles with a shrug. “I just want to push his buttons a little. I think you’d enjoy that after he ditched you after the Halloween party.”
“I already told you, he and Nance had a nasty fight. He apologized after that.”
Billy hums with a smug grin. “I think it still would be fun to watch, no? Come on,” he trails off, making her grimace.
“Fine. But only because I couldn’t reserve the study hall in the library.”
“Good,” he says before standing up, his eyes immediately meeting Steve’s, who was glaring straight through him as he watched the boy slowly stand from the spot next to her.
“Harrington,” Billy scoffs smugly. Steve’s eyes furrowed. “Wrong table, Hargrove.”
“It’s not if Henderson’s at it.”
Steve sets his tray down next to Y/N, the spot where Billy once sat, before standing over Billy
“Back. Off,” he says. “She’s not the next girl on your list, so move to the next will you?”
Y/N frowns, putting a hand on Steve's arm. “Steve, leave it be,” she says, only for him to still look at Billy. Billy’s smirk just widens as he eyes Steve up and down. He looks at Y/N, eyebrows raising.
She gives him a look as if telling him to knock it off as well, watching his eyes roll while he chuckles. He puts his hands up in defense, before pointing at her for a minute. “I’ll see you during fifth,” he chuckles. With that, he walks off, Steve huffing before slumping into the seat next to hers. She looks at him with an amused look, watching as he looks at her and rolls his eyes.
“Don’t start,” he says with a sigh, she snorts.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“He’s harmless. Just being nice, that’s all.”
Steve looks at her with a look. “He’s being nice out of the blue? Yeah, he wants you, honey. You’re one of the girls on that long list of his.”
“Okay, don’t be an ass,” she groans, rubbing her hand over her face. “I’m still pissed at you, so you have no right.”
He shook his head. “I’m not trying to be, I swear. I just,” he sighs. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You deserve someone better than that jackass.”
Y/N’s eyes still at his words. “Steve, I’m not interested in him. He’s really just being friendly, that’s all. Nothing more, I made sure to vocalize that.”
He eyes her before letting it go, nodding before taking a bite of his food. “How did you even cross paths?” he asks her, making her shrug. She hadn’t told him that Billy was the one who drove her home that night, knowing he was already having a hard time with what happened that night with Nance. The last thing she needed was for him to flip out on hearing she was seen leaving with Hargrove that night.
“Just one of the classes we have together. We were partners for something in Physics, so now we’re just friendly.”
He snorts. “I’ve never known that guy to be nice to a woman unless he wanted something else.”
“Steve.”
He eyes her, before huffing. “Okay fine, I’m sorry. I know I don't have the right to worry, but I do,” he says. “I’m also sorry. About last night. You didn’t do anything, and you would’ve just been there to let me rant about what happened.”
Y/N nods, her chest tightening at his words. “I get that you needed time, but you could’ve just said that as you were leaving. You left without a word as if I did something,” she explains. “I mean it’s not that big of a deal to me anymore, because I’ve literally been in those woods at night after being chased by those creature things, but it hurts because of how you left.”
Steve’s gaze softens as he stares into her eyes. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you, okay?”
“You don’t need to make up for it. Just don’t shut me out,” she says, and he nods.
“So about Hargrove-”
“Steven.”
“Right, dropping it. Sorry.”
Fifth period came a lot quicker than she thought, not taking much time to grab her things to bring to the gymnasium. She saw that the guys were all already there, warming up for their game of Basketball, while she walked up to the bleachers to take a seat. She unpacks some of her homework, knowing it was better to get it done now rather than wait.
She nearly had to roll her eyes when she saw the giant smile on Billy’s face, seeing he wasn’t wearing his shirt, panting as they positioned themselves for the next ball drop. Steve’s eyes followed Billy’s, gaze hardening as he saw Y/N sitting in the stands, her face lightly red as she rolled her eyes at Billy. He turned back to eye Billy.
“You can’t just leave her be, can you, Hargrove?” he scoffs, panting as sweat rolls down his neck.
Billy shrugs, playing into it. “It’s fun when you want something you can’t have.”
Steve’s insides burn at his comment, zoning in as the game starts off not too long after.
