synopsis; The house begins to speak, and she begins to disappear. In a place where people are reduced to assets, replacement isn’t a question.
pairing; mafia yoongi x female reader
genre; psychological thriller, angst, smut
warnings; +18, dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon, coercion/manipulation, power imbalance, yandere themes, obssesive behaviour, kidnapping, suicidal themes, implied drugging
notes; oh my god this was such a nightmare to write! i'm so sorry that you had to wait for so long </3 i know I promised it would be longer but I've made so many changes to this chapter and I can't just look at it anymore. I'm honestly not sure if I'm satisfied or completely despise this chapter. I was going insane while writing this. i spent so many hours just staring at my screen and deleting everything. Also, what do you mean I posted the first chapter six months ago???? And it only has four chapters T__T. I guess I should make some kind of surprise? I know what you want—smut, but I don't want to rush it in this story. So it might come a bit later than in chapter 5 like I spoiled </3. Let me know what you think about this!!!
wc; 3.4k
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Two white tablets and a blue capsule. Her thumb pressed into the gelatin shell—it gave, soft and tacky. She no longer remembered what it was meant to fix. Sleep? Appetite? Obedience?
Did it even matter? They all tasted the same anyway. The same sterile mercy, just promised in different colors.
She tipped them onto her tongue. Chalk hit first—bitterness blooming. The capsule broke sweet behind it. A glass stood half-full on the table, untouched long enough to gather dust along the rim. She didn’t reach for it. Swallowed dry. They dragged. Caught. Scraped the soft lining of her throat.
When would this performance end? How much longer was she meant to endure it? How long before the script slipped from his hands?
He played it well. Too well.
The mattress dipped as she rolled onto her left side, facing the wall of glass. Her arm slid under the pillow, shoulder shifting with a dull pop. Beyond it, fog gathered low around the hill, swallowing the edges until it floated alone—an island suspended in a pale, endless void. What remained of winter had rotted into blown slush, dragging through the garden in a slow decay. Water pooled in shallow dips, suspending the sky in colorless reflections. Nothing held its shape anymore.
Below, the house murmured. A door closing. Porcelain kissing porcelain. A chair dragged a few inches across the floor. Voices drifted upward, blurred by distance and architecture—one low and heavy, another lighter. Both unfamiliar. They laughed once, quickly cut off, like the sound wasn’t meant to climb this high. Her fingers flexed against the sheet. Muscles responded a second too late.
For a moment, the world shrank to this hill alone. And beyond it—if she kept walking, if she didn’t stop—there would be nothing at all. Only white.
Cold arrived without a warning, a thin blade against her stomach. She flinched, breath catching in her throat. Cool fingers traced upward along her skin, unhurried, stopping beneath her ribs.
“Good morning,” Yoongi’s voice sank into the hollow of her neck. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmh.”
The sound left her without a thought, dull and automatic. Not quite agreement, not quite refusal. Just enough to fill the space. It was all she had given him lately.
“Do you need anything?” Yoongi asked, softer now, hesitation threading through his words. “Anything I can do to make this easier?”
This? You mean the kidnapping?
The thought came sharp—then thinned, like it had been stretched too far.
It would take effort to hold onto it.
More than she had.
Instead, she shook her head once. A light movement that made the pillow whisper against her cheek. Behind her, he exhaled—slow, like he was emptying something heavier than air.
“You can stay in bed if you need to.” His thumb found a loose strand near her face, easing it back, lingering at the edge of her cheek. “You don’t have to push yourself. We’ll take it slow.”
She didn’t scoff. There was no point. Naming it wouldn’t change a thing.
His fingers drifted lazily—almost thoughtless—tracing her belly button, then drew a line up to her sternum. Somewhere else the touch might have been comforting. Here, her muscles tightened under it. She wondered if he felt it—if he knew what he was doing to her.
“Yoongi?” She called, he replied with a low hum behind her ear. “How did you find me? After the bar?”
His fingers stilled where they rested on her stomach. Then spread, testing the space beneath. For a moment he said nothing, then his arm tightened, pulling her back until her spine settled firmly against his chest. Something inside her answered, a slow clench deep in her belly that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the weight of him behind her. Heat flushed up her chest, prickling across her collarbones before she could stop it.
“Why are you asking?” He murmured.
“I just… ” She pulled a pillow up to her chest, pressing her mouth into it. “I want to understand.”
She could feel him thinking, the quiet shift of his breath against her neck. Three seconds in, four out.
It was a stupid question. Some things only stayed bearable while they were unnamed.
“I bought his debt.”
The words landed without weight. Too simple for what they carried. Almost careless. She frowned, turning her head just enough to catch the edge of his expression. Eyes closed. Brows smooth. Mouth parted, breathing like this was nothing.
“You bought… a debt?”
“Mhm.” The sound brushed warm against her skin, making her shiver. “His name came up in a portfolio.” His thumb drifted along the curve of her ribs, tracing the shallow hollows between them. “One line among many.”
“You didn’t know him.”
“I knew what mattered.” He paused, shifting back. “Age. Employment history. Payment habits. Risk profile.”
“And you decided to… what?” A quiet scoff caught in her throat. “Collect?”
“They extended him credit more than once, and he failed to repay. Repeatedly.” His leg slid over hers, anchoring her without force, yet without leaving room to move. “They didn’t want the trouble of collecting it themselves.”
“So they sold him.”
“They sold the obligation,” Yoongi corrected gently. “Not the person.”
The distinction lingered between them—fragile as glass.
“And when I reviewed the accounts,” he said, “I noticed something interesting.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, faint stubble rasping against her skin. “A familiar name.”
“Yours.”
Something shifted behind her. Not movement exactly. More like satisfaction. Her thighs pressed together, muscles clenching around the shameful ache that had no right to exist her. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to arch into his hands. Both truths existed at once, and the war between them left her shaking.
“And I’m supposed to believe that just…happened?” She turned, swallowing as she pushed herself up on her hands to face him fully now. “That you found him by accident? That no one was watching me?”
She examined him. Hooded eyes, gaze dulled beneath the weight of his lids. Lashes brushing his cheeks with each blink. Even like this—too close—there was something precise in him. Composed down to the smallest detail. It would have been easier if she felt nothing at all. Instead, something in her leaned toward it. She hated that.
“Taeki wasn’t the first one I handled,” Yoongi explained. “Your name appeared in his account and I recognized it. That’s all.”
Then he leaned in, lips brushing her skin.
“He had nothing left. No savings. No property. Nothing worth taking,” Yoongi murmured against her shoulder. His lips traced lower, heat ghosting over skin that had already gone cold. “People like to believe there’s always an easy way out. But creditors don’t wait forever,” he said, his mouth hovering at her shoulder, not quite touching, “and you were the last valuable thing he had.”
No matter how many times Yoongi reduced her to something small and forgettable in Taeki’s hands, it never dulled. The words struck the same—clean, cold, like ice water poured straight into the lungs. She choked on them, suffocated until what Yoongi had done sounded like the lesser evil.
“You’d be surprised what people offer when the numbers stop making sense,” Yoongi chuckled. “You were already becoming leverage. The gambling house would have sold his marker to someone less patient.”
“And you’re patient?”
“With investments.” The corner of his mouth shifted against her. “Very.”
Her throat worked. She wanted to laugh—or scream—but the sound wouldn’t come.
That was what she was now. Or maybe this wasn’t new. Maybe it had always been this simple.
“You could have just cleared the debt,” she whispered, “and left.”
He hummed. Thoughtful, like he was entertaining it for form. “I could. But now, every morning you wake up breathing clean air instead of debt and fear.” His hand slid along her waist, possessive without pressure. “I’m not keeping you because I want to own you. I’m keeping you because I want to stop you from becoming what they would have made of you.”
He spoke like everything was simple. Like there was a version of this that made sense. She tried to follow it, to arrange his words into something solid. Like it could be understood. It couldn’t.
The air felt thinner in his arms. She sat up on the edge of the mattress, the movement unsteady. The room tilted immediately, balance slipping out from her. His hand tightened at her waist, just enough to steady her.
“Dizzy?”
She blinked. The fog beyond the glass seemed to seep into the room, blurring the edges of everything. Dark spots crowded her vision, blooming and collapsing in uneven pulses.
Bitterness crept back into her throat.
The pills had finally settled.
Later—how much later, she couldn’t say—she woke curled into the corner of the window lounge. A book lay open in her lap, spine strained, one corner softened by too many hands and too little understanding. Beside her, a cup of tea had long since gone cold. A thin film clung to the surface, dull and trembling—a fragile skin threatening to split at the slightest shift. It held. Barely. Everything here held. Barely.
Across the room, the housekeeper moved through her quiet, endless rituals: cloth drawn over polished wood in slow, deliberate strokes, fingers aligning objects that had never dared to fall out of place, perfectly folded clothes lifted, adjusted, folded again. Precision required maintenance. Left unattended, it might have decayed into something human.
The words in her lap had begun to bleed. Letters softened at the edges, black ink dragging downward across the page, slow and viscous, until it touched her skin.
“Miss, you’ll ruin your eyes like that.”
A lamp clicked on behind her. Warm light spilled forward, settling over the pale pages and erasing the dark stain from her hands.
“They’re already ruined.” Y/N muttered, eyes still fixed on the page. She closed the book at last, fingers lingering on the embossed title.
A Guide to Domestic Harmony
She wondered if Yoongi had chosen it for her. Or if the housekeeper had. Or if this was simply another of their immaculate coincidences.
“Mm.”
The housekeeper crossed the room, her steps swallowed by the dark walnut floor. She moved with the patience of someone who had learned that haste leaves marks. She lifted the blanket from the bed, gave it a single, efficient shake, then draped it over Y/N’s legs. Her palm smoothed the fabric once. Then again—slower this time—pressing flat as though searching for something hidden beneath.
“Still,” she hummed, “no need to make it worse.”
The older woman stepped back, looking briefly at Y/N as if checking something. Finding nothing to correct, or nothing she was allowed to correct, her gaze drifted to the abandoned cup. She lifted it with care, tilting it just enough to test the surface. The skin held for a stubborn second.
“Miss, you didn’t drink it.”
Y/N exhaled through her nose, her patience straining. “I forgot.”
The cup turned once more in the woman’s hand, as though something might change at a different angle.
“It’s gone cold.”
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s better warm.” A gentle smile touched her mouth, already fading before it could become anything real. “I’ll make you another.”
“It’s fine.” Y/N’s fingers tightened along the edge of the book. Not enough to tear the page, only enough to feel it resist.
The woman had already turned anyway. Her footsteps softened down the hallway until they vanished entirely, leaving behind only the distant, delicate clink of porcelain from somewhere below.
Her gaze dropped to the margin instead, to the faint impression her thumb had left behind. A shallow bend. Proof of pressure. Something still there. She pressed again, harder this time, and watched the page give under it.
That, at least, made sense.
More than the house ever did. The dusty art room still haunted her—lilies struck by thunder, a ghost of shades and pigments that refused to leave. She could smell the faint mineral sting of old paint in the back of her throat.
Minutes slipped. Or maybe only seconds. Time stopped existing the moment she got here. The book grew heavier in her lap, the words starting to blur at the edges again. She closed her eyes. The house answered with its own small sounds. A low hum of water running in pipes, creak of wood, porcelain that never quite stopped. Everything here moved with intention. Everything except her.
In this quiet, something inside her chest tightened—not quite fear, not quite anger, just a dull, persistent ache that had no name and no permission to speak. Worst of all was the shame that bloomed soft and treacherous whenever she caught herself sinking deeper into the silence. Because some part of her was learning to rest here, learning to let the house hold her when she no longer wanted to hold herself. The urge to run no longer burned. It flickered. Then dimmed, buried beneath routine and doubt
“Miss?”
The door opened without a sound. The housekeeper stepped in and set the fresh cup down with a click. Y/N didn’t look up right away. She flipped a page instead, paper whispering under her skin.
“Yes...?”
“I was wondering… ” The woman hesitated, a small tremble slipping into her voice. Like she was stepping slightly outside a line she wasn’t supposed to cross. “About the flowers for the dining room. The usual arrangement didn’t arrive this morning. I thought…” Her throat tightened around the thought before she forced it through. “…perhaps you’d like something lighter? With the season changing.”
Y/N let her eyes linger on the page a moment longer, waiting for the words to settle into meaning. Flowers. The art room. Sketches. Why was the whole house so obsessed with them? Slowly, she lifted her gaze. The woman stood a few steps away—spine straight, shoulders set, hands folded at her front.
“For the table?” Y/N asked, voice still distant, eyes narrowing.
“Yes.”
“Anything is fine.” Her gaze dropped again, already retreating into the safety of her own hands. “I don’t think it matters.”
“Mr. Min usually prefers something more… structured,“ the woman said carefully. “White lilies, most often. Or orchids. “
“Then do that.” Y/N shrugged and lifted the steaming cup up to her lips.
The woman swallowed. Her fingers found the gold band at her ring finger and began to turn it. The metal catching warm light against skin that remembered labor even at rest.
“I thought,” she murmured, voice lowered, “that you might like something more colorful, Miss Rosalie.”
Y/N stilled. Steam brushed her lips, but she did not drink. Her eyes rose and locked onto the woman.
“What did you call me?”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened, realization blooming too late to be useful. Her mouth parted, breath catching on the edge of something irreversible.
“I’m sorry—I meant—”
Y/N set the cup back onto the saucer without breaking eye contact.
“Say it again.” Her voice came out wrong. Emptied. Whatever that softness used to live there was gone. “Repeat it.”
The woman's throat worked. “I’d rather not.”
“Say it.”
“I can’t—please, it was a mistake—”
“Who’s Rosalie?” The blanket slid from Y/N’s legs as she sat forward. It pooled at her feet, taking its warmth with it.
“N-No one. I’m so sorry, miss. I…” Her voice faltered, splintering under the weight of what she wouldn’t say. Tears gathered along her lower lashes, threatening to fall but not yet permitted to. “Please, don’t tell Mr. Min.”
“Why?” Y/N asked, almost gentle. “What would he do?”
“Nothing. Just… “ The woman’s gaze dropped to her own hands, to the ring she kept turning as if it might still anchor her. “There’s no need to upset him.”
“Why would he be upset over a name?”
The housekeeper's shoulders curved inward by a fraction. Her fingers stilled on the ring, knuckles whitening.
“He… doesn't like reminders,” she said at last, so softly the words barely disturbed the air. “Of past.”
Y/N's pulse ticked in her throat. “What past?”
The older woman shook her head once, small and final. “It's not my place, miss. Please. Let it be.”
She took one careful step backward, then another, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile treaty they had never agreed to. At the door she paused, hand resting on the frame.
“The lilies,” she added, almost as an afterthought, voice steady again. “I'll bring white ones. Mr. Min will be pleased.”
The door closed with the same soundless obedience it had opened with. Y/N remained perfectly still, the name still burning behind her teeth.
She picked up the book again. A Guide to Domestic Harmony. The embossed title felt mocking now, letters like tiny scars under her fingertips. She opened it to a random page and began to read aloud.
“A well-kept home is a well-kept heart…”
Rosalie.
It scraped against the inside of her skull. A demanding nail dragged across bone. Her steps came too fast down the hallway, sharp against the polished walnut, each one louder than the house allowed.
She found him in the study an hour later. The lamp cast a low, amber pool across the desk. Yoongi sat with a glass of something dark in his hand, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, thin glasses resting low on his nose. When she appeared in the doorway he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable, the way they always were.
“You're still awake?”
Y/N stepped inside without invitation. The door clicked shut behind her. She crossed the room until she stood on the other side of the desk, the polished wood a barrier that suddenly felt necessary.
“Rosalie.”
The name dropped between them like a stone into still water. No ripple yet. Just the weight.
For a second he didn’t breathe. It was small—almost nothing—but she saw it. The way his fingers stilled against the keyboard. His jaw locking, muscle tightening under skin. Eyes sharpening before slipping away from her entirely.
“Where did you hear that?” he asked. Each word placed down carefully, as if it might detonate.
“Does it matter?” Y/N's hands rested flat on the desk, palms cool against the wood. She leaned in slightly, refusing to let her voice tremble the way the housekeeper's had. “Who is she?”
He stared at the monitor. Nothing on the screen moved. “No one.” His voice cooled further, flattening. “Stop asking.”
“Then why did you react?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
A small click in his jaw. Irritation. Or restraint. It was difficult to tell the difference with him. Maybe there wasn’t one.
“Why is it such a big deal?” she pushed, her voice rising now, breaking the careful quiet the house worked so hard to maintain. “Why won’t you just answer me?”
“It isn’t.” His teeth ground together, the words slipping through them like gravel. “You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.”
“I’m not!” Her voice rose. “The art studio, the name… You’re not going to convince me that I’m imagining stuff!” Then, she drew a breath, sharp and deep. “Is she some—what—some girl you buried? Or someone you bought and got bored of?”
The sound came before she could take it back.
His hands slammed against the desk. Wood groaned under the force of it. Everything rattled violently. The monitor flickered, light stuttering. A glass tipped dark liquid spilling in a slow, glossy tongue across polished grain.
Y/N flinched.
He was already standing.
“Enough.”
No softness left. No restraint dressed up as patience. For one frozen moment, neither of them moved. Then, he exhaled. His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing into his skin trying to reshape it back into something human. He turned away, reached for his jacket. Quick. Like staying even a second longer might crack something open he could never force shut again.
“Yoongi.”
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t slow.
“Yoongi…”
Her voice cracked on the second syllable.
Nothing.
“Yoongi!”
Still nothing. He kept walking, close enough that she felt the heat of his body and the faint brush of fabric against her arm.
“Yoongi! Are you seriously not going to answer me?”
His hand paused on the door handle. For a second. Hope sparked—
Pathetic.
Then the door slammed hard enough to shake the frame.
pairing: dad's bestfriend!cowboy!stucky x f!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, angst, fluff, arguments, violence, jealousy, alcohol, one-sided enemies to lovers (grumpy!bucky), age gap, rough and mean sex, oral m!receiving, hair pulling, stucky homoeroticism, cucking, hair pulling, breeding kink, dirty talk (trickles into taboo undertones, you've been warned.) pet names: "baby doll, sweetheart, buttercup, darlin'"
word count: 20k
masterlist
a/n: reads similar to my farmer!stucky fic. and just like farmer!stucky, it kind of ends a little dark, so be warned.
synopsis:
Eager to travel the world after college, your father decides to step in and choose the countryside as your reluctant first destination. He's concerned for your safety, so he arranges two very close friends to watch over you as you set out on your new journey.
Rogers and Barnes,
How are you two doing? It’s been a long time since we last saw each other. Don’t even bother asking how things are over here in the city. I’m surrounded by people younger than me, dressed in suits and ties, commanding me around. Can you imagine how insulting that is for us men nearing forty? Hell, I miss sitting in the front yard of the old house, jamming on our guitars and banjos. I miss that connection. You can’t find anything like that in the city.
Anyway, let me get to the point. You remember my daughter, right? It’s been years since you folks saw her. Since she graduated college, she’s dying to ‘travel the world’ before falling into the hands of corporate life like her old man. She’s growing up too fast, I’ll tell ya.
She came up to me one day and said, “Dad, I wanna travel the world. I wanna go to Europe!” You can imagine the smile on my face. I told her, “Well, if you wanna start traveling, how about you play it safe and start in the States? The countryside, for example. I know a place you can stay. You remember Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky?” She just scrunched her nose, shook her head, and said, “Nope!”
I know this is a little last minute, but the girl started packing her bags and hopped on a flight before I could give her the full rundown or even ask for your permission. Be careful when you have kids of your own—especially daughters.
I gave her your guys’ address, and she said she’ll be showing up at your front door this weekend. I tried to stop her, but once she starts running, it’s impossible to catch up. Especially when you’re getting older each day. I’m sure you two understand.
I worry about her, and I trust you two with my life. I ask that you folks give her the experience we had when we were younger and carefree.
Show her the life I’m missing out on by being stuck here.
Thanks, guys.
Take care of my little girl.
Bucky scoffed at the letter, gripping it tightly in his calloused, dirty hands. “Are you kiddin’ me?”
Steve entered through the front door, kicking off his heavy leather boots and pulling off his gloves. “What is it, Buck?” he huffed, nodding to the piece of paper. “What’s that in your hand?”
Bucky didn’t glance up. He took a sip of his beer and held the letter over his shoulder.
“You remember Crazy Clyde?” Bucky said with a satisfied exhale. “He sent us a letter—askin’ us to look over his daughter.”
Steve furrowed his brows. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time, much less anything recent about his daughter. “Crazy Clyde?”
The funny part was, Clyde wasn’t even your father’s real name. It was a nickname given to him back when he was growing up in the country alongside Steve and Bucky. The name spoke for itself—he was a shit talker who ran his mouth across half the damn town. It was even worse when he was drunk. “Clyde” only came after because it rang well together, and country folks loved stringing words together, especially when it came to insults.
Steve grabbed the letter, removing his cowboy hat and setting it on the table. His blue eyes raked over the words, his brows pinching together more and more until he reached the very bottom.
“Hell,” he breathed. “When did you get this?”
“Just got it in the mail today,” Bucky explained.
“Christ,” Steve shook his head, rereading the letter as if the ink might change. “Those damn mail carriers. Always takes long as shit.”
Both men wore unpleasant looks on their worn and aged faces. Their day had been tiresome, leaving their muscles aching for any form of relief. Now here they were, standing in a home that was in absolutely no position to be hospitable to a girl they hadn’t seen in over a decade—the daughter of an old friend they hadn’t spoken to in months.
“‘A little last minute,’” Bucky repeated the words on the letter with a bitter scoff, taking another sip of his cold beer. “Talk about an understatement.”
“Buck,” Steve finally set the paper down, hovering over his seated friend. “Crazy Clyde said his daughter would be droppin’ in this weekend.” He gulped, staring his friend dead in the eye as they reached a silent, mutual realization.
“Today is—”
“—Saturday,” Bucky finished.
For a minute, silence took up their space. They looked around their home, taking in the state of it; the couch barely standing on its wooden support beams, the beer and juice stains circling the dining table, and their dirty boots and gloves sprawled across the entrance. To top it all off, they had a mounted deer head hung on the wall that would likely send any city girl running home in tears.
“Hell,” Steve breathed, looking around the room in defeat. “Maybe she’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Either way,” Bucky interrupted, running a tired hand down his face. “We don’t have the time, the energy, or the livin’ space to just… let someone stay with us.”
Steve let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, the sound vibrating deep in his broad chest. He looked at the cramped quarters, then back at Bucky’s exhausted expression, and finally gave a sharp, reluctant nod in agreement.
“Alright,” Steve huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s say… she actually shows up on our doorstep. What do we even say to her?”
Bucky leaned back, his chair creaking as he folded his arms over his chest, staring up at his best friend. “Then we tell her, ‘Sorry, kid. Your daddy gave us late notice and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘explore’ the countryside. How about you try Italy instead?’”
“That’s cold, Buck.”
“No,” Bucky cut him off, slamming his beer down on the table and standing up. “You know what’s cold, Stevie? A man who hasn’t spoken to us in years and only sendin’ us a letter when he needs a favor. The city made him soft and spoiled. I bet he raised that daughter of his a spoiled brat, too.”
Steve rolled his eyes. If there was one thing he knew about Bucky, it was that his friend was fiercely protective—possessive, even—of the things he loved. Bucky didn’t do well with interlopers. For their entire lives, it had been just the two of them, and the whole town knew it.
When Sam Wilson first moved to town and Steve started befriending the kind fella, Bucky had been like a territorial cat—hissing and hair standing up every time Sam’s name was mentioned, or if the man was even breathing the same air as Steve.
It was only after months of knowing each other that Sam and Bucky finally became close.
But other than that, Bucky believed anyone outside their usual circle had bad intentions, like they were trying to tear the two of them apart. What they had was a rare, productive, and close partnership that always got the dirty work done—a friendship you’d never find anywhere else.
And with you coming into town—well, in Bucky’s mind, that was going to ruin everything.
Steve let out a deep sigh. “You know what? Fine,” he said with a shrug.
It was already Saturday—and the chances of you arriving ‘this weekend’ were already cutting it short. For all they knew, you’d chickened out and weren’t going to show up at all.
“If this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way. Happy?”
The corner of Bucky’s lip twitched into the slightest smirk, though he tried to hide it. He just ran his tongue over his teeth beneath his lips and gave a sharp nod.
“Glad we can come to an agreement.”
Steve couldn’t help but grin at his friend’s reaction. He reached for his cowboy hat, settling it over his head and giving Bucky’s shoulder a firm pat. “Enough bickerin’ about ‘what-ifs.’ The horsies need feedin’.”
As Steve approached the front door, Bucky grabbed his own cowboy hat from the hanger and adjusted it over his head. Steve reached for the knob, and as he swung the door wide, ready to breathe in the cool country air, the sight on the other side made the air leave his lungs instead.
There you stood, your hand frozen mid-air, knuckles inches away from where the wood had been just a second ago.
You looked like a fever dream against the backdrop of the dusty porch and green fields. You were wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than their truck and shoes that were never meant for gravel, with a mountain of expensive luggage flanking your sides.
Steve stood there frozen, his large frame filling the doorway. His eyes raked over you with disbelief and something warm… like a sudden, simmering heat building in his groin at the sight of a beautiful woman—
“Who the hell are you?” Bucky’s gruff voice rang out from behind him.
Your face, bewildered at the sight of the two burly, older men in front of you, softened slightly as you smiled despite the rude introduction.
“Uncle Steve, Uncle Bucky,” you breathed, letting your hand fall to extend a polite greeting. “It’s nice to see you guys again!”
You forced a polite, cheerful tone, though the words leaving your lips were a lie and a half. Calling these two men ‘Uncle’—men you hadn’t seen since you could barely speak—felt entirely foreign on your lips.
When your father brought up the idea of you staying in the countryside, he spoke of Steve Rogers and James Barnes with such wonder in his eyes. You were pretty sure you’d never even seen him talk about your own mother the way he did those two.
He’d shown you photographs from their golden days, and they were ridiculously handsome. Your father told you James—who went by Bucky—was the local ladies’ man, and his looks certainly proved it. Steve had been smaller then, thinner, but still just as good looking.
That’s who you expected to see standing on this porch. Instead, you were face to face with walls of muscle hidden beneath dirty denim, heavy boots, and cowboy hats. They were older—much older than the two boys in the photos.
They both wore thick facial hair now. Steve’s was dense, with blonde hair curling at the nape of his neck and blue eyes that looked visibly tired and stern. Bucky had salt and pepper peeking through his stubble. His hair was shorter than Steve’s, and his eyes were much more guarded—agitated, almost.
Bucky’s arms were folded tightly over his chest as he glared down at you like you were some common solicitor.
You swallowed hard, averting your eyes from Bucky’s rude gaze to meet Steve’s—who looked far more approachable and kind, if only by comparison.
“You guys are my father’s friends, right? I hope you got the letter letting you know that I'm…”
Bucky nudged Steve hard in the arm, as if trying to signal him for something.
You frowned, your voice trailing off. “…staying here.”
Steve straightened up as if snapping out of a daydream, not sparing Bucky a single glance. “Uh, yes. Right,” he grunted. “We got the letter, darlin’.”
You beamed, a smile spreading across your features. “Great! Um,” you stood on your tiptoes, trying to peek over that wall of broad shoulders and into the house. “Where should I put my stuff—?”
But Bucky stepped forward, propping one arm high against the doorframe, leaning down at you as he blocked your view and path.
“Sorry, kid,” Bucky grunted, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Your daddy gave us a late notice, and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘xplore the countryside.” He shot Steve a look, his next question coming out with a harsh bite. “How ‘bout you try Paris instead?”
Steve just grinned, glancing at Bucky before stepping aside to let you in anyway. “I thought the suggestion was Italy, Buck?”
You could’ve sworn you heard Bucky mutter a litany of curses under his breath, but Steve paid him no mind. He leaned down, grabbing two suitcases at a time as if they weighed nothing, and hauled them into the living room.
“Come on, Buck,” Steve called back. “Help the little lady out.”
Bucky stayed against the doorframe for a second longer. The height difference was dizzying. You had to tilt your head back, straining the column of your neck just to meet his eyes beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat.
He didn’t look like a family friend at all.
He looked like a stormy, grumpy, old raincloud.
Your dad was actually friends with this guy?
After a few more curses, Bucky finally pushed himself off the wall and he moved with a begrudging pace, stepping deep into your personal space to snatch up the remaining bags. He didn’t just take them—he jerked them off the porch as if they were an inconvenience.
As he straightened up, his broad chest nearly brushed your shoulder. The scent of cedar, tobacco, and old leather hit you all at once, making your nose scrunch up. He cut his eyes down at you, giving you one last glare that essentially promised your stay wouldn’t be a vacation.
“Thank you—” you started, the words small and tentative.
Bucky didn’t even let you finish. He let out a grumpy, unintelligible grunt, turned his back on you, and hauled the luggage inside.
Steve set the heavy suitcases onto the floorboards, sending dust particles dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the windows.
He straightened up, but before he could even offer you a tour, Bucky’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was low and dangerous. “A word. Now.”
Steve didn’t look surprised—he just looked tired. He gave you a warm, apologetic look that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Make yourself at home, darlin’. Use the water filter if you’re thirsty. We’ll be back in a second.”
Bucky’s entire face contorted into a grimace at the ‘darlin’’ comment. It was a good thing the brim of his hat shielded most of his expression. He hooked his fingers into the back of Steve’s jacket and hauled him toward the narrow hallway. You watched as Steve practically got dragged around the corner, a startled little “Oof!” escaping his lips as Bucky pulled him out of view.
You were left standing in the middle of the living room, feeling unwelcome and entirely out of place.
When your father spoke of these two, he made them sound like friendly, caring men—which had only fueled your excitement for the beginnings of your trip.
But now, standing there and staring up at a mounted deer head in the center of the wall, you were starting to wonder if this was a massive mistake after all.
“Steve, are you shittin’ me right now?” Bucky hissed just around the corner. “Whatever happened to ‘if this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way’?”
“Come on.” Steve rested both hands on his hips, giving his friend a scolding look. “The girl traveled all this way just to see us.”
“Not us,” Bucky corrected sharply. “She wanted to visit the town.”
Steve continued anyway, ignoring the bite in Bucky’s tone. “She’s only goin’ to be here for—what? A couple of days? We can at least manage that, Bucky.”
Bucky shook his head in disbelief, his hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. “I can't believe this. Where is she even going to sleep, Steve? On that couch? It can barely hold the two of us for a Sunday beer, let alone a princess for a week.”
“Your room,” Steve said flatly.
Bucky’s eyes practically bulged out of his head. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a vibrating growl. “My room? Are you outta’ your goddamn mind? Where the hell am I supposed to go?”
“You can sleep in mine. My bed is big enough for both of us, and far comfier than yours anyway.” Steve watched Bucky’s face carefully, a trace of a smirk playing on his lips. “Technically, I’m doin’ you a favor.”
Bucky opened his mouth to argue—to tell Steve exactly where he could shove his ‘favor’—but the words died in a frustrated, incoherent mumble.
A heavy silence fell between them. Then, they both leaned out slightly, glancing back toward the living room where you were still standing, looking small and out of place beneath that mounted deer head.
Steve’s gaze softened, his expression turning thoughtful.
“She’s a real beauty, ain’t she?” Steve murmured, his voice turning almost fond. “She’s all grown up now.”
It was a miracle you couldn’t feel the daggers Bucky was glaring into your back. His jaw clenched at Steve’s words, though he didn’t deny it entirely.
“She’s trouble, Steve. That’s what she is.”
“Buck,” Steve turned to him, his voice dropping slightly. “She’s just a girl with dreams bigger than her own head. Her father chose us, even if it’s been,” he blew raspberries, “years since he reached out properly. He was a close friend before he moved away. He did a lot for us—the least we can do is this.”
Bucky shifted his boots uncomfortably, his gaze lingering back on you for a moment longer than he intended. Through the gap in the hallway, he watched as you reached out a hesitant hand to touch the worn fabric of an old armchair, your eyes wide and glassy with wonder.
It was the same look he and Steve used to have back in the day—when the world felt big and full of promise, before the years had weathered them down.
You looked so innocent, completely untainted, and for some reason—especially knowing you were his close friend’s daughter—it was a look he wanted to protect. Though he would never admit it aloud.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, looking down at his boots before meeting Steve’s eyes again.
“Fine,” Bucky rasped, the word barely more than a growl. “But if she breaks somethin’—or if she starts actin’ like a spoiled little brat, I ain’t the one who’s gonna be gentle ‘bout it.”
“Hey,” Steve warned, though he couldn’t help the smile on his lips. “Play nice.”
“You want me to play nice?” Bucky huffed, already turning away. “I’ll show you how I play nice.”
He adjusted his hat, squared his shoulders, and stepped back into the living room. The floorboards creaked under his heavy boots, announcing his return.
“Alright, princess,” Bucky grumbled, his voice startling you as he marched toward your luggage. “Ain’t no five-star fancy hotel, and your tour guide ain’t like the young ones you see in the magazines.” He groaned, hoisting two of your suitcases. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you’re gonna be stayin’ before I change my mind.”
You blinked, not fully processing Bucky’s words until he was already halfway down the hall. He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he realized you weren’t following him.
“Well?” he huffed, his forehead wrinkling as he glared at you. “You comin’? Or do you need me to carry you, too?”
You quickly forced yourself off the couch, the floorboards creaking as your footsteps caught up to him. He let out a grunt of approval and turned back around, leading you toward the bedrooms. Your eyes couldn’t help but trace the broadness of Bucky’s shoulders from behind. He sauntered in front of you, his forearms flexed and straining with the weight of your suitcases.
Despite all his grumpiness, he was an undeniably strong, capable, and handsome man.
So, how could you not stare?
You nearly bumped into him when he came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door. Setting one of the suitcases down, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Stepping inside, it didn’t take long to realize this was Bucky’s personal space.
The bed was covered in dark blue plaid sheets that had been left unmade. Drawers were cracked open with clothes and socks peeking out. The room carried a scent that was uniquely Bucky—heavy on the masculine notes of cedarwood and worn leather.
“Well, this is it,” Bucky announced, stepping inside and dropping your suitcases in the middle of the floor.
“Your room?” you frowned, following him and taking in the rustic surroundings. “My dad told me you guys had a big family house. I… I thought I’d be staying in a guest room or something. Not one of your own bedrooms…”
“Yeah, well—your old man’s memory’s all fucked up,” Bucky grumbled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.
You bit your lower lip as guilt started to eat at you. You were a woman who prided herself on making good first impressions—a trait your father had drilled into you early. In the city, a good impression meant more connections, and connections meant moving up in the world. It was a survival tactic back home.
With that in mind, the way Bucky was deliberately avoiding your gaze killed you inside.
“I’m sorry—”
But before you could fully express your apology, Steve’s heavy footsteps sounded behind you. He propped an arm against the doorframe, grinning broadly.
“Don’t get too comfortable in here just yet,” Steve said, clearly trying to lighten the tense mood. “You wanted a taste of the countryside, right? Let’s go show you the rest of it.”
To say you wanted a taste of the countryside was a bit of a stretch—your father had only agreed to let you travel if you started here first. With Bucky’s gaze still digging daggers into your back, you felt hesitant, but Steve was so warm, his smile so genuine, that you were grateful for him extending a grapevine.
“You know what? Sure, that sounds nice,” you said, forcing a smile before turning back to Bucky. “Will you be coming?”
“Waste my energy walkin’ around a place I’ve seen a million times just ‘cause a pretty girl shows up on my doorstep?” Bucky looked down at his nails, deciding they were far more interesting than you. “No thanks.”
“Don’t mind him,” Steve leaned in close, offering a small, reassuring smile. “He’s all bark, no bite. He’ll come around.”