Each time Y/N pulled her eyes up to watch the boys, she noticed how Steve and Billy were always on each other. She watches as Steve runs up on Billy, ball in hand as Billy guards up against him.
She can see that they’re exchanging words, but not for long because Billy then snatches the ball from him, going down the court to score. Billy stuck his tongue out smugly, panting and sweating as he eyed Steve in amusement, before going to wink at Y/N. Before Steve can say another word, he hears his name, causing him to turn and see Nancy.
Y/N’s heart clenches just slightly, not missing how easy Steve followed after her, Y/N’s eyes following the pair. Billy’s eyes leave the pair that exit the gym, his eyes softening as he sees Y/N’s longing stare at where the couple once stood. He felt his anger burn for her, knowing she was so into Steve that it hurt her. No matter how much she denied it.
He continued to play, anger radiating off of him as he creamed their team without Steve. One of his teammates had to exit the gym to go grab Steve as they got dominated by Billy.
When Steve came back in, he looked more pissed off than he did before, putting everything into his game that he could. Y/N knew something bad must’ve happened, based on how hard he was pushing up against his opponents. He was panting so hard she was convinced he would pass out.
The whistle blew soon after the excruciating game, Y/N having to prevent herself from wincing at the scoreboard.
She began to pack up her stuff, zipping up her bag as she made her way down the bleachers. Her eyes caught Steve’s, frowning at his expression. He looked like he was trying to zone out, wiping a towel across his face as he breathed heavily. “Steve?” she called, walking over to him.
“What happened? You okay?” she asks, walking with him as he goes to grab his water bottle. He hums while squirting water into his mouth.
“I saw Nance walk in-”
“Please don’t. Not right now,” he says, walking off towards the locker rooms. She turns to him with her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want to go for a drive after school to talk about it?” she asks, and he shakes his head turning to look at her.
“You’re going to have to find another ride home. I’ve gotta stay here for tutoring tonight.”
“Again? You’re shutting me out? We just talked about this,” she says, and Steve looks down at her as his figure towers over her. He kissed her forehead softly. With that, he heads into the locker room, making her chest tighten just slightly. Billy’s hand comes up to her arm, squeezing softly.
“You okay?” he asks, and she nods.
“I just hate how he does this. He shuts me out when things go wrong.”
He takes another gulp of his water. “You want a ride home?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll just walk. I’ve got to wait for Dustin anyways.”
He hesitates slightly, before nodding. She nods at him. “Besides I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this study date with Heather tonight. Just go, I’ll be fine,” she assures, making him purse his lips before squeezing her arm one last time and heading to the men' s locker rooms.
The walk home was nice for her, as she and Dustin talked about everything he figured out for what’s going on with Dart, his new animal friend he found in their trashcan. Saying how he’s going to take him to the school tomorrow to see if anyone can figure out what he is.
Once they had gotten home, Y/N had immediately set to the bathroom to take a shower, rinse off the last few days as she let her thoughts run.
She sighed as she dries off and throws on her pajamas, hanging up her towel. She hears a knock on the door, she opens it slightly. Dustin looks at her sheepishly.
“Mom’s going to sleep early tonight, and I need to get to Max’s. Can you drive me?” he asks her, she groans.
“Did she say I could take her car?” she asks, and he nods. “Yeah, just- give me a second.”
“If anything you can stop at Steve’s on the way back. I heard Mike say that he and Nance broke up. He’s taking it pretty hard.”
She froze slightly, but rolled her eyes while throwing on her sweats instead of her shorts. “You guys need to stay out of their business.”
He snickers. “You know about it all too, so you’re just as nosey.”
She shook her head as she grabbed the keys from his hand. “I actually didn't. Steve has shut me out since it happened,” she admits, walking out to the car. “That’s why I’ve been getting rides from someone else.”
“You mean Billy?” Dustin shot, making Y/N halt in her tracks. Her head snaps back at him, she lets her eyes shut with a groan.
“Max,” she says more to herself, Dustin nodding as he packs up his bag.
“You need to be careful with that douchebag. He’s not good company to keep,” he explains. “At least that’s what Max says. Has a new girl with him every second of the day.”