With a gentle hand hovering near your lower back, he guided you out of the bedroom and away from Bucky’s brooding presence. Steve walked you through the rest of the rustic home, pointing out the bathroom—a simple but clean space with a clawfoot tub.
“Shower’s right through there,” he noted, gesturing to the brass fixtures. “Water takes a minute to get hot, but once it does, it’ll practically peel your skin off, so be careful.”
Next was the kitchen, which felt like the heart of the house with its cast-iron pans and the scent of bitter coffee. A small, round wooden table sat in the middle with only two chairs. It was clear they weren’t used to company; the house was built for the two of them and them alone. Steve paused at the table, eyeing the two chairs before letting out a small huff of a laugh.
“We don’t have another dinin’ chair, so I hope you don’t mind sittin’ on one of our laps.”
Your face immediately flushed as the words registered. “W-what—?”
“I’m just messin’ around, buttercup,” Steve snickered, though it didn’t sound much like a joke.
Finally, he led you out onto the wide, wraparound porch. Several chairs and comfy benches were scattered about, far more accommodating than the seating inside.
“This is where we gather ‘round, bring some folks over and play some tunes,” Steve explained, gesturing to the seats.
You raised a brow. “You guys play instruments?”
“Guitar,” Steve said, adjusting his hat. “And Bucky plays the harmonica.”
The guitar was fitting for Steve, but you couldn’t help but giggle at the image of a man as grumpy as Bucky Barnes whipping out a harmonica and going to town. Steve’s grin widened at the sound of your laughter.
“You’re gigglin’ now, but just watch,” he pointed a finger at you jokingly. “He’s quite the player. We’ll have to show you sometime.”
Now that you could stand on the porch without the chaos of hauling luggage, the view was absolutely breathtaking. Vast, rolling green fields seemed to touch the sky, turning golden in the afternoon sun. Steve glanced down at you, taking in the way you stared into the distance, your eyes wide and full of wonder as a soft “Wow” escaped your lips.
“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Steve smiled, sweeping a hand toward the horizon as you stepped into the front yard. “No skyscrapers to block the view, and the only neighbors you’ll hear are the chickens, the cattle, and the horses.”
“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, letting the fresh air fill your lungs in a way city air never could. “It’s different, but it’s beautiful.”
Steve turned, his smile softening as he caught sight of you. With the afternoon sun hitting you just right—with the soft wind blowing in your hair and the sunlight and catching the gleam in your eyes—he seemed to find you much more interesting than the landscape.
To Steve, you were absolutely breathtaking. He knew that if your father were here right now, he’d slap him silly for the way he was staring, let alone for the impure thoughts running through his mind. He cleared his throat, trying to shake the filthy, mental images running through his old mind for a girl who’s more than half his age.
“I’m glad you think so.”
He began walking you toward the side of the house, leading you to a sprawling, well-tended garden and a series of larger fields beyond. “Over here is where we grow most of our own. Corn, beans, squash... and I’ve got a patch of tomatoes that’ll be the best thing you ever tasted once they’re ripe.”
You’d always thought the farmers' markets in the city square were the closest you’d get to whole foods, but this was entirely different.
Steve reached down, casually plucking a stray weed from the edge of a row with a grunt. “Bucky’s the muscle when it comes to the heavy tillin’, but I’m the one with the green thumb. I’m a damn good cook, too, if I do say so myself.”
He stood up, dusting his hands off on his dirty denim jeans as he gave you a playful, confident look. “I’ll have to whip somethin’ up for you one of these nights you’re here. Show you what real farm-to-table food actually tastes like.”
You looked at the vastness of the crops, realizing just how much work these two put in with their own very large hands. “You really do everything yourselves, don’t you?”
“That’s the only right way to do it, baby,” Steve drawled, planting his hands on his hips as his smirk deepened.
Baby.
The word rolled off his tongue—low, honeyed, and thick with a southern accent that made your heart skip a beat. You felt the heat climb into your cheeks, and you quickly looked down at your shoes, suddenly feeling too shy to maintain his gaze.
A little, raspy chuckle escaped his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Let me show you the horses,” Steve said, nodding toward the stables and gesturing for you to follow. “Don’t wanna keep ‘em waitin’ now.”
He led you toward the stables, where the heavy, earthy scent of hay and horsehide hit you all at once. It was a thick, unfamiliar smell, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your nose.
Steve noticed, glancing over his shoulder with an amused chuckle. “Not exactly the perfume you’re used to, is it?” He gestured toward the wide, shadowed stalls. “This is where we keep our beauties—”
Steve stopped in his tracks as he realized you guys weren’t alone.
Bucky was deep in the shadows of the furthest stall. His hat was tipped back, and his sleeves were rolled past his elbows to reveal beefy, corded forearms as he brushed down a massive, coal-black mare. The horse huffed, leaning into his touch, and for a split second, you saw a flicker of softness in Bucky’s eyes.
It was clearly a side he didn’t want you to see, because as soon as he heard your footsteps, his head snapped to you with a cold glare.
His jaw tightened, and his movements with the brush grew sharper, almost more aggressive.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Bucky grumbled, his eyes returning to the horse.
You bit your lip, choosing your words carefully to not upset him further. “Uncle Steve just wanted to show me around—I didn’t mean to bother you, Uncle Bucky.”
“Don’t call us uncle, kid,” Bucky snapped, still refusing to look at you. “We haven’t seen you since you were in diapers. We ain’t family.”
You flinched slightly at his cold words.
“Buck,” Steve warned, his voice dropping as he rested a protective hand on your shoulder.
Bucky finally looked at you. His eyes landed on Steve’s hand before snapping back to your face. He clicked his tongue dismissively and went back to tending his horse.
A slow, tired exhale escaped Steve behind you. With his hand still on you, he gently nudged you to the next stall, where a horse with a beautiful chestnut mane and the softest brown eyes was watching you curiously.
“This right here is my horse,” Steve said. His voice was much softer now, a far difference to the tone he’d used with Bucky just seconds ago.
You finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Bucky told you off. A small, shy smile tugged at your lips as the horse huffed a warm greeting against your palm. “She’s beautiful.”
“Her name’s Peggy.”
A loud, unmistakable scoff echoed from the far end of the barn where Bucky stood. He didn’t say a word, but the sound was enough to let you know there was a history with that name you didn’t quite understand yet.
Steve ignored Bucky’s attitude entirely, his focus remaining solely on you. Peggy, sensing your gentle energy, let out a soft whuff and began nuzzling her velvet nose against your palm, rubbing her head into your hand with an affectionate push.
You let out a startled, breathless giggle. Back home, you were used to lap dogs and small cats—not a thousand pound animal demanding your attention. You weren’t used to something so large being so friendly, and you instinctively pulled your hand away, stumbling back half a step when the sensation became overwhelming.
“Be a good girl now, Peg,” Steve murmured to the horse, though his eyes never left you. “You’re scarin’ the misses.”
Before you could fully retreat, Steve’s large, rough hand moved from your shoulder to your waist. His grip was firm and steadying, pinning you right where you were between the stall and his body. He stepped closer until his chest was a solid, warm wall against your back.
He leaned down over your shoulder, his face so close you could feel his heat. You swallowed hard as his voice came out raspy and hot, vibrating right against your ear.
“Wouldya look at that? She loves you.”
The heat from Steve’s chest was seeping through your clothes, and your gaze dropped to his hands. They were huge, his tanned, calloused fingers practically wrapping halfway around your waist, holding you in place almost possessively.
You felt like you were on fire. Being pinned between a massive horse and an even more massive man had your heart running circles in your chest.
But then, your eyes drifted just past Steve’s shoulder.
At the far end of the stable, the shadows couldn’t hide Bucky, no matter how hard he tried to tuck himself away.
His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle bulged in his cheek, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the handle of the brush. He looked beyond grumpy—he looked almost livid. His dark eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but you could still feel them boring into the exact spot where Steve’s hand met your hip.
“Can I… can I meet your horse too, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out soft and breathy.
The silence that followed was deafening. You nearly regretted the question the moment it left your mouth. Steve went still, hovering just behind you as he, too, waited for Bucky’s response.
Eventually, Bucky huffed out a harsh, dry laugh. “My horse don’t like strangers,” he murmured. “’specially ones that smell like expensive city soap. It’ll just aggravate her.”
“I’m sure she’s not that picky,” you said, forcing a small smile in an attempt to crack his shell.
Despite the safety of Steve’s hand and chest, you took a breath as you gently ducked out of the way. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you took a step toward the far end of the stall.
Bucky didn’t push you away, which was a surprise in itself. Instead, he just mumbled, “If she bites, I’m not suckin’ on your finger.”
You didn’t doubt him for a second.
As you drew closer, the massive black mare—the one Bucky claimed was so ‘aggravated’ by city folk—perked her ears up. She didn’t huff or stomp. She stretched her long neck over the gate, her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of you. Before Bucky could tell you to leave, the mare let out a low, vibrating nuzzle against your shoulder.
“Oh!” a small, genuine laugh of disbelief escaped you. “She likes my soap, apparently!”
Bucky stood still, his eyes widening as he watched his beloved horse befriend a stranger in a matter of seconds. He folded his arms over his chest, watching your delicate fingers work through the mare’s dark mane.
He watched the way your small smile lit up your face, the pure joy that took over once you’d won the animal’s affection. His heart swelled, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of how soft and innocent you looked or because his horse was being such a good girl by opening up so easily.
For the sake of his blood pressure, he chose the latter.
But then, the mare got a little too excited. Eager for more attention, she tossed her heavy head and snapped her teeth toward your fingers, catching you off guard.
As you gasped, Bucky’s hand shot out. His fingers—rough and surprisingly warm—grabbed around your wrist, pulling your hand back toward his chest and out of harm’s way.
“Easy, girl,” he cooed.
If someone were to touch your face right now, they would’ve pulled back from the heat alone.
His voice wasn’t the usual grumpy mumble he used to tell you off. It was a low, almost melodic vibration. And although he wasn’t speaking to you, your heart thrummed just the same. His thumb brushed against the pulse point of your wrist, and he could surely feel how fast your heart was moving because of him.
“She’s got a bit of a temper when she’s happy,” Bucky explained, finally dropping your hand.
You frowned slightly, feeling a pang of disappointment at the loss of contact. To Bucky, however, it looked like you were just shaken from nearly losing a finger.
“What’s her name?” you asked softly.
Bucky swallowed hard, reaching out to pet the mare’s nose. “Rebecca. Named after my late sister.”
“Oh,” you breathed, your shoulders deflating slightly at the news. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. It’s a beautiful name.”
Bucky didn’t look at you. He just kept his hand on Rebecca’s nose, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her skin.
“Do you guys have family that live nearby?” you pried gently, glancing between him and Steve, who was stepping up beside you. “Or is it just the two of you out here?”
“Just us now,” Steve said, his voice gentle. “Our folks passed on a good while back, but they were the ones who started all this.”
He gestured to the sturdy beams of the barn and the fields beyond. “Our parents were best friends, just like us. Raised us side-by-side on this very dirt. Sarah and Winnie—those were our mothers.”
A small, almost shy smile touched Steve’s lips as he looked at the garden rows outside the stable door. “My ma, Sarah, she was the one with the green thumb. Always takin’ care of the crops, talkin’ to the tomatoes like they were her own kin. Pretty sure I got my patience from her.”
He then nudged his head towards Bucky.
“And Buck’s mom, Winnie?” he whistled, making Bucky shake his head with a deep chuckle. “She was a horse girl through and through. Could break a wild stallion before she even had her morning coffee. She’s the one who taught us how to ride—and how to listen to ‘em. Ain’t that right, Bucky?”
Bucky looked down at his boots, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes, but you still managed to catch a glimpse of that real smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah. She was a hardass, that’s for sure,” Bucky nodded, his voice surprisingly soft. “Was hard on your dad, too.”
You smiled at the thought. The few times they had brought up your father today, it was always a petty remark.
“Were you and my dad close?” you asked gently.
Steve watched Bucky, his expression unreadable, as if waiting for his friend to take the lead on the answer. When Bucky remained quiet, his thumb still tracing circles on the mare’s nose, Steve finally spoke up.
“We were very good friends,” he explained with a kind, steady smile.
Before you could dwell on their tension or press for more, Steve clapped his hands together. The sharp sound made you jump and caused Bucky to snap his head up.
“Well, how ‘bout it?” Steve asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “Sun’s gonna be setting in a bit, and there ain’t no better way to see the back acres. You wanna go for a ride?”
Your eyes widened. “I—I don’t really know how to ride,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve only ever seen horses in movies or… through a fence.”
Steve’s smile widened as he stepped closer, resting a hand on the small of your back and gently guiding you toward his horse. “Don’t you worry none, buttercup. We won’t let you fall.”
The sun was starting to set, and Steve and Bucky led the horses out of the dim stable and into the open air. The wide expanse of the ranch felt even more intimidating now that you were expected to traverse it on the back of a living, breathing animal.
Steve checked the cinch on Peggy’s saddle, tugging it tight to ensure it wouldn’t slip. He swung himself up and settled, looking like he’d been born in the saddle itself. He looked down at you, holding the reins loosely in one hand while offering the other.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his voice deep and sweet. “Left foot in the stirrup. Don’t be shy now.”
You looked at the height of the horse, then at Steve, feeling hesitant. You took a step back, shaking your head. “I… I don’t know about this, Steve. Maybe I should just walk—”
Before you could finish, Bucky appeared behind you. He didn’t give you a warning, he simply pressed up against your back and gripped his hands around your waist tightly. You gasped as he hoisted you into the air effortlessly, lifting you upward until were seatled firmly on Peggy’s back in front of Steve.
Steve’s hands found your waist as you wobbled, steadying you in place.
Bucky stepped back, adjusting the brim of his hat. “You don’t decline a ride out here,” he lectured, his voice gruff. “It’s rude.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his own horse, leaving you slightly embarassed after being humbled by Bucky yet again.
“He’s got a point,” Steve chuckled warmly from behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his frame as he took the reins in his hands. “And besides, I’ve got a real firm hold on you. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
With a sharp click of his tongue, Bucky urged Rebecca into a brisk trot, quickly pulling ahead and taking the lead. You watched him go, the silhouette of his broad shoulders dipped in the gold of the setting sun, making him look like he’d stepped straight out of a cinematic painting.
In contrast, your ride with Steve was gentle and slow, but you prefered it that way.
“You’re doin’ just fine,” Steve murmured behind you. He noticed the way you were white knuckling the saddle horn and reached around you. “Here. Take the reins.”
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted, but Steve was already sliding his large hands over yours, guiding your fingers to grip the leather straps.
He kept his hands over yours, warm and firmly in control. “I’ve got you.”
You watched Bucky and his horse tread on, his pace never slowing. You bit your lip, the silence and the distance between you and him finally giving you the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since you arrived.
“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” you asked softly.
Steve’s hands tightened just slightly over yours, a small sigh escaping him.
“It ain’t that…” he trailed off. “Buck’s just… he’s really big on loyalty. Friendship, family—all that kind of stuff.”
Steve watched his friend ride into the distance, his eyes filled with earnestness.
“When your dad had you, Buck was so damn happy. Your dad was the first guy out of the group to do the whole marriage-and-kid thing. Buck thought, ‘A kid of yours is a kid of mine.’ He was excited to be a godfather, or an uncle. We were just excited to be in your life, you know?”
You stayed silent, prompting him to continue.
“So, when your ma wanted to pack her things and move you all somewhere ‘better’—Bucky was livid. He told your dad, ‘How are you gonna let a girl dictate how you live your life?’ and your dad just said, ‘When you fall in love with a woman, you’d do anything for her. You just don’t get it.’”
Steve swallowed hard as he went on.
“And since you all left for the city, we never heard back from him. So you can imagine how it felt for Buck to get a letter from your daddy out of nowhere, askin’ for his daughter to stay with us after all these years.”
You bit your lower lip, the broken raspiness in Steve’s voice making the guilt eat at your heart even faster. You knew Bucky’s resentment was technically unfair—a result of your father’s silence rather than anything you had done—but you couldn’t help the sympathy you felt for the years of friendship they had lost.
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you both wanted them to,” you whispered.
“Don’t apologize, darlin’,” Steve reassured you. He momentarily shifted his grip, one hand coming up to ruffle your hair in a playful, teasing gesture that made you lean back into him. “Sometimes you just gotta see the glass as half-full. I’m just glad your dad still chose us to take care of you after all these years. To me, that’s better than nothin’.”
He squeezed your hand where it rested on the reins, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“And my,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through your spine, “what a fine woman you’ve grown up to be.”
Your face went hot, the heat of it rivaling the setting sun that touched your skin. The way he said it—with a dark, sultry appreciation that wasn’t at all familial—sent excitement from your heart straight to your core.
Instinctively, you shifted in the saddle, trying to find your breath, but the movement only caused you to lean back further. Your hips moved against the hard, muscular denim of his thighs, and you felt the hitch in his breathing the moment you rubbed against him.
Steve didn’t pull anyway—if anything, one hand found your waist, giving it a possessive squeeze.
“Don’t rub up against me like that, baby,” he rasped against your ear, his hat shielding the dark, hungry look in his eyes. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
Meanwhile, Bucky spurred Rebecca into a trot, circling back until he was riding parallel to Peggy. His eyes didn’t stray to you, but he was clearly aware of how closely you were tucked into Steve’s lap.
“Steve,” Bucky called out, deliberately ignoring your presence. “We hittin’ the Country Club tonight?”
The Country Club wasn’t the kind of place with golf courses and polo shirts. It was the heart of the town—a sprawling, wood planked hall where the beer was cold, the line dancing was fast and sloppy, and the mechanical bull was the only thing meaner than a hungry coyote.
It was loud, rowdy, and exactly where every cowboy in the county ended up on a Saturday night.
Steve leaned back a little away from you. “Yeah, I reckon we are.” He looked down at you, eyes twinkling. “How ‘bout it, sweetheart? You wanna tag along? We’ll show you more of the countryside your dad wanted you to see.”
You felt Bucky’s gaze then.
It was practically screaming for you to say no.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” you said, forcing a polite chuckle. “I’ll just stay home and get settled in. I’m sure you guys want some time with your friends.”
Bucky let out a short, huffed breath of what might have been relief, but Steve wasn’t having it.
“There ain’t much to do at home but listen to the chickens, darlin’,” Steve insisted. “Come with us. It’ll be fun. You can watch good ol’ Buck here get thrown off the bull for the third time this month.”
“I don’t get thrown off,” Bucky mumbled, folding his arms over his chest as he glared at the horizon.
“Come on,” Steve urged. “And if you aren’t havin’ a good time, or if it gets too loud for ya, just say the word. We’ll leave right then and there. Promise.”
You stayed silent, still hesitant as your eyes flickered between the two of them. Bucky technically wasn’t saying no, yet he still avoided looking at you. Steve, on the other hand, was a presence you couldn’t ignore.
“You know, your daddy loved the place.” Steve added, coaxing you in.
You smiled softly, already picturing your father getting giddy and rowdy with these two men in their younger days. You glanced at Bucky warily, seeking some kind of confirmation. “Is that true?”
Bucky didn’t look up. “Never missed a night.”
“Okay,” you breathed, a small smile finally tugging at your lips. “I’ll go.”
The tension in Steve’s shoulders dropped instantly at your agreement.
“Great. Let’s head home and freshen up, and then we’ll be right on out.” He took control of the reins, spinning Peggy around toward the house. “You’re gonna have a lot of fun, sweetheart. I promise.”
By the time you arrived back at the house, the evening air had turned crisp, and the sun had long since dipped beneath the silhouette of the mountains. You retreated to Bucky’s room—the space he had begrudgingly vacated for you—and closed the door behind you.
You began to strip out of your travel-worn clothes, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your skin. You were down to your undergarments—simple, soft white cotton that felt wholesome and modest, yet left you feeling incredibly vulnerable in the middle of this… very masculine sanctuary.
As you reached for your fresh clothes in your suitcase, your eyes caught on one of Bucky’s hats sitting atop of the dark wood dresser. It was worn at the edges, shaped perfectly to the curve of his head.
On a very curious whim, you picked it up and placed it on your own head. It was far too big, the brim dropping over your eyes, but you couldn’t help but glance at yourself in the mirror.
There was something about the rugged piece of him covering your hair that made you smile.
Here you were, in a grown man’s bedroom, wearing nothing but his cowboy hat and white cotton undergarments, grinning at your reflection. You felt like a little girl playing pretend. You practiced adjusting the brim, trying to mimic the way Steve and Bucky did it, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous it all felt.
Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open, the sharp creak of the hinges making your head snap to the sound.
Bucky stepped inside, his head down as he fumbled with the buttons of a half-done shirt, his mind clearly a million miles away.
“Steve, have you seen my brown jacket? I think I left it in the—”
As Bucky lifted his head, his breath got stuck in his throat. The air in the small bedroom vanished instantly, leaving a vacuum of pure, suffocating tension. You felt like you could choke.
There you were, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were dressed only in soft white cotton, the little pink bow at the center of your underwear greeting him shamelessly. But what truly made Bucky’s throat go dry was the sight of the hat—his hat—perched on your head. The brim was tilted at that same playful angle you’d been practicing, casting a shadow over your wide, startled eyes.
“I…” you started, face flushing in embarrassment. “I didn’t—”
You braced yourself. You expected him to yell, to tell you to take his precious hat off your head and stay home for the rest of the night. You were, after all, standing in his bedroom, stripped down and wearing his most personal possession.
“I came for my jacket,” Bucky croaked instead, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass.
He took a step past the doorframe, ostensibly to find his coat, yet his eyes were traitors. They kept snapping back to your face, to the hat, to the curves of your body, and back to the hat again. He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing sharply.
“You look…” he stopped himself, his chest rising and falling in a heavy breath as he struggled to find his composure. “You’re wearin’ my hat.”
Mortified, you felt the heat climb from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. You ripped the hat off your head—leaving your hair a bit fuzzled and messed up—and clutched the stiff felt against your chest in a desperate attempt to shield your body.
“I just…” you stammered, small and breathless. “I saw it sitting there on the dresser and I got a bit curious, I guess. I didn’t mean to—”
You squeezed your eyes, waiting for his sharp tongue to lecture you on boundaries, but instead, you heard his boots move closer to you. His large hands reached out, gently prying the hat from your grip. You held your breath as he lifted it, but he didn’t set it back on the dresser.
With a slow, careful motion, he propped it back onto your head—his fingers lingered at the brim, adjusting it just so, tilting it until the shadow of it played across your flustered cheeks.
“No,” he murmured, his voice low and deep, making your bare toes curl against the floor. “Wear it tonight.”
Bucky stepped back, though he was still far too close for you to think straight. He licked his bottom lip, the moisture glistening, before he caught the skin between his teeth, biting down. His eyes were dark, hooded, and heavy as they trailed a slow, scorched path down to your face, then dropped to the curve of your body, before snapping back up to lock onto your gaze.
“It looks much better on you than it ever did on me, anyway,” he rasped.
You felt the words die in your throat. You could only stare back at him, wide-eyed, because that was the first genuinely kind thing he had said to you since you arrived.
“Thank you, Bucky,” you breathed.
Bucky didn’t say anything else. He pressed his lips together, giving you a curt nod before grabbing his brown jacket from the chair near the door.
“Meet us out front in ten,” he called out over his shoulder. His voice had returned to its usual gruffness as he walked out, though he shut the door much softer than he had opened it.
Ten minutes later, the cool night air hit your skin as you pushed through the screen door, but the atmosphere on the porch turned stiflingly hot the second you stepped out.
Steve and Bucky were leaning against the porch railing, deep in a quiet conversation that died the moment they saw you. Both of them straightened up immediately, their bodies rigid as if they’d been struck by lightning.
You stood there, a little self-conscious, wearing a dress that hugged your waist and flared at your hips. It was cute, feminine, and a stark contrast to the rugged, oversized cowboy hat resting on your head.
Steve’s breath left him in a sharp, audible hitch. With his blue eyes wide, he let them travel from the tips of your toes up the length of your bare legs, lingering far too long on the way the dress fit before landing on the hat. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve exhaled. “You’re gonna start a riot in that town, sweetheart.”
Bucky’s reaction, however, was worse. He didn’t even give you the courtesy of a smile. He just stood there, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes dangerously dark.
Every time Bucky looked at you, he saw his old friend’s face—the man who had trusted him to watch over his daughter—but every time his gaze dropped to the swell of your breast or the curve of your shining lips, that trust felt like a fraying rope.
He looked at the hat on your head, and to Bucky, that hat meant he had already made his claim on you.
Long before Steve ever could.
“We should go,” Bucky strained, his voice sounding like he was physically fighting the urge to say something he shouldn’t.
“Before it gets any darker.”
By the time the neon sign for the Country Club flickered into view, the parking lot was already a sea of mud caked duallys and vintage pickups.
As you stepped out of the truck and Steve held the door for you, your ears rang with the muffled thrum of music. The entire building seemed to vibrate with the stomp and clacking of leather boots on hardwood, punctuated by the roar of a crowd cheering on someone at the mechanical bull.
Nervous, you tuck between the two men for comfort.
Steve noticed your hesitation. He placed a steadying hand on your lower back, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of your dress.
“Stay close, darlin’. It’s a bit rowdy tonight.”
They led you through the swinging double doors and straight to the long, scarred bar. The bartender—a man who looked like he’d seen a century’s worth of bar fights—gave Steve and Bucky a nod before sliding three coasters onto the wood.
“Andy,” Bucky greeted, his voice barely audible over the fiddle music.
“If it isn’t Cap and Winter,” the bartender, Andy, said, already turning around to grab a well-worn bottle of whiskey. He cut a sharp look toward you.
“And who’s the little lady?
“This here is Crazy Clyde’s daughter,” Steve said, pulling out a barstool and gesturing for you to take a seat. “She’s visitin’ town.”
You took a seat on the high stool, eyeing Bucky and Steve with a raised brow. “Crazy Clyde?”
“That was your dad’s nickname,” Bucky explained, already taking a slow, steady sip out of the amber whiskey Andy had poured him.
You couldn’t help it; a small chuckle bubbled up in your throat. The idea of your father—the man you knew as relatively composed—running around with a name like a low budget cartoon character was too much.
“How come he gets stuck with a corny nickname like that while you guys get to walk around with cool ones like ‘Cap’ and ‘Winter’?” you asked, tilting your head.
Steve let out a huff of a laugh, leaning his elbow on the bar so he could tilt his head closer to yours.
“Well, now, don’t go feelin' too bad for him, sweetheart,” Steve said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “He earned that name fair and square. Your daddy had a habit of chasin’ down drinks and jumpin’ off barn roofs on a dare. He was a wild one—made us look like choir boys back in the day.”
Your smile widened, letting out a soft laugh at the thought. Steve’s eyes crinkled as he laughed along, and in the corner of your eye, you were fairly certain you saw Bucky’s lips curve into a faint smile as he watched the two of you.
“So, what can we get ya?” Steve shouted over the music. “They make a decent gin fizz if you want somethin’ light.”
You looked at the rows of whiskey bottles and the rough edged men around you. Bucky’s fingers were already nursing an amber glass, drinking it without any reaction, and although you knew you couldn’t do the same, you still wanted to try and fit in.
“I’ll just have whatever you guys are having,” you tried to sound more confident than you felt.
Steve’s eyebrows raised, amused. He looked at Bucky, who only snickered behind the rim of his glass.
“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his brows furrowing in concern. “That’s a lot of kick for someone who ain’t used to drinkin’.”
“Just get the damn girl what she wants, Steve,” Bucky grumbled.
He set his glass down, the heavy thud punctuating his words as he looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on the hat again.
“If she wants to bite off more than she can chew, let her.”
Steve gave Bucky a skeptical look, then turned his gaze back to you. Eventually, he sighed and signaled with his fingers for Andy to bring over another glass. Once the whiskey was nestled on your coaster, you lifted it, and the pungent, medicinal smell immediately made you scrunch your nose.
Bucky snickered, taking satisfaction in your hesitation.
Steve lifted his own glass, the rim of it hovering right against his lips. “Are you sure ‘bout this, sweetheart? You know, it’s never too late to order a fruity cocktail—”
But before he could even finish the sentence, you inhaled deeply, tilted your head back, and downed the entire glass in one go.
Steve’s jaw hung open while Bucky turned his head toward you, his eyes widening.
The drink was disgusting.
The burn hit your throat like liquid fire, making your eyes water, but the look on their faces made every bit of the sting worth it.
You slammed the glass down, the heavy thud punctuating the silence of their shock. For a second, your mind was dizzy and your eyes watered. The whiskey hit your stomach like a ball of hot lead, and you couldn’t help but gag, a hand flying to your mouth as you fought to keep your pride and the liquid down.
“Not… not too bad,” you choked out, eyes watering.
Steve blinked in disbelief before throwing his head back and slapping a hand on the bar with a laugh. “Jesus, baby!”
“Hell, if you wanted to shoot it back, you could’ve just ordered a shot,” Bucky remarked.
You shivered, your throat still feeling like you’d swallowed a hot coal.
“What do you mean?” you rasped, genuinely confused. “Isn’t that how you do it?”
Steve reached over, his fingers gently brushing your arm as he laughed. “Usually, with a pour that big, you’re supposed to sip it, sweetheart. Savor the flavor, or whatever the hell the distillers say.”
Your face felt hot from a mixture of embarrassment and the alcohol.
“… Oh.”
He shook his head, looking at the empty glass and then back at your flushed face. “But hey, looks like you got your daddy’s traits after all. Clyde never did have much patience for sippin’ either.”
Suddenly, the crowd exploded into a loud roar of hooting and hollering that made the floors shake. Across the room, a young cowboy had just been launched into the padded mats by a mechanical bull that looked… more like a prehistoric beast than a machine.
The adrenaline from the whiskey and the booming atmosphere was blooming fast in your chest, making you feel braver and a little more reckless than you had any right to be.
You looked at the bull, then back at the two men who were cheering along with the crowd.
“I want to try it,” you blurted out over the noise.
Steve’s laughter caught in his throat, and he looked down at you with wide eyes. “You want to ride on that?”
“What’s the matter, Cap?” you teased, encouraged by the alcohol. “Don’t think I've got enough of my dad’s traits in me?”
You glanced at Bucky, but he hadn’t said a word. His eyes trailed from your face down to the hem of your dress, his expression slightly judgmental. He looked as though he were a father himself, clicking his tongue in disapproval.
“It’s a long way down,” Bucky warned, his voice bordering on condescending. “And your dress is hardly fit for a machine like that. You tryna’ flash the entire bar, city girl?”
You weren’t fond of the way Bucky was talking down to you, treating you like a child who didn't know any better. If gulping down a glass of whiskey neat wasn’t enough to prove you were capable, then riding that bull would have to do it.
“I’m going,” you declared, sliding off the barstool.
You felt a little lightheaded as your feet hit the floor, but you straightened your shoulders and adjusted Bucky’s hat, pulling the brim down low over your eyes exactly the way he did. In the ruckus of the club, you didn’t hear the soft, reluctant chuckle that escaped Bucky’s lips at the sight of you mimicking him.
Steve’s hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could take another step.
“Listen, it’s not going to be like how it is in the movies, sweetheart. It’s hard—you’ve gotta use your core, and if you don’t grip it right, you’re gonna go flyin’,” he warned.
You gently pried your hand away, giving him a playful, tipsy nudge in the shoulder. “I’ve got it, Steve!”
You turned to head toward the pit, though you wobbled slightly as the whiskey did a little dance in your head. You caught your balance quickly as you approached the announcer—a guy in a dark Stetson who was holding a megaphone. You leaned in, shouting over the music that you were a family friend of Steve and Bucky’s and that you wanted a turn.
“Well, alright now!” his voice boomed through the rafters. “Looks like we got a brave one tonight! This here is Steve and Bucky’s girl! Let’s see if she’s got the grit to match ‘em!”
The crowd erupted, and you felt several pairs of eyes on you. Men whistled and women cheered, and you felt like your heart could explode in your chest from the rush.
At the bar, Bucky’s face went a deep shade of crimson that he tried to hide beneath his hat.
Steve, however, didn’t look embarrassed at all. He caught your eye and gave you a little nod, his chest puffed out like he was more than happy to claim you in front of the whole county.
The operator gave you a hand up, and you swung your leg over the leather saddle. Bucky was right—the dress was an issue. It bunched up high on your thighs, but with the adrenaline and whiskey singing in your veins, you didn’t care.
The bull started with slow rolls, and you shifted your hips, digging your knees in. As the machine began to pick up speed, spinning and bucking in sharp gallops, you held on tighter and engaged your core just like Steve told you.
Steve leaned back against the table next to Bucky, letting out a low whistle.
“Wow,” he breathed. “Look at her, Buck. She looks…” Steve’s eyes trailed from the tilt of your head down to your bare legs, clenched tight around the machine, “… delicious.”
Bucky scoffed, but he wasn’t even looking at you anymore; he was looking at the crowd. His eyes kept darting around the room, noting every low whistle and hungry gaze coming from the local cowboys. He saw the way the men were eyeing the curve of your legs and the way your dress hugged your chest as you held on for dear life.
“Stevie,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t like this.”
“What?” Steve shouted over the noise, leaning in closer to his friend.
Bucky looked around, his jaw locked tight. “I don’t like the way they’re lookin’ at her, Steve.”
He looked less like a proud family friend and more like a predator protecting his territory. The more the men around them whistled or ogled your legs, the more he wanted to walk over there and pull you off that machine himself. He hated the way they looked at you because he knew exactly what they were thinking—mostly because he was thinking the exact same thing.
“She’s doin’ a great job and she’s havin’ fun,” Steve countered. “Look at her, Buck. She’s smilin’ all cute. Just let her be.”
Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver from the crowd, his knuckles nearly turning white as he gripped the edge of the bar.
“That’s the point,” he muttered under his breath, but the ruckus was too loud, and Steve didn’t hear him.
A group of younger guys moved in right next to them, not even trying to be quiet. They leaned against the railing of the bull pit, their eyes glued to the way your dress was riding up as the machine bucked and made you bounce.
“That’s Steve and Bucky’s girl?” one of them jeered, his eyes raking over you with a slow, dirty look. “You think they’re sharin’ her?”
“Hell no,” his friend laughed behind his beer bottle. “They’re way too damn old for a girl like that. Probably just their caretaker.”
“Ain’t that Crazy Clyde’s daughter, though? We haven’t seen that old man around town in a minute.”
“Sure is,” the first guy drawled drunkenly, his voice rising over the music. “Man… the things I’d do to Crazy Clyde’s little girl the minute she gets off that machine.”
Bucky’s head immediately snapped toward them, his face darkening as he sneered in their direction. It was one thing to insult him—that, Bucky could take. But insulting the people he cared about was enough to make him see red.
As he pushed himself off the bar top and clenched his fist, Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing Bucky’s forearm in a tight grip.
“Don’t,” Steve hissed. “Not when she’s here, Buck. Not tonight. She’ll look at us differently if we start a brawl over her.”
Bucky’s breath came in harsh, jagged hitches as he fought the urge to drive his fist into the guy’s face. “Did you not hear the shit he was talkin’, Steve?” he snarled. “He needs a sock in the mouth, and I’m gonna be the one to give it to him.”
As he tried to shove Steve’s hand away, Steve’s grip only tightened.
“What’s gotten into you? Look at her!” He gestured toward you on the bull. “She’s enjoyin’ herself. Just let her have her fun tonight. We’ll deal with these kids later.”
Bucky hesitated, looking back at you. He saw your pure, genuine smile and heard that warm laugh ring out over the music. He knew he’d been treating you like hell since you arrived, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the one good moment you were having.
A slow, impatient breath escaped Bucky’s lungs as he finally let his shoulders drop. “Fine.”
But their exchange hadn’t gone unnoticed. One of the guys glanced over, eyeing Bucky up and down, entirely unimpressed by the glowering man in the cowboy hat.
“What’s wrong, grandpa?” the guy sneered, emboldened by his friends’ laughter. “Don’t like the way I’m talkin’ ‘bout your niece?”
Another string holding Bucky’s patience together snapped.
“She ain’t my niece,” Bucky warned. He glared at the man from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes sharp enough to cut.
The guy just took a slow swig of his beer, a greasy smirk stretching across his face, emboldened by the audience of his friends. “Well, you’re sure as hell too old to be anything else.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched.
He took a heavy step forward, the movement so sudden it nearly jerked his arm right out of Steve’s hold.
“The hell is that ‘sposed to mean?”
The guy shrugged, his eyes flicking back to you on the bull before returning to Bucky with a sneer. “It means a fine thing like that needs a man who can actually keep up. Not someone who’s probably lookin’ for his reading glasses and a heating pad. Why don’t you go back to the retirement home and let a real man show her a good time?”
Bucky didn’t wait for Steve’s permission, and he certainly didn’t wait for the guy to finish his laugh.
With a movement so fast, Bucky’s fist collided with the guy’s jaw. A sharp, meaty crack cut through the country music, leaving the man’s head snapping and his greasy smirk disappearing as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He didn’t even have time to put his hands up to defend himself before he was lifted off his feet, crashing backward into the railing of the bull pit.
“Jesus, Buck!” Steve barked from behind.
The moment the first guy hit the floor, the bar turned into a powder keg. The two friends who had been laughing seconds ago looked at Bucky, their expressions turning furious as they lunged for him next.
Steve didn’t think.
He didn’t have to.
The minute he saw his best friend getting jumped, he clicked his tongue and rolled up his sleeves. He intercepted the second guy mid-swing, catching him by the collar and throwing him back against a table, leaving the people around him in shock.
“I told you to let it go!” Steve yelled over his shoulder at Bucky, even as he ducked a swinging bottle and delivered a punishing blow to another guy’s ribs.
To you, perched high on the spinning bull, the noise of the fight was easily mistaken for cheering. Between the flashing lights, the shouting, and the whistles, it sounded like the whole bar was rooting for you. The buzzer finally droned, and the bull slowly came to a halt. You were flushed and panting, a proud grin plastered on your face as you slid down the side of the machine and hopped onto the mats.
You tried to push through the dense wall of people to where Steve and Bucky should have been.
“Did you see that?!” you laughed, shaking your hair out of your face as you stepped out of the pit, your legs still a little wobbly. “Steve! Bucky! I stayed on the whole—”
As the crowd parted, the sight made your eyes go wide. Steve and Bucky were standing in a cleared out circle, surrounded by the bar’s security and several local guys who looked ready for another fight. Bucky looked rough—his lip was torn and bleeding, staining the edge of his jaw while his chest heaved in anger. Steve was right beside him, his breathing heavy and his knuckles bruised and bloodied.
You couldn’t hear much over the blaring music and the crowd, but the owner of the bar was pointing a finger toward the door, his face red with rage.
They were in the middle of getting kicked out.
“W-what happened?” you stammered, stepping toward them while carefully dodging broken glass and the several men groaning on the floor.
Steve’s expression softened as soon as he saw you. He stepped forward, putting a protective hand on your shoulder.
“It’s nothin’, sweet—”
“It’s time to go,” Bucky interrupted, his voice snapping.
He didn’t even look at you. He just bent over with a groan, picking his hat from the floor, and propped it low over his eyes as he walked to the exit without looking back.
The bouncer gave Steve a final shove toward the door. Steve sighed, his shoulders dropping as he carefully led you out with him.
“Let’s… let’s just get to the truck.”
As the three of you walked outside, the gravel crunched under Steve’s boots. He eventually let go of your back, walking next to you while Bucky stayed a good few feet ahead.
“I’m sorry,” Steve started, his voice thick with guilt as he kept his eyes on his friend’s back. “You shouldn’t have seen that. There was a couple of guys talkin’ ‘bout some things they shouldn’t have. He… we shouldn’t have let it get that far. It was stupid, and we should’ve handled it better.”
Bucky’s stride was long and aggressive. He reached the truck and grabbed the door handle, but he didn’t open it. He just stood there for a second, his back shaking with each ragged breath as he listened to you and Steve.
“It’s okay,” you whispered with a frown. “I just don’t understand. What could they have possibly said for you guys to get into such a big fight like that—”
Bucky let go of the door handle and spun around so fast that gravel kicked up under his boots.
“This is all your fault,” he snapped, his blue eyes burning with a dark, concentrated anger as he looked at you—and only you.
You flinched back, eyes widening in surprise. “M-me?”
Steve’s hand was back on your shoulder instantly, tightening in a comforting way as if he had seen this outburst coming. “Buck, knock it off. She didn’t do anything.”
“The hell she didn’t!” Bucky shot back, gesturing wildly toward you—toward the dress, the bar.
He looked at you, his torn lip curling as he pointed a finger.
“You just had to go up there. You had to have everyone lookin’ at you, didn’t you? Shakin’ around on that thing like you don’t know exactly what men in a place like this are thinkin’ when they see you.”
“Bucky,” Steve tried to step in between you two. “Stop.”
But Bucky gave him a rough shove, causing Steve to stumble back as Bucky stepped even closer, nearly getting in your face. “We were just ‘sposed to have a few drinks, but you had to make a scene.”
“Make a scene?” you huffed a disbelieving laugh, your eyes flickering to Steve before landing back on Bucky. “Is this some sort of joke? All I did was ride the mechanical bull—!”
“No,” Bucky interrupted. “You want to know what a joke is? It’s your damn father sendin’ us a letter with zero communication after years, tellin’ us to take care of his little girl without even askin’ for our approval.”
He stepped closer, invading your space until you could smell the copper of the blood on his lip. But you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, feet planted in the gravel as you met his hostile gaze with your own, despite having to crane your neck just to look up at him.
“Is that what this is about?” you challenged, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re mad at a letter? So you’re taking it out on me?”
Bucky’s face scrunched into a snarl. “Your old man vanished without a proper goodbye, talkin’ ‘bout how we were gonna be the best uncles, just for him to cut us out of your life for years. And then you just... waltz in. No warning, no care in the world, taking up space in my house. Taking up my damn room and makin’ yourself our responsibility.”
His voice was shaking now, the resentment he’d been bottling up finally boiling over.
“And then I have to watch you,” he hissed, his eyes scanning every inch of your face with a dark, restless energy. “I have to watch Steve look at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to this town. I have to sit at a bar and listen to every low life in there talkin’ ‘bout what they’d do to you, while you’re up there smilin’ and givin’ them exactly what they want to see.”
“So, a few guys talk dirty about me and you decide to get into a fight?” you scoffed, your chest nearly brushing against his jacket. “I can handle my own, Bucky. I’ve been taking care of myself long before I showed up on your doorstep. I don’t need you two defending me like I’m some helpless kid!”
Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the bone click. A dark, incredulous laugh bubbled up in his throat—a sound entirely devoid of humor.
“Handle your own?” he mocked.“You could’ve traveled anywhere else, yet you’re stuck here with us ‘cause your daddy told you to come. You need grown men tellin’ you what to do, sweetheart. You can’t handle a damn thing.”
Your anger was boiling over at this point, and you felt like you could cry. Steve stepped up next to Bucky as he clamped a hand on his shoulder, trying to pry him away from you. But Bucky didn’t even look at him—he just delivered a hard, two handed shove to Steve’s chest that sent him stumbling back.
“Bucky, enough—”
“You’ve been an asshole to me from the minute I arrived,” you said, your voice uncontrollably shaky as you fought to keep from sobbing. “And you’re upset because my dad didn’t keep in touch with you. I get that! I do! B-but none of that is my fault, Bucky! That shouldn’t be a valid reason to hate me!”
“You’re right, it’s not your fault,” he hissed. He leaned closer, and you could smell the whiskey.
“But it is your fault you’re here. If you were half as independent as you claim to be, you wouldn’t have come crawlin’ to two men you haven’t seen since you were in fuckin’ pigtails.”
He stood up straight, letting out a heavy, annoyed breath.
“We were doin’ just fine with just the two of us before you showed up and started makin’ us feel like we owed you somethin’.”
Your brows, which had been furrowed in anger, slowly softened as his words punched you right in the gut. Your shoulders deflated, and all the fight drained out of you, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.
He didn’t just want the guys at the bar to stay away.
He wanted you away.
Steve, standing just behind him, could only stare at his friend with wide, horrified eyes. There was clearly history there—some old wound Bucky was reopening—because there was no other reason to be this cruel. You realized then that you were just a nuisance to him. An immature girl with a silly dream of traveling the world who had simply chosen the wrong first stop. You were an interloper in their already established life.
Looking down and finally breaking eye contact, you reached up and lifted Bucky’s hat off your head. You shoved it hard against his chest, catching him off guard. Bucky stumbled back a step, his fingers instinctively curling around the brim, crumpling the felt beneath his hands as he caught it.
“You want me to go?” you whispered, your voice cracking painfully. “Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll get my things and I’ll be out of your house—and your life—by morning.”
Your eyes were blurry as you looked past Bucky’s shoulder, sniffling as you called out for Steve.
“Will you take me back?” you asked, the words barely a breath. “I need to… I need to repack.”
Steve swallowed hard, the guilt on his face agonizing to look at. “Of course,” he nodded, his voice softening instantly. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take you home.”
He walked around the truck, and you didn’t give Bucky even one last glance as you stepped around him. Steve held the passenger door open, helping you in with a steady hand. Once he made sure you were settled, he walked back around the front of the truck, stopping in front of Bucky with a look of cold disappointment.
“You need to fuckin’ calm down, man,” Steve whisper yelled. He gestured angrily toward the truck—toward you. “Find your own ride home, ‘cause this—all of this—is unacceptable.”
Bucky didn’t lift his head. He didn’t even try fighting back. He just stood there, staring down at the scuffed leather of his boots, his hat shielding his broken eyes as the realization of what he’d just done—of what he just said, finally began to settle in the cold, dusty air.
As the truck started and you and Steve drove off, you glanced at Bucky one last time through the side mirror. You saw him standing there in the red glow of the taillights, staring down at the hat in his hands—the one you’d just shoved back at him.
He looked at it longingly before shouting outloud to himself—angry and broken.
“Fuck!”
The entire ride back to their house was suffocatingly silent. It was clear that there were a lot of things Steve wanted to say to you, but the words wouldn’t find him.
When you finally made it back, you crossed the front door with Steve trailing cautiously behind you. Steve let out a long, tired sigh, shutting the door softly as you immediately started toward Bucky’s room to gather your things.
“You’re not actually goin’ to leave us, are you?”
You frowned, though Steve couldn’t see it with your back turned to him. “He hates me, Steve. I’m…” your voice shook as you stared down the hallway. “There’s no space for me here. I shouldn’t have turned up on your doorstep with no warning. He was right—I shouldn’t have come.”
You continued down the hall and into Bucky’s room while Steve followed at a respectful distance. You knelt in the middle of the room as you began shoving your clothes back into your suitcase.
Steve let out a low groan as he knelt down next to you. He reached out, running a hand up and down your back in a slow, soothing motion, trying to comfort you.
“Honey, he… he didn’t mean any of that,” he said. He swallowed hard, realizing how ridiculous that might’ve sounded to you. “Buck’s a guy that’s rough around the edges. Always has been. When he lashes out like that, it just means he cares. He doesn’t know how to handle feelin’ like this.”
“He cares?” you let out a small, incredulous laugh that felt more like a sob. “He doesn’t care about me, Steve. The only thing he cares about is me being out of his hair.”
You picked up another piece of clothing, your shoulders slumping as your eyes began to fill with hot, frustrated tears. You kept your head down, chin tucked toward your chest. You refused to let Steve see you like this before he started thinking you were just a helpless kid, too. Just like Bucky said.
You stood up and reached for a shirt left on the bed, a broken sniffle escaping you as you tried to fold the fabric with trembling hands.
Steve’s heart felt weak in his chest at the sound. He got up, stepping behind you and resting a steady hand on your back. He leaned down, trying to meet your eyes and gently pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face.
When he finally saw a tear roll down your cheek, he looked absolutely destroyed.
“Oh, baby. No, no... come here,” he murmured softly. He wrapped two strong arms around you, pulling you firmly into his chest.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Being in the comfort of something so warm after being faced with such coldness was enough to send the tears flowing freely. Your arms came up weakly to hug him back, your face buried against his shirt as you cried.
“He’s got a heart like a bruised fist,” Steve whispered into your hair, his chest rumbling against your ear. “And he doesn’t know how to open it without hurting someone. But you aren’t a nuisance, and you sure as hell aren’t helpless. I’m gonna have a talk with him, and you’re gonna stay here and enjoy the rest of your trip—with us.”
You sniffled, clutching the front of his shirt. “I can’t stay where I’m not wanted, Steve.”
Steve slowly guided you down onto the edge of the bed without letting go.
“Sit with me, sweetheart. Just for a minute,” he urged gently, his voice low and steady.
You sank onto the quilt, the fabric bunching under you as Steve sat right beside you. He pulled you back into the crook of his arm, tucking you in so your head rested on his shoulder. He took one of your hands in his, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing motion to stop your shaking.
“I need you to listen to me for a second. Can you do that?”
You nodded against his chest as his fingers began to trace your back tenderly.
“I want you here, and believe me, Bucky does too. Hell, does he want you here.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he tried to lighten the mood. “Earlier today, when he caught you wearin’ his hat... he would not stop talkin’ ‘bout it. Said you looked better in it than he ever did.”
You lifted your head slightly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand as you looked up at him. “Really?”
“Really,” Steve promised, a small smile playing on his lips. “Called you pretty and all that, but don’t tell him I said it.”
Steve’s expression softened even further, his gaze turning intense as he looked down at you. He reached up, his large hand cupping your cheek as he used his thumb to brush the last of the dampness from your skin. He pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch warm against your skin as his finger trailed down, tracing over the curve of your bottom lip.
“And he’s right,” Steve murmured deeply, making your body shiver. “Who wouldn’t go a little insane over a girl as beautiful as you?”
Your face felt warm, and you couldn’t tell if it was the remnant of your tears or from the intense way Steve was staring at you.
“Steve…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you felt his thumb graze your lips again.
Steve sucked in a sharp breath, relishing the way his name sounded on your tongue. “You know, your dad told us to take good care of you when you arrived. And now, here you are, cryin’ in Bucky’s bed and packin’ your bags.” He muttered, leaning in until his hot breath ghosted over your face. “We’re not doin’ a very good job now, are we?”
Steve applied pressure to your bottom lip, dragging it down to reveal the wet flesh. “I think I’d like to do a much better job,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. “Starting now.”
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, your tears shimmering like glass against the warm glow of the lamp. Steve let out a low, pained groan at the sight of you—so vulnerable, and yet so devastatingly inviting.
“God… you really are so beautiful,” he rasped.
With his gaze fixed on your mouth, he pushed his thumb past the seal of your lips, his finger pressing firmly against your tongue. It was unexpected—it was wrong for a ‘family friend’ to be doing this—but you couldn’t help your eyes fluttering shut instinctively. Without thinking, you sucked on his thumb, the heat of your mouth swirling around his skin.
Steve’s entire body went rigid. You were so accepting of him, so eager for the comfort he was offering, and he should’ve expected it—because you were a good girl, after all.
“Christ, baby,” he breathed, his voice slightly cracking.
Steve watched with hooded eyes as your lips moved against him, the way your tongue flicked around his digit. If it felt this good with just a finger, he could only imagine the wreck you’d make of him with his cock buried in your mouth instead.
With your eyes still shut, you heard him let out a deep, jagged groan as he shifted his weight on the bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and your gaze fell directly onto the obvious bulge straining against his denim. It was heavy and prominent, twitching as it jumped for your attention.
You blinked up at him, your breath hitching as your eyes met his again.
The idea of arousing a man so much older than you—someone so wise and experienced in his years—gave you a thrill that should’ve sparked guilt. This was your father’s friend, a man meant to be your protector, but for some reason, the wrongness of it only made the heat in your stomach burn hotter.
Clenching your legs, your mouth continued to explore his thumb. Your hand came up against his thick forearm, holding him steady as you swirled your tongue, tasting the salt on his skin as you watched him watch you with hungry eyes.
Steve was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in shallow pants.
Then, his eyes lifted past yours, landing on something—someone at the doorframe.
“Bucky,” Steve panted.
Your eyes went wide. You immediately popped Steve’s thumb out of your mouth, a thread of saliva breaking from his finger as you whipped your head toward the door.
“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was deep, almost broken, as his eyes flickered from his best friend to you. “Sam gave me a ride home,” he explained, his voice low as he took a slow, predatory step toward the two of you on the bed.
In that moment, you wished you’d just packed and begged Steve to drive you straight to the airport. Bucky’s expression was dark and unreadable, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat—you couldn’t tell if he was about to explode or crumble.
You were expecting him to yell. You expected him to drag you by the arm, kick you out the front door, and hurl your luggage after you.
But he didn’t.
He just stood over you, the hat you’d borrowed gripped so tight in his hand that the felt was beginning to crush. You swallowed hard as you met his gaze. You should’ve been terrified, but you couldn’t deny the lingering arousal Steve had sparked in you.
Because right now, with the way Bucky was looking at you... it was almost like you wanted to be hurt by him.
“Bucky… I—”
Slowly, Bucky reached out. You flinched, expecting a rough shove, but his hand was surprisingly gentle as he hooked two fingers under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back. He stared at your mouth, his eyes tracking the wet shine of saliva on your bottom lip.
“You tell me you’re packin’ your bags, and just when I think you’ll finally leave me alone, I come home and find you suckin’ on my best friend’s thumb like a baby?”
You glanced at Steve out of the corner of your eye, desperate for some sort of backup. But instead, you found Steve staring intensely at Bucky’s lap. Your eyes followed his, and a small gasp escaped at what you saw.
You didn’t know how long Bucky had been standing in that doorway watching you two, but the undeniable erection straining against his jeans told you he’d seen more than enough.
“Answer me,” Bucky hissed. He gave your cheeks a firm squeeze, the pressure forcing your lips to pout and making you look back up at him. “You want to stay so bad?” he whispered, leaning down until his nose brushed against yours. “You want to be taken care of by us, don’t you?”
After seeing the physical reaction Bucky had from watching you and Steve, and despite being pinned beneath him, you felt emboldened.
“… Do you want me to stay?” you whispered, refusing to break eye contact. “Do you want to take care of me, Bucky?”
Bucky’s expression went completely flat. He released your face and set your hat down on the quilt.
“Steve’s a gentleman,” Bucky said, gravelly and raspy. “He’ll give you a shoulder to cry on and tell you everythin’ is gonna be alright. But if you’re gonna stay in this house, under my roof, you’re gonna have to deal with me, too. And I don’t play as nice as he does.”
Steve’s hand slowly crept over your thigh, giving the soft skin a firm, possessive squeeze as he leaned in. His eyes cut up toward Bucky, challenging him.
“She thinks you don’t care ‘bout her, Buck,” Steve murmured, his voice low and raspy against your ear. “I think our girl here wants to see firsthand how much you do.”
Ours.
Bucky’s pupils flared at the word, his gaze dropping to where Steve’s fingers were digging into your skin and trailing up the hem of your skirt. He scoffed—a hard, bitter laugh that sounded more like a growl.
“Is that right?”
Steve’s hand bunched the fabric upward, his rough knuckles grazing your skin until the material pooled around your hips. He nudged your shoulders, urging you to lean back against the pillows until you were splayed open before them, revealing the thin cotton panties Bucky had caught a glimpse of earlier when he’d walked in on you changing.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his eyes locking onto the pale fabric. It was just as he remembered—except now, a dark, damp patch was blooming in the center, hinting your arousal.
“You know…” Steve began, his voice teasing as he looked up at Bucky’s tortured expression. “Bucky here was talkin’ reeaal dirty about you earlier, darlin’. You just didn’t know it.”
You shuddered, your eyes—half-lidded—glanced up at Bucky. You expected him to deny it, but all you saw was his slack jaw and the way his hand was mindlessly rubbing at the ache in his jeans.
“He told me how he wanted to pin those wrists of yours above your head,” Steve whispered, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “Said he wanted to see if you’d make those same sweet little sounds if he was buried deep inside you instead of just yellin’ at you and bein’ mean to you...”
You gasped softly, your face flaming.
It was as if Bucky couldn't even hear him— the blood was thumping so loud in his ears he could only focus on the sight of you. His knee hit the mattress, the bed dipping as he crawled between your legs, looming over the damp cotton of your panties.
“And that’s not even the best part,” Steve continued, his hand moving to the waistband of your panties, his thumb hooking just inside the elastic. “He told me he wanted to mark you so bad your daddy wouldn’t even recognize you. Wanted to leave his teeth marks all over these pretty thighs just so everyone knew exactly who you belonged to.”
Steve’s gaze shifted back to you, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. He leaned in closer, his thumb tugging slightly at the elastic of your panties, revealing your mound to Bucky’s gaze.
“But then you had to go on and get on that bull,” he muttered, his breath hot against your cheek. “Showin’ yourself off to everyone. That’s not a good girl now, is it?”
A little mewl left your lips, and Steve chuckled—amused by your lack of response.
Bucky let out a low groan. He couldn’t take the talking anymore. His hands went to his waist, fumbling the buckle of his belt as he undid it with trembling fingers. His eyes were glued at to the damp center of your cotton panties, just begging to be licked and touched by him.
“Remove her panties, Stevie,” Bucky ordered desperately.
Steve’s eyes darkened instantly. His thumb stilled at your panties, and he looked up at Bucky, his expression shifting from teasing to territorial.
“You’ve been on thin ice all night, Buck,” Steve countered, the raspy warning of his voice making you shiver. His thumb slowly trailed down against the cotton, rubbing at the damp spot against your clit. “You better ask me real nice if you want me to share.”
You held your breath, bracing yourself as you expected him to snap—to lunge at Steve or roar in frustration at being told what to do in his own house.
But instead, Bucky’s shoulders slumped, his lips curving into a pained, desperate frown. He ducked his head, finally pulling off his hat and dropping it blindly to the floor. His dark, messy hair fell over his eyes as he stared at your lap, his chest heaving.
It was a jarring sight—the man who had been yelling at you in the parking lot was now physically shaking with the need for Steve’s approval.
“Please,” Bucky choked out in pain.
Steve kept his thumb pressing firmly against the damp cotton over your clit, circling it slowly, making you gasp and arch your hips up into his hand.
“Please what, Buck?” Steve prompted calmly.
Bucky’s breath hitched, a broken sound leaving his throat as he finally looked up. His blue eyes, usually so gruff and distant, were glassy and pleading. He looked like a man starving, and you were the only meal in sight.
“Please, Stevie… let me see her,” Bucky begged in a desperate whimper. “Let me have her. I’m sorry. Just… please take ‘em off. I’ll be good.”
Steve hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He looked down at you, his thumb never ceasing that slow rub against your slit, making the damp cotton cling to your skin with every pass.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Steve asked. “You want Bucky to make it up to you?”
You looked from Steve’s calm, commanding face to Bucky, who was still kneeling between your legs, trembling. His eyes were wide, glued on the movement of Steve’s thumb, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as he waited for your verdict.
The difference in how he’s acting was dizzying—Bucky, the man who had spent the day pushing you away with cold glares was now hanging on your every word.
But after how he’d treated you, you weren't ready to let him off the hook.
You almost felt bad for what you were going to say next.
“I don’t know, Stevie,” you taunted, using Bucky’s nickname for Steve against him. “I don’t think he deserves it.”
Bucky’s face went from pleading to almost murderous in a heartbeat. A low growl ripped from his throat as he lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grab the hem of your panties.
“What did you just say—”
Before he could even tug the fabric down, Steve’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around Bucky’s forearm, forcing him to halt.
“You heard the lady, Buck,” Steve warned, his voice turning cold and authoritative. “You don’t deserve it. Not yet.”
Bucky looked up, his chest heaving as he stared at Steve with wide, disbelieving eyes. “W-what?”
“I’m gonna have my turn with her,” Steve declared. He released Bucky's arm, his hand sliding instead to your waist to pull you flush against his chest, claiming you in front of him. “And you’re going to be good and watch.”
You didn't even have time to process Bucky’s shock before Steve’s rough hands were threading through your hair. He fisted the strands to tilt your head back, pulling you flush against his chest as his lips crashed onto yours. His tongue pushed past your teeth, deep and demanding, intertwining with yours as he drank you in like a man dying of thirst.
Your mind spun, caught in a dizzying haze of desire.
You had never been kissed with such need, much less by a man twice your age, whose experience and strength made you feel so small and claimed.
“Fuck,” you heard Bucky groan, the curse followed by the rattle of a belt being yanked through loops and the friction of denim being pushed down.
Steve ground his hips against your leg, the hardness making you ache for more. Your only coherent thought was the desperate wish that he’d follow suit—that he’d also strip out of those jeans and let you feel him properly.
Moaning softly against Steve’s lips, you couldn’t help but peek your eyes opening, flickering over to Bucky.
He was kneeling at the edge of the bed, his face grimaced into tortured longing. One hand was fisted tightly around his cock, stroking in a frantic, uneven rhythm, while his other fingers were clutching the bedsheets as he watched you being devoured by his best friend.
Bucky was being good—doing exactly as Steve had instructed. But the second Steve spread your legs wider, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and peeling them down to reveal your wet cunt, Bucky felt the last of his restraint snap.
He squeezed his dick hard, a mewl—or a whimper—escaped his throat.
“Steve, please,” he begged, the words ragged with pain as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches. “I’m… I’m so hard. I can’t take it anymore.”
Steve ignored him. His lips never left yours as his own hands found his belt, the metallic of the buckle and the slide of the zipper echoing through the room, only making Bucky more agitated.
Desperate to hear more of Bucky crumbling apart for you, you trailed your hand up your side, cupping your own breast through the fabric of your dress and squeezing. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know his reaction—you could hear the air being punched out of his lungs.
“Fuck, look at her—look at that little slut,” Bucky groaned, the mattress dipping and groaning as he scooted closer, unable to keep his distance a second longer. “She’s askin’ for it now. Steve, tell me she's askin’ for it.”
Steve sat up, the bed creaking under his weight as he freed himself from his jeans. He wrapped a thick hand around his cock, giving it a few heavy strokes that had your eyes widening.
He was big. And you weren’t sure how it was going to fit.
He leaned forward, the head of his cock probing against your entrance, smearing your own slickness back and forth over your sensitive folds. He was teasing you, pushing just a fraction of an inch inside before pulling back, over and over, until you were arching off the back in a desperate attempt for friction.
“Are you seein’ this, Buck?” Steve murmured, his eyes watching Bucky’s face, watching his best friend’s eyes trace over every wet, sliding movement of his cock against your skin. “Look at how she’s openin’ up for me.”
It was pure torture for Bucky, but it was agonizing for you, too. Your hands fisted the sheets as you tried to tilt your pelvis up to catch him, but Steve held you firmly in place with his free hand on your hip.
“Steve, please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking.
Steve let out a dark, amused chuckle, his gaze still locked on Bucky—whose hand was moving in a blurred frenzy against his own cock. “You hear that, Buck? She wants it so bad. She wants me to take care of her.”
Bucky let out a strangled sound. “I hear her, Stevie. God, I hear her. Let me… let me help. Please let me hold her while you fuck her.”
You tilted your head back, your hair spilling across the pillows as you looked up at Bucky. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you would finally let him in after the way he’d treated you.
“Hold me, Bucky.”
Bucky sucked in a breath, his hand pausing at his cock as he glanced at Steve, waiting for the final word.
Steve gave him a sharp, single nod. “Come here, Buck,” Steve commanded, his voice thick and low. “Hold her while I fuck her.”
The mattress dipped violently as Bucky scrambled forward, crawling up the bed urgently. He didn’t just touch you—he cradled you, gently lifting your head onto his lap. His hands came up to frame your face, and you could feel his slick fingers from his pre-cum trail your face.
You stared up at him, breathless and upside down, as he loomed over you, breathing heavy at the sight of you desperate for them.
“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, his pupils so blown they’d nearly swallowed the blue of his irises. “So fuckin’ beautiful up close, too.”
Steve leaned forward, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he finally guided himself in. Your mouth dropped into an o-shape as he pushed in slowly, his thick cock stretching you inch by inch. You let out a sharp wince, your back arching off Bucky’s lap as he forced your walls to accommodate him.
Bucky’s face scrunched into a pained expression—as if he were feeling every bit of the stretch you were.
“I know, baby doll—I know,” he whispered, his voice broken. “He’s so big, ain’t he?”
You nodded, eyes watering as you looked up at him. “So big…”
Bucky’s cock was twitching beneath you, his pre-cum leaking and trailing along your skin as he watched his best friend’s length disappear in and out of your wet cunt.
“Fuck,” Bucky groaned. “Need… need to feel somethin’ too, baby doll.”
Shifting his hips, he laid you flat on the bed and shuffled to the side of your head, his cock springing free as he knelt beside you. His fist returned to his length, his thumb swiping over the tip to smear his pre-cum over the swollen head.
“Bucky…” you breathed, your body jolting as Steve buried his full length into you. “W-what are you—”
Your words were cut off as Bucky’s salt slicked tip rubbed against the curve of your lips—still puffy and sensitized from Steve. A low, ragged groan escaped him at the contact with your mouth.
“Need… need somethin’ warm and tight,” Bucky hissed through clenched teeth, his control evaporated. “Can’t take it anymore.”
Bucky glanced at Steve, who watched him with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “I ain’t waitin’ anymore,” Bucky snapped defiantly. “Punish me later for all I fuckin’ care. I need to fuck her mouth.”
Inside you, you felt Steve’s cock twitch at the mention of his friend’s own punishment.
“Careful,” Steve warned, his breath hitching. “Go easy on her, Buck. She’s so—fuck, she’s so tight down here… I don’t know if she can take you all the way in her mouth either.”
Despite the warning, Steve was very much losing the battle for his own control. His grip on your hips were tight, forcing himself to maintain that slow, agonizingly deep movement even as his own body screamed to pick up the pace and fuck you ruthlessly.
“I don’t give a damn,” Bucky grunted.
He fisted his hand in your hair, giving it a harsh, possessive tug to tilt your head back toward his lap. He slapped his cock against your lips, the wet, heavy sound of it making you wince as his masculine scent filled your lungs.
“Open up,” he ordered, his pupils so blown with lust that his eyes looked like bottomless black pits.
Your cunt clenched tighter around Steve as Bucky’s tip parted your lips to let himself in. His thick length dragged past your teeth and along your tongue, sliding deep until he hit the back of your throat. You let out a muffled, helpless choke around him—a sound that only made Bucky groan, his head tossing back in visceral pleasure.
“Thaaat’s it,” he cooed with a rasp. He drew his hips back slowly, letting you catch your breath for a split second before rocking hard against your face again. “Breathe through your nose, baby doll. Just take it.”
Bucky began to move, his movements were frantic and messy compared to Steve’s slow and easy rhythm inside you.
“Look at him, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his voice dropping condescending. “Look at how pathetic he is. After all that growlin’ and actin’ like a big man earlier, here he is now…”
You blinked through a haze of tears, watching as Bucky’s face scrunched in pure, agonizing pleasure. His forehead wrinkles were deeply lined, his eyes rolling back as his thrusts against your mouth became sloppier, driven by pure needy instinct.
Strings of saliva and drool slicked your chin, dripping down to the base of his cock with every frantic thrust. Every time your lips made wet, heavy contact with his heavy slicked balls, Bucky let out a deep, raspy groan that vibrated through your tongue—a sound so primal it made you clench even harder around Steve.
“Christ,” Steve moaned, his head dropping as his pace finally fractured faster and more desperate. “She’s squeezin’ me, Buck.”
Bucky huffed a shaky, dark laugh, his fingers tightening in your hair to hold you steady. “You like this, don’t you?” he grunted, looking down at your tear streaked face. “Bein’ used by your daddy’s two best friends. Shit... we’re supposed to be watchin’ over you. Keepin’ you safe. But instead, we’re just ruinin’ you.”
“Old enough to be her father,” Steve agreed with a rough, mocking laugh. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your hips up to plunge even deeper, his thick length stretching you to your absolute limit.
“Now look at her. She’s ‘sposed to call us uncle, and now she’s got your cock in her mouth and mine stuffed deep in her cunt. She’s a filthy little thing, ain’t she?”
Bucky’s cock pulsed deep in your mouth after Steve’s filthy words registered. Your face was hot with shame, but you didn't care. The room reeled with the scent of sex and Bucky’s masculine musk, and all you wanted was to be filled by these two older men.
“Fuck—her daddy’s gonna kill us,” Bucky gasped as your tongue flicked against the sensitive underside of his head. “But I don’t fuckin’ care. It feels too good to stop.”
Steve’s thumb pressed against your sensitive clit, making you arch your back and muffle useless moans around Bucky’s cock. You felt like you were getting close—with the filthy words that they were both spurring, mixed with moans and grunts filling the air—it was becoming too much.
Your walls fluttered around Steve, and he barked out a rough laugh. “Fuck, she’s cummin’ all over my cock!”
“You know what that means, Stevie.” Bucky groaned, his dark eyes meeting his. “Means she’s beggin’ you to breed her. Beggin’ you to put your cum where it doesn't belong.”
You let out a broken whine, your vision blurring as your orgasm ripped through you. You came hard, sobbing around Bucky’s cock as Steve continued to piston into you like a rabid animal, uncaring of your sensitive state.
“Yeah?” Steve moaned, his thrusts turning sloppy and heavy as his own release caught up. “Shit—I think you’re right, Buck. I'm gonna fill her up.”
Your father had practically sent you into a den of wolves, leaving you to fend for yourself against men who had been starving. Steve and Bucky pawed at your body with a desperate hunger, the sounds leaving their throats sounding less like men and more like animals scenting prey.
Steve’s hips began to rut against yours uncontrollably, his breathing turning into a series of uneven, jagged hitches. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock throbbing violently against your cervix before he finally snapped. You let out a muffled cry as he came, a heavy, searing stream of cum flooding your overstimulated flesh, filling you until you felt like you were overflowing.
You saw Bucky’s balls draw up tight against your lips, , and as his fist tightened in your hair, you knew he was about to cum, too.
“That’s right,” Bucky encouraged, his voice dry. “Fill her up, Stevie. Make sure she’s spillin’ over with your cum, and then I’m gonna finish inside her, too.”
Bucky’s cock popped out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy sound, leaving a string of saliva trailing down your chin. Before you could even draw a full breath, Steve was pulling out of you, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and hollow for a split second.
But you didn’t stay empty for long.
“S-Steve?” you whimpered.
Bucky shuffled around the mattress as Steve moved to the side to make room. Bucky scrambled into the space between your thighs where Steve once was, his face dark and distorted with hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock—now red, angry, and pulsing—and rubbed the head up and down your slit, slicking himself through the mess Steve had left behind.
A thick, pearly blend of his best friend’s seed and your own wetness coated the entire length of him. Bucky groaned at the sight, the friction of Steve’s fluids making him growl.
Using your arms to weakly prop yourself up, your stared at Bucky wide-eyed.
“Bucky… I—”
“You’re gonna be a good girl for him now,” Steve interrupted. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.
With a heavy breath, Bucky guided himself against your entrance and pushed past the tightness, your walls enveloping him just as it did with Steve, except it was more intense this time.
“Oh my god—!” your eyes bulged wide, your breath leaving your lungs.
Bucky was thicker—and with your pussy already so raw and overstimulated, the feeling of him claiming that space was overwhelming. You were stretched deliciously, every nerve ending burned as he buried himself to the hilt.
“Look at you,” Bucky rasped, a shameful, shaky laugh bubbling in his chest as his lungs burned.