Y/N squints at him. “I don’t want Billy. Just because he’s nice to me, doesn’t mean he has my attention,” she explains. “Besides. I’m already stuck on someone else. I couldn’t get over them if I tried.”
“Steve wants you too, you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not this again-”
Dustin frowns as he opens his car door. “You’re his best friend, how has he not said anything?”
She shrugs. “He needs his space if it’s as bad as I think it is.”
“Or maybe he’s finally coming to the realization he’s in love with you.”
“Dustin!”
“What? It’s true!”
She rolls her eyes. “At least that’s what Nancy thinks. Said something about how he can’t fully commit. She thinks it’s because he’s obsessed with you.”
She palms her face. “Okay enough, stop eavesdropping on Nancy’s phone calls. I’ll tell her you’ve been listening next time.”
His eyes widened, only nodding before changing the subject about something Mr.Clark was teaching currently. Only, Y/N’s mind couldn’t focus as she thought about if that was really true. Her thoughts threw a million questions around her mind as her brother rambled.
Once she pulled into the driveway, she put the car in park and told Dustin to call her if he needed her to come get him. Knowing full well he would get back in one piece after everything that happened before El disappeared.
She pulled out of the driveway, beginning her trek home, her mind going to wander back to Steve. More so back to what her brother was saying earlier. He had to be wrong. Had to have heard the conversation wrong, right? Because she knew how in love he was with Nancy. He only told her more than one hundred times. Each time aching more than the last.
Y/N was sure he heard it wrong, not bothering to think much more about it as she drove back home quietly.
Once she got home, she could hear her mom’s wave machine going, meaning she was passed out. She set the keys on the table before trudging to her room, closing the door behind her.
She walked up to her phone, taking in a deep breath before raising the handle up to her face and dialing in Steve’s number. She wanted to check in, see if he was okay despite him shutting her out.
The line began to ring as she played with the cord, biting her lip as she waited. It seemed as though it rang forever, making her sigh. She knew he was home by now, but he was choosing to not answer. It went to the answering machine shortly after.
“Steve,” she says softly. “I know you’re hurting, and that you’re shutting down. But don’t shut me out, I want to help you. Whatever happened, I’m here to listen,” she says firmly. “But if you really want space, I'll give you your space. I just hope you’re okay.”
With that, she hung up the phone, and went to sit in her bed.
The next day wasn’t much better, as he was now avoiding her almost completely. Instead of prying, she chose to let it be, knowing he needed the space. She ended up walking to school that morning, only to get an earful from Billy, saying he would’ve happily stopped by to grab her again. She didn’t argue, as she was too exhausted to do so.
When lunchtime came, she saw him sitting at their table, making her eyes light up slightly. She began to walk over to him, going to sit in her normal spot. When she set her tray down, he immediately grabbed his own and began to walk away from her. She frowned at his behavior, her eyes burning slightly as tears lightly formed. She blinked them away.
Y/N didn’t notice how Billy had watched the encounter, how he had noticed them all morning. He walked over to sit with her, telling her to come sit in the gym once more during fifth period, in which she nodded.
She asked him how it went with Heather the night before, letting him ramble about it to distract her from the ache in her chest.
When fifth period came, the boys were playing much harder than they had the day before, Y/N was writing down her notes as she heard yelling. She looked up, watching Billy yell out King Steve as he dribbled the ball. She watched the banter. “I like it. Acting tough today,” he plays.
Steve rolls his eyes, guarding Billy. “Jeez, do you ever stop talking man? Come on,” he ushers back in a snippy tone. Billy just laughs as he dribbles the ball. “Why? You afraid coach is going to bench you now that I’m here, huh?” he pushes, watching the fire in Steve’s eyes ignite. With that, he pushes forward and checks Steve with ease, causing Steve to land on the ground with a loud thump and screech on the gym floor. She stood up like a reflex, shock written all over her face. She doesn’t miss the way he goes back over to Steve, lending down a hand.
Steve glares at Billy, but takes his hand. “Or are you more afraid I’m going to take the one girl you’re too afraid to admit you couldn’t commit to Wheeler for?” he taunts, watching as Steve’s eyes harden. “You’re moving your feet. Plant them next time. Draw a charge,” he growls, before slamming Steve back into the ground and walking away to cheer with his teammates.