“God—when I found out…” he rocked his hips into you, Steve’s leftover seed making a wet, squelching sound. “…your daddy was gonna have a baby girl—shit, I was so ready to take care of you. I promised I’d be there for you, for Christ’s sake.”
He grabbed both of your legs, lifting them high and urging you to lock them around his waist so he could get even deeper.
“I never thought I’d be balls deep inside his precious girl.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Steve lectured, his voice mocking. He gave himself slow, lazy strokes over his half-hard cock, his eyes stuck on the way your entrance was struggling to accommodate Bucky’s thickness.
“You should be beggin’ her father for forgiveness right now. But she feels too good, doesn’t she?”
Bucky growled, his eyes glassing over as he watched his thick length disappear in and out of your wet, stretched out heat.
“Hell yeah, she does.” He met your eyes now. “You’re so much tighter than a girl your age ‘ought to be for dirty, old men like us. You were made to be ruined, weren’t you, baby doll?”
You looked up at Bucky, and the sight of him between your legs—his composure fraying and completely undone, made your head spin with a dizzying rush of power.
“Bucky,” you panted, eyes half-lidded as you held his hungry gaze. “I want you to forget who my father is. I want to be the reason you can never look him in the eye again.” You swallowed hard, your fingers digging into the mattress. “Fill me up just like Stevie did… show me how much you really want to take care of me.”
Bucky’s eyes went wide, his pupils swallowing the blue as he processed the absolute, unadulterated filth coming from the girl he was sworn to protect.
Steve huffed a laugh, already feeling his cock twitch at your words. “Jesus—this girl…”
He had been close to bursting when he was in your mouth, but now, being swallowed by your tight pussy while those dirty words rang in his ears, it was too fucking much. His cock trembled and pulsed in a final, violent act of betrayal against his conscience.
He was close. Too fucking close.
“You little…” Bucky choked out, his voice failing him.
He grabbed your hips together, pulling you impossibly closer until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.
“Fine,” he hissed, face scrunching in pleasure. “You want me to fill you up? I’ll fuckin’ knock you up, doll. You’re gonna carry my mess and Stevie’s all the way back home, and you’re gonna smile at your daddy while our cum is leakin’ out of you.”
The words were like a match to a fuse.
Between the wet slap of his thighs against yours and the rough sounds of his heavy breathing, you hit another breaking point. Your walls began to spasm, tightening down on him so hard that it made Bucky’s head roll back.
“Bucky… I—ah!”
Your pussy clenched almost painfully around Bucky’s cock. Even after the fucking Steve gave you, you were still so tight—and cumming again while Bucky was still buried deep made him grind his teeth together, his jaw clenching as he fucked you right through your second climax.
“Steve,” Bucky gasped as he fought to hold back his own release for just a second longer. “Steve, she’s—fuck, she’s goin’ again.”
Steve grinned, leaning over Bucky’s trembling shoulder. His large hand reached around your waist, overlapping Bucky’s grip, while his other palm rested on Bucky’s lower back—pushing him even deeper.
“That’s it, Buck,” Steve rumbled against Bucky’s ear. “Don’t you dare pull out. You put it right where I put mine. Got it?”
Bucky hissed, his hips moving in a frantic, uneven stutter as he felt himself unwinding. “Fu-fuck, okay—I’ll cum inside, just like you told me to—shit!”
He bottomed out completely, his entire body locking into a rigid arch. “Fuck!”
His length pulsed violently inside you—his cock streaming thick, hot ropes of heat into your overstimulated cunt. He was absolutely flooding you, his seed mixing with Steve’s and filling you until you felt heavy and stretched to the brim.
“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed, his chest heaving as he gave your hip a final, possessive squeeze. He looked down, taking in the sight of how completely debauched you looked. “I… shit. That felt too damn good.”
“Good boy,” Steve praised softly, his hand moving to stroke Bucky’s damp hair before his eyes dropped to the messy, wet junction of your thighs. “Look at that. She’s so full of us.”
Steve leaned down, gently pushing a stray hair out of your sweaty face. He gave you a soft, boyish smile—one that looked entirely too innocent given his age and the brutal way they had just had their way with you.
“Now, you’re not still thinkin’ about leavin’ us, are you?”
Bucky’s jaw remained slack, his chest heaving in heavy breaths as he stared down at you.
“No,” he rasped. “She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You could barely process their words. Your head felt light, and your limbs turning to jelly against the damp, sweaty sheets. The air in the room was stifling—heavy with the scent of sex and musk. Every time you tried to draw a full breath, your lungs felt weighted, and your eyelids began to flutter, growing heavy.
Steve and Bucky stayed right where they were, hovering over you like two twin peaks of heat and muscle.
“Aww, look at her,” Steve cooed, his voice dropping tenderly yet still mocking. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a tear off your cheek. “The little baby’s fallin’ asleep on us, Buck.”
“I know,” Bucky breathed, his body finally beginning to soften inside you, yet he still refused to pull out—anchored in place as your body began to shut down. “We put her through a lot today. When she wakes up, we should…—”
Bucky’s voice trailed off into a low, indistinct murmur as your eyelids finally failed you. The room faded into a hazy blur.
With your body overstimulated, heavy, and utterly spent, the only thing you could think of—the only thought that managed to pierce through the fog of exhaustion—was how the hell you were ever going to explain this to your dad.
thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! this is my longest fic ever, and i tried my best to proofread as much as i can so apologize for any mistakes. and in case you haven't noticed, yes, the fic title is inspired by the song tennessee whiskey!
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warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, sexual tension, reader is a college student, age-gap (reader is early twenties, bucky is presumed mid 30s) voyeuristic and exhibitionism, homoeroticism, "slut" "good girl" "whore" public sex, fingering, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, degrading, size difference, mechanic!steve, slight steve x reader, reader is a pervert but bucky is too highkey, player!bucky, bisexual awakening!!!!
word count: 10.2k
main masterlist
a/n: happy pride month!!! if it wasn't obvious enough, yes, it is based on the song call me maybe by carly rae jepsen. real ones know the parodies to this song on youtube. wasabi productions ifykyk. gif by sebstangif
synopsis:
There’s a new guy who moved in right across from you. He’s a total mystery, but his looks certainly aren't. Since he's subtly trying to get your attention, how could you not entertain him? Especially when you have your best friend, Steve, in your ear telling you to go for it.
Hand washing the car on a hot summer’s day was something you would never normally do.
You always let your dad handle a job like that. He’d always tease you for being ‘spoiled,’ always hitting you with the typical line of, “What happens when I’m gone? How will you take care of yourself?”
And every time he hit you with that line, without fail, you would find yourself grabbing the plastic bucket, soap, and sponges out of spite, just to prove a point.
Now, you were outside, drenched in a mixture of sweat and water as the sun beamed down. You were splayed over the hood of the car in a way that looked anything but sexy. You had on a tank top and shorts—natural, given the heat—but despite the porn director approved outfit, you looked anything but pornographic.
Matter of fact, if someone were to come up to you now, they would probably lose interest instantly.
“Hey there,” a familiar, deep voice called from behind you. “Looking pretty hot.”
Normally, you would scramble to make yourself look at least somewhat decent for anyone who approached you in this state.
But it was your best friend—so who cares?
“Steve,” you huffed, raising a leg to balance yourself on the hood of your dad’s car. “Are you going to help me or just taunt me?”
Steve crossed his arms, watching you slip and slide all over the green station wagon that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment.
“Has your dad seen you like this yet? I’m sure if he saw what a poor job you were doing, he wouldn’t ask you to clean it again.
You puffed a strand of hair out of your face. “The reason I’m cleaning in the first place is to prove to my dad that I’m perfectly capable.” You mumbled under your breath, “… He called me spoiled.”
Steve chuckled lightly. “Can’t say I disagree.”
Sneering, you spun around and hurled your wet, soapy sponge in his direction. It landed right in the center of his chest, dampening his snug t-shirt with a dark spot that began to spread. He laughed, catching the sponge before it hit the ground.
“Get off the hood before you hurt yourself,” he grinned, taking a step closer.
You grunted as you slid off the car. As you stood up, your eyes trailed past Steve’s shoulder—something unfamiliar catching your attention.
The house across from yours had been unoccupied for months, but someone had recently moved in. Days had passed, and you hadn’t seen the new neighbors yet. But for the first time since the ‘FOR SALE’ sign was removed, you were finally seeing the man who lived there.
He was tall—maybe around Steve’s height. He had dark hair that fluffed messily at the top, and he was covered in dirt, looking as though he’d been doing yard work all morning. The sun hit his eyes, and he squinted, shielding them with a large hand.
As he looked up, his gaze drifted across to your lawn, and his eyes met yours for a long moment.
A warm, friendly smile tugged at his lips, and he waved. You blinked, a light smile forming on your own face when you realized he was waving at you. You waved back shyly, and his smile grew wider.
“He waved at me,” you pointed out.
Steve, curious, glanced over his shoulder. When he caught the man’s eye, he gave a quick, short nod—a casual greeting between guys.
“He seems nice,” Steve shrugged. “Your new neighbor?”
You nodded, stealing a few more seconds to look at the man across the street. He bent over, his large traps tensing against his cotton tank top as he shoved a pair of gardening gloves over his rough hands. He crouched, his dirty boots and jeans digging into the soil as he began to pull at stubborn weeds.
A man. Hard at work.
The best kind of man.
“He is,” you breathed, looking back at Steve. “And he’s hot, too.”
Steve huffed a laugh, stepping out of your way and towards the car, sponge in hand. “You trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing a spare sponge from the soapy tub. You stepped up to the opposite window from Steve and began to scrub.
“You know, I’ve seen this play out in movies and stuff—” Steve shouted from the other side of the car. “The girl who washes her car and catches the eye of the conveniently attractive neighbor across the street.”
You quirked a brow. “In movies, or in porn?”
Now, it was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Point aside, you should go for it.” He peeked at you over the roof and nodded in your neighbor’s direction. “You’ve been single for quite a while now. It wouldn’t hurt to dip your toes back in the dating scene.”
You snorted. “Whatever happened to you being jealous?”
Steve shook his head at your comment. “I’m just saying—you’re young and pretty. You could grab that guy’s attention if you really tried.”
Pausing your sponge, you glanced over your shoulder, catching your neighbor’s gaze again. He had been staring at you—for how long, you didn’t know. Either way, your heart did a little flutter in your chest, your face warming at the thought of him watching you.
“You really think so?”
Steve hummed. “Have I ever lied to you?”
Since that day, and with the help of Steve’s encouragement, you found yourself spending more time outside just to catch your neighbor’s eye.
Most mornings, he was already out there working on the front of his house—mowing the lawn, painting fences, or tending to the plants.
The job itself didn’t matter. It was the man behind it all who suddenly made this boring, textbook suburban neighborhood interesting.
Despite only a few days passing since you last washed the car, you miraculously decided to wash it up again the day Bucky was working on the front of his house. How convenient!
Grabbing your tools while wearing a tank top—thinner than the last one—and shorts that rode so far up they were bordering on a wedgie, you stepped out with a confident stride that immediately caught his attention.
He glanced at you from his spot on a ladder, squinting as he smiled.
“Good morning!” you chirped.
“Morning,” he shouted back, nodding to the same car parked on your driveway. “Cleaning again?”
“Oh, yeah,” you smirked, motioning to your bucket. “Just something I like to do every few days.”
If Steve or your dad were here, they would be laughing in your face.
The man’s eyes slowly raked over the car—taking mental note of just how pristine and shiny it already was—before trailing back to you. “Must be a high maintenance girl, huh?”
It was just something about the way he said it—his voice deep and textured with a rasp that made every syllable sound flirtatious. You chuckled softly, your face warming.
“Something like that.”
He chuckled in return before getting back to work.
You dunked the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and got to work. Most of your time was spent focusing more on suggestive poses than actually getting the car clean. You stretched your arms high to reach the roof so the hem of your tank top rode up, then leaned low over the hood, letting your short shorts ride up to reveal the curve of your ass.
It didn’t take long for your clothes and skin to be covered in soap and water. The sun was in your favor today, catching the water as it glistened on your skin and the soap as it trickled down your thighs.
One quick glance over your shoulder made your heart stutter.
You knew you were doing it right because he was looking right at you.
He slowly began to descend the ladder. Before you knew it, he was walking in your direction, crossing the street until he reached your driveway. You had to bite back a smile as the sound of his boots scuffed closer, stopping just behind you.
“I believe we haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” he called out to grab your attention.
You didn’t turn around right away, careful not to make it too obvious. You glanced over your shoulder first, your back arching in a way that felt a bit of a strain—thanks to your usually terrible posture—then slowly stood up, trying not to groan at the sudden soreness.
“I don’t believe we have,” you said, setting the sponge down and wiping your wet hand on your damp shorts. Good enough.
You extended your hand and gave him your name.
He returned the gesture with a smile, his grip warm and rough—the hands of a working man.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bucky,” he huffed. “Bucky Barnes.”
He looked around, appearing almost skeptical to be standing in your driveway. “You look young,” he pointed out. “Are your parents home? I’d like to introduce myself, being new to the neighborhood and all.”
“They’re on vacation,” you explained. “I’m a student over at Jepsen University.”
“A student, huh?” He rubbed his chin with his left hand. No ring. “A pretty thing like you oughta’ be careful at Jepsen. There are a lot of nasty frat boys roaming around campus.”
You chuckled, a light sway in your movement. “You went there?”
He nodded. “Graduated top of my class.”
Even though there was no ring, you still needed verbal confirmation before throwing yourself at him.
“How are you and the family liking the neighborhood so far?” You tested.
Bucky took it upon himself to lean against your car, making the frame creak slightly. He didn’t seem to care about the soap dampening his jeans.
“Well, me and my girl are liking it so far,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet, and plus, I get a good view across the street.”
You made a face at his explanation. My girl. He had a wife? Or a daughter? He was deliberately flirting with you, wasn’t he?
Bucky caught your expression and laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively.
“My girl Alpine,” he clarified. "She’s the cat loafing on the windowsill in my living room, always staring out.”
You felt your face warm, and your posture eased up instantly. Not only was your neighbor hot as hell, but he was single—and a cat dad! There was a bit of an age gap, but that wasn’t something you couldn’t handle.
You crossed your arms, the movement accentuating your breasts beneath the thin tank top, and jutted your hip out to emphasize your curves. You smiled pridefully, watching as Bucky’s gaze traced a slow path from your eyes down your body.
“Like father, like daughter, then.”
His grin widened handsomely. “What can I say? We like looking at pretty things.”
You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. He was such a natural flirt—and despite all your attempts to grab his attention, your words suddenly failed you when the time came.
Bucky glanced around the driveway as if he were still searching for someone. Then, he asked, “That guy who usually comes over to help you out—” he brought up slyly, still looking around, “he your boyfriend?”
You blinked at his question. The way he was subtly trying to fish for information made your stomach do a flip in celebration.
“Steve?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than intended. A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
You noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your words. He was jealous.
“He goes to Jepsen, too?” He questioned.
“Yeah, he’s my senior.”
“Ah,” Bucky drawled. “A frat boy, then?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his endless questioning. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s my best friend,” you reassured him, watching the way his blue eyes searched yours. “He just comes over sometimes to help out—or more like he comes over to make fun of me while I do all the work.”
Bucky chuckled a deep, gravelly sound that was effortlessly charming. “Best friend, huh?” He pushed himself off your car, taking a step closer to you. Fuck, he even smelled good. “Well, I can’t say I blame him for wanting to hang around. Though, if you ever need a man who’ll actually help instead of just laughing at you, you know where I live.”
He tilted his head toward the house across the street, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.
“You said your parents were away on vacation?” he asked.
You nodded.
“For how long?”
“Just for a couple of days,” you replied.
Bucky hummed, an amused smile playing on his face as he looked at you. He leaned in, his voice releasing a low murmur as his warm breath tickled your skin.
“A couple of days, huh?”
You caught his gaze tracing a path down your tank top before he met your eyes with a devastatingly slow smirk. If he had this much confidence at his big old age, he was definitely a troublemaker when he was in college, that’s for sure.
“Would you look at that? That’s plenty of time for us to get well-acquainted.”
He watched the way your breath hitched and smiled, looking satisfied. He pulled away and turned back towards his side of the street. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he heard a small whine escape you.
“See you around, neighbor,” he called over his shoulder with a charming smile, sauntering down your driveway and back towards his own.
As he walked off, your heart was beating with excitement—beating far too fast to keep up. And the only thing you could think about was how much you were going to gloat about this to Steve later.
You sat across from Steve at the same dingy diner where you two met every Thursday for brunch.
While you sat cross legged on one side of the booth, Steve sat opposite from you in a crisp navy blue collared shirt with a name tag that read HYDRA’S MECHANIC! and the name Steven on the top right.
“He has a cat, Steve. A cat!” You smiled, dipping your toast into a pool of egg yolk. “Her name is Alpine—and he called her ‘his girl.’ Isn’t that so sweet? I nearly had a heart attack right there in the driveway.”
Steve held a coffee mug in his hand, watching you. He was supposed to be heading into work in twenty minutes, but he was currently occupied with the girl in front of him—and her endless rambling.
“And he’s single,” you continued through a mouthful of toast. “No ring, no wife—just a gorgeous, ripped cat dad with a voice that sounds like it came straight out of a smutty audiobook.” You paused, taking a quick sip of your drink. “I mean, yeah, he’s definitely got a few years on me. He’s a little older, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him more…” You sighed dreamily. “Capable.”
Steve didn’t say a word. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a fry, and dipped it slowly into a side of ranch with a lopsided smile.
“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you caught his grin.
“Nothing,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Steve. I know that face,” you pointed out. “That’s your ‘I’ve got something to say, but I won’t’ face mixed with something else. Come on, tell me! What are you thinking?”
Steve chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin before leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how I feel about you going after some guy who’s that much older than you. He seems like the type of guy you have fun with—not someone you bring home to your parents.”
Your eyes went wide. “What? You encouraged me to go for it!”
Steve held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know! It’s just… I don’t know. Can’t a guy worry?”
You couldn’t help but smile at his bashfulness. “Aw, you’re worried over little ol’ me, Stevie?” You tilted your head, taunting him.
He rolled his eyes. “You know what? Forget I even said anything—”
“No, no,” you leaned in, resting both arms on the table “Okay, fine. I’m hearing you. What can I do that’ll make you more comfortable in this situation?”
Steve shrugged, lifting the coffee cup and bringing it to his lips. “Could start by meeting the guy, I guess.”
“Okay,” you agreed casually. “He did mention you, actually.”
Steve quirked a brow, eyeing you over the rim of his mug. “Did he?”
You nodded. “He asked if you were my boyfriend.”
He scoffed a laugh. “Boyfriend? He’s already getting jealous? God—how old is he again?”
You gave him a look. “He was just curious, Steve.”
“Sure, and I’m a superhero fighting crime in New York.” Steve set his mug down, dipping another fry into ranch and plopping it into his mouth. He gathered his phone and wallet, quickly tucking them into his pockets. “I gotta go. Shift is starting soon.”
“Wait.” You sat up straight. “My dad won’t stop texting me asking if you can fix the wagon—it keeps making this weird noise and he won’t leave me alone until you look at it.”
“I’m free tomorrow after work. I’ll swing by then. I’ll consider this—” he motioned to the table, where the bill sat squarely in the middle with your name on it, “—payment for the repair.” Steve pushed himself out of the booth, licking the ranch off his thumb before pointing a finger at you. “I’ll text you. And don’t screw the guy ‘til I meet him.”
You couldn’t even get a word in before Steve was already rushing out the door, the bell jingling after him.
“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”
After paying for brunch, you drove home feeling giddy.
Turning the corner onto your street, you spotted Bucky right outside his house, mowing the lawn. This time, he was shirtless.
You purposefully slowed down to get a good look at him, but the moment he looked up and spotted your car pulling into the driveway, he smiled—aiming it right at you through your fishbowl wagon on wheels.
Parked in the driveway, you took a quick look at yourself in the pull down mirror, checking to make sure there weren’t any crumbs on your face or a stray strand of hair sticking out. Smoothing down your top and adjusting your shorts, you stepped out of the car—aiming for casual. But with the way your heart was beating, you were anything but.
Bucky had killed the mower engine and was wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked hypnotizing, his chest and stomach glistening in the afternoon sun.
“Eventful day, I take it?” He nodded towards your car. “Noticed your wagon was missing from the driveway this morning.”
He had noticed you were gone? You tried your best not to smile.
“Oh, yeah,” you leaned against trunk nonchalantly. “I went to have brunch with a friend.”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest—a move that did very interesting things to his biceps that were hard to ignore—and leaned his weight back on one leg.
“Let me guess,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Steve?”
After Steve’s comment about Bucky being jealous, you couldn’t help but bask in confidence. You quirked a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Are you jealous?”
Bucky tilted his head, pretending to contemplate the question as he looked you up and down.
“Only a little,” he admitted with that handsome smile of his.
You grinned. “Well, there’s no need to be jealous, I assure you,” you explained, pushing yourself off the car.
Taking a step back, you gestured vaguely to his yard. “I’ll let you get back to it, though. You look pretty busy,” you said, despite how much you actually wanted to pull up a folding chair and just stare.
You turned to head towards your front door, but you didn’t get far before his voice stopped you.
“You know,” Bucky called out as he began crossing the street. “Your car is looking a little dirty.”
You stopped and turned back, your breath catching as you watched him make his way onto your driveway. Shirtless and confident, he looked even more imposing standing on your property than he had the other day. He came to a halt beside the green wagon, glancing at the circle of bird poop sitting right on the roof.
Then, he looked back at you with a smile—as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.
“Need some help cleaning?”
“I…” Your eyes trailed to his bare chest slicked with sweat. You didn’t know how you were going to control yourself, but despite it all, you swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”
Minutes later, you found yourself grabbing all the supplies needed to get the car cleaned. Bucky stood by the bucket, holding the hose as the water filled the plastic. It took everything in you not to stare at the way the sun was shining down on his tanned skin, sweat and water glistening down the hard lines of his stomach.
His jeans sat dangerously low on his hips, the hem of his briefs peeking out over the top. He hadn’t even started cleaning the car yet, but he already looked hotter just standing there than you ever felt trying to look appealing while washing the wagon.
When the bucket was full, he lifted it by the handle without much struggle. You watched as his biceps and forearms flexed against the weight of it. His eyes caught yours, and you swallowed hard, quickly forcing your gaze away.
Bucky stepped to the passenger side, opposite where you were standing. He didn’t seem bothered by your staring.
Actually, he seemed to be feeding off the attention, especially after catching you several times.
“This is a nice car,” he commented, dunking a sponge into the soapy water. “Vintage. I’m surprised she’s still kicking around.”
While Bucky scrubbed down the passenger side, you kept trying to sneak glances through the untinted windows. From where you stood, you had a perfect view of his chest muscles and his stomach pressing against the glass as he worked.
“Uh—yeah,” you cleared your throat, forcing your focus back. “It’s from the sixties. It’s my dad’s, actually. Steve just helps me fix it up.”
“Your friend Steve,” Bucky mused, peeking at you over the roof. “He a mechanic?”
“Yup,” you nodded. “So if you hear loud car noises coming from across the street tomorrow when he fixes it, you can blame him.”
“This Steve guy sounds like a total catch,” Bucky said with a light laugh. “You sure you’re not dating him?”
You weren’t sure why Bucky was so insistent on you having a secret relationship with Steve. You had your fair share of insecure men who were jealous of you hanging around with someone like Steve Rogers, and you figured that habit died out once men hit the age of twenty five. But with Bucky standing across from you, poking at your relationship with Steve, you were starting to think that wasn’t the case.
“I swear, I’m not dating Steve.” You raised a pinky so he could see it over the roof. “Besides, he’s like an older brother to me.”
Bucky blew a raspberry.
“Poor kid,” he chuckled. “But really, I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move on you.” He bent down to clean the rim right above the tire, letting his eyes trail over your body through the window. “If I had a pretty girl like you in my life... we wouldn’t have been friends for long.”
You felt your heart stutter.
What did that even mean?
Did he mean he would make you his girlfriend?
You wanted to hear him say it—to blurt out the answer himself.
You dumped your sponge in your bucket, letting yourself get damp with the soapy water.
“Is that so?” you challenged, trying your best to play it cool. “And what would we be then?”
He stood up with a low groan, looking at you over the roof. He began making his way towards your side of the car, moving purposefully slow as he dragged his sponge across the hood—hardly even pretending to clean it anymore.
“After watching you wash this car—looking like a woman straight out of my dreams? We’d be a lot of things,” he said smoothly, locking eyes with you as he reached the corner of the bumper. “But ‘friends’ sure as hell isn’t one of them.”
You grinned, allowing him to be the one to approach you as you continued scrubbing.
“So,” you kept your voice playful, a little teasing. “You’ve been watching me?”
Bucky didn’t bother denying it.
He stopped just inches away from you. He let his tongue run slowly over his bottom lip, his eyes traveling shamelessly down your body. He was mesmerized with the path of the soap bubble trickling down your collarbone, sliding between the curve of your breasts before disappearing into the thin fabric of your tank top, where your perky nipples were poking right through.
It was hard for him to ignore. They were practically begging to be licked.
“Hard not to,” he rasped, stepping closer until he was standing directly behind you. He propped one strong arm against the roof of the wagon, locking you in. “Especially when you’re giving me a view like that from across the street.”
You let out a shaky breath—one that you hoped he didn’t catch, but he did. You stared at him through the reflection of the window, and his eyes were on you—tracing your face, leaning in to smell you.
It was this very moment that made you remember the age gap, because he was moving and talking so smoothly, like it was all natural to him. As if he had been swooning women like you for years.
But you weren’t going to let that shake you up.
You pushed your hips back subtly, letting your damp ass press against his hips. You tried not to gasp at the straining bulge that was waiting for you between his legs.
“Well, I’m right here,” you said quietly, staring at him in the reflection. “So, what then?”
Bucky looked around, his gaze sweeping across the street to make sure no one else was near.
With one hand still propped against the car, the other found your hip, giving it a firm squeeze to keep you right where you were with your ass pressed tight against his cock.
“Do you want to know what I love most about being in this neighborhood, aside from the fact that I have a super attractive neighbor living across from me?”
He rocked his hips forward, letting his hard bulge nestle perfectly between the curve of your bottom. His cock was fighting the restraint of his jeans, and just from that small movement alone, you could feel how big he was.
Bucky pressed his lips against your ear, murmuring low and tickling your skin with his warm breath. “I love how quiet it is. There’s rarely anyone outside, or even driving by... so when I touch you like this...” His hand slid up from your hip to cup your breast through your tank top. “No one will even notice.”
You gasped as he fondled your tits, his rough fingers flicking the sensitive peak of your nipple. As he dampened your shirt with his wet hands, the water seeped through the thin fabric, making every bit of friction feel even more sensitive than the last.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh,” he let out a low, rough breath. “You’re so reactive. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
Bucky’s hand left the roof of the car to wrap around your eyes, pulling you even closer against him. He rocked his hips—back and forth, in a steady rhythm—dry humping you right there against the green wagon in your driveway where anyone could see.
The friction of his denim against your damp, thin shorts made a warm heat pool in your lower belly. Every grind of his hips was met with a hard twitch in his jeans, making your body ache for more.
His hands were everywhere. One hand gripped your hip, tickling the skin beneath the fabric as he gave your flesh a possessive squeeze.
The other continued to fondle your tits, tickling your nipple through the wet cotton. His thumb and forefinger would catch your nipple, rolling it until you were arching your back and whimpering his name.
“Cute noises coming out of you,” he murmured against the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make if someone were to drive by and see what I’m doing to you?”
You shuddered as his hands roamed lower, his fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. He undid the button with just one hand, letting his fingers trace the skin of your mound, grazing low until he found your clit—lightly rubbing the nub of his finger against it.
A moan left your lips as you arched your back deeper against him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his throbbing cock.
While Bucky’s fingers toyed with your clit—rubbing in deep, circular motions—he rocked his hips, seeking pleasure of his own. You were moaning, breathing hard as you stared down at him playing with you.
“Bucky… I… mph—” you moaned, your voice pitched high. You ground your hips against his hand, fucking yourself onto his fingers.
With Bucky standing right behind you, he looked down at the soapy water trickling over your chest, his cock growing harder by the second.
He wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a woman straight out of a dream. He wanted nothing more than to tear your clothes apart—which he could do easily—and fuck you right on the hood of the car he’d been watching you parade yourself on for the past few days.
He was so horny, he needed to sink into you—fast.
But first, he needed to see how much of him you were willing to take, starting with his fingers.
“Gotta test you, baby,” Bucky rasped against your ear. “See how much your little pussy can take.”
His hand traced down from your clit to your folds. He groaned once his fingers made contact with your slick heat. You were so wet, so easily riled up, and so ripe for the taking, yet he wanted to make this last.
Bucky glanced around one more time—the coast was clear. He shoved your shorts down, exposing your ass to the cool air, and pushed your lace panties to the side. He probed his middle finger against your entrance, dancing his digit in a curling motion to prepare you.
“So wet,” he murmured, grinning at your little gasps and mewls. “Could easily slide my finger right in.”
His middle finger slowly eased into your pussy, the warm flesh of your entrance accommodating him smoothly. There was a bit of a stretch, sure, but he could easily finger fuck you right now with no struggle at all.
“How many can you take?” he asked.
You felt your face warm at his question. “… Two.”
He hummed against your ear. “Two, huh?”
Without warning, his ring finger took a quick drag against your entrance—already stuffed by his middle finger—and slid in slowly. Your mouth dropped as a broken gasp tore from your throat. The stretch was burning. His fingers were long and thick, and having two of them inside was enough to fill you completely.
“Fuck—Bucky!”
Bucky didn’t give you a chance to fully adjust to his two fingers before he started moving—thrusting in and out, curling deep inside you as he searched for every sensitive spot. With his free hand still clamped onto your hip, he humped you from behind, groaning as his denim jeans grew even tighter around his throbbing cock.
He was so hard it was painful.
His need to sink himself inside you was spiraling out of control as he felt his pre-cum soaking into his waistband. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he watched the way your ass bounced against his hand, swallowing his fingers with every move.
“Christ,” he hissed against your neck. He slowed his hand just enough to hook a third finger against your entrance, probing the tight and overtaxed muscle. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, baby.”
He looked at you through the reflection of the window, and you stared back, caught in his dark gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nodded with a whimper.
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and without warning, he pressed the tip of his pointer finger against your stretched entrance.
Your eyes flew wide at the sensation as he slowly began sinking that third finger in, forcing you to press your tits and hands into the glass window for support.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “What are you—!”
“Think you can take three?”
He couldn’t even sink his third finger in all the way, your body simply wouldn’t allow it.
The stretch was a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure, your hips going stiff as you struggled to take him in. He was breathing hard against your ear, and you could feel every heavy throb of his cock right behind you.
“Oh my—fuck, Bucky! It’s too much, I can’t—”
He continued rutting his hips against yours, silently encouraging you to accommodate all three fingers. You could tell he was trying to hold back. His fingers stayed there, unmoving, while his hips did all the work.
“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hand stilling completely inside you. “Three’s a little tight, huh? Come on, baby. Try for me. If you can take three, then you can take my cock with no problem.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax the muscles that were fighting him.
Slowly, you began to push back, easing yourself onto those three thick fingers and sinking down until you felt the base of his hand press against your folds.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he felt your tight cunt finally give way to accommodate him. He was hard as hell, his balls growing heavier and his cock thickening against your lower back with every heavy breath he took.
“Fuck. That’s a good fucking slut,” he hissed, his hips rutting in an uneven motion. “Taking all three fingers—God, you’re being so good for me.”
His teeth traced the column of your neck, biting gently to make you gasp. His lips closed against your skin, sucking and marking you as he murmured filth in your ear.
“So fucking tight,” he whispered. “Been watching you for days, thinking you were going to be untouchable—just eye candy for a man like me living across the street.” He curled his fingers, hitting your sensitive spot and making you cry out his name. “Who knew I’d have you right here, pinned against your daddy’s car, being stretched out in broad daylight.”
You watched him through the reflection, your pussy clenching around his fingers at the dark way he was staring at you.
“Oh, you’re such a little slut for your neighbor, aren’t you?”
Your cunt fluttered around him, his fingers fucking you so thoroughly you felt like you could cum.
“Bucky,” you whined, your hips twitching as you tried to clench your legs together. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
“No,” he grunted, his voice deep and rough. “Not yet.”
If he had fucked you for even a second longer, you would have cried out in pleasure and came right there in your driveway.
But instead, he abruptly yanked his fingers out, the vulgar squelch sound following after. You let out a cry of frustration, your body slumping against the window as he left you feeling cold and aching.
Behind you, Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours in the window’s reflection as he slowly licked your juices off his fingers. The act was so unapologetically filthy that your face burned with embarrassment.
“You even taste sweet, too,” he murmured.
He took a step back, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He gave himself a quick squeeze through the denim before finally freeing himself.
You couldn’t help it. You looked over your shoulder and your breath hitched.
Now, you understood exactly why he wanted you to take three fingers first.
His cock was massive, thick and pulsing for you. He stepped back into the space between your legs and slapped his cock against your lower back. It was hot, hard, heavy, and already wet at the tip where he leaked pre-cum. His breathing was labored as he grabbed his shaft, rubbing the tip against your bare ass—smearing his slickness and marking you from behind.
Bucky moaned at the sight of his pre-cum glistening on your soft skin.
“What a pretty, pretty whore,” he cooed. He leaned over you, his thick arm hooking around your waist to bend you over while your hands pressed against the window.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He slapped his cock against your wet pussy, making you wince as your body hummed with anticipation.
“Your pussy’s all stretched out now, ready to take me.” He grabbed his shaft, positioning the head right at your entrance.
The tip of his cock nestled perfectly between your wet, aching folds. Just the sensation of it alone was enough to make him groan in pleasure.
It felt as if your entrance was giving him warm, wet kisses, welcoming him home.
“So, it should just slide right in,” he rasped, slowly drawing his hips forward and beginning to sink into you. “Fuck.”
He couldn’t even make it past the head because of how tight you were squeezing him. His face scrunched in a twist of pleasure and pain, his arm wrapping you tight as he fought for control. You mewled and whined so sweetly—the sound of it should have made him feel bad, but it only made him want to tear you apart more.
“Fuck—how the hell are you still so tight, even after everything?”
Every time he tried to draw his hips forward, your body buckled and clamped down, refusing to give an inch more than the head of him.
“God,” he hissed, forehead dropping to the back of your neck as he struggled to breathe. “What a tight pussy fuck.”
He tried to rock into you again—slow and agonizing. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, his cock pulsing as your cunt fluttered around him, desperate to stretch around his size.
“F—fuck, Bucky, I’m trying—” you whimpered.
“Come on, baby,” he rasped, rocking his hips and trying to find pleasure from what little was already inside you. “I already stretched you out. I know you can take me. You’re just so fucking small.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. His face was twisted. He looked almost angry—snarling from how difficult this was for him.
You tried pushing your hips back, wincing from the delicious stretch.
“Is this hurting you, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out more timid than you’d like. “Are you hurting because I’m so tight?”
A raspy, deep groan tore straight from his throat. You were asking out of genuine concern, but he took it as a challenge.
“God—you fucking—are you trying to test me?”
Bucky kicked your legs wider, his hands clamping down on your waist. He hauled your body back into his, then completely sheathed his cock into your tight pussy.
The air left your lungs the minute your ass pressed against his pelvis. His dark curls were hot against your skin as he finally, finally buried himself all the way inside you. He was in to the very hilt, but you were still so tight that moving was nearly impossible.
He stayed perfectly still for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let the sensation of your tightness settle.
In the window’s reflection, it looked as filthy as it felt—a large, shirtless, and sweaty man mounting and rutting into you from behind like an animal, his broad shoulders swallowing your frame as his heavy arms circled you, keeping you pinned close and tight.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “There it is. There you are.”
After a moment of adjustment, he began to rock his hips. He drew in and out slowly, fucking you with deep, hard strokes that made the car creak.
“Christ, look at you,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on your reflection over your shoulder. “Stretched wide open—fucked like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see. You’re taking every goddamn inch of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your face twisted in pleasure, your bottom lip hanging open as you moaned a litany of words. “Don’t stop... Please, Bucky, please.”
“This was why you were putting your body on display for me, huh? Hoping I’d finally cross the street one day and fuck you.” He fought for his breath as his hips increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, relentlessly making you his. “You’re a smart cookie, too. Made sure your parents were out of town so you could act like a total slut.”
You moaned, eyes rolling back at his filthy words as your body clenched in reaction. “Yes! Yes, Bucky! I’m a slut for you!”
He groaned as he tilted his hips, forcing himself even deeper into your abused pussy.
“Squeezing me so tight... I can only imagine how you’d react if your parents were to drive down the street right now. Imagine them seeing their precious daughter getting split open by her older neighbor—a man they haven’t even met yet.”
He felt your body begin to tremor, your walls fluttering around his pulsing cock. He leaned in even closer, his hot, raspy breath dancing against the shell of your ear.
“Now, what would happen if your poor best friend—Steve, was it?—drove down here expecting to fix your car, only to find you with your tits pushed against the glass, stuffed full of my cock? How would you react then?”
Your knees wobbled and your eyes rolled back at the image. Your body convulsed, your pussy squeezing him impossibly tight at the filthy thought of it.
“Oh, my god—S-steve...!”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh, followed immediately by a deep, guttural groan at the sensation of you clenching around him. He didn’t even care that you moaned another man’s name when he had you stuffed.
“Fuck, so goddamn tight,” he rasped, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you shook. “Shit, you like it, don’t you? The idea of getting caught by your best friend? Fuck—what a goddamn nasty whore you are.”
His hips began to blur against yours as he fucked you harder, the car creaking and groaning with every thrust.
“Bet he doesn’t even know how you’re clenching around me just at the thought of him. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him?” He leaned over, biting your shoulder to stifle his own grunt. “Would you let your best friend watch me split you open like this?”
You nodded frantically, sweat beading at your temple from being used so thoroughly. The talk—the idea of it was filthy, a dream that you would’ve never considered doing, but Bucky was fucking you so good that anything he said at this point was hypnotic.
“Yes, yes, Bucky, please! You both can take turns using me!”
“Nasty little slut,” Bucky hissed, his teeth biting gently at your skin again. “Fuck. I’m getting close.”
You nodded hard again, your knees nearly giving out if it weren’t for his big hands holding you back. “Me—me too, shit—!”
Bucky’s grip on your body tightened, pulling you close against his bare and sweaty chest.
After three hard thrusts that bottomed out against your womb, he let out a deep grunt against your neck, his body going stiff as he finally came.
His cock pulsed as cum began to spill out of his tip, pumping you full of his seed and staying completely stuffed inside you until you were filled to the brim. Your head tossed back as a cry left your throat, your overworked pussy clamping down on him and pulsing in a way that milked every last drop out of him.
He held you tight, breathing deep into your back as you both fought for air. “Fuck—you’re draining my balls dry, sweetheart.”
You both started to laugh—deep, tired, and rumbling laughs at everything that had just transpired out in the open, right in your very driveway.
Bucky looked down, pulling out slightly and watching with blown out pupils as his cum trickled out of you and onto the concrete, where it mixed with the soapy water.
“Dirty, dirty girl.”
You spent the following afternoon in your room, going through lectures, though you were hardly paying attention to them. With your cheek resting on your palm, your eyes kept drifting to the open window that gave you a perfect, convenient view of the house right across the street.
Bucky’s house.
The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were off. The blinds were pulled open though, and you could see Alpine—the little cat he mentioned—loafing on the windowsill and staring back at you.
In that moment, the two of you were exactly the same.
Just waiting for Bucky to come home.
The silence of your bedroom was overtaken by the rumble of a truck engine. Sitting up and peeking out the window, you recognized Steve’s battered pickup truck turning into the driveway before the engine cut out.
Steve climbed out of the driver’s seat, looking as exhausted as ever, but he had still shown up for you.
You smiled, racing down the stairs to meet him outside. In the driveway, it was clear that his shift at Hydra’s mechanic shop had done a number on him. His navy blue collared shirt was stained with sweat and motor oil, with dark streaks smeared across his jaw and down the length of his thick forearms.
“Steve,” you breathed with a smile. “Thought you forgot about me.”
Steve shut the door, the truck shaking from the force. “Could never forget about you. Work was just running me late.” He reached for his tools in the flatbed with a tired groan. “How’s your car holding up? Been using it since we had lunch yesterday?”
Your face warmed at the question.
Using it wouldn’t be the right term for it, you thought.
“Not really,” you said, trying to hide the bashful expression on your face.
“Still making that weird creaking noise?” he asked, walking over to the front and popping the hood.
You bit your lip and nodded. “Yep.”
Steve stood over the engine, glancing at wires and mechanical parts that were completely foreign to you.
“How’s it looking?” you asked, hovering over his shoulder.
He didn’t look back as he lifted a straining wire with his pointer finger, examining it closely. “Looks like she’s been through it.”
You had to bite back a snort. You would’ve complimented him on his sense of humor—if only he had known any better.
“Thanks for doing this, Steve,” you said, giving him a pat on his sweaty back. “My dad’s going to be real grateful.”
Steve nodded. “How are you and that neighbor doing?” He still kept his focus on the wires, his voice casual and unassuming. “You two didn’t screw each other after my warning yesterday, right?”
You were so glad he was focused on the engine—the face you made would’ve given it all away.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” you scoffed playfully, crossing your arms defensively.
Steve glanced up at you with a chuckle. “A good one, I hope.” He brought his tools to the edge of the car, rummaging through the kit. “You two exchanged numbers yet?”
“Do I have to?” you shrugged. “He lives right across the street.”
Steve tilted his head, agreeing. “You make a good point.” He looked back at the engine. “When are you going to introduce me to the guy?”
You leaned against the car with a roll of your eyes. “Steve, you’re sounding an awful lot like my dad. And why are you in such a rush to meet him, anyway?”
Steve shrugged, pulling a wire stripper out of his toolbox before setting it back down on the ground. “I’m your best friend, alright? It’d give any man peace of mind to know what kind of person you’re talking to. Hand me a wrench, would you?”
Crouching, you dug into his toolbox until you found something that resembled a wrench. You handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tool from your hand. His brows furrowed as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, the muscles in his forearms and biceps flexed hard, giving you an up close and personal view of a working man.
After the filthy things Bucky hissed in your ear yesterday, you couldn’t help but stare. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him? Even worse was the memory of what you cried out in response. You both can take turns using me!
You wanted to slap yourself for the secondhand embarrassment you were giving yourself.
You wouldn’t consider it—no, you couldn’t. Steve was the person you grew up with, the one who fended off your bullies in kindergarten. Steve was the one who drove you to school every morning in high school. Steve was the one who took you to prom when no one else did.
Steve was family.
But as he stood there, covered in motor oil and sweat, you finally understood why a man like Bucky would be jealous over you hanging out with a man like Steve Rogers.
The wrench slipped, clattering against the frame of the car before hitting the driveway with a noise that made you flinch.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He bent down to pick it up. He stood up straight—reminding you all over again of just how big he was compared to you—and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
While you were having filthy thoughts about your best friend, he was standing there in an increasingly sour mood. Between the long shift at Hydra’s and the oppressive heat of the bright afternoon sun, he looked completely spent.
You didn’t know the first thing about wire strippers or engine blocks, and you felt useless just hovering over his shoulder.
“I’m going to go make you a lemonade,” you said, giving his shoulder another supportive pat. “I’ll be back, okay?”
Steve didn’t say anything. He just gave a single, firm nod to let you know he heard you.
As you retreated inside, a car that Steve didn’t recognize pulled up to Bucky’s driveway.
It was a sleek, black convertible sports car. Steve couldn’t help but clench his jaw at the sight of it. Of course Bucky drove a sports car.
He stood no chance against his rundown pickup.
Bucky stepped out of the vehicle, running a hand through his hair. As he turned to glance at your driveway, expecting to see you, his blue eyes landed on Steve instead.
For all that talk about wanting to meet him, Steve really only cared to do it if you were there, bridging the gap. So for now, until you returned with his lemonade—which he was sure would make Bucky jealous—Steve tried to keep himself too occupied to notice him.
But he kept catching movement in his peripheral vision. Then another. Then another. A stupid, persistent movement that wouldn’t go away, like a goddamn fly.
Steve finally lifted his head and saw Bucky still in his driveway, waving.
Waving?
At what?
Steve turned around, expecting to see you standing right behind him with the lemonade, but you weren’t. The porch remained empty—meaning Bucky was waving at him.
“Need any help there?” Bucky called out from across the street, resting his hands on his hips.
Steve pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “I’m good!” he called back. Short, straight to the point, and friendly enough.
He looked back down at the engine, but it didn’t take long before a bright spark jumped from the terminal with a loud popping sound. Steve jolted back with a hiss, snapping his hand away from the burn. “Shit!”
Across the street, Bucky was already making his way over with a smug grin that Steve caught—and one he especially wanted to wipe off.
Jesus. Where were you?
“Here,” Bucky finally reached him, occupying the small space between the car’s engine and where Steve was standing. “Let me help you with that.”
Before Steve could fight for his spot, Bucky was leaning over the hood, adjusting the wires in a way that made Steve—the man wearing an actual mechanic’s uniform—feel like a fool.
Steve stepped up to the hood, propping his arm against it as he looked the man over. “So, you’re the new neighbor that moved in not too long ago, right?” He already knew the answer, but this was at least him trying for short conversation.
Bucky looked up at Steve, his eyes slowly tracing over his uniform. Steve felt his eyebrow twitch.
Was Bucky silently insulting him?
“Yup,” Bucky drawled with the pop of the p. “And you must be my pretty neighbor’s best friend. The one she always talks about.”
It was getting harder by the second for Steve to go along with this. Bucky acted like the very frat boys at Jensen that Steve had warned you to avoid at all costs—and this man was in his mid-thirties, for crying out loud.
“Yeah. That’s me,” Steve mumbled.
Bucky stood up straight, extending his hand for a shake. “Bucky.”
Steve was wary, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the offered hand before finally reaching out to take it.
“Steve,” he replied with a firm grip.
Bucky stared at Steve for a moment longer—as if studying him—before looking back down at the engine with a huff of laughter. “You know, for a guy who works at a mechanic shop, you’re struggling pretty bad with a simple alternator issue.” He bent over the engine again, examining it. “Are you trying to actually fix the car, or just trying to impress your lady friend?”
Steve let out a dry laugh as he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “It’s been a long day, alright? I’ve been dealing with different cars all day, the sun is giving me a headache, and now I’ve got my best friend’s neighbor to worry about—”
He stopped himself before he could spill too much, but Bucky caught it anyway. He chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looked up at Steve from where he was bent over. “You’re worrying about me?”
Steve swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m just looking out for her. New guy in the neighborhood, it’s just a habit.”
Bucky hummed, a small, knowing grin resting on his lips as he turned back to the engine block.
He leaned further under the hood of the old sixties station wagon, his fingers moving towards the distributor cap and the fraying ignition wire Steve had been struggling with. Bucky repositioned the stubborn ceramic boot, adjusting the distributor to ensure the connection wouldn’t spark again.
He wiped his hands on his thighs as he stood up straight.
“Since it’s an older model, you’re going to need to buy a specific point and condenser set for a sixties Ford wagon. But this should hold her over for now.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “You got a piece of paper so I can write down the part number you need?”
Steve blinked, surprised and undeniably impressed by how easily Bucky had handled it.
“Oh. Y-yeah, hold on—” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn notepad and a pen, handing them over.
Bucky took them, resting the pad against the car’s fender as he scribbled down the specifications. Steve glanced up, watching you through the kitchen window where you were completely oblivious, still focused on making the lemonade.
Surprisingly, he actually liked the guy. Despite the age difference, he could see potential in Bucky. He was handsome, owned his own house, drove a nice car, and was clearly respectful and handy. He was exactly the type of man your parents wouldn’t pass out at the sight of.
He was a good man for you—regrettably so.
Bucky finished writing, flipping the notepad shut and handing it back to Steve along with the pen. “Here you go.”
Steve smiled, and this time it was polite and genuine.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.” He held up the notepad with a slight nod. “She’ll appreciate this. I’ll tell her you said hi.”
Bucky’s smile widened just slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your silhouette through the kitchen window where you were still occupied with the lemons. His gaze lingered on you for a split second before he looked back at Steve, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said smoothly, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Remember, I’m right across the street if you ever need help.”
He gave a parting nod before turning on his heel, brushing past Steve to head back to his side of the street.
Steve watched Bucky disappear past his front door. By the time the door clicked shut, you had finally stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade in your hands. Perfect timing.
“Sorry I took so long,” you said breathlessly, walking down the steps and handing him a glass. “It’s been a minute since I last made it from scratch, so…”
“You just missed him.”
You raised a brow in confusion. “Sorry?”
Steve brought the cold glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tart drink before nodding towards the house across the road.
“Bucky.” He let out a satisfied exhale, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “He was just here—helping me with your car, actually.”
Your eyes went wide, your head snapping towards Bucky’s house—though he was nowhere to be found. You reached up, trying to smooth down your hair.
“He was? Is he coming back?” You asked, sounding too excited for your own good.
Steve shrugged, taking another sip. “Probably not. Seemed like he had other things to do.”
You looked at Steve, your eyes narrowing skeptically.
Steve caught your look and let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cold glass against his palm. “What?”
“So…” you teased, swaying back and forth subtly. “I assume you two talked for a bit then? How was he? What do you think of him?”
Steve shrugged again, a genuine smile breaking through the tired expression he had on before. “Alright, alright. You know what? He’s not a bad guy. He actually helped me fix your car. I like him.” He handed you back the empty glass, flipping through the crumpled pages to find the note Bucky had left. “He even told me what part we needed to order to get this thing fixed up and working again—”
He froze in the middle of his sentence. His eyes went wide, staring at the page as his words got lost in his mind.
You raised a brow, confused with Steve’s sudden change in demeanor. “Well? What part is it? Is it expensive?”
When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to step closer and peek your head over his arm to look at the notepad. What you saw made your breath hitch, and your own eyes went wide.
There was no part number.
Written in bold handwriting, on the paper was a phone number, Bucky’s phone number, followed by a little message in black ink.
you’re gonna have to call me if you want that part number.
xoxo, buck.
Your jaw hung so loose, a fly could’ve flown in at any moment. Steve didn’t know what to say either—if anything, he was standing there frozen, waiting for you to say something first.
“Oh my god,” was all that managed to leave your mouth. You looked up at Steve, your wide eyes meeting his. “Is Bucky…?”
Steve, poor Steve, who remained completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky had fucked just yesterday on this very driveway, only felt confusion and secondhand guilt.
He glanced across the street at the sleek, clean Mazda resting in Bucky's driveway, specifically staring at the custom vanity license plate on the back that read ‘BIGBUCK.’
Steve swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with a rosy shade of pink. Though, he could easily excuse it for the sun.
“Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “He drives a Miata.”
if you were curious to know why a mazda miata specifically, you can thank r/askgaybros for that when i was conducting my research.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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CONTAINMENT
the winter soldier x doctor!reader [10.1k]
— ⟢ 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. fear, trauma, and reluctant attachment blur, leaving you safe—and terrified—under his possessive, inescapable gaze.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; reader was kidnapped; insults and condescending behavior towards reader (from original characters); 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; dark!bucky (he is unstable); possessiveness & obsession; size difference (he’s beefy and taller than reader); smut (dub-con); big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; creampie (lots of cum :)); twisted ending.
A/N: unfortunately I couldn't finish the congressman!bucky x secretary!reader fanfic in time, so I humbly offer you another winter soldier one-shot, this time for my dark fics lovers <3. I'm so sorry for the unanswered inboxes and reblogs/comments but I'm offline until sunday for medical reasons. please, mind the warnings before reading! hope you'll enjoy 🖤
You had believed medicine was a discipline of precision and care, built to preserve life.
HYDRA stripped that belief from you within the first forty-eight hours of your abduction.
They never called it what it was—kidnapping. No, they called it recruitment.
A late-night, sleep-deprived trip to the store for ice cream had cost you your freedom. At your awakening, you found yourself sitting in a white room with no windows, no wallet, no phone, 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 and demanded to leave, he wordlessly slid a thin file across the table. Inside were photos of your mother walking home from work, timestamps of months spent tailing her carefully highlighted in red.
You learned very quickly when to stop asking questions. To lower your head and listen. To do exactly as you were told. You were just trying to survive. And yet, guilt still clawed relentlessly at your chest as soon as your head touched that filthy excuse of a pillow they provided you with.
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. Still, beneath everything they had done to him, there was a person. And no human being deserves to be reduced to a lab experiment, trained to kill and denied any life of their own.
The truth is that here, forced into a 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 still contributing to HYDRA’s system, keeping the gears turning. You are an important cog, however unwilling, and the sole thought is enough to make you nauseous, tormenting you during those sleepless nights spent on an uncomfortable mattress inside your new, grey bedroom.
You are a witness, a caretaker, a facilitator. And in keeping him alive, you sustain the very machine that caged him. Your hands remain steady, but each measured movement is weighted with fear 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, nor have the power to activate him or order for his mind to be wiped. That job belongs to others—men who speak in clipped phrases and avoid eye contact with what they have 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 and the scars don’t fester.
You are also the only one allowed to touch him without restraints, but no one had planned for that.
At first, they tried rotating doctors. None lasted more than a week. Some requested reassignment after the first day; some broke down at the first violent outburst from the Soldier. One had a panic attack so severe she had to be sedated and removed from the facility entirely.
The memory of the first time HYDRA insisted on assigning a second doctor is still too vivid to forget. An older man with trembling hands and a voice that cracked at the smallest instruction. The moment he’d stepped past the threshold, the Soldier went rigid, his 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, but the Soldier had moved faster than you could shout.
Metal collided with bone.
The doctor went down screaming, clutching his shattered wrist.
Restraints were deployed seconds too late and sirens screamed as the Winter Soldier fought agents with silent, feral fury.
But you… well, he tolerates you.
That’s the word they use. Tolerates. As if there’s anything neutral about his actions towards you.
The Soldier 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 constantly terrified of making a fatal mistake that could change everything. You learned the difference between stillness and readiness, between compliance and restraint. That when his shoulders went rigid and his metal hand flexed, you needed to step back and let him recalibrate.
The change didn’t begin with trust, though. It began with fear.
The rest of the agents were afraid of him. They had every reason to be, frankly. In the weeks leading up to the incident, the Soldier had grown volatile in ways HYDRA could not easily quantify. Missions ended messier and recovery periods stretched. There were moments—brief, unsettling lapses—where commands lagged and he hesitated just long enough for alarms to register before compliance snapped back into place.
HYDRA answered the way it always did: with punishment and pressure. And you saw the cost written across his body.
Until you finally stood your ground and intervened.
The Soldier had been awake for six minutes when the alarms went off.
You knew this because you were watching the numbers climb in real time: heart rate spiking dangerously fast, blood pressure surging high enough to trigger red warnings across the console. His respiration was shallow and uneven, each breath dragged through clenched teeth and dilated nostrils. 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 behind you.
You didn’t answer immediately, your eyes still locked on the glass.
Inside the reinforced medical room, the Soldier moved like a caged animal. Back and forth, bare feet silent against the white floor, and metal arm rhythmically flexing and unclenching with a soft, mechanical hum. His head twitched even at the hiss of the vents, a low growl vibrating dangerously in his chest at 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.
At the next command—louder, sharper—he stilled for half a second, long enough for hope to painfully tighten your chest. Then, he turned abruptly toward the glass, eyes wild and unfocused searching not for authority, but for threat.
His vitals spiked again.
“Sedate him.” The handler ordered.
Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the console. “No.”
The word came out harsher than you intended.
You forced yourself to breathe, to think clinically. “If you sedate him now, you’ll exacerbate his fever.”
“What do you suggest then, Doctor?” Your title was laced with mockery.
You decided to ignore the umpteenth jab at your competence, swallowing as your eyes nervously flicked back to the glass.
“I need to go in.”
The room went quiet.
“That is not in accordance with the protocol.” He gritted out, earning himself a glare.
“I’m aware.” Your eyes didn’t waver as they met his.
Inside the containment room, the Soldier struck the glass without warning, causing the whole room to flinch. The punch was not hard enough to crack it, yet the impact furiously reverberated through the observation wing. His metal hand connected again, producing a deep, resonant thud. His breathing was louder now, ragged, bordering on a growl.
His heart rate surged past one-sixty.
“Doctor—”
“If I don’t intervene now,” you said quietly, “You’re going to have to deal with a full-scale breach in under two minutes.”
Although they hesitated, you didn’t wait for their permission.
The moment the door to 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-six. His breathing hitched, then slowed, unevenly at first, as if his body had recognized a familiar presence that his mind still struggled to place.
You took a step into the containment room and the Soldier froze—a machine stalling after a conflicting input.
His head slowly turned toward you, his gaze snapping to your face and holding, unblinking, as if everyone else had just disappeared.
His breathing was still edged with some unnamed strain, yet each inhale felt deeper than the last. Controlled in a way that seemed forced, like he was dragging himself back from the brim of madness by sheer instinct alone. The rigid line of his shoulders eased with it, almost imperceptibly, but your eyes noticed it at once.
The metal hand that had been clenched tight twitched, before fingers began uncurling one by one.
“Vitals stabilizing.” Someone murmured over the comms.
You ignored them and simply took another careful step forward.
“It’s alright.” You whispered, low enough that it wouldn’t carry past the barrier of reinforced glass. “You’re safe.”
You had no idea how much those words mattered to him.
His blown pupils tracked you with unnerving precision, following each movement of your body as if pulled by an invisible thread. He didn’t blink, nor looked away. It was the same way he watched you during examinations, through wound care, and in those long hours when you sat beside his cot and pretended not to notice how he would inconspicuously inch closer each time.
As if losing sight of you meant the world would pulverize below his feet.
You stopped far enough to not invade his personal space.
“Good.” You murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Just breathe with me.”
The monitors confirmed his compliance: 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 in silence.
“He didn’t respond to any of our commands.” One of them said under his breath.
You swallowed.
You knew it was only a matter of time before they would realize it.
You almost flinched when the Soldier took a deliberate step toward you, not aggressively. Every muscle in your body tightened anyway, instinct screaming at you to run and lock the door. But you didn’t back away. You had learned, painfully, that sudden motion broke whatever fragile equilibrium existed between you two.
He stopped close enough that you could not ignore the faint sheen of sweat along his temples, your eyes instantly catching the subtle tremor in his flesh hand that only appeared when he was overstimulated.
His eyes never left your face, though.
That’s when you gently lifted a hand, palm open. “Easy.”
His focus narrowed on the movement, his left hand uncertainly mimicking you, until cold metal met warm skin. The contact was light, but his pulse spiked anyway. Then, just as quickly, it settled.
“Heart rate down another ten.” Someone whispered.
You felt sick. Not because of him, but because of what this meant in their eyes.
They had suspected it before. Documented it in cautious, clinical language: the subject exhibited reduced agitation in the presence of primary medical staff. There was notable improvement in compliance during examinations conducted by you.
But what they mistook for obedience was nothing more than fixation.
And as the Winter Soldier stood in front of you—calm, silent, barely held together by your presence—you realized that whatever HYDRA had carved out of him, whatever they had taken away, they still couldn’t reach that deeply broken part of his mind 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 and his attention settled.
“Doctor,” the handler called slowly. “You may step back now.”
The Soldier’s head snapped up at the interfering noise.
His shoulders locked, palm pressing more insistently against yours. With his chest heaving quicker than normal, anyone could clearly see that his fragile control was splintering at the edges once again.
“If I step back,” you mumbled, keeping yourself still. “His vitals will spike again.”
No one answered.
Inside the containment room, the Soldier didn’t break contact with your hand—he just leaned closer to meet your eyes, enough that you could feel the rough, warm drag of his breathing tickling your nose. His posture was protective without being hostile, his formidable body subtly angled between you and the rest of the agents.
A warning to everyone else. A barrier between what had become his fixed point in the fog and the avid tide trying to take it away from him.
“Alright.” The handler sneered at last. “Maintain position.”
You briefly closed your eyes, allowing yourself a slow sigh of relief. When your eyelids fluttered open again, the Soldier was still watching you, his breathing unconsciously syncing to yours.
From that moment on, nothing was ever the same again.
The containment wing is quiet, the silence settling in around the fact that you’re the only one left. Everyone soon learned that lingering would only lead to more troubles.
The reinforced glass wall stands between you and the Soldier once again, thick enough to stop a tank and threaded with sensors that track every shift of his weight, every minute fluctuation in his vitals. You sit alone at the console, tablet tucked against your ribs and eyes flicking between the readouts and the man behind the barrier. The room is all white and steel, with fluorescent lights loudly buzzing overhead like insects burrowed in your skull.
He is standing today, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed, gaze fixed on you with unnerving intensity. You can’t hold it for long. Attention from him has always felt… dangerous. Like voluntarily stepping onto a frozen lake knowing it will inevitably 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.
Even without looking at the data, his posture tells you how bad the night was.
His heart rate is elevated—steady, yes, but high—and cortisol levels haven’t returned back to baseline since he was last put under. It’s clear that the serum is working overtime to compensate for something HYDRA refuses to name. Because the wound should have healed by now—a ballistic injury to the right side of the abdomen, deep enough to cause significant pain but not to damage any vital organ. Under normal circumstances, the serum would have closed it within two days. You have seen him regenerate from worse, his torn muscles and shattered bones reforming with brutal efficiency. Despite that, this time the tissue remains angrily inflamed, the sutures pulling tight instead of dissolving.
An asset that doesn’t heal is an asset that can fail.
So they caged him here, again.
“At least vitals are holding for now.” You mutter to yourself.
He doesn’t respond, but his head tilts as you speak, just slightly, as if orienting himself toward your voice. The monitors reflect the hitch in his breathing instantly, and that causes you to shift your weight uncomfortably, the chair creaking slightly under you.
His metal hand lifts, fingers flexing once against the glass, this time not striking it. Just touching, as if to claim the boundary. Your throat tightens at the sight, forcing yourself to move your eyes back on the medical charts.
You have been listed as essential personnel. Singular. The only one he allows near him. The only one he hasn’t tried to kill until now. All because of that fateful night, three months ago. He hadn’t calmed until you had shoved past the guards and coaxed him with your shaky voice and his palm against yours.
And HYDRA had taken note, as usual.
You keep staring at the same line for too long, until the numbers stop making sense and instead start looking more like indefinite shapes—meaningless, looping back on themselves. You drag a hand down your face and lean closer to the console, scrolling back up on your tablet, then down again, as if repetition might magically manifest a solution.
The serum markers now look like they’re fighting something.
Your fingers still, before you pull up a secondary panel to overlay two datasets, and your stomach drops.
Threaded through the Soldier’s bloodstream like a parasite is an unfamiliar compound, its elevated concentration persistent.
“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 and decided he doesn’t like it at all.
You glance up at him automatically. “Wait a second,” you’re already pushing back your chair. “Just—wait.”
His brow furrows in displeasure.
You step toward the door, loudly knocking on the metallic surface until the agent stationed outside opens the small view hatch, only his eyes visible to you. “Call Dr. Keller,” you say quickly. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
The guard hesitates for a mere second, before you hear him walk away.
In the meantime, behind you there’s a dull thump that pulls your attention back to the man caged there.
Your head snaps towards him, just in time to see the Soldier’s metal hand rest against the glass, but his fingers are now spread wide, pressing. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes fixed on you because you’ve drifted too far, out of his 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 by his side.
Dr. Keller arrives a few minutes later.
He’s older, silver-haired, immaculate in a way that suggests choice rather than coercion. His confident posture is that of a man who belongs here because he wants to.
Barely sparing the Asset a glance, he takes a small step into the room.
“What do you want?” He asks, already impatient.
You turn the tablet in his direction, yet he hardly looks at the screen. “This compound,” your finger taps the value. “It’s interfering with the serum. It shouldn’t be there at all. What is it?”
Keller squints at it, then his expression smooths in pure indifference.
“Oh. That.” He comments bored. “It’s CX-17.”
Your heartbeat quickens, something in your chest curling just wrong at the name. “And what exactly is CX-17?”
His hesitation lasts long enough for it to be intentional. “A behavioral catalyst. Part of Project Genesis.”
You squint at him in confusion. “Project what?”
Keller exhales through his nose, eyes rolling. “You weren’t cleared for the full scope, obviously. But I’m feeling generous today, since you clearly lack the intellectual capacity to reach any logical conclusion by yourself.” You grimace at his condescending tone.
“The serum alone is limited. Replication has been unsuccessful and subjects don’t survive long enough for meaningful results, so the Winter Soldier Program was suspended indefinitely.”
Your mouth dries. “What does that have to do with this compound?”
An annoyed huff falls from his lips. “The Asset remains the only viable template, therefore natural compatibility was… explored.”
The last word lands wrong.
“What do you mean ‘explored’?”
Keller’s eyes briefly flick toward the glass, then back to you. “Attempts were made to encourage reproductive behavior. He resisted. Violently. So the directive was adjusted accordingly.”
“You drugged him.” Horror dawns on your features, your voice nothing short of a whisper.
“We enhanced instinctual drives and suppressed inhibitions.” Keller snaps. “CX-17 was designed to lower resistance. It was a necessary step to secure the future of HYDRA.”
“No. You created an untested compound,” you start slowly, the words feeling like shards of glass on your tongue. “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.”
A sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “I am his doctor.” Your voice rises. “You weakened the serum and 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 as he takes a step forward. “Watch your tone, you little, insolent bitch.”
Your eyes harden, far from intimated as your shoulders straighten. “How dare you—”
A thunderous bang cuts you off.
The glass shudders as the Soldier slams his fist into it once. Twice. The sound is deafening up close. His breathing is irregular, shoulders rising and falling harshly as he regards you with eyes blown wide—fury, agitation, and something far less controlled flickering beneath it.
Your body instinctively faces him. “Soldier—”
Keller swears under his breath as he starts backing toward the door. “You seriously think you matter to that mutt?” He spits venomously. “You’re a variable, that’s all. And when you’ll stop being useful, he—”
Another blow. Harder enough for cracks to spiderweb the reinforced glass.
Keller pales. The sentence dies in his throat and with one last frown, he turns and quickly punches in the access code—the same one deliberately withheld from you, the person who knows this room and its equipment like the back of your hand—shouting for the guards as the door closes with finality behind him.
What a pathetic worm.
Behind the glass, the Soldier roars—raw and wordless—slamming both of his fists against the barrier, rage finally breaking free of whatever flimsy control he had clung onto until now.
The monitor spikes, prompting you to run towards the console, throwing the tablet somewhere nearby.
“Don’t—” You gasp, but it’s too late. His heart rate surges again 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 flying to your face.
You move closer to the glass, palm lifting slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a skittish wild animal that could either bolt or break.
“It’s me, see?” Your voice shakes, so you swallow around the lump of fear clogging your throat. “It’s only me in here.”
He wheezes once, as if his lungs forgot how to work properly, before his chest starts moving at a more normal pace. The fist lowers shakily, fingers uncurling as violence drains out in increments. At last, his forehead drops to rest against the glass with a tired, hollow thud.
Your palm meets the barrier, waiting for him to place his directly opposite to yours. “Good,” you whisper. “That’s it.” The monitors follow your lead.
You let out a long exhale at that point. Your startled reflection stares back at you, overlaid with his impassive face, so impossibly close. The proximity inevitably drags your mind back to a few weeks ago.
It was past midnight when a handler shoved him inside the medical bay, scornfully laughing. “All yours, Doctor. He didn’t move fast enough.”
The man left as fast as he came, the metal door locking behind him.
As your gaze returned to the still Soldier, you noticed a fresh, long cut sitting on his right forearm, the fabric of his tactical shirt ruined. Without thinking, your fingertips gently brushed the skin surrounding the wound, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
For the first time, his pupils dilated noticeably with something far from rage. You missed it entirely, too focused on retrieving some antiseptic, but he couldn’t take his eyes off your lips and the concern in your furrowed eyebrows as you asked him to sit on the cot.
He inhaled deeply at the way your fingers tenderly wrapped around his wrist as you started to clean the cut, overtaken by a sudden, primal impulse that his programming couldn’t contain. And then, as you were cutting some gauze, something small and almost absurd appeared from his gear: a crumpled, battered flower. Most of the petals were gone, leaving nothing more than the crumpled stem clutched carefully in his metal hand.
“Oh.” Your eyes blinked in surprise at the sad daisy. Your weight shifted uncomfortably under his expectant blue eyes, hungrily waiting for your reaction.
“Is this…” You spoke meekly. “For me?” A sharp, quick nod. “I uhm... t—thank you, Soldier.” You mumbled finally, gently taking the offered gift. “I… never got flowers.” A careless, mumbled afterthought, only meant for you.
The Soldier frowned as if you had just spoken in a foreign language, his brain not comprehending how a pretty woman like you had never received flowers. His fingers flexed where they rested uselessly on his thighs, visibly uncertain about his next move.
The corners of your lips lifted in a genuine, small smile, hands already reaching back for the gauze when the Soldier stood up with sharp precision, forcing you to look up at him with wide eyes as you tried to take a few steps back.
He was faster.
Towering over you as he leaned in, his lips caught yours in a clumsy, desperate kiss. His mouth moved frantically, taking advantage of your little, startled gasp to shove his eager tongue in your mouth as his hands impulsively reached for your waist, tugging you closer with possessive certainty. Like he needed to make sure you weren’t just a lovely figment of his abused brain.
You froze completely, feeling your heart slam painfully against your ribs. And yet, your body gradually turned pliant in his tight hold.
The kiss became more insistent, charged with urgent need.
You should have stopped him. Should have taken a step back and made a run for the door to shout for his handler to take him away.
But instead, your eyelids fluttered close and your lips tried to keep up with his desperation, one hand cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed his cheekbone. All the caution and the fear dissolved with a stolen, fragile human gesture, sweet in his awkwardness.
You tried to avoid it, you forbade yourself from picturing his handsome features during those cold nights spent alone in your cell. And yet, the more you were forced to take care of the Soldier, the more you grew used to his silent, insistent presence and his constant watch over you during long, lonely hours.
And he, in turn, started to crave your gentleness and the way your pretty eyes would glance up at him with poorly concealed trepidation.
In that moment, the world narrowed to the feel of his rough hands palming your curves and the faint taste of copper on his tongue. The crushed stem rested between your palm and his chest. Something fragile held against something unsteady, caught in hands too tight to tell the difference between keeping and breaking.
Mine, his eyes screamed when you finally pulled away.
Ownership.
And God help you—you let it happen.
The memory shatters as a shrill creak resounds sharply in the room. Your eyes fly to your left, where the Soldier had moved. His metal hand is wrapped around the reinforced handle of the door, plates whirring as he tests it—pulling, twisting, applying calculated force.
He wants out. He wants you.
“Hey,” you bark, your pulse ringing in your ears as you rush toward the console. “No, Soldier. Stop.”
His head turns just enough to meet your eyes. Then, his lips wrap around your name. Rough. Unused. The sound of it sends a chill down your spine.
“I’m here, I’m fine.” You babble. “You don’t need to come out.”
You can see the moment hesitation crosses his mind in the way his grip weakens for a mere second, before all hell breaks loose.
The Soldier 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, holding. His fingers curl and uncurl a couple of times, as if deciding how much strength to use. His shoulders begin to shake then, jaw locking hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind through the glass. His breath stutters out of him in short, broken growls, fogging the reinforced pane in front of his face.