He slowly straightens up, his eyes going over to the bleachers where he spots Y/N. She’s looking at him with both confusion and concern in her eyes, he doesn’t say anything, only looks away and gets back up to join his own team.
Y/N’s heart aches as he goes back to acting like she’s just another person in the gym, slowly going to sit back down.
Steve goes to guard Billy again, his eyes so harsh, they could’ve put Billy six feet under if looks could kill. “You’re not going to touch her. You’re gonna stay away from her,” he snaps, watching as Billy gets the ball passed to him.
Billy laughs at his words, expression smug. “Careful. You almost sound territorial,” he snickers. “Besides, if I wanted her. I’d have her already. But she’s too stuck on the only guy who takes her for granted.”
Steve charges after him at that, playing as hard as he can the rest of the class period.
When the whistle blows, Y/N is quick to grab her things and leave. Not wanting to stick around after what she witnessed, and knowing she also needed to get ready to take her test after school ended.
The boys headed to the locker rooms to shower, Steve letting the water wash away every ounce of anger he had towards Billy. Only to huff when he knew it wasn’t going to work.
“Don’t sweat it Harrington. Today’s just not your day, man,” Billy says in the stall next to him.
“Not your week, more so,” Tommy chuckles with a smug smirk on his face. “You and your princess break it off for one day, and she’s already running off with the freak’s brother,” he says, making Steve look at him with light confusion before looking away.
Tommy’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh shit,” he says. “You don’t know. Jonathan and the princess skipped yesterday, and still haven’t shown. That must just be a coincidence, right?” he cackles, Steve eyeing him, scrubbing the suds through his scalp.
“I don’t give a fuck about them. He can have her for all I care,” Steve snaps back, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Billy smirks with a hum.
“Oh I know,” he trails off. “You finally come to your senses over your Henderson girl, right? I hear she’s the reason you hate commitment. Because you want to commit to her, is that it?” Billy taunts, letting the water run down his chest.
Steve scoffs and shakes his head, paying no mind to what either man was saying. “You don’t know her like that.”
“Oh, yes I do. I know a lot more than you think.”
Steve froze in his spot, his head slowly turning over towards Billy. “The fuck did you say?”
Tommy laughs, giving Billy a look. “You better tell him before he finds out through someone else, Hargrove,” he says, before grabbing his towel and turning off the shower.
His words make Steve freeze. “What’re you talking about?”
Tommy wraps his towel around his waist. “Wow you really have been out of the loop,” he trails off, nodding his head at Billy. “She left with him after the Halloween party. Why do you think they’ve been so inseparable? Girl can’t get enough of him.”
Billy glares at Tommy. “Goodbye Tommy,” he snaps back, watching the guy walk away with a smug grin on his face. Steve’s jaw was clenched, his eyes darkening as he looked over at Billy.
“Relax, Harrington,” he chuckles. “Since some dick I know left her by herself that night, I was a gentleman and drove her home,” he admits, smirking happily. “You’re lucky she’s so obsessed with you, otherwise I definitely would’ve taken her back with me, and trust me,” he chuckles while turning off the shower, patting Steve on the shoulder. “I’m still debating.”
Steve eyed him hard as he left, whipping off his own shower head.
Y/N had finished up her test, smiling warmly at her teacher as she handed it in, bidding a goodnight as she left the classroom. The halls were now quiet as it was after school hours, the rain slowly beginning to dribble outside as she could hear the echoes of other students playing in the gyms.
When she opened up the school doors, the breeze had gotten a little chillier, goosebumps arising on her skin as she walked down the sidewalk. The rain slowly picked up as she walked, making her put her hood up.
Her eyes squinted as she noticed Steve’s car was still there, making her frown. She then froze only slightly as he stood, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed. He looked more than upset. He looked livid. “Steve? Why are you still at school? I thought you didn’t have tutoring tonight.”
“Get in the car.”
She frowns at his cold tone the closer she got. She shook her head.
“No. Not after how you’ve been treating me lately,” she shot back, walking up to him. He clenched his jaw as the rain began to get heavier. He towered her figure, eyes staring down into her own. “I have to wait for Dustin too.”