“Please.” You beg, barely louder than a breath.
The word hits something already fractured.
His flesh 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 flow through the limited space of his veins.
His right arm joins the metal one.
A low, involuntary snarl claws out of his throat, and then he 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 that the frame bends, and 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 roar that dies abruptly when the slab of reinforced steel crashes to the floor, denting it. The alarms begin their wail, red lights strobing the room, yet he stands there unbothered, framed by ruin, with the broken door at his feet like a fallen shield. His chest rises and falls like he’s just surfaced from deep water, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides as his gaze finally flicks over you with quick efficiency—hands, throat, face—checking. Cataloging.
If it was someone else, they would have completely missed the subtle way his eyes soften, like tension easing from a drawn wire.
The room is now 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 when the Soldier takes a step closer.
Your legs don’t listen though, even if your mind supplies you with a thousand terrible endings per minute as he keeps moving stealthily. A predator relishing the sight of his wounded prey before finally indulging in his coveted feast.
At the very beginning, when his anger started pouring out wild and unrestrained, you thought that there would be a moment he’ll turn on you as well. That you were foolish to believe you were different.
Maybe that day has finally come.
The Soldier stops right in front of you. You can see the conflict still raging behind the blue in his eyes, where anger stays coiled tight, barely leashed. He smells like metal, antiseptic and something burned.
His flesh hand lifts, hesitating, then falls back to his side 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, wrapping his muscled arms around your waist to pull you into his chest. It’s sudden and fierce, but still controlled—tight without crushing, as if holding a fragile possession 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, delicately resting on his trembling shoulders. His body shudders at the contact. The storm inside his chest doesn’t dissolve completely, but it quiets, contained by the simple fact of having you in his arms.
Your eyes reluctantly close, an attempt to control your still racing pulse. Fear has braided tightly with a warmer sensation stirring in your belly, you realize horrifically. It’s not a secret that you have always been terrified of him, of what he could do if a wrong word dared to fall from your lips. And yet, here in his hold, standing in a room that resembles more a battlefield littered with steel and dust, you feel safe enough to breathe.
Once your cheek tentatively comes to rest against his chest, your focus narrows on his heartbeat.
It’s still too fast.
The sirens finally cut out one by one, as if even the system knows better than to challenge the Soldier right now.
Your fingers on his back twitch, instinctively curling in the snug fabric of his tactical shirt, before relaxing again. Your body feels divided—half screaming to pull away, half unwilling to test what might happen if you do.
His arms tighten, perceiving your sudden reluctance.
This is wrong, you think. This is all so wrong.
Project Genesis.
The letters keep pulsing behind your eyelids, nauseating in their simplicity. Creation. Beginning. Dr. Keller talked about it as if what they had done, what they had planned, was anything other than abuse dressed up in language that made men like him and Pierce feel important.
Your stomach twists violently.
You stood confused at this console for weeks... months. You obsessed over his vitals, adjusted dosages, charted reactions as you softly reassured him while the others kept barking orders. And all the while, something very specific had been running through his veins.
Something meant to break him.
“I didn’t know.” The words slip out without permission, thin and useless. Your vision blurs at once, tears welling too fast for dignity. You squeeze your eyes shut, but they spill anyway, hot and uncontrollable, soaking the fabric of his shirt.
“I didn’t know,” you sob. “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—that’s what you are.
Your shoulders begin to shake. Embarrassed, you attempt to hide yourself by curling inward, forehead pressing harder against his pec.
You should have pried more, should have seen it. You’re a doctor, yet you blindly accepted whatever ineffective explanation they fed you.
“I let them do this to you,” you choke. “I let them use you. I was there. I was right there.”
Each sharp, stinging 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 some hidden, trauma response.
Until there is a subtle shift.
His chin lowers, resting awkwardly on the top of your head, as if not entirely sure he’s doing it right.
“Stop.” The Soldier rasps out, lips briefly touching your temple.
You try, you really do, but the apologies keep flowing like a river in the middle of a storm, tangled and incoherent.
“I didn’t mean to—God, I didn’t—please believe me—”
“Not your fault.”
The words are blunt, stripped of any softness, but they land like a hand braced against your back meant to steady you.
You shake your head violently against his chest. “It is. It has to be. I was part of it, I was part of the—”
“No.”
No elaboration, no uncertainty.
A weak laugh emerges through the tears, not a single trace of humor in it.
“You don’t understand.”
His next exhale is sharp, tinged with barely contained frustration. One arm loosens enough around your waist for him to pull back, not to release you, but to face you without any obstacles that could make you doubt the meaning behind his words.
You never noticed how piercing his eyes are up close. Almost too aware.
“You didn’t hurt me. They did.” He continues solemnly. “You fixed my wounds. You talked to me... You stayed.”
“That’s not enough.” You sniffle, lips pressed tightly as they try to hold back an embarrassing sob.
“It is.” He answers at once.
You break again at that. A sound tears out of your chest, raw and forlorn as you throw yourself back into his arms, your face finding its refuge against his chest as your fingers curl around his forearms 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 whispers.
“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.”
A broken chuckle bubbles up, humorless. “Maybe I am.”
His arms tense around you. “Never.”
His voice is rough at the edges. “You’re different. Always were.”
Blinking up at him with your vision still swimming with tears, you swallow thickly. “How can you be so sure of that?”
The Soldier hesitates—a pause where language fails him, where concepts don’t line up neatly because of the constant wipings.
“You don’t look at me like… weapon.” He mumbles carefully, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows as they furrow pensively. “You don’t raise your voice. You always ask.”
Your chin trembles dangerously.
“You listen.” He adds. “And you’re kind.” He nods as if stating a fact. “And beautiful.”
The last word is quiet, almost uncertain.
It hits you like a physical blow to your ribs. You had not expected that, not now. The intimacy of it feels treacherous and precious all at once in such a fragile moment.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He confesses suddenly, tension creeping back into his shoulders. His grip tightens again, reflexively. “I didn’t want to… they were asleep.”
The information feels like a bucket of icy water being dumped on your head.
“They wanted me to touch them, and—and do...” The words come out shakily. You swallow thickly once you realize his eyes have never looked so haunted, staring somewhere past you, as if the memory had successfully sucked him back.
“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 as well, until they go completely dark, the automated voice in the corridor announcing containment failure cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence that presses in on your ringing ears.
His arms lock around your waist, metal and flesh equally unyielding, anchoring you back against his torso as his wobbly chin hovers near the crown of your head. Every passing second, his grip tightens imperceptibly, until you are struggling to breath properly.
That’s when you feel it.
The hard press of something against your belly.
Your eyes widen abruptly.
In a last, desperate attempt to put at least a little distance between the two of you, you press your unsteady palm on his right pec, pushing just slightly. The Soldier instantly goes rigid, eyes flicking down to frown at the contact.
“You need to let me go.” You breathe out shakily.
The words are careful, measured. The same way you spoke to him when you adjusted his restraints, or changed a dressing after a particular brutal mission.
“No.” He replies. A single syllable that feels like a final verdict.
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, just like his eyes on yours.
Finally, several footsteps echo somewhere far away, heavy and fast, causing you to perk up at the movement beyond the door—boots, murmured voices, the faint hiss of radios. Relief flares in your chest so intensely it makes you dizzy.
“They’re here.” You whisper, teeth biting the inside of your cheek to maintain your calm front.
His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt, just to remind.
“Stay.”
Then, the voices outside grow clearer.
“… Not worth it.”
“… You saw the damage on the glass...”
“… Calm now.”
Your breath hitches.
A familiar voice cuts through the thick metal door.
“Hold position,” one of the handlers barks. “No further advance.”
A pause.
“But sir—”
“He’s not agitated,” he grits out. “Vitals stabilized the moment she stepped in. You go in there, you change the equation and we are all dead.”
Another voice speaks up, 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 everything we need to know.”
Your blood turns to ice.
The handler goes on, cruel in his indifference. “She’s a variable, and variables are not meant to last.”
Your lips part but no sound comes out.
The Soldier’s grip shifts, pulling you impossibly closer, his body angling subtly between you and the door, as if protecting you from them.
“You’re safe.” He says.
The way his lips gently close around the lie has you shivering.
Your eyes are imploring as you weakly try to convince him again.
“I need to leave.”
The Soldier exhales sharply from his nostrils.
“No.”
Both of your palms lie against his chest, pushing, testing. “I have to—”
His arms squeeze once again your waist, this time with enough strength to trap you against his firm body without hurting you.
Ownership without chaos.
“Mine.” His voice repeats low, eyes glancing down at your lips with a glint dangerously close to panic. “Don’t go.”
The back of your eyes sting with fresh tears.
This is the breaking point you hadn’t let yourself imagine. The certainty of your fate seeps into your bones like cold—cruel and deep—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 its decision.
They had weighed your life against his compliance and found you expendable.
At that point, the fight slowly drains out of you as the truth takes root in your heart, the way your body finally sags in surrender in his arms being interpreted by his fractured mind as acceptance.
“They’re not coming. They won’t help,” you mumble. “Even if you hurt me.”
You almost regret letting those words in the open when the small twinkle of hope dancing in his eyes dims abruptly. You try to hide in dejection, but the Soldier won’t allow that. Carefully, he places a shaky finger under your chin, tenderly lifting it until you are facing him again. His gaze searches yours with disturbing intensity, scanning for distress, for injury... for something he refuses to acknowledge.
“Hurt?”
“No.” You sigh tiredly. You peek at him through your lashes with your lips trembling in fear as your next words come out in a hushed whisper. “But you could.”
Confusion dawns on his handsome face, 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. 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. Both his hands leave a trail of goosebumps as they slide from your hips to your wrists, thumbs pressed into the soft skin there, grounding himself.
“No.” He says with finality. Simple and honest.
His head leans down until his forehead finally meets yours. “I need you.” He repeats softly, as if that justified everything.
His breathing finally slows once he realizes you aren’t trying to pull away anymore. Your body turns pliant in his hold, hopeless and devoid of any belligerency as your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. Your nerves are stretched thin to the point of numbness, yet your mind keeps screaming at you that you should be terrified.
And you are, to a degree. Some part of you is acutely aware of the danger of being cuddled by a war criminal who could snap your spine with his pinky. The vivid sight of the door falling, the lethal efficiency of his movements, the violence he unleashed on anyone who wasn’t you... they are still too fresh.
But wrapped up in that fear is a feeling you tried to push down for weeks. Something... you should be ashamed of.
Safety.
The Soldier has never hurt you. Not once. Not with his hands, nor with his voice. Even in his worst moments, he always stopped when you spoke, always turned back to the sound of your voice like you were his beacon in the middle of a sea-storm.
You had told yourself, at first, that it was conditioning. Then you tried to convince yourself it had to be pity. How could you not feel for a man stripped of his name, his memories, his choices? Used and discarded by the same people who had stolen your life without an ounce of guilt. 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 whenever his eyes met yours; the strange, restrained grace in the way he moved when he wasn’t being weaponized.
Pity didn’t explain the way your body had responded to the kiss in the medical bay without thought.
You swallow around the lump in your throat.
Isolation and trauma pushed 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 carefully lift your head, truly pausing to study his face. The Soldier is observing you again, always watching, expression unreadable but focused, memorizing the shape of your eyes, and the curve of your lips... as if expecting for his handler to come and shake him awake.
He is beautiful—in a stark, broken way.
That frightens you as well.
Your eyelids flutter close, a lonely tear slipping free despite your best efforts to calm yourself.
Maybe you should have fought harder, screamed for help while he was still trying to break the door. You should have tried to run while you still could. But the ugly, inescapable truth is that the sole idea of being dragged back into HYDRA’s hands 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, owned, and reduced to functions. The only difference is that he is dangerous enough to be feared, and you aren’t worth even a spare glance. The Soldier is the only one who has ever made room for your humanity in this hell, 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 want to pursue this feeling. You know deep down in your guts that this bond is too fragile, built on circumstances that can shift without warning. One day, something might break, and you could be on the wrong side of it.
It’s only when his chest moves with a ragged breath that you notice the hard clench of his jaw. Your hand instantly reaches out to gently caress the tense muscle, yet your fingers still when the heat radiating off the solid wall of his chest becomes unbearably abnormal.
“What—” You whisper, the concern for him breaking through despite your despair. “What happened? It’s okay, you’re okay.”
His long locks tickle your skin as he tucks his chin, nose leisurely nuzzling the skin of your cheek, then tracing its way down to the slope of your neck. He stops right where your pulse thunders, inhaling your smell with a hungry grunt.
Your body locks the moment his tongue takes a slow lick of your skin, a moan vibrating in his ribcage at your taste.
It can’t be—
His metal hand moves before you can elaborate. Big, cold fingers curl bruisingly around your wrists, a yelp falling from your lips as he pins them flat to his chest. His other hand stays heavy on the curve of your waist, flexing and digging into your skin as you squirm without success.
“S—Soldier.” Your voice breaks. “I think—you need to let me go now and—and go back—”
You don’t get the chance to finish, because he is pushing you back against the console, firmly enough to convey who has the upper hand. He towers over you, pining you with his weight against the edge that digs painfully into your back.
“I need—” He groans against your throat.
Your desperate attempt to free yourself dies as his tongue invades your mouth. Your fists weakly thump against his chest, but his flesh hand grips your chin with tight precision, forcing you to relax into the animalistic kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lips. His metal arm is unyielding around your torso, keeping you nice and still as his hips jerk forward, humping your covered mound in search of some kind of relief.
“Please, help me, need you, only you please.” He quietly whines against your lips, a mess of spit connecting your lips as he pants in your open mouth.
“Wait—” 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.”
Your gasp is horrified, eyes going wide at the implication. “No!” You whisper-shout, petrified at the possibility of the agents potentially finding out and...
“Please, please, don’t make me do it!” Your vision soon turns blurry again, and your eyes are hurting so badly. You are so tired of crying. “I can’t—”
The Soldier pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazy eyes reminding you of the ocean abyss as they fall on your lips, lewdly tracing the bare length of your throat until they land on your cleavage, his mouth parted in awe. The possessive hand on your thigh has moved up in the meantime, squeezing the flesh of your ass, his hold turning harsher the more he loses himself in the soft swell of your breasts, until a pitiful whimper catches his attention.
“Soldier, please.” You sob out as tears earnestly fall down your cheeks, your chest caving in at the sight of him, too far gone to comprehend your words.
“I’ll make it feel better, I swear. Just—please, only want you, want you always.”
He fucks you silently, with a primal, desperate urge to possess you. His strength is barely restrained as you desperately cling onto his shoulders.
At first the Soldier can barely contain himself, narrowly missing your hole as his cock snuggles between your dripping folds. He pants into your mouth, forcing his lips on yours in a ravenous kiss as he indulges in the wet warmth that is your pussy. His hips frantically twitch against yours, dragging his length until it’s sufficiently coated in your slick.
Then, with a growl muffled against your mouth, he slides inside you with a harsh thrust.
You had fantasized about it before, in the dark—about how big he would be, how deliciously his cock could stretch you—until you realized where your mind had wandered, and promptly rolled onto your other side with a loud huff. As if that could be enough to chase those filthy thoughts away. Still, your mind could never prepare you for the fat, veiny girth that breached you after fighting off the compound-induced flames of sexual desire burning bright inside him for who knows how many weeks. There is no warning before his flushed tip catches on your hole; no patience in the way he forces himself inside you.
Your scream is stifled by your hand, your nails digging into the hard flesh of his flesh shoulder as his own groans are hidden against the slope of your neck.
“Mine.” He grunts in your ear, stubble rubbing your smooth skin raw. “Mine, only mine.” He insists, eyes wild and hips thrusting frantically.
You can barely form a coherent word, each thrust giving you the impression that the Soldier is trying his hardest to carve the shape of his cock into your body, over and over again. Sliding in and out so fast and hard his balls slap filthily against your asscheeks, his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping them open for him to use you like his favorite toy.
“Say it.” You cry out a moan once his lips devour yours, your mind traitorously conjuring the image of that clumsy, grumpy man trying to express how much he wanted you back in the med bay.
Your back arches forward when he goes back to lavish your neck with scorching bites and fervent licks, your head limply falling back as his fingers gracelessly move on your clit, rubbing and flicking in a confused yet eager circling motion.
“Say it.” He snarls again.
“Yours!” You sob. “Fuck! Only yours—only you.”
The sheer intensity of your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, causing you to cling precariously onto his broad shoulders. Your body squirms and clenches around him yet the Soldier never slows down. He continues to rut into you furiously, the sounds of his cock slamming into your wet pussy, thrusting without restraint, are obscene. His delirious half-smile conveys a twisted sense of satisfaction at making you come on his cock, proud that he is the only one that will ever make you scream and cry out of pleasure. Because now your body would fucking know who it belongs to.
Your mouth opens in a soundless scream as the Soldier loses himself in this sick, distorted fantasy, pushing you more firmly against that damn panel.
You mewl and pant and sniffle against your shoulder, sweaty and on the brink of exhaustion, when the little sparks of pleasure still lingering behind soon transform into an uncontrollable fire, until your body is twitching, hit by an even more intense climax. Your pussy squeezes him so tight the Soldier chokes on his own saliva, but you can’t stop spasming around his girth, sucking him deeper as your mind fractures.
You are left breathless, hands barely holding onto his back, and fuck, he needs to come now or you are going to pass out and you cannot allow that. Not when HYDRA could potentially be lingering outside, waiting for the perfect moment to swarm this place once the Soldier calms down.
Your mouth promptly finds his, your hands clutching his cheeks as you share a passionate, hot kiss that finally throws the Soldier over the edge, muffling his pitiful whines against your tongue.
His head spins when your hand shoots down, gently fondling his balls as you drag your lips down to suck on his neck, causing only more cum to spill out. A whimper falls from your lips as the thick fluid fills you unforgivingly, until it becomes too difficult to hold inside, pooling at the edges of your folds and dripping onto the once pristine floor. Your walls pulse with every throb of his cock as his thighs shake, warm ropes of cum still painting your insides relentlessly. A broken moan escapes him at the thought of finally leaving a part of himself in you.
By the time he has finished emptying himself in your pussy, your body is lying drained in his arms. The silence after stretches for a few more seconds, until the Soldier finally breaks it, his nose tracing the damp skin of your neck breathlessly.
“Mine.”
They don’t call it a reassignment.
They call it a logistical adjustment.
You find out while standing in a narrow administrative corridor that smells faintly of printed paper, from a handler who doesn’t even bother looking you in the eyes.
“Given recent containment failures,” she 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. His only doctor.”
“Yes.” She sighs annoyed. “But you are not always with him.”
The meaning settles like a brick in your throat.
“You’re moving me.” You state, horrified.
The handler finally glances up, eyes flat. “We are relocating you.”
Your stomach drops.
“To the same unit.” She 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?”
“You won’t.” She doesn’t even blink as her hand flips through the pages with boredom. “The subject becomes unmanageable without you. This arrangement minimizes risk to personnel and infrastructure.”
“What about risk to me?” You grit out.
She 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, silent. Past reinforced doors and biometric locks until you and the two agents reach a unit that feels less like a cell and more like a sealed habitat.
“He’s already inside.”
The door opens and you step in with a shaky exhale.
The room is quite large and anonymous, with padded walls, embedded sensors and a bed—reinforced, stripped of anything that could be turned into a weapon.
The Soldier is standing in the center of the room, motionless, as if he’s been waiting. He turns the moment the door screeches, eyes immediately locking onto you.
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 tentatively wander around the cell, taking in the absence of exits and the quiet hum of surveillance under every surface.
They reduced you to a sedative with a pulse.
You set your bag on the floor slowly, knees shaking a little as you slightly bend down.
“This doesn’t mean…” You start, but don’t even know how to finish that thought.
The Soldier observes you with that same quiet devotion, head tilted sideways and jaw unclenched. His fingers catch your wrist when your hand trembles too hard to hide.
“Stay.”
You sigh. “Yes.”
Understanding flickers, incomplete but earnest.
“Mine.”
That word should have terrified you. Instead, it wraps around the deep and aching pit in your stomach.
Your free hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. Up close, you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the scar along his cheek from his last mission that still hasn’t properly healed, because that damn compound is still roaring high and bright in his veins to allow the serum to act to its full potential.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t be afraid.” You add, voice barely above a whisper.
The Soldier has never been gentle with the world, but he made sure to carve a warm, comfortable place for you to exist outside of that brutality. And somehow, that terrifies you more than his violence ever has.
His fingers gently squeeze your flesh, slowly bringing your wrist to his lips, as if uncertain of how you would react.
“Mine.” He mumbles against your knuckles.
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.
Your shoulders sag with a dejected sigh, finally allowing your forehead to rest against his shoulder as the Soldier engulfs you in his arms.
Two prisoners, standing in the aftermath of a shattered boundary.
Outside, HYDRA recalibrates, adjusts protocols, writes new rules that reduce your existence to an item in a report.
Here, the Winter Soldier reverently watches over the only thing that has ever quieted the static noise in his head.
And you, caught between fear and comfort, between horror and something dangerously close to affection, come to the dreadful realization that this is not a rescue story.
This is containment.
And this time, you are on the inside.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
GODS, GORE & GROPING
cosmic entity!bucky barnes x human!reader [15.2k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; dark themes (I swear there is also comedy); it/its pronouns for bucky (the character is inspired by cthulhu); mention of gore, violence & death threats; angst; one (1) brief description of a nightmare; discussions about stress & anxiety; psychological horror elements; bickering (their dynamic is loosely inspired by eddie and venom in the movies); dark!bucky; overprotective!bucky; obsession; jealousy; possessive behavior; social exclusion; emotional dependency; unhealthy attachment; stalker-ish behavior; boundary violation; mourning; self-doubt; emotional withdrawal; denial as a coping mechanism; smut; mention of sex toys; monsterfucking; tentacle sex; pussy inspection; nipple play; restraints & gags; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; sort of mind break; creampie.
A/N: so, this is my ticket to hell. I posted this back in october as part of my halloween series trick or tease, which I will continue here. anyway, I wanted to give this one-shot an actual plot, so there have been some important changes since it was pretty much pwp before. disclaimer: this story contains monsterfucking, so please avoid sending weird inbox/comments (yes, it already happened). if you follow me, know that this is a recurring theme, as a matter of fact I already have two stories about orc!bucky. it's very simple: if you don't like it, don't read it. hope you'll enjoy 🖤
trick or tease masterlist
You love your apartment in a way that would probably sound ridiculous if you ever tried to explain it, because it’s not particularly beautiful, nor does it sit in some idealized neighborhood where everything feels arranged for aesthetic approval.
The building is old, long past charming. The pipes occasionally groan through the walls as though protesting against their own existence, and the floors remember every step, even when you try your best to be quiet. The kitchen is too small to ever feel fully practical, the bathroom is always slightly colder than the rest of the apartment no matter the season, and the elevator has broken down often enough that you have stopped trusting it entirely.
Objectively, there are better places to live.
And yet every evening, after a day spent among crowded sidewalks, half-finished conversations, and obligations that somehow leave you far more exhausted than they should, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen the moment the front door closes behind you.
Nobody interrupts you here. Nobody watches you with critical eyes. Nobody tries to dictate the way you exist. It’s just you.
Which is probably why you develop the habit of talking to yourself once you step inside.
It’s not something you ever decided to do, it simply followed you from earlier versions of your life. At first it was practical, a way of sorting out stress and untangling thoughts that felt too messy to leave trapped in your head, but over time it became part of who you are.
“Stark scheduled five meetings today.” You drop your keys on the counter. “New record.”
You kick off your shoes, already moving towards the fridge for some water.
“I swear he finds some sick pleasure in wasting everyone’s time.”
You never expect a response, of course, but carry on with the small rituals of the evening while the walls quietly absorb your voice.
Ultimately, you stop keeping tabs of how often it happens, because you talk while cooking, cleaning, and taking showers. You comment out loud while scrolling through your phone and revisit past conversations while folding laundry. Even when sitting on the couch at the end of a long day, you debate whether you’re too tired to start anything meaningful or too restless to do nothing at all, as if the pillows could answer back.
Still, there are moments—usually late at night—when the absence of another human being becomes harder to ignore. A small ache settles in your chest at the realization that entire days can pass without anyone else seeing them. Your thoughts, your victories, the countless insignificant moments that make up a life... all of them exist only inside your own memory.
The feeling never stays for long though: somewhere along the way, you just learned how to be content with your own company.
Most of your friends live hours away now, scattered across different cities and different lives, and trying to keep those connections alive feels mortifying when it becomes clear you’re not worth the effort.
Making new ones has never been any easier. Too many people seem worn down by disappointment, and retreating into themselves feels safer than risking another let-down. The rest treat every relationship like a negotiation, weighing what can be gained from it before deciding how much of themselves they are willing to offer.
So you fall back into your routine, and the apartment remains your favorite place, where you spend most of your time.
However, the feeling is not one-sided, because somewhere within the walls and foundations, something has begun, very slowly, to consider you a constant.
It has occupied the building for longer than any human memory can account for.
Long before you arrived. Long before the current structure of rooms and hallways. Not trapped within it, or bound in any conventional sense, but present like a memory inside a familiar object, woven through walls and doorframes and the quiet space between moments.
For centuries, humans were irrelevant.
They came and went, briefly altering the surface of things without ever touching what lay beneath. The Entity never thought of them as individuals, but as noise. Temporary disturbance that always faded back into silence.
Until you.
At first, you are nothing exceptional. Just another tenant. A fragile arrangement of blood and flesh moving through a structure that has already forgotten most of what it has held. You unpack and settle into your routines.
And then you start talking.
Constantly.
As though silence is something you have to keep at bay to stay sane.
And that’s what catches its attention. At first, it assumes you are speaking to someone outside its perception, but there is no other presence, no other voice.
Only you.
So it begins to assume the words are meant for the space itself, for the apartment as a whole—for the being that chose its shadows as a place to rest.
The conclusion is obvious.
You are talking to it.
The Entity initially listens passively. Your voice is just another sound among many, no more important than the groan of old pipes or the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows.
But as you keep talking, your voice stops blending into the background.
It learns your rhythms before it understands why they matter: the time you come home; the way your footsteps change depending on fatigue; the subtle differences between your frustrated sighs and your tired one. The melody of your happiness and the miserable sound of your sorrow.
The details gather one by one without purpose.
And somewhere along the way, it stops thinking of you as transient.
The first changes are small. A temperature fluctuation in your room settles earlier in the evening than it used to. A recurring fault in the elevator that keeps waking you up in the middle of the night doesn’t return. A light that hesitated before turning on now responds immediately.
None of it is noticeable enough to make you suspicious. Until the reason behind these adjustments changes drastically.
In its memory, humans have always approached beings like it through extremes.
They arrive trembling with desperation that melts into obsession, or rigid with fear that collapses into obedience. Their speech grows cautious, as though a single wrong word might invite disaster. Even when they pretend otherwise, there is always an ugly tilt beneath their requests: ambition, hunger, greed.
But you only fill rooms with thoughts that have nowhere else to go.
You complain about a man named Tony scheduling meetings throughout the day as though he has personal authority over the calendar. You debate dinner choices—usually pizza or sushi—because the outcome might alter your mood for the rest of the night. You spend an entire evening trying to figure out why a couple from your hometown broke up after everyone swore they’d end up married.
And throughout your little monologues, your voice never once bends toward reverence. It never tightens into fear.
And that becomes difficult to grasp.
Over time, those small routines become expected. And expectation creates its own kind of absence.
The first few times you leave for longer than usual, the apartment feels incomplete. Not empty, exactly, but quieter. The space remains the same, yet something about it feels wrong without you.
The conclusion it reaches is simple: if you are choosing to spend more time elsewhere, then the apartment must be failing you in some way. From that point on, every imperfection becomes unacceptable, and small inconsistencies are often corrected before they even have the chance to become problems at all.
Since you are completely unaware that something has started arranging the world around you, the changes continue without question.
You keep talking the way you always do, filling the apartment with things that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but not to the creature listening. You never thank it. Never ask for anything specific, or demand more. You simply exist inside a space that now quietly takes care of itself according to your comfort.
The simplicity of that still confuses it. The Entity has been worshipped before, feared, sought out for power... But no one has ever treated it like part of their daily life. Like an equal.
Your voice is familiar and reliable as you become its Polaris, the fixed point by which the rest of the world is measured.
The Entity has never concerned itself with anything beyond its own existence, most things are allowed to fade.
Anything connected to you is not.
When you come back that evening, something is different.
You move through your usual routine after stepping inside, loosening your shoulders and mumbling softly under your breath. Yet there is something unfamiliar that clings to the edges of your presence. It doesn’t belong to the apartment, and because of that, it draws its curiosity at once.
Humans carry traces of the outside world with them all the time: scents, particles, remnants of places and people. Most disappear quickly enough to be forgotten.
But this one doesn’t leave. It stays attached to you in a way that makes it hard to dismiss, fixed on a specific point of contact. Still, you hang up your coat, set down your bag, and slip off your heels with a relieved sigh. There is no hesitation in your movements.
Something outside its space touched you and was allowed to settle. And it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.
That unpleasant realization manifests like the first thunder announcing an imminent storm.
The air changes, pressure building ominously through the room enough to alter the flow of oxygen.
You notice it a few seconds later, your breathing feeling slightly more restricted, your chest tightening in a way that is easy to misread as fatigue from the day. You pause, one hand briefly touching your chest as if checking whether something inside your body isn’t working properly.
Frowning in confusion, you glance around the apartment before sprinting to the window to push it open, letting the crisp night air spill inside.
The suffocating feeling eases a little, but the Entity’s rage doesn’t.
The air turns clammy enough to make your skin prickle. Out of the corner of your eye, the shadows along the edges of the room grow longer, creeping farther than they should. The impression vanishes as soon as your head makes a sharp turn toward the wall, leaving you with a kind of discomfort that will haunt your sleep for the rest of the night.
You were still its when you left this space, but something else got close enough to interfere with that.
Whatever that presence was, it shouldn’t have been near you at all.
The changes start revealing themselves later, in moments that seem insignificant at the time.
You take a shower every morning—it automatically folds into your routine without much attention, the same way you sit on the edge of the bed with a towel around your body and half-awake eyes, letting the day assemble itself around you in slow pieces.
You turn on the tap and let the water warm up while you brush your teeth and check your phone. Sometimes you even have time to tidy up your room a little.
But one day you find yourself rinsing your face while the mirror is already beginning to fog. You dismiss it as temporary luck and keep going through the same motions the next day.
And still, it keeps happening.
A few days later, you’re standing in your bedroom half-dressed and with an unexpected ten extra minutes before work, trying and failing to understand where they came from.
Other weird things follow, like the bedroom door no longer sticking when it’s too humid. Then, the kitchen cabinet that always needed an extra push starts closing smoothly, and the draft from the living room window stops bothering you entirely.
There is an accumulation of small inconsistencies that leaves you with the subtle impression that the apartment and your recollection of it are no longer perfectly aligned, to the point that you start wondering if the problem is you.
Maybe you’re becoming forgetful, distracted... The thought never settles into genuine panic, but it lingers just long enough to leave a sour taste behind.
A quiet Friday night finds you stretched on the couch with the television murmuring in the background, when an email from Tony lands in your inbox. It marks yet another round of revisions of your presentation despite the fact that this is already the fourth time you have edited it.
For a moment you simply stare deadpan at the screen, the frustration that has been building all week finally manifesting with a sharp exhale.
“For fuck’s sake, Tony.”
“I could ensure he never troubles you again.”
The voice comes so quickly after your words that your brain just accepts it without question. Then, your limbs still at once at the realization. Slowly, you lift your head and look around the apartment.
The television still works. The kitchen is empty. The hallway is exactly where it should be.
You frown at it for another moment before forcing yourself to exhale.
Stress.
You imagined it.
Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the show.
“Well?”
This time you sit up abruptly, confusion sharpening into alarm.
“What the fuck?” You mumble, because whatever fragile explanation you were building in your head collapses at once.
You nearly trip over your own feet as you scramble to stand, your heart hammering against your ribs while your gaze darts frantically around the open space.
“Is someone here?”
There is a pause before the voice answers—calm, almost unaffected by your agitation.
“I am not visible at the moment.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“What does that even mean?”
“I am in the shadows,” it continues. “I am everywhere.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it comes out strangled.
“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Sure.”
You quickly check the hallway and then turn back again, trying to locate any possible source that could explain the voice seemingly coming from the inside of the apartment. When you can’t find anything out of the ordinary, your body instantly angles towards the couch, one of your arms already stretched out to get your phone and call someone.
Police. Your neighbor. Anyone...
But your fingers barely brush the object before it slides out of reach.
You freeze.
“No.” You whisper, because now your brain is splitting between panic and denial.
You glance at the device like it has personally betrayed you.
“This is insane,” you say, unconsciously backing up, your chest heaving dangerously fast. “This is fucking insane.”
“He can be removed.” The voice states with confidence.
You shake your head sharply.
“What does that even mean? And what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
“I have been here for a long time.”
“What?” Your stomach tightens as you take another step back, shaking your head again like that will be enough to reset reality.
“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the police.” You threaten more firmly this time, even if the trembling in your voice refuses to fade.
The air shifts at once, suffocating in its heaviness.
“Do not dare to call me an intruder.”
Until now, despite everything, some stubborn part of your brain had been trying to force this situation into a shape that made sense—a prank, a squatter, even a neighbor with far too much free time.
Something explainable.
Human.
“I have always been here.”
The words settle like a boulder on your chest.
A chill crawls down your spine.
Nothing around you changes: the walls are still standing, the lights are still on, and the floor is not splitting open beneath your feet. Yet your attention is obsessing over every neglected corner. On the narrow seam where two walls meet. On the vent above the kitchen doorway. On the faint cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.
Places you have never paid attention to before.
Places that now feel claimed.
You have lived here for years, slept, eaten, cried... Spent entire weekends doing absolutely nothing. And the thought that something might have been present through all of it sends a fresh wave of nausea through your body.
That’s enough for you to notice the change in your breathing. Each raise of your chest feels slightly shallower than the last, your lungs stinging as they instinctively prepare for a danger your eyes cannot see.
“Reality parts for me. I have drifted through the birth of galaxies, swallowed storms of time, watched empires swell and rot. Your world? An insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe. Your species? Flimsier than smoke. You puny humans only know how to crawl from the mud to devour each other over shallow trinkets and territory.”
You swallow thickly, flinching hard as your back brushes against the wall close to the front door.
You don’t even remember moving.
“Okay,” you mumble, your voice still uneven. “Someone’s a little too full of themself.”
A thunderous roar crashes through your skull, pain exploding behind your eyes so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges.
A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you double over, your body folding in on itself before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your head, fingers digging into the skin of your temples as your eyes squeeze shut against the pounding agony.
“I only speak the truth. I am eternal, and your defiance is inconvenient. Remember, human: if I wish to, I could bend you into nothingness before your heart finishes its next beat.”
The temperature of the room drops below zero. Biting cold wraps around you so viciously that it feels as though warmth has been erased from existence.
A violent shiver runs through you, and your arms promptly wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to make yourself smaller, safer, somehow less exposed to its wrath.
The threat itself should sound ridiculous, the sort of thing a comic book villain would say before getting punched through a building. Yet what’s frightening is the certainty burning beneath its voice.
An uncomfortable, deafening silence settles over the room, before the voice comes back quieter—almost timid.
“I have frightened you.” It sighs wearily. “Your fear is bitter. Forgive me. I often forget how small your hearts are, how fragile your existence can be.”
The cold begins to retreat, slowly loosening its grip on your body until you can feel your fingers again. The pressure squeezing your throat eases with it, and you quickly draw in a breath, gasping as if you have been forced under water.
You don’t answer. Instead your eyes close briefly, and inside your head you keep repeating that this is only a dream.
It has to be.