“He went home with Mike,” he answered quickly. “Get. In. The car,” he says once more.
Instead of prying, she huffs and walks over to the passenger side where he goes to hold open the car door for her, letting her slide in. As he closes her door and rounds to his side, she sets her bag on the floor in the back. He slams his door shut before reversing out of the parking lot, and driving off.
“Why are you so pissed off? What did I do to you to make you hate me so much in the span of seventy-two hours?” she finally breaks the silence, her arms crossing over her chest as the rain poured.
His jaw tightens at her words, hand rubbing over his jaw. “I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you acting like a dick? All I’ve been trying to do is help you, and you act like I don’t exist,” she scoffs as she keeps her gaze on the window. “I don’t know what happened between you and Nance, but I’m just trying to be there for you.”
He stays silent for a few moments, and then speaks. “We broke up. Things were complicated and she said things between us weren’t going anywhere.”
“You could’ve just talked to me, you didn’t have to shut me out. I would’ve listened,” she says in a softer manner. Still somewhat firm to show she was standing her ground.
“It seems you had your hands full with Hargrove anyways,” he says under his breath, but it was loud enough for her to hear. She snapped her head over to him.
“What?”
“You really took a ride home from Billy Hargove? Of all people? Seriously?”
She scoffs. “I wouldn’t have needed to if you didn’t run off like you did! Besides, he offered and was actually nice to me the entire way,” she explains, running her hands through her hair. “You have no right to be upset. You’re the one ignoring me and acting all big macho whenever he’s around.”
“Is he the one who’s been picking you up too? Bringing you home even?” he shot, making her roll her eyes.
“You’re a fucking ass. Why are you so obsessed with this guy?”
“Because he’s not good for you! He wants to fuck you, and then leave you for the streets! You’re nothing but a piece of pussy to that man!” he blows up, making her eyes harden and her eyebrows furrow.
“Stop the car.”
“What-”
“Stop the fucking car, Harrington! I will not be scolded like I’m a fucking child by you! Stop the fucking car, so I can walk the rest of the way.”
Steve looks at her like she is crazy. “Are you kidding? It’s pouring-”
Y/N starts to unlock his car doors, going to pull open the lever as the car was still driving, causing Steve to slam on his brakes as she opened his car door. “Y/N seriously?” he screeches, getting out of the car to follow after her. “Get back in the car! You’re being ridiculous!”
“I’m not! You’re the one being an asshole, Harrington!” she yells back, not looking behind her. She hears him let out a frustrated groan before slamming his car doors shut, and his engine coming up to the side of her. He rolled down the window.
“Get in the car, Y/N!”
She ignored his pleas, her body shivering as she was now drenched from the pouring rain. “Y/N M/N, get in the damn car before I make you,” he warns, letting out a low growl as she still looks forward and keeps walking. Steve brakes the car once again, opening his door and stomping up to her figure.
Y/N feels arms wrap around her waist, despite her protests, she’s then thrown over Steve’s shoulder. “Put me the fuck down, Steve! What the fuck is your problem?” she screams out, punching at his lower back.
“Seriously, let me down! I’m fuckign done with you and your bipolar fucking behavior-”
Her words die in her throat with a squeak as a loud smack is heard, a sting following on her ass a few moments after. She narrows her eyes. “Did you just-?” She trails off as he walks over to open his backseat doors.
Steve softly places her figure into his back seats, ignoring her curses and shouts at him as he slams the door shut and gets back into the driver’s seat. He sped off after that, not missing the way she was sending daggers to the back of his head.
“I told you to get back in the car, and you didn’t listen.”
“Because you were treating me like shit, and started accusing me of sleeping with Billy. When all he’s been doing, is being a better friend than you. Nothing more than that.” she spat, crossing her arms over her shivering figure. Steve sighs, clenching his jaw at her words. Knowing deep down that she was right, he was being a total asshole to her.
“Not when I feel how I feel about you. I can’t move on, even if I tried.”
He froze, his heart stopped for a split second at her words, realizing she had said it so quietly in hope he didn’t hear, but he heard her perfectly clear.
All of his anger slowly washed away as her words repeated in his mind, realizing that Nancy was right. He couldn’t tell Nancy he loved her, not when Y/N had been here all along. No matter how hard he tried, he really tried to make things work with Nancy. But she knew it wasn’t meant to be.
Because he couldn’t control how strong his feelings were becoming towards Y/N. Nancy knew it too, she saw it when he didn’t. Which was why she couldn’t blame him. He did try. He couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Not after how things just ended with Nancy. He needed to see if what he felt for Y/N really was real, which was why he pushed away. Turns out it was more real than he ever knew or understood. Especially after hearing Billy’s words.
“We’re going to mine,” is all he says, making her glare at him.
“What? No, I’m drenched, I need to go home and-”
“I have stuff you can borrow, so stop whining. We need to actually talk,” he shot back, making her go quiet with her mouth open in shock. “No distractions, nothing. Because your brother will somehow bring us into the next adventure going on, and we need to figure our shit out.”
Y/N lets out a grumble, but doesn’t argue any further, the car was quiet the rest of the way to his place.
Once he parked in his driveway, he grabbed both of their bags, then opened the door for her to get out. She whisks past him as he locks his car, the pair running up to take cover under the slight covering over his front doorstep.
When they both got inside, the sound of the rain pattering hard over the roof was heard, as well as the light sounds of the occasional thunder booming. He sets down their stuff, huffing at his now drenched state, shrugging off his jacket.
“You can shower in mine. I’ll use my parents.”
He leads them upstairs, grabbing her a towel and walking her into his room that she knew all too well. He hands her a pair of his sweats and a hoodie of his she always used to wear, before grabbing his own towel and heading towards his parents’ room without another word.
She goes into his bathroom, looking around as she sees it’s still the same. It’s been a while since she has been here. Her having the decision that maybe they shouldn’t hang out like they used to when he started dating Nancy. She didn’t want Nancy to think otherwise, and knew it wouldn’t look right.
Y/N let the shower run for a bit, letting it get warm as she stripped down her soaked clothes, a light shiver running down her spine.
Once the steam had filled the bathroom, she stepped into the shower, the warm water cascaded down her back, making her let out a small hum in content at how good the warmth felt. She rinsed and washed up quietly as she let her thoughts linger as she rinsed her hair.
She was too in her mind to hear the door open slowly, Steve closing it behind him as he saw her back turned away from his figure.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Not after hearing what she said. He was sick of dancing around it.
When he opened the glass door, Y/N jumped at the noise and turned towards him with eyes wide. “Steve? What’re you doing?” she asked softly, her voice sounding exhausted. Defeated. Steve said nothing, only closing it behind him and walking to her slowly. Y/N’s eyes followed his own as they took in her figure, then eyes softening as his eyes found her own.
He stopped just inches in front of her, the water running over them both, Steve towering over her as he looked down at her. Her eyes staring between his own as his hand came up to her jaw to make her fully look up at him.
He inched closer to her face with his own, their lips just millimeters away. Y/N’s hands stayed covering her chest, but slowly slid down in relaxation as their lips barely touched.
Their eyes looking between one another for what felt like forever, Y/N looked back at Steve with one final nod. That’s all it took, and his lips slammed down onto hers. It was hungry, needy, passionate. Fire ignited between them both as their lips moved in sync. Tongues fighting and teeth clashing as their pants filled the air.
Steve brought both of his hands to her hair, pulling her head back to let his lips openly trail from her lips, biting at the bottom one before going to her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck. Y/N’s eyes shut with absolute bliss at the feeling of his lips making contact with her hot skin. How his tongue poked out every so often, teeth biting at some spots.
Her arms came up to his forearms when he found a sweet spot behind her ear, making him hum in satisfaction. Y/N had grown greedy, and in dire need of his lips on hers once more, making her grab his face from the spot in her neck to slam their lips back together.
Steve’s hands trailed down from her hair, down her body, leaving sparks and fire in his trail as he touched her everywhere he could reach.
He never realized how much he craved her until now. Now, he couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t live with the fact that any guy could have her like this. Could’ve been in his spot. He especially couldn’t stand the fact that Billy almost could’ve been in his place if he waited any longer.