Dreams can be terrifying.
Dreams can feel real.
Dreams can make absolutely no sense whatsoever.
“I apologize. I am not used to... converse with humans.”
The explanation is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Sure, people do that too. They make themselves louder and hostile, more intimidating. They show their teeth because they are afraid to get bitten first.
But it’s difficult to be terrified of something while simultaneously understanding it.
“I would not harm another being, unless strictly necessary. Like Tony.”
There is a beat of silence after that, the kind that feels like waiting for a clarification.
Your eyelids slowly flutter open.
“Tony?” Your brows furrow in confusion.
“Yes.”
Your stomach drops. “I—Tony is my boss.”
“I am aware.”
That answer does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. Still, a weak, tired chuckle falls from your lips, the sound still sitting on the edge of disbelief.
“Well,” your voice wavers. “Next time you want to show off, try to be a little less... intense.”
There is a pause that lasts just long enough to feel like the conversation might actually end there.
“I will…” It rumbles. “Little star.”
You blink.
For a moment you genuinely wonder whether you heard it correctly. Of all the things it could have said, that had not even crossed your mind as a possibility.
“What?” You ask uncertainly.
“You are smaller than me,” it starts calmly. “And you shine the brightest when surrounded by darkness.”
The words hit you like a punch in the stomach, because that name feels like it was always meant for you—like this weird creature has spent some unknowable amount of time observing the universe until it reached the conclusion that you deserved your own little place inside it.
“And so you just… decided to call me that?” You say slowly, staring blankly at the wall.
“Yes.”
The answer arrives with complete confidence.
Your eyes scan the space again: the walls are still up, the furniture remains exactly where you left it, the front door is only a few feet away if you decide to make a run for it. However, now they all sit beside the crushing knowledge that you have never been truly alone in what you considered your safe haven.
And yet, despite the trembling in your hands and the excruciating headache, the apartment has never felt this warm.
After that night, the voice doesn’t appear on a schedule you can trace, and it doesn’t behave like something that interrupts your life so much as something that exists alongside you, its presence filling the apartment as naturally as sunlight through an open window.
Eventually you resign yourself to the fact that if this is real, then it has always been real. The Entity has existed beyond the edges of your perception all along, tucked into the shadows while you moved through your life unaware.
You are not discovering something new. You are simply learning how to share your home with a creature whose ego is, unfortunately, backed by evidence.
Strangely, that realization no longer feels like you’re losing your sanity. Every appearance still sends a jolt through you though, even when you start anticipating it. The jolts finally become sighs, the sighs fade into pauses... And then, somehow, they turn into full conversations.
“Allow me to intervene.”
The words emerge from nowhere and everywhere at once, threading through the sound of running water.
Your reaction is calmer than it would have been a month ago.
Pausing with a glass still slippery beneath layers of soap, you glance at the counter.
A deep exhale escapes your nose. “That’s not what I meant when I said Pierce should stop being an asshole.”
The silence that follows feels thoughtful.
“He deserves it.”
The certainty in its tone immediately tells you that this conversation is going to leave you with a migraine.
You slowly set the glass aside and reach for another.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He repeatedly enters the apartments without warning despite causing distress to their occupants. He ignores maintenance requests. He raises the rent while refusing to fix anything. He is unpleasant.” It growls at last.
You stare at the sink deadpan, because the worst part is that none of those observations are technically wrong.
“You still don’t get to decide what happens to my landlord.”
“You have developed a habit of assuming the worst about me, little star.” The response almost sounds offended.
“Last week you wanted to fold the mail carrier into another dimension because he bent one of my packages.”
“He damaged your property.”
“He dropped it because he nearly tripped carrying three other boxes.” You remark tiredly.
“Then he accepted more than he was capable of transporting!” It snaps.
Your eyes close, and for a moment you simply stand there with your hands submerged in warm water, wondering whether anyone else in human history has ever had to explain proportional responses to a cosmic entity living inside their apartment walls.
“You can’t solve everything with violence.”
“At least my ways are effective.”
The tone is so childish that something dangerously close to a laugh threatens to escape you. You barely suppress it, unwilling to give the Entity the satisfaction.
The last thing you want is to encourage it.
“You’re missing the point.” You sigh.
“And your landlord is disruptive.” It retorts, returning to the original topic with persistence. “I remove disruption.”
A month ago, that statement would have sent ice flooding through your veins, now it makes you tired. Concerned, certainly; still mildly horrified. But mostly tired.
You noticed pretty quickly that the creature inhabiting the darkness has apparently divided existence into two simple categories: things that bring you comfort, and things that do not.
And whenever something falls into the second category, it immediately begins offering solutions.
Usually terrible ones.
You still can’t fully comprehend what it is and what it wants from you, yet you don’t reject it anymore, choosing instead to adjust yourself around it the same way people learn to coexist with eccentric roommates, noisy plumbing, or old neighbors with weird habits. But speaking more carefully than you used to has become necessary. Not because you are afraid of being overheard—you passed that stage weeks ago—but because the Entity is always listening, hungrily waiting for the slightest excuse to make itself useful.
The first time you muttered that a coworker was making you want to disappear, it was so concerned that it spent thirty minutes trying to understand whether your desire to “cease existing” was literal. Then you made the mistake of joking about your neighbor’s barking dog, and it calmly informed you that silence could be arranged...
Spending hours explaining hyperbole to a being older than galaxies had not gone particularly well, so now you think twice before speaking. You also avoid idle threats and clarify complains before they can be interpreted as instructions.
In addition to not knowing how human language works, it becomes clear that the Entity also doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Or perhaps it understands it perfectly well and simply sees no reason to respect it.
You are still trying to determine which possibility is worse.
Thursday has been peaceful so far. Tony hasn’t started any new scandal that requires damage control, and Pierce hasn’t called asking for more money to deal with the umpteenth gas leak.
Yet by the time you finally make it home, exhaustion sits heavily in your muscles—the kind that accumulates steadily over hours spent hunched over a desk, attending meetings that should not exist and dealing with your boss’ particular talent for creating problems out of nothing.
The apartment is quiet when you step inside.
After abandoning your heels somewhere near the entrance, you drag yourself to the bedroom with the same determination of someone whose social battery has been completely annihilated. All you want is to change into something comfortable, eat whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare, and spend the rest of the evening watching some trashy reality show.
The peaceful silence follows you as you set your bag on the floor and begin pulling your blouse over your head.
“This level of exhaustion is unacceptable.”
A startled yelp escapes your lips as you jerk backwards, immediately yanking the blouse back down.
For one humiliating moment, you are left standing in the middle of the room, tangled in fabric.
“Jesus Christ.” Your hand presses against your sternum.
The apartment remains perfectly calm.
“You scared me.”
“I did not intend to.”
“Yeah, I know.” You let out a weary sigh. “You never intend to.”
Finally pulling the blouse off, you throw it toward the laundry basket with significantly more force than necessary.
The Entity says nothing for what feels like forever, so your eyes narrow at a random corner.
“Were you just... watching me?”
The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably.
“You returned home forty-three minutes later than usual. You removed your shoes after entering, yet consumed no food despite having done so at the same time during the last three days. And your shoulders have remained incredibly tense since you arrived.”
You promptly let them relax, suddenly self-conscious of your posture.
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was.” The creature sounds genuinely puzzled. “You asked whether I was observing you.”
Technically, that’s a logical answer, but it doesn’t make having a pair of monstrous eyes tracking your every movement with unwavering attention any less unsettling.
“You really keep track of all that?” You eventually ask, almost shyly.
“My attention is always upon you.”
The response arrives with such simple certainty that it makes the next words die on your tongue, leaving you frozen in the middle of your bedroom.
This thing has existed for an amount of time you cannot begin to comprehend. It notices things. It remembers things. It pays attention in a way that humans generally do not. And the reminder sends a strange heat crawling beneath your skin.
Suddenly, you are being hit with a feeling of disquiet at being so exposed.
“He should not be allowed to exhaust you like this.”
“No.” It falls from your lips before the conversation can continue.
“No?”
“No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”
“You cannot know what I am thinking.”
“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with taking care of Tony?” You mock its gravelly voice.
Another pause.
“You know me so well.” It sounds almost pleased.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you rub a hand over your face.
“Please, stop trying to find a reason to kill my boss.”
“I was not offering to kill him.”
Relief immediately floods your chest.
“Oh.” You tilt your head, positively surprised.
Maybe all those evenings spent teaching the Entity how to behave more like a human and less like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are finally paying off.
“I would only harm him.”
Your face falls instantly.
“God, can you just stop talking?”
“It is significantly better.”
“No.”
“It is objectively better.”
You let out a long groan, covering your face with both hands.
“Why do you always bring him up?”
“I was simply stating an observation.”
You scoff, removing your jewelry with far more energy than the action itself requires. “You always make observations right before suggesting violence.”
“I do not always suggest violence.”
The statement is delivered with enough dignity that you almost believe it.
“You suggested throwing an officer into the ocean because he gave me a ticket.”
“He was incorrect.”
Your eyes close in irritation. “You suggested relocating my upstairs neighbor because she vacuumed once at six in the morning.”
“Sunday is the only day you are permitted to sleep in.”
“You spent three days trying to convince me my internet provider is a hostile entity.” Your voice gradually rises, and the apartment slips into complete silence.
“Little star,” the Entity starts slowly. “The service they provide is unacceptable.”
You curse the day you decided to explain how technology and the internet work to this relentless, stubborn creature.
“That’s not the point.” You say through clenched teeth.
The room grows quiet again and you know it is genuinely attempting to understand something that refuses to fit within its understanding of reality.
When it speaks again, the question sounds sincere.
“Why is Tony different?”
You let your head fall back with a sigh.
As much as its insistence and anger management issues drive you insane, you always need to remind yourself it is truly interested in how your mind works.
“He isn’t different,” the words are no louder than a murmur, your body sagging slightly as irritation drains away. “People are just allowed to be annoying. That’s part of the human experience.”
You can practically feel the disagreement radiating off the walls.
“That seems inefficient.” It frets.
A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, still low but entirely genuine.
“Maybe it is.” You shrug.
“You dedicate a surprising degree of creativity to insulting him.”
“Because he frustrates me.”
“He makes you unhappy.”
“Hm, sometimes.” You nod.
“He increases your stress.”
“Yes.”
“You dread interacting with him.”
You hesitate for a second. “Well, only when he sends me to drag angry women out of his penthouse at nine in the morning.”
“Then I fail to understand why removing the problem is unacceptable.”
There it is—the same impossible logic it always returns to.
Everything else stops mattering the moment it involves you, so when something upsets you, it should be immediately addressed. The conclusion is predictable by now: anything causing you discomfort simply shouldn’t be allowed to continue existing. That’s the entire structure of its reasoning, there is no room for improvement or compromise.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks.
Then, very carefully, as though explaining something to a particularly intelligent but catastrophically misguided dog, “Harming my boss won’t fix my anxiety. And you really need to stop with the whole splitting people into categories based on whether they annoy me or not.”
The silence lingers, but you have learned enough about the creature by now to recognize when it is really considering your words.
“There are additional categories?”
This time you cannot help it—you burst out laughing, the sound brightening the room, loud and alive.
“Yes, you silly creature.” You breathe out, still smiling. “There are additional categories.”
Somewhere within the walls, the Entity appears to spend the rest of the night reevaluating its understanding of interpersonal conflict. You are not entirely sure the lesson will stick. Still, it feels like progress.
When your eyes snap open, the frantic pounding of your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. You find yourself disoriented, small but stubborn fragments of the nightmare still clinging to you.
There was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, doors opening one after another into empty darkness, and the overwhelming certainty that something was following just out of sight. The details fade almost immediately, but the fear lingers heavy in your chest.
“You are not alone.”
The rumbling voice cuts through the eerie silence out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.
Your body goes completely still as for one awful second, fantasy and reality blur together. Then, fear shifts into exasperation so quickly it makes you faintly nauseous.
“It was a dream.” You whisper to yourself, pressing a hand over your eyes.
“Yes.” The answer comes immediately.
You let out a long breath, instinctively reaching for the lamp on your nightstand. Light has always helped after bad dreams. It gives your eyes something solid to land on so you can breathe a little easier; something ordinary enough to remind you that whatever was haunting you belonged to the deepest pits of your unconsciousness.
Before your fingers can touch the switch though, the temperature in the room drops slightly and the lamp clicks on by itself. You stare at it blankly, before glancing up at the ceiling.
“Have you been in my bedroom this whole time?”
When the answer arrives, it carries a note of confusion.
“I am always with you.”
You instinctively pull the sheets closer around yourself.
“Hm, not really comforting.”
“I simply illuminated the room.”
“That’s not what I was talking about.” The words come out feebly, as though they were meant just for you.
The pensive silence that follows suggests it is trying to work out what you meant anyway. Eventually, it steers the conversation towards something it deems far more important than your discomfort at its incessant hovering.
“You were in distress.”
A chill crawls across your skin despite the warmth of the blankets.
“It was just a dream.” You dismiss as your eyes drop to your quilt.
“You have experienced similar dreams repeatedly.”
“What do you mean repeatedly?” You instantly look up.
“You have experienced seven variations of the same fear pattern within the last month.”
You frown at the wall in front of you.
“You remember them all?”
“Of course.”
You are not entirely sure what unsettles you more: the fact that the Entity has somehow found its way into your dreams, or the fact that it has categorized them so analytically.
“It was a nightmare.” You swallow eventually.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have to do anything about it.”
“I disagree.”
Of course it does.
You rub your eyes in exhaustion. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while.”
“You are not everyone. I do not care about everyone.” The word is thrown out in disgust. “And you were terrified, that’s enough for me to intervene.”
Your head falls back against the headrest with a dull noise. “It wasn’t real.”
“It still scared you.” It insists.
The simple logic behind its reasoning is incredibly annoying, because there is no easy way to argue with it. The distinction between reality and dreams seems irrelevant to a higher entity—fear is still fear.
“What was chasing you?”
You immediately regret answering any questions at all, hoping that lying on your side will implicitly communicate the conversation is over.
“Nothing.”
“What was behind the door?”
“Nothing.”
“Your heartbeat was dangerously fast when you remembered.”
You pull the blanket higher and settle deeper into the mattress, ready to ignore it.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
The response is so quick your eyelids flutter open again.
The Entity releases a sigh. “You return home exhausted. You experience distress during sleep, and it lingers long after you wake up. I do not understand why you insist these things are insignificant.”
The sincerity behind its words makes it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.
You know it’s not asking out of mere curiosity, or to eventually use your own fears against you for some hidden purpose. It genuinely cares about you, but not in any way that gives you space from it. Its attention doesn’t arrive and withdraw; it persists, clinging to you with a kind of obsessive inevitability. It feels less like being observed and more like being suffocated—a desperate grip around your throat that won’t loosen even when you need oxygen.
That attention has begun to register as pressure inside your nervous system, a second current running beneath your own reactions. As though it is already anticipating where you will move, what you will feel, what will unsettle you... and meeting you halfway.
Under the apparent reverence lies something far more obstinate: a deep, unwavering hunger to possess you. It craves to reach past what you can recognize as yourself, following you beneath language, control, and into the parts of you where emotion arises before it becomes yours to name—until even the boundary between what you truly feel and what you want to show is blurred.
“Because not everything needs to be fixed.” You ultimately sigh.
“Why?”
Your eyes close in resignation at the question that the Entity keeps asking since manifesting itself to you. It sounds so plain and obvious until you try to look for an answer that actually makes sense, devoid of useless excuses.
“Because sometimes people are just tired, and that can cause bad dreams. It’s called stress and it’s normal.”
The quiet that follows stretches long enough that you hope the conversation has finally reached an end.
“What was behind the door?”
You let out a groan. “Jesus Christ.”
“Little star—”
“Goodnight.” You exclaim loudly enough to cut directly across whatever question was coming next.
Several seconds pass and your body gradually melts against the mattress, your chest finally deflating with a relieved sigh.
“Goodnight.”
A pause follows.
“I am always here. You may inform me if the dream returns.”
You bury your face deeper into the pillow.
“I won’t.” It comes out muffled.
“I would still like to know.”
You gesture blindly toward the ceiling.
“Goodnight.”
The lamp switches itself off.
Several days pass after the nightmare conversation without incident, which should probably be reassuring. Instead, it leaves you vaguely suspicious, because you have already learned that silence doesn’t necessarily mean absence. More often than not, it simply means the Entity has decided to not comment on whatever it is currently observing.
You are cooking dinner when it manifests. Or well, attempting to cook dinner, which is definitely not the same thing. The recipe is open on your phone, and the ingredients are technically correct. Whether the final result will be edible remains to be seen.
The water has finally begun to boil and you are standing in front of the stove trying to remember whether the smoked salmon goes in before or after the tomato sauce, when the familiar baritone drifts through the kitchen as if commenting on the weather.
“You should not consume that.” It throws off-handedly.
You stop stirring altogether, your eyes still fixed on the sauce before slowly turning to the empty kitchen.
“What?”
“The nutritional value is poor.”
You can only blink. Being criticized by an ancient being for your dinner choices... Not everyone gets to put that on their résumé.
“You don’t even eat.”
“Correct.”
“Then how do you know what’s good for me?” You squint accusingly.
“I have observed your species.”
The spoon returns to the pan and you continue stirring, determined to not encourage it. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working after the third day.
“You consume insufficient vegetables.”
A sigh escapes you. “Stop.”
“It is the truth.”
“We’re not having this discussion now.”
“You purchased zucchini and carrots three days ago and have yet to consume them.”
Your wrist stills. Scarily slowly, you lower the utensil onto the spoon rest, and look at the wall with challenge burning hot in your eyes.
“You know what’s concerning about that sentence?” You cross your arms to your chest.
“The fact that you know when I bought them.”
“You not consuming the vegetables.” It speaks over you.
“Oh my God,” you snap as you sharply turn toward the empty kitchen. “Are you my roommate and nutritionist now?”
Silence follows, and you hope it has finally run out of opinions.
“Roommate is… acceptable classification.”
You freeze at its reply, because it suddenly dawns on you the mistake you just made. You decide to play it cool though, and turn back to the pan to resume stirring, your movements now a little more sluggish than before.
“That wasn’t an invitation, by the way.” You clear your throat awkwardly after a while.
No response comes. At least, not verbally. The flame beneath the pan flares a little higher before settling again, not enough to affect the cooking but just enough to feel deliberate.
You frown at it, annoyed at the fact that this Lord of the Darkness-wannabe officially considers itself a member of the household now, and you are the only one to blame for that.
“You should also sleep more.”
Your shoulders slump in defeat.
The conversation had been going so well.
“I sleep plenty.” You argue.
“You averaged five hours and forty-one minutes over the last seven days.”
The spoon nearly slips from your hand.
“Can you stop tracking my sleeping habits?” Your voice drips with indignation.
“You are tired.” It retorts at once. “Tired humans make poorer dietary decisions.”
“Who isn’t in this day and age?”
“Well, you are more tired than most people.” It barks back, agitated.
You are beginning to suspect that the Entity’s only hobby is monitoring your wellbeing with a level of dedication that borders on the absurd—and absolutely no sense of when to mind its own business.
Maybe you should introduce it to birdwatching next.
It becomes obvious that it also reacts to the people surrounding you. Not in anything you could immediately point to as proof, but small inconveniences cluster around certain names, voices, intrusions that are not physically present in the apartment and yet somehow seem to have been catalogued all the same.
At first you tell yourself it must be a series of coincidences.
A delayed train to go back home for Thanksgiving, forcing you to text your family that you won’t make it. A rooftop bar reservation that gets cancelled just as you’re getting ready to leave—the kind of place you were going to with old friends who insisted it was “important to catch up properly.” Plans with people you actually like quietly unraveling at the edges, and conversations turning into vague reschedules that never settle into anything concrete, leaving your evenings empty at home.
The pattern becomes harder to ignore.
You finally connect the dots thanks to Steve.
You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, nothing serious yet, though that feels less and less accurate when your evenings keep turning into phone calls that stretch far longer than either of you originally intended.
It’s late in the afternoon and you are talking to him while tidying the living room, the conversation drifting effortlessly as you gradually stop dusting and end up leaning against the couch, your cheeks hurting from how much you have been smiling.
Dating comes easy with someone as sweet and kind as Steve. You always feel a little lighter after spending time with him.
Perhaps that’s why he becomes an obstacle to remove.
“... and then she told me I should apologize to her cat.”
You chuckle. “What? Why?”
“Apparently me stating I have a dog offended him.”
After your laugh fades, your mouth parts to answer with a story of your own about disastrous first dates, when the call abruptly ends.
It doesn’t crackle, it simply cuts off. One moment Steve is speaking, the next there is silence.
You check the screen with astonishment written all over your face, and sure enough there is only your wallpaper staring back at you.
Your stomach twists with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling.
Slowly, you lower the phone, and that’s when it registers that the apartment has been quiet for a while.
Too quiet.
“That puny boy is annoying.”
Your brow lifts skeptically. Steve Rogers is many things, but “puny boy” is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when talking about him. The man has shoulders that deserve their own zip code.
You huff out a weary breath. “What did you do this time?”
“I ended the interaction.”
The answer is tinted with poorly concealed smugness, not a single attempt to hide what it has done—and it’s that stupid brashness wrapped in the arrogant conviction of always being right, that makes fury flare in your chest.
Your grip tightens around your phone.
“I noticed.” You smile caustically. “Care are to explain why?”
“The call had continued long beyond necessity.”
The scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Since when do you decide what is necessary in my relationships?”
“The puny human was occupying your attention.”
“We were having a conversation.” You state tartly.
“You have many conversations.”
“So what?”
“They occur too frequently.”
You blink at the wall, utterly flabbergasted by its impudence.
“Are you kidding me?” You chuckle drily, no traces of humor in it. “You were jealous of Steve and—and your solution was to violate my privacy and go through my fucking phone?”
Your arms rise in a gesture of helpless disbelief, only to drop again by your sides a second later. “What are you? Six?”
“He occupies a disproportionate amount of your time.”
“I like him.” You fire back.
“He is temporary.”
The answer comes out as a roar that makes you flinch instantly. Anger evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling beneath your ribs.
“He is temporary.” The Entity repeats calmly this time, as if the statement has already been settled rather than offered for discussion. “You have known him for weeks.”
There is a brief pause before it continues—still unhurried, still confident in its presumption.
“I have known you longer.”
The words are final in a way that doesn’t invite contradiction.
The dreadful realization that this fragile boundary between you had been crumbling day after day without you noticing makes it impossible to keep your voice steady.
“You don’t get to decide who matters to me.”
The apartment shifts—not physically, or visibly—but it feels like the air has suddenly reoriented toward the sound of your voice.
“I do not decide who matters to you.”
A pause follows, strategic.
“I only decide what enters my domain.”
The apartment is not a place it inhabits, but a condition that defines what can be present within it. And for the first time, the implication is not about Steve at all, or any of the other people the Entity has quietly pushed to the edges of your life.
It’s about you.
“This apartment is not your domain.” You swallow, forcing the trembling out of your words.
“It contains you.”
Your stomach churns so harshly you feel like vomiting at how completely unremarkable the Entity seems to find its reasoning.
There is something profoundly unsettling about its inability to separate you from the spaces you occupy, the people you interact with, or the things that demand your attention. Everything collapses into the same category, tied together by the simple fact that it exists in relation to you, and therefore falls under the quiet assumption that it has the right to interfere.
And judging by the calm confidence in its voice, it’s a belief that has been festering in the background for a very long time, undisturbed. As though the boundary between what it assumes and what you are has never been particularly solid to begin with.
Your grip on the phone hardens until your fingers ache against its hard edges.
“You can’t sabotage every relationship I have.”
“That assumes they were ever stable to begin with.”
There was never anything meaningful enough to protect in the first place, only shifting connections that held for a while or failed on their own terms. And yet your life has been reshaped so nothing ever keeps you away for long, every little detail arranged so the roots of its sick devotion can sink deeper and deeper into your existence until eventually you’ll stop leaving.
You are living your days bounded by a mere, temporary concession of freedom, because the Entity has already gathered what serves its purpose.
The rest is nothing but a speck of dust meant to aimlessly wander across the vastness of the universe.
It’s a system that you reject but now find yourself placed inside regardless. The center of it all.
It’s the day you meet with Wanda that you really understand how deep the Entity’s visceral attachment to you goes.
Your friend comes over on a Saturday afternoon after several weeks of failed attempts to meet up. The visit is long overdue, and you spend most of it moving between rooms while talking about work, mutual friends’ life updates, and whatever gossip has accumulated since the last time you saw each other.
For the first hour everything feels normal enough that you almost forget about the presence woven through the concrete. You are halfway through making coffee when the conversation stops abruptly. At first you assume Wanda is checking her phone, but the silence feels unnatural.
When you step out of the kitchen, you find her standing near the entrance with an expression you cannot immediately identify.
She is confused, almost distracted—the way people look when they walk into a room with purpose only to forget why.
“Wanda?”
She blinks as if woken up by a dream, instantly meeting your worried gaze.
“Hm?”
You frown. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The answer comes a little too quickly as she nods frantically.
Her gaze then drifts upward again, lingering on the ceiling for a moment before returning to you.
She titters as she lightly shakes her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”
An unpleasant sensation tugs at your chest.
“What is?” You ask thinly.
Wanda’s lips open and close once, as if something is holding her back.
“Do you ever feel like someone’s… watching you?”
For a second your heart forgets how to beat, but you eventually manage a strangled laugh.
“No?” The word sounds more like a question than an answer.
“It’s not bad,” she clarifies apprehensively. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like…” She trails off, shrugging at last. “Like there’s someone else here.”
You stare at her and Wanda stares back for a quiet, uncomfortable minute, before her eyes briefly land on the cups waiting on the table, and everything is forgotten.
But your friend’s laugh is less loud, shorter. Her attention keeps wandering, and more than once you catch her glancing at empty corners as though she expects something to be standing there.
She leaves nearly an hour earlier than planned.
The excuse she gives you sounds legitimate. The timing does not.
You stand on the threshold long after she disappears down the hallway before slowly closing the door, your forehead briefly resting on the wooden surface as you let out a tired sigh.
“You dislike her.”
You roll your eyes, straightening up. “You’re slipping. Wanda is one of my closest friends.”
“Your interactions are infrequent.”
“We’ve known each other for eight years,” you reply promptly, a faint edge to your voice now. “We don’t need to talk every day for our friendship to be real.”
The Entity’s voice is pensive. “She occupies little of your time.”
“Again, that’s not how friendship works.” You huff, busying yourself with the dirty cups on the table.
“Proximity is important.”
You let out a short, disbelieving breath.
“Friendship isn’t defined by how often someone is physically or temporally close to me.”
“Yours is an inconsistent system, then.” It concludes and you let the cups fall into the sink with a loud clank.
“What exactly is your criteria for liking people?” This time the question is not tinted with accusation so much as worn down into something closer to fatigue. You turn around, this time directly staring at the wall.
Arguing definitions with something that doesn’t operate like a human being is starting to feel pointless.
The answer takes longer this time.
“Not believing in the arrogant presumption that they could take you away from me. The delusion that something so small, so transient, could ever lay claim to what is mine is preposterous.” It states at last.
In some distant, irrational corner of your mind, the words feel familiar enough to not shock you anymore. But the clinical insolence, and how strongly it believes it has the right to make such a claim, is revolting.
It simply exists in it the way breath exists in you, natural and unquestioned.
You exhale sharply, jaw tightening as your teeth press hard enough to ache.
“And what makes you think you have any claim over me at all?” The words come out strained, held together by effort rather than control.
The silence that follows presses into your skin like the walls have leaned in a fraction closer.
The answer has always been in front of you, it’s only a matter of when you will surrender to it.
Some tv series you picked up days ago and barely remember choosing plays at low volume on the television. The voices rising and falling should be comforting, but their rhythm isn’t quite landing anywhere inside you. You still keep your gaze on the scene out of habit, hoping that alone might eventually turn into genuine engagement.
You have been repeating that to yourself for almost two hours.
You shift on the couch once, then again almost immediately after. Your shoulders settle, then lift. Your back presses into the cushions and then pulls away, searching for a version of contact that actually feels like it belongs to you.
Everything is technically fine—the room is warm, the couch is comfortable, the apartment quiet except for the show—but your skin feels strangely hot, too aware of itself, like it can’t stop registering the absence of something your brain refuses to name directly.
You cross your arms loosely, then uncross them again just to feel something brush against your hardened nipples under your camisole. The strong urge to have something hard and definite pressed against your body instead of this drifting tension that never fully resolves, is driving you mad.
Your thighs press together without much thought—a slow, instinctive squeeze that makes your breath hitch when you remember you haven’t worn anything underneath in hopes of getting some sort of stimulation against your clit.
It ends up being a useless attempt to soothe the arousal, because it only sharpens the need to take care of the ache in your core.
You let your leg bounce once against the couch cushion, then still it, then start again a moment later.
The Entity has altered your life completely. Privacy is no longer a clean boundary, but something porous that breathes back. It has turned upside-down the way you exist inside your own space, despite your earlier belief that you could simply ignore it and carry on as usual.
Some nights the fire licking at your insides becomes too unbearable, but a part of you keeps pulling back at the last second—the sole idea of being fully exposed to its monstrous eyes while having a dildo plunging in and out of your pussy makes your guts contort with shame.
Your mental health is on the line, because it leaves you suspended in this strange, unnerving state—restless, alert, never fully grounded in anything else.
So your body keeps searching for relief in innocent motions.
You shift again, sinking deeper into the couch, then slide slightly forward. One arm presses into your side and your breath catches once, shallow and unexpected.
The television continues without caring whether you’re following it or not. A scene changes. A line of dialogue lands but leaves no imprint.
After a while, you stop trying.
Your attention slips away from the screen entirely as your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the coffee table. The cushions dip as you shift your weight again, abandoning any effort at sitting properly.
You lie down, hoping to find a little comfort in a less rigid position. One leg lifts and settles over the back of the couch while the other bends a little, enough to plant your foot securely on the soft cushions.
Instagram feeds you fragments of other people’s lives: house tours, obnoxious laughter, delicious recipes, cleaning reels, captions you don’t read all the way through. Your thumb moves automatically, pulling you further down the stream.
It seems to work, finally granting you some sort of reprieve, until a sharp gasp claws out of your throat.
The room sinks into darkness as the TV screen goes black, but the shock is soon replaced by a thrill of fear as something brushes your ankle. It’s a slick, cold contact that makes you flinch violently. When you look down, your vision catches on movement that doesn’t belong in the geometry of the room, emerging from beneath the couch as if the floor itself has opened to grant it access.
Your limbs stay frozen as oxygen gets stuck in your throat. Your eyes lock on the tentacle, wide and unblinking, because looking away means potentially giving it the chance to attack you.
Your voice is shaking with worry when you decide to ask for help.
“Please tell me this your doing.”
The Entity answers immediately, the sound not arriving from any clear direction.
“Yes, that is mine. You do not need to worry.”
Your shoulders relax at once.
“What the hell happened to you?” You frown, because your brain reaches for the closest thing it can tolerate. “Did you turn into the kraken all of a sudden?”
The subtle recoil from the tentacle somehow reads as disdain.
“That insignificant squid with delusions of grandeur?” It growls, voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t lump me with that drooling, crude imitation ever again.”
Despite the shock still lingering, you snicker at the pure pique in its words.
You hum, shaking your head slightly. “My bad, Squidward.”
With a loud squeal, you find yourself dragged down until you’re fully lying on your back again, this time both of your thighs bent and spread open by two tentacles tightly wrapped around your ankles that keep you still and exposed.
“Quiet.”
Your heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. “Not my fault you decided to go all octopus on me.” You choke out, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your lower belly.
“That is because I know you enjoy it.”
Oh, you knew that tentacle-shaped dildo in the back of your closet would come back to bite you in the ass some day.
“Okay!” You loudly draw the word out, already feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”
“You are not stable.”
Your left eyebrow lifts in perplexity at the ceiling. “Excuse me?”
“I feel your restlessness.” It hums. “It gets stronger day after day. Something is bothering you.”
You frown. “So?”
“I know what it is that makes you fidget like a little, frightened bunny.” Your eyes widen. “And I can help you.”
That earns it a short, disbelieving chortle.
“Jesus Christ,” you drag a hand over your face. “Okay, I—I can’t believe I’m really going to say it.” You mutter to yourself.
“Whatever, okay. Let’s see what you got, big guy, since you apparently have all the answers—oh.”
Two other tentacles peek out from under the couch, thicker than the ones wrapped around your ankles. You can’t really tell their color—perhaps a shade close to dark teal, bordering on black—the only source of light being the moon shining through the open curtains and the weak glow of the city lights in the distance.
Surely, being spread open by your filthiest fantasy is not helping you keep a clear head.
The two curious appendages stop by your stomach to kiss the soft skin with gentle caresses through the flimsy fabric of your camisole. Your breath catches in your throat when the tips teasingly graze your turgid nubs, but before a pathetic plea can fall from your lips, they wrap around your wrists to slowly guide both arms over your head.
Their hold is firm but not brutish as they keep them anchored against the cushion.
“What—” The word fades into a soft gasp as two thinner tentacles slide up your legs before trailing under the hem of your camisole.
“You constantly squeeze your thighs. I am simply helping you soothe the ache.”
Your eyes roll back at the simple yet suggestive explanation, your mouth forming a perfect circle as each one of the appendages finally takes hold of your breasts, their tips flicking your erected nipples with slow, sensual motions.
“You are… delightful to touch.”
“Thanks?” You frown in mild confusion, already panting from the playful touches against your tits.
“And beautiful.” It contemplates almost absently. “For a puny human, you have a stunning body.”
“You sure know how to woo a girl.” You answer drily, huffing out a strained chuckle.
“I apologize. I am not quite acquainted with this.”
“This as in… ?”
“Sex.”
Your eyes widen, before a sly smirk brightens your features. “Are you saying that me—a lowly, puny human—is going to take the big, mean kraken’s virginity?”
“Stop associating me with that unintelligent abomination!” The voice roars disgusted, a new tentacle lightly smacking your thigh. “I am a cosmic entity. And sex is a foreign concept to us: we do not reproduce, nor feel the need to pleasure ourselves.”
Your witty answer falls short when small, hard suction cups graze your clit through the light fabric of your shorts. The movement prompts you to thrust your hips up, and the tentacle responds in earnest, steadying itself to allow you to hump its surface as more tentacles slither up to rub your hips.
It exhales shakily. “I would like to see it.”
“Hm?” You moan quietly, too lost into the heavenly, throbbing sensation in your core to pay attention.
“This curious, warm spot.” The tentacle against your clit twitches. “Your hidden treasure. Its smell is celestial whenever you wake up sweaty and whimpering in the middle of the night, my little star. Did you know that? Did you know how hard it is to ignore your pretty, little cries?”
You whimper at the raw need in its voice. “You mean my pussy? I’m all yours, honey.”
It seems to appreciate your answer since the tentacles restraining your limbs immediately tighten their hold on you.
“Your clothes are in the way.”
“Let go of my wrists for a s—” The sound of fabric tearing leaves you gaping.
When you glance down, you immediately catch two thick tentacles releasing the ruined fabric of your camisole. It now hangs pathetically by the short sleeves around your shoulders. The appendages already teasing your breasts can finally move across your naked chest, patiently yet freely. You can’t prevent the loud moan that claws out of your throat at the lewd sight of those two slimy limbs wrapped around your tits, prompting you to push your chest into their touch.
You toss your head back when the suction cups finally attach themselves to your nubs, steadily sucking on it. It’s not entirely similar to a human mouth, not only because of the texture borders on rubbery, but also because of their colder temperature that feels surprisingly pleasant against your stiff nipples.
A string of wanton sounds falls from your parted lips as they alternate gentle strokes to playful, harsher tugs that leave you gasping for more.