The thought alone made him grip her hips hard, making her whimper lightly in his mouth. He groaned as she bit his lip. They broke apart, just millimeters away from one another as he looked at her with a haze in his eyes.
“I’m never letting you go now,” he muttered softly, leaving one hand on her hip while the other trailed to her belly button. He watched her lips hitch in a gasp at his touch. Her eyes were big and hazy as they looked up at him. The rain poured hard outside, being heard even through the shower running around them. “Not when I’ve got you like this. This is all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve always wanted you. That was the problem, honey.”
His hand trailed down her navel, just above where she needed to feel him most. Her insides burn with desire and need for Steve.
“I couldn't stop thinking about you. Every second of every day,” he trails off, leaving soft kisses on her lips between his words. “You were always the one thing I came back to,” he hums, letting his hand finally cup her heat. He smirked lightly as he watched her eyes roll back as he let his fingers rub up and down her slit.
“Steve.”
“Hm?” he says, letting his hand figure out what she liked, how she wanted, needed, to be touched. Her face would contort when he rubbed or flicked certain spots, making him bite his lip as she watched her lose any ounce of control she had.
“Hargrove kept saying how he would take you like this. How he was debating on it,” he taunts, letting a finger slide in, Y/N let out a moan as her head fell onto his chest. He chuckled darkly as he felt her beginning to hump herself into his hand. “I kept thinking about that. Picturing. It pissed me off.”
She shook her head as her hand went to grasp at his wrist while he pumped his fingers in and out of her. “Never would’ve happened,” she moans. “I wouldn’t have let it happen.”
He takes his free hand from her hip and trails it up to her neck, causing her to look up at him. Her eyes are still lightly closed, light moans and whines leaving her lips.
“You sure? It seemed like you enjoyed getting pretty friendly with Hargrove.”
She shook her head. “Only wanted you. I only want you.”
“Oh sweetheart,” he says softly, taking his fingers out of her, causing her to groan at the sudden loss of contact. “I wish I believed that,” he says, shaking his head. She frowned at his words, still dazed and confused at the fact he left her high and dry.
She decided to push right back at his smugness.
“Maybe I should. If you’re only going to leave me high and dry. I’ll let him finish your job.”
Steve’s eyes darkened at her words, causing him to turn off the water behind her, then grabbing both of her thighs to wrap around his hips. He walked them out to his bedroom, slamming her body onto his bed as he towered over her figure.
“You and that mouth of yours are going to get you in trouble, honey.”
He spread her legs open, biting his lip as he tried to muster his groan, but failing miserably.
“And here I was going to be nice and give you my tongue,” he tuts, before grabbing his dick and sliding it through her folds. “But after that little stunt you pulled, I’m not feeling so nice anymore.”
With that, Steve slams all the way into her. The pair both let out moans at the feeling, Y/N grabbing his hair in one hand while the other scratched down his back. Steve began to pump in and out of her fast and hard, lips and tongue busying themselves with her breasts as they bounced with every thrust.
“Steve, please,” she whimpers at his pace. He looks up at her through his lashes, seeing how she is biting her lip to keep from moaning louder. He releases her left nipple with a pop and leans down to kiss her hard.
“Maybe if you fix that attitude of yours, I’ll take my time,” he groans into her mouth, capturing her moans in his own. “Fuck you the way I’ve been dying to. Nice and slow to show you how in love I am with you. You’d love that wouldn’t you?”
Y/N’s hand grips his hair to pull his head back to make him fully look at her. “Please, baby,” she moans out breathlessly, causing Steve to groan. She clenches around him tight, causing him to stutter his movements. Steve soon begins to slow down slightly, still hitting that spot inside of her that she loved oh so much. Her grip loosened on his head, both hands going to grab the headboard behind her as her back arched. Steve looked down at her in amazement, mouth open as he moaned out her name.
“So fucking pretty, fuck,” he pants, taking her slower as his gaze falls to where they’re connected. He sees her hips grinding up to meet his own, making him bite his lip and grab them to meet his own with each thrust. “You’re fucking mine. Not Hargrove’s. I don’t share. Especially not when it comes to you.”
Y/N can feel the tightness in her stomach getting closer and closer with every thrust, causing her to look back at Steve who is so focused on watching him thrust in and out of her.
“Steve I’m-”
“I know, I can feel it. Let go whenever, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
It didn’t take much for her after that, clenching and sputtering around him with a loud moan that followed with his name. Steve came shortly after, placing his lips over her own as his hips stuttered against her pelvis. When their lips broke apart, Steve’s head immediately went into her neck, kissing at her collarbone a few times as they lay there breathless.
Y/N’s hand trailed from his shoulders, up into his hair. She didn’t miss how his body broke out into goosebumps from her touch. His breathing slowed moments later, his now softened cock still inside of her. She could feel him twitching again, hardening as she clenched around him each time he twitched. “Steve,” she moans softly, gripping his hair as she feels his tongue and teeth biting at the skin along her chest.
“I need more,” he groans out against her breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth. She arches into his mouth more at the feeling. His hands pushed down her hips as she started to nonchalantly grind up against his hips, letting his own hips slowly thrust and grind into her. “Gonna go all night. I might just need to have you like this forever,” he moans into her nipple, before pulling away with a pop. Y/N grabs his head and pulls his lips back down to hers, his thrusts hard but slow. Moans getting louder between them both as Steve hit that one spot inside her that made her toes curl.
Before Steve could react, Y/N had tightened her grip on him with her legs, turning them over with him still inside of her. She took his hands from her thighs and laced them with hers, pressing them into the mattress beside his head.
Her eyes looking into his with such adoration and want in them. She began to grind into him, moans leaving her mouth as she bit her lip from being too loud. Steve looked up at her mesmerized, mouth agape as he takes in everything about how she looked on top of him.
“You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he sighs, watching her throw her head back she grinded and bounced on him.
She let go of his hands, bringing hers to lean back on his thighs as she worked her way on him. Steve’s hands immediately went to the crevice where her hips and thighs met. He gripped them in a bruising hold, guiding her every move as he met his hips with hers. “Fuck Steve,” she moans out, not missing the way he hit that spot inside her once again.
“Nobody will ever get to see you like this, Never again,” he moans as he lets one hand slithering up her front, going to grip her neck in a tight enough hold for it to go to her head. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head at the feeling. “Not even Hargrove. This is mine.”
“Always has been,” she sighs while looking back down into his eyes. Their highs were coming closer than they did the first time, Steve pulling her down by her neck to meet her with a sloppy kiss.
Both of their movements became faster and faster as the pit in their stomachs got tighter and tighter. “Let go baby. I’m right behind you,” Steve breathes out against her lips, her nodding against him before her hips stutter and stilled as she reaches high. Steve took over and thrusted up into her through both of their highs as Y/N fell forward onto his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, nails running through his hair. His hands trailing up and down her back as they lay there breathlessly. “This is gonna sting a bit,” he said first, before slowly pulling out of her. They both let out a loud hiss, Y/N followed with a slight whimper at the emptiness as she gripped his hair lightly.
“You okay?” he hums against her, and she nods lightly. He chuckles. “We should probably clean up soon.”
She hums. “Soon. Just not yet,” she breathes out softly against his chest.
“Oh no, I’m basking in this as long as I can,” he chuckles softly. She smiles against his chest at his words. “I’ve got you, and I will not be letting you go anytime soon.”
“So you like me?” she jokes, making him grab her jaw softly to look up at him. He looked at her like she had two heads.
“I think we both know I’m way past liking you,” he admits, making her eyes soften at his words. His thumb caressed her skin softly. “It only took me how many years to come to my senses.”
“It took me being friends with Hargrove for you to come to your senses,” she shot, making him roll his eyes.
“Whatever,” he laughs, making her snort. “He’s not gonna let up on this, you know. He will be giving you shit till the end of time for taking so long.”
Steve eyes her. “He really knew before I did? Ouch.”
She smacked his chest softly. “He figured it out, I didn’t have to say a word.”
“Well, I still don’t like how flirty he is with you. So he better knock that off,” he says slowly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“How will you do that?”
“Oh, honey we’ve got all night. I’ll make sure he knows to keep his hands off.”