“May I?” It strains out, two tentacles slightly pulling at the hem of your shorts.
“Please.” You moan.
With a mere tug, the sides of your bottoms rip into two perfect halves, and the fabric is abandoned under your ass.
The tentacles holding your ankles finally spread your legs wider with an enthusiastic pull as every limit has finally been annihilated.
“Oh.”
You giggle at the amazed tilt in its voice.
“I have never seen anything like this before.”
You jolt as the cold tips of two thin, smaller tentacles unexpectedly brush against your inner thighs, lazily sliding forward until they take hold of your folds, parting them delicately as if afraid you might break.
“Your pussy is very pretty” It hums. “It is glistening.”
“Thank you.” You breathe out, still squirming at the stinging sensation of the tentacles playing with your chest.
Silence engulfs the space as the Entity stills you completely, admiring the way your core shines beautifully with the mess you made with your slick. The tentacles still trace your folds leisurely, enjoying the smooth, wet texture.
At some point, they start toying with your hole, letting their tip slowly breach it only for the creature to marvel at how it flutters in response. Furthering its inspection, the tip of an appendage kisses your clit, using some of your slick to get your nub wet.
You gasp as it rubs your arousal through your folds with slight pressure, prompting the Entity to release a low, unconscious hum. It is more than satisfied with the sloppy sounds that bounce off the walls along with your hushed whimpers.
As the strokes of its tentacles turn more intense, the urge to feel it inside you becomes utterly oppressive. You don’t know if it is trying to tease you relentlessly, or perhaps if the curiosity it feels towards your body is genuine, wishing to take its time to study your reactions—from your cute sounds to the way you tense and squirm under its tender touches.
“Sublime.” It whispers. You squeak in response, writhing in its firm hold.
“Settle down, my little star.” It grumbles. “I am going to give you what you have been craving very soon.”
You nod eagerly, a cry erupting from your throat as the other appendage puts more pressure on your throbbing clit, the suction cup following the example of the two tentacles abusing your nipples by steadily tightening and releasing your nub.
Despite its weird, unique texture, it still feels like a mouth suckling on your clit.
“Must you move so much?”
“It feels—” You almost choke on your own saliva. “So good.” Your eyes squeeze close.
“Oh, my darling. You are such a vision.”
Your hips attempt to chase the stimulation, yet there are other appendages already emerging from different sides of the couch to carefully wrap around every exposed inch of your body, until you are forced to lie spread and still for the Entity to turn you into its personal fucktoy.
“Fuck.” You whisper, panting at the pure display of dominance.
The fact that you are fully restrained and exposed for this unknown, powerful creature to do as it pleases should terrify you—considering the sick obsession for you it flaunts so proudly.
Yet here you are, pliant and eager for it to finally lose control and possess you.
“That is indeed what I plan to do with you, lovely.”
“Oh, please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to unsuccessfully stop a shameless whine.
“You are an impatient little thing.” It chuckles eventually.
You would love to wipe the smugness out of its voice, see its tentacles flinch in disdain at another one of your silly nicknames, but then a smaller appendage joins the one that has been gently working on your clit and the two focus on two different rhythms, alternating quick, flicking motions to slow, intense sucks.
“Oh God.” You squeak, letting your head fall limp to the side.
“I could spend an eternity buried in your little treasure and still, it would not be enough.” The voice grunts. “Sing for me, my little star.”
All it takes is the suction cups on your nipples tugging at the sensitive flesh for you to come. Your climax is so intense that your mouth opens around a loud, raw moan, your vision momentarily fading out as your body attempts to arch into the wicked stimulation.
“Gorgeous.” It marvels. “I need more.”
Your eyes widen as your pussy is lavished with attention by several more tentacles tracing your folds, forcing you into that delicious state of perpetual pleasure.
With rapid and decisive movements, the Entity quickly drives you over the edge over and over again, leaving you flinching pathetically in its hold, your muscles tensing up so often that you feel a faint ache throbbing in your tendons.
The appendages on your breasts are still eager on your tender nipples, abusing them with their suckling motion and cruel flickers.
“Looking at you makes it difficult to believe anything else deserves attention, little star. I apologize but I will never tire of your sweet sounds. You are ravishing when you surrender to pleasure.”
“I can’t—” You sob, finally being granted a moment to breathe as a thin tentacle slides up your neck to catch the tears threatening to spill, lovingly stroking your cheeks and your damp forehead as you sniffle.
Your eyes briefly roll back as those two sneaky tentacles keep your clit wet and sensitive, electricity running through your veins as your hips hopelessly jerk against the Entity’s appendages trapping your lower half.
“Do you wish to stop, pretty thing?”
“No! No please.” You cry out, your eyes instantly snapping open. “Just—need you inside, please.” A mewl falls from your lips at the gentle pressure on your hole.
You briefly catch something moving in your peripheral vision, and when your head turns, your heart almost stops at the sight of a new, perfectly thick tentacle emerging solemnly from underneath the couch. Its bumps and ridges are far more numerous and prominent than the ones scattered across the others.
“I know you are fond of certain… sizes.”
You whine, before something crucial finally dawns on you.
“W—what’s your name?”
It seems taken aback. “My name…” It muses. “It is too difficult for humans to pronounce, little star.”
“What should I call you then?”
“For now,” you moan shamelessly at the sensation of being finally filled. “I want to hear you scream for me.”
The appendage works inside you, the ridges a pleasant addition as they stroke along your walls in a steady motion while it carefully feeds you of its length.
“More.” You whimper.
“Hm?”
“Give me more.” Crying out, your hips attempt to thrust up.
Huffing a chuckle, the Entity manifests a few smaller tentacles that carefully push inside you along the bigger one, each of them focusing on a new spot to rub. Your eyes cross in bliss at the incredible feeling of being so stretched. The fullness is almost absurd, to the point that you briefly wonder if your body is going to explode at some point, all burning and taut as you feel trapped in an endless orgasm.
The depravity of being restrained and pounded by a mess of eager tentacles right in the middle of your living room only makes you moan louder.
“You have to be quieter, little star. Someone might hear you.”
The urge to chortle and reply with something sarcastic is strong, but right now you can barely recognize your surroundings.
“There could be the entire building watching me from the window for all I know and I still wouldn’t give a fuck.” You breathe out.
A wail roughly makes its way out of your chest when the little suction cups tug at your nipples harshly, the length of the appendages curling around the flesh of your breasts to fondle and squeeze them together.
The Entity lets out a growl so guttural it makes your bones shake.
Your breath catches when something slimy brushes over your bottom lip—another tentacle, quite thick but not like the one thrusting inside you.
“Open.”
You obey at once, parting your mouth as it doesn’t waste any time to slip inside. Its motions are less harsh compared to the Entity’s possessive tone, and that allows your lips to wrap around it and suck at your own pace.
“I warned you before I would harm other beings if necessary.” It starts, your body tingling as the hair on the back of your neck raises at its baritone echoing right into your ear.
The large tentacle around your waist tightens, almost protectively.
“I will rip the flesh and feast on the bowels of anyone who dares to touch you.” The Entity’s tentacles inside your pussy pick up their pace, furious and wild, eliciting a string of loud moans out of you that get promptly muffled by the appendage curiously exploring your tongue.
“I love watching pleasure consume you, my lovely, beautiful creature.” It grunts. “You are perfect. So soft, and wet and warm.” It blabbers, as delirious as you.
A low moan quietly resounds in the living room as it plunges in and out of your pussy while the other tentacles work in unison to send you over the edge, never stopping their unforgiving twists and sucking on your nipples and clit until you are thrown back into pure and utter ecstasy.
“You are coming, right? I can feel your pretty pussy clench around me.” The tentacle inside your hole gently whirls as it slides in and out.
“I am going to mark you so deep with my essence that every being, mortal and celestial, will know not to challenge my claim on you.”
The Entity gasps as the tentacles holding and fucking you suddenly tense up, trembling and pulsing. It roars, the sound so primal it travels deep into your bones till it reaches the tips of your nerves.
The warm, viscous liquid filling you initially catches you by surprise. Then, you eagerly accept it as if you’ve been craving it for eons, doing your best to relax your throat to accommodate the spasming tentacle.
The one on your clit moves harder and faster, clearly determined to break you completely.
You keep shuddering in sensitivity, yet the tentacles avidly work one last time to make the unbearable tension in your lower belly snap.
You shriek around the slimy flesh stuffing your mouth, not even noticing the smaller appendage that comes up to stroke your cheek, as though to calm you down. The other tentacles cling onto you, tightening their hold in tenderness to keep you safe throughout the burning climax that shatters the only ounce of composure you had left.
Only when your body ceases its severe shaking, leaving you pliant and drenched in sweat, the Entity eases its grasp. The skin of your cheeks is gently held as the tips of two more appendages wipe away the tears the moment the tentacles leave your pussy.
The others begin a soft kneading motion on the sore muscles of your legs as the ones previously attached to your clit curiously brush your puffy folds, marveling at its cum steadily running down your hole and inevitably dirtying your ruined shorts.
You barely have any energy left to notice the deep ache in your joints when the Entity guides your arms back by your sides and your legs on the couch. Still, you try to control your stuttering breath as those two sneaky appendages keep stimulating you in tender curiosity.
“Rest, little star.”
You lazily blink at the ceiling, startled that your eyes had been closed this whole time.
Speechless, your ears and mouth both feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool. “Huh?”
“Rest, little star.” It purrs, still caressing your sides, adoration dripping from each reverent touch.
“You are safe with me here.”
The next morning, you wake with a small smile already tugging at your lips and your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memories linger a little more before consciousness can interfere—the beautiful sense of fullness, the phantom ache of being held firmly in place without needing to understand the technicalities, the solid warmth curled around you in the aftermath.
It’s only when you open your eyes that you notice the unusual quiet.
You lie still for a moment longer than necessary with bated breath, because some part of you is already reaching for that familiar presence that always lingers somewhere at the edge of your awareness. But you can’t find it.
You sit up almost lethargically, expecting the feeling to return now that you’re properly awake. The apartment is exactly as it should be, unchanged in every single detail, and somehow that only makes the emptiness beneath your ribs harder to ignore.
Of course you assume it will return, so you start your morning, anticipating the Entity to pop out anytime as you eat breakfast.
But the coffee grows cold in your mug. The television drones quietly in the background. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as the hours go by... And still nothing.
Usually, its silences never feel truly empty. Even when it isn’t speaking, there is always the certainty that it is there with you.
This is different.
And that’s where everything begins to change.
The next day arrives with a kind of stubborn normality that feels almost insulting.
You wake again hopeful that the absence might have been temporary, something that would fix itself the way it should. But the same void is still there.
What unsettles you the most is not the loss itself but the way your thoughts keep skirting around it, never lingering for too long, as though looking at it directly might break you completely.
It hurts to acknowledge the small pauses between actions, the moments where you find yourself waiting for something to talk, and then realize, too late, that there is nothing to respond at all.
Each time it happens, it leaves behind a faint sting of embarrassment.
By the fourth day, the idea that something was there starts to feel like a version of events that only exists because you keep brooding over it, even when everything around you refuses to support it.
You keep turning moments inside out, trying to hold them in place, but they slip out of reach as soon as you look at them too closely.
It feels like a stab behind your ribs, because your memories of it are no longer anchored to anything that could confirm its existence.
There are moments when anger comes out of nowhere, sharp and ugly, usually when you catch yourself waiting again without meaning to. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, reacting so strongly to something that simply left without a word.
That feeling turns quickly inward, because there is nothing else to blame that makes sense.
Only you.
After several days, its memory trails after you like a ghost—quiet enough to ignore for a while, but never far enough to forget.
You work, eat, sleep, and in between, there is always that quiet, painful feeling of something missing.
Gradually, you accept that it is not going to return. Not because you have figured some big mystery out, but because the waiting has sunk its poisonous teeth into you. It feeds on every quiet moment, contaminating every stray thought, gnawing steadily at your sanity, rotting the vulnerable parts of your life.
Day by day, it consumes you out from the inside, leaving behind a space shaped entirely by its hunger.
At the end of the second week, the silence has become ordinary in a way that almost convinces you it was always like this. The version of events where something had been present starts to feel increasingly difficult to defend, even in the privacy of your own mind.
It’s only later that reality bursts in a way you cannot ignore anymore.
You are standing there, knife in hand, your movements automatic as you work over the cutting board, when something inside you finally tears loose, so violent that even breathing results painful.
Your movements slow without permission, until they stop completely.
For a long, horrible moment your still body exists in a space that feels suddenly foreign. Your eyes stare blankly at the counter as your vision quickly blurs. You blink once, sharply, hoping that it would fix it, but it doesn’t. Only then something wet falls on your cheek.
You let out a short, disbelieving huff.
“Shit.” You swallow thickly, but the word comes out wrong—thin, strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”
You press the heels of your hands briefly against your eyes as if that could physically push the tears back into place. If anything, it only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing heavier with every second.
“This is pathetic.” You whimper, not sure whether the anger is aimed at yourself or at the situation.
Or at the fact that there is no situation at all.
Because there is nothing to justify this.
Nothing that should be making you cry in the middle of making dinner on a random Friday night.
You let out a sharp laugh, but it breaks halfway through.
“I’m actually losing it.” You sniffle.
Standing there with your breath uneven and your face still wet, your hands wipe your cheeks a little too roughly.
Your attention goes back to the cutting board, as if resuming the task might finally steady that precarious balance you’ve been clinging to for days, but your hands don’t immediately follow. They hover—uncertain, trembling.
And beneath all of it, there is still that absence—hollow and impossible to prove—pressing against the inside of your awareness, a dull ache lodged in your chest that no amount of distraction can soothe.
The next week is quieter.
You stop revisiting it. There is no point in chasing something that leaves only pain behind.
You’re not waiting anymore, not voluntarily at least. You still pause sometimes in doorways, still find yourself listening into empty rooms, but the expectation is gone. What’s left is only habit.
You eat because Tony still needs your help keeping the company running—there are too many things that would fall apart without you.
You clean because the mess won’t clean itself.
You move because stopping would mean having to untangle what comes next, and the sole thought of facing that is akin to stepping off the edge of a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.
At night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours—not really on purpose, sleep just evades you. When nothing happens, there’s no disappointment. Only a bland confirmation.
The absence stops being absence, it just becomes normality again.
Because remembering hurts more than letting go.
Three months pass and you have finally taken some of the vacation days that have been accumulating in your file for months.
Well, calling it a vacation feels generous considering most of it has been spent catching up on everything you never seem to have time for while working.
Medical checkups you kept postponing. A dentist appointment for a wisdom tooth you should have booked six months ago. And then there are the usual tedious tasks: laundry, groceries, cleaning...
By all accounts, it should feel productive.
Instead, you are left drained.
You move through your days checking items off lists and running errands across the city, returning home every evening with aching feet and the vague satisfaction of having accomplished something, only to discover the feeling never lasts particularly long.
The apartment is still your favorite place. At least, you think it is. Lately, it feels less like comfort and more like retreat.
There are moments when you catch yourself staring into nothing for no reason. Moments where a pit opens somewhere in your stomach before disappearing so quickly you almost convince yourself it never happened.
You have stopped trying to understand it, though. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—refuses to become any clearer with time.
Maybe loneliness is capable of stranger things than people give it credit for.
Maybe your mind had built something elaborate to fill a void you didn’t even know was there.
Maybe that’s why the memories still feel like a knife buried deep in your chest.
By the final day of your leave, you have mostly made peace with what your life has become.
You spend the afternoon exactly as planned: sprawled across the couch, surrounded by junk food and no obligations in sight. For the first time in weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.
When the doorbell rings, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream and so absorbed in the new season of Abbott Elementary that it takes you a moment to realize the sound isn’t coming from the television.
You briefly assume it belongs to your phone, lost somewhere between the cushions, and decide to ignore it. You have every intention of enjoying the last few hours of freedom before returning to your personal circle of hell that is Tony’s company.
However, after exactly one minute, the shrill sound comes back, clear and unmistakable, and now you are pushing yourself upright with a groan—your back aches from lying there all day.
You cross the space without much urgency, immediately regretting all your life choices once you open the door in pajamas and find a handsome man standing on your doorstep.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt that perfectly hug his big, sturdy body.
He has the kind of face that would attract attention without ever seeking it. A man people notice instinctively and then spend the next several minutes pretending they haven’t, because there is something eerily intimidating about a face that looks carved by the gods themselves.
His eyes catch your attention next.
Blue. Startlingly so, almost unnaturally bright, the color so vivid and intense it looks like pigment suspended beneath glass. You decide they must be contacts, because that’s the safest explanation and your brain is gradually learning to settle into this pattern for the sake of your own sanity.
The moment he smiles, the effect is immediate.
It softens his sharp beauty, easy and unforced in a way that invites trust and warmth.
Such a shame that his presence is so staggering that you completely miss what really lies beneath the illusion—a crude imitation.
His body seems to always react a fraction later than intention: his shoulders shift a moment after his head turns and his posture corrects itself a beat too stiffly, as though alignment is a conscious reminder rather than an innate response.
When he steps forward, there is the faintest unevenness in his weight, one foot pressing down a little too carefully before the other follows. A subtle trembling persists in his legs even when standing still, his knees locking into place a second later than expected.
Even his hands don’t settle easily. When they fall to his sides, a few fingers twitch and bend on their own accord before returning back to a more natural state.
“Hello.”
There is something unfairly serene about his voice, just as smooth as silk.
“I’m James,” he continues. “I just moved in next door. Apartment 6B.”
The tension you hadn’t noticed you were holding loosens without permission, leaving your shoulders a fraction lighter and your breath a little less controlled than it had been a moment before.
Unfortunately, you realize a moment too late that you have been staring at his gorgeous face all along.
“Oh—sorry.” You let out a short, embarrassed chuckle as you shake your head. “I didn’t know Ms. Esposito moved.”
The man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the name.
“Ms. Esposito?” He repeats, lightly, the name seemingly not settling the way it should.
That small hesitation makes your brows knit faintly in confusion.
“Yeah,” you add, half-amused. “She lived here. Apartment 6B. I just thought—”
You decide to stop as his expression remains unchanged, waving your hand dismissively. “Never mind.”
Maybe they didn’t have the chance to meet each other.
His gaze remains exactly where it is, fixed on your face with the same intense attentiveness as before.
The silence stretches a second longer than it should, and you find yourself shifting slightly under it.
“Well,” you start with a small titter, eager to fill the gap before it becomes too awkward. “Nice to meet you, James.”
As you offer him your name, something shifts—a subtle spasm in his features, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.
You accept his extended hand without hesitation. His grip is warm, firm without being excessive, but there is a curious deliberateness that suggests he is paying more attention to the contact than what is socially acceptable.
You are already preparing to let go when his grip abruptly tightens around your hand, enough that the bones in your fingers press together unpleasantly. The change catches you off guard. Your breath hitches as a sharp pulse of discomfort runs up your arm, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze drops to your joined hands, noticing how his knuckles have been turning an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on dark grey.
When you look back up in confusion, your stomach gives a small, sickening lurch.
James’ big smile is exactly the same, but it doesn’t respond anymore. It stays frozen in place with an odd consistency, as if it has been placed there and forgotten.
You don’t remember his eyes looking so... wide. His eyelids seem to draw farther and farther apart by imperceptible degrees, exposing a little more white with every passing second.
Your hand jerks in a reflexive attempt to pull away, but his grip doesn’t yield. It holds with the intransigent firmness of steel, his long fingers locked around yours as though they have forgotten how to let go.
And so you remain there, forced to watch as the features of this weird stranger soften until they slowly melt out of shape.
“Oh, I already know that, little star.”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,274
Summary: Today wasn’t like all the other days since you’d been taken by Curtis. Today was different… because today was your birthday.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Captivity. Soft!Dark!Curtis. Angst. Unprotected sex.
A/N: Hoe’kay, so. There’s been quite a bit of interest in Prized Possession!Curtis lately (which, THANK YOU!!)–and also a desire for him to be redeemed, at least a little. Although I don’t think that’s possible in my canon verse, I do have this AU birthday oneshot that I love and I wanted to share as a lil soothing balm for the nonnies who are dying for a softer side of this Curtis. Enjoy ❤️
Prized Possession Masterlist
It had been almost a year since Curtis murdered your family and took you as his prize.
Almost a year of daily defilement and cruelty, of being used until you felt like your body was his now and nothing more than a collection of holes for him to play with and ruin.
But today wasn’t just another day in captivity–another day enduring the waking nightmare that had become your life.
Today was your birthday.
And you had never felt more hopeless and miserable in your life.
You were in no mood to celebrate and had zero defenses. You felt so unbelievably alone, so sad and devastated, completely empty and desolate inside.
So when Curtis appeared in the bedroom to find you still donning your lacy sleep dress well past noon as you curled up in the window seat overlooking the back garden, you didn’t perk up in alarm like you usually did.
You didn’t recoil or cower as his reflection appeared behind you in the window, looming over you as his finger dragged along the bare curve of your shoulder to make his presence–and his possession of you–known.
You just released a shaky exhale and pressed your forehead against the cool glass, resigned to your fate as the drag of his finger turned to the firm grip of his hand around your bicep as he pulled you to your feet before him.
His lips quirked at the way you avoided his gaze, the way your shoulders curled protectively–like you could really defend yourself against him in any way. Curtis’ big hand glided around your hip and down until he was gripping your ass and tugging you flush against him.
You could feel him growing hard against your belly, his free hand lifting to grip your throat, and it was the firm almost painful grip around your neck that had tears springing to your eyes and the plea falling from your lips before you could think to suppress it.
“Please don’t hurt me or humiliate me, not today.”
Curtis quirked an eyebrow, looking amused by your request. “And what makes today so special?”
“I…” your voice broke, your gaze falling away because you suddenly felt so stupid, and embarrassed.
You felt so vulnerable–which was ridiculous given your circumstances–but it was how you felt all the same.
And your shyness and silent distress only piqued Curtis’ interest even more.
His grip on your throat shifted to his fingers holding your chin, and he pointed your gaze at his. “Tell me.”
“It’s my birthday,” you whispered. “And I… I just don’t want to hurt today. Please.”
Something you had never seen before flashed in Curtis’ eyes as he watched you, and although you couldn’t quite identify it, your body had a visceral and emotional reaction to that unfamiliar look.
Shuddering, your face crumpled as your emotions rose up within you, a hot flood of tears spilling over as you dropped your forehead to Curtis’ chest, clutched his shirt between your fingers, and cried.
“Please, I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I just want it to stop. I’m so tired. I’m so tired of hurting and feeling dirty. Of being so alone. It’s my birthday, and I’m all alone. I’m all alone.”
Curtis went still as a harsh sob rocked your body and you sagged against him, lost to your grief and overwhelm.
Your unbearable pain.
And then he did something you never would have expected.
He touched you gently, innocently, his big hand warming the place between your shoulder blades, holding you against him in a not quite embrace before he was carefully stroking your back.
“You’re not alone,” he said.
When you tipped your face up to look at him, confusion furrowing your brows, he smiled, just a little.
And it wasn’t a mean curl of his lips or a wicked, devious grin but a soft, genuine smile making its debut.
His hand lifted to cup your cheek, his smile dimming when you flinched at the sudden movement, but he persisted, his thumb swiping away the tears lingering along your skin as he watched you stare at him with a look of stunned wariness.
After a moment, you did something that you had never done before–you willingly leaned into Curtis’ touch.
And when he ducked close and kissed you, somehow urgent and gentle all at once as he drank from your lips, you whined, not from fear or defeat or pain, but from desperation.
You were so desperate for a real, gentle touch. For genuine comfort and softness.
For kindness and care.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” Curtis murmured before he gathered you in his arms and guided you toward the bed.
His movements were slow and careful as he undressed you, his lips trailing along every inch of your skin that he could reach.
You came alive beneath his soft touch, blossoming like a flower at every reverent kiss and lingering caress, at every murmur of praise.
And for the first time ever, your breathless, trembling chant of, “Please, please, please!” wasn’t to ward him off but to beg him for more.
You opened your legs to Curtis willingly, your cunt weeping a river of arousal as he shed his own clothing and moved closer.
There was a foreign kind of darkness shadowing his gaze as he settled over you. One big hand warmed your belly, his thumb strumming along your clit and making you whimper and writhe as he slowly, carefully fed you each and every inch of his hard, aching cock.
It was the first time he split you open without a trace of roughness to be found. Instead, settling his weight on top of you as each of his hands found each of your own and twined your fingers together.
When your breath caught at the soft, intimate touch, your gaze wide, disbelieving, and glittering with tears, Curtis shot you that soft smile again before dipping close for a kiss.
He worked your mouth with his lips and tongue until you were squirming beneath him, worked up and impatient–desperate for what came next.
And he gave it to you.
Curtis’ gaze was avid and fixed on your face as he began to move inside of you, starting with soft, shallow rocks of his hips before he was giving you more–what you were begging for–and yet still somehow keeping it gentle as he fucked you.
He didn’t stop until he rocked your body with three orgasms and you were all dazed and floaty and sweetly wrecked in a way he had never seen before but was already craving again.
Groaning, Curtis finally chased his own release with deep, frantic ruts of his hips, flooding your insides with a throaty grunt of satisfaction before sinking on top of you and panting for breath.
Once he came down from his high and found you dozing beneath him, your face lax in sleep and so painfully beautiful despite the dark shadows beneath your eyes, Curtis just watched you for a beat.
He gently retrieved one of his hands from yours and smoothed it over your head before cupping your cheek, his soft cock twitching inside of you as you sighed your content in your sleep and nuzzled into his touch.
Gazing at you for a moment longer, Curtis dipped close and gently kissed you, whispering against your lips, “Happy birthday.”
And then he settled down in bed and carefully arranged you over him, tugging the covers up to keep you warm as he held you close and listened to your steady breathing as you peacefully slept atop his chest for the first time ever.
Soooo obviously this was written a while ago, because there have actually been some softer moments with canon PP!Curtis, but I wanted to preserve the core of this original piece and the underlying thread of angst and devastation. @krirebr would be so proud lolll 😘
—
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synopsis: Every night you slip out your bedroom window, heart hammering against your ribs as you run toward the low rumble waiting in the dark and to Jeon Jungkook, the town bad boy biker with tattoos and an attitude that would send your daddy into his grave. but you didn't care, because underneath all that rugged exterior was a man who knew how to take care of you in more ways than one.
warnings: smut mdni, fluffy, reader calls her dad "daddy" (not in a sexual way btw), dumbification, rough sex, sex on a motorcycle, oral (f & m. rec- he eats you out over your panties), anal, doggystyle, hair pulling, spiting, creampie, ass slapping, pussy slapping, lots of dirty talk, size kink, corruption, he calls her a whore, tit slapping, etc.
✶﹐word count: 11k | support me on my patreon! | kofi
The soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated the cozy chaos of your bedroom, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls painted in your favorite shade of blush pink. It was a little after 11 PM, and the world outside your window had long since settled into the quiet hush of night. You were nestled in the center of your bed with your legs crossed beneath you, surrounded by a fluffy army of plushies that made the mattress look more like a plush wonderland than a place for sleeping.
There was the oversized bunny with floppy ears you’d won at a carnival last summer next to the pastel unicorn with the sparkly horn that always seemed to watch over you, and dozens more, teddies, kitties, and dreamy-eyed creatures in every hue of pink, lavender, and cream, all piled around you like loyal guardians. You loved them fiercely; they brought a sense of comfort and whimsy to your otherwise busy college life, softening the edges of late-night study sessions like this one.
Your fingers tapped steadily across the keyboard as you finished up the last few paragraphs of your assignment, the cursor blinking patiently while you refined your citations. String lights hung in delicate loops behind your headboard, their warm white bulbs twinkling like captured stars, wrapping the room in a soft, ethereal ambiance that made everything feel a little more magical, just the way you loved it to be. They reflected off the glossy surfaces of your plushies and the faint sheen of your pink comforter, creating a haven that was entirely yours.
Over your ears sat your favorite headphones, the cushy ones that blocked out the rest of the house, filling your mind with the elegant strains of classical music. A piano concerto flowed through you, the sounds of rich, intricate melodies by Chopin that soothed your thoughts and kept your focus sharp even as fatigue tugged at the corners of your eyes.
A gentle knock sounded on your door, soft but distinct enough to cut through the music. You paused, lifting your head and sliding one side of the headphones off your ear. The door creaked open just a bit, and there stood your father, his familiar silhouette framed by the hallway light. He leaned against the doorframe with that warm, tired smile he always saved for moments like these, when he was proud of you. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he took in the scene of you in your oversized hoodie, with your laptop balanced on a pillow, plushies scattered like a protective circle, and the soft glow of the string lights. You smiled back at him, a genuine, sleepy curve of your lips that mirrored his own.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere you’d built. “Just wanted to check in before we turn in. Your mom and I are heading to bed. Looks like you’re powering through that homework, huh? I’m proud of you, burning the midnight oil like that.”
You felt a little rush of warmth at his words, the simple validation settling comfortably in your chest. “Yeah, almost done,” you replied. The classical music still played faintly from the headphones around your neck, a delicate backdrop to the moment. You set your laptop aside carefully, mindful not to disturb the plushies, and gave him your full attention. “Goodnight, Daddy.”
He chuckled softly, that fond nickname always drawing out his gentler side. Stepping a little further into the room, he reached out to ruffle your hair lightly, careful not to mess up the cozy nest you’d created. “Goodnight, muffin. Don’t stay up too much later, okay? Get some rest. Love you.”
“Love you too,” you murmured, The latch clicked softly, leaving you alone once more with the piano melodies and the comforting weight of your stuffed companions. You turned back to your laptop with a soft sigh, slipping your headphones fully back over your ears. Your fingers resumed their steady rhythm on the keys, polishing the final sentences of your assignment. The house was quiet now, your parents’ footsteps having faded down the hallway minutes ago, leaving only the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
You were just about to save the document when your phone buzzed softly against the comforter beside you, the screen lighting up with a familiar name that made your heart skip.
Jungkook ❤️: wyd angel?
A little smile tugged at your lips as you quickly typed back, thumbs flying over the screen. “Finishing up some homework. Why, what’s up?” You hit send and waited, biting your lip in that absentminded way you always did when thinking about him. The reply came almost immediately.
Jungkook ❤️: Come outside. I’m parked out front.
Your eyes widened, and before you could even process it, the low, unmistakable rumble of his motorcycle engine cut through the stillness of the night. The sound of it was deep, throaty, and way too loud for this hour. Vroom, it vibrated through your window, sending a jolt of panic straight through your chest. You froze, heart hammering as you strained to listen for any movement from your parents’ room down the hall. Had they heard? Were they getting up? You snatched your phone again, typing frantically.
“Babyyyy my parents are sleeping 😭”
His response popped up with a little teasing edge that you could practically hear in his voice:
Jungkook ❤️: Better come out before I wake them then...
You let out a quiet, nervous giggle, the thrill mixing with the rush of adrenaline. There was no saying no to him— not when he showed up like this, not when the pull between you was this strong. You moved quickly but carefully, setting your laptop aside on the nightstand and peeling off your oversized hoodie. Underneath, you kept things simple and cute: just your delicate lace bra, the material soft and barely-there against your skin. You slipped on your favorite baby pink off-the-shoulder cozy sweater as it draped gently over your curves and exposing the smooth line of your collarbones and one bare shoulder.
Your silk sleep shorts stayed on, paired with your fluffy bunny slippers that made little padding sounds as you moved. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed it, you looked adorable, soft even, and impossibly tempting, a look that always made Jungkook’s eyes darken with want.
With one last check to make sure the hallway was clear, you crept downstairs, avoiding the creaky third step like you’d done a hundred times before. The front door eased open with barely a whisper, and the cool night air kissed your skin as you stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft click. The moment you spotted him leaning against his sleek black motorcycle under the streetlight, your feet carried you faster. You broke into a light run across the lawn, and Jungkook opened his arms just in time for you to jump straight into them.
His strong hands gripped your ass possessively as he caught you, pulling you flush against his chest with a low chuckle. A firm smack landed on one cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet night and sending you into a fit of breathy giggles against his neck. “Missed you, angel,” he murmured, voice rough and warm, his breath tickling your ear as he held you there, your fuzzy slippers dangling off the ground.
“I missed you too,” you mumbled shyly into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with leather and that faint hint of motor oil that always clung to him. His tattoos peeked out from under the sleeves of his jacket, dark ink against his skin, a stark contrast to your soft pink sweater and innocent bunny slippers.
He set you down gently but kept one arm looped around your waist, that signature smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at you. “Wanna go for a ride?” The question was laced with suggestion, his eyes gleaming under the streetlight.
You nodded eagerly, no hesitation. He handed you the spare helmet, helping you secure it before swinging his leg over the bike. You climbed on behind him, pressing your body close and wrapping your arms tight around his toned waist, feeling the heat of him even through his clothes. The engine roared to life again with that powerful vroom, and you held on even tighter as he pulled away from the curb, the wind whipping past as you left your quiet suburban street behind.
This was your secret rhythm, two years strong. Sneaking out almost every night once your parents were asleep, letting the older boy with the dangerous tattoos and the rumbling motorcycle whisk you away. They’d never approve of him, not in a million years: the way he looked, the way he lived, the way he fucked you stupid and left you breathless and addicted every single time. But none of that mattered when you were with him. The familiar streets blurred by— neighborhood lights giving way to wider roads and eventually the path toward his apartment building. You rested your helmeted head against his back, savoring the speed and the closeness, your thighs squeezed around him as the night air rushed over your bare legs.
Finally, he slowed and turned into the underground garage of his building, the engine’s growl echoing off the concrete walls before he killed it and parked in his usual spot. You climbed off, legs a little shaky from the ride, and he took your helmet off for you, setting it aside. Instead of leading you straight upstairs like usual, he turned to face you fully, his hands settling on your hips as he backed you gently against the bike. His expression was serious now, something heavier in his dark eyes.
“I need to ask you something,” he said, voice low and steady.
You looked up at him expectantly, tilting your head, still riding the high of the ride and the thrill of being in his arms. “What is it?”
Jungkook’s thumb brushed over your hip, tracing small circles through the soft fabric of your sweater. “When are you planning on telling your parents about us?”
The question hung in the air, catching you completely off guard. Your breath hitched, the cozy pink haze of the night suddenly sharpening as you stared back at him, heart pounding for a whole new reason. You looked down at the soft hem of your baby pink sweater, fingers nervously twirling the fabric between them as the weight of Jungkook’s question settled over you like the cool concrete air of the underground garage.
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed faintly, casting long shadows across the sleek black motorcycle and the painted lines on the floor. Your bunny slippers shifted against the ground as you fidgeted, the silk of your sleep shorts brushing teasingly against your thighs. The thrill of the ride and the warmth of his earlier touches still lingered on your skin, but now a different kind of nervousness bloomed in your chest. Now, you felt vulnerable and exposed under his steady gaze.
“I… you know how my dad is, Jungkook,” you began softly, voice barely above a whisper, eyes still fixed on the pink fabric twisting in your hands. “He’s so strict, and Mom too. They have all these expectations about who I should be with, someone from college, someone stable and safe. They still see me as their little muffin who needs protecting. They’d never understand this… us.” The words tumbled out in a rush, laced with the familiar guilt of your double life, the late-night escapes, and the two years of hiding something that meant everything to you.
Jungkook stepped closer, his tall frame casting a gentle shadow over you. With tender fingers, he reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the touch lingering as he cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb stroked slowly along your jawline, the touch felt warm and reassuring, the rough pad of it a contrast to your soft skin. “I don’t care about any of that, angel,” he murmured, voice low and sincere, dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I love their daughter. I’m in love with you, the real you, with your plushies and your pink room and the way you light up when you see me. I want them to know I exist. I want to be part of your life, not just the secret part.”
The words hit you like a warm wave, sending a deep blush blooming across your cheeks and down your neck. You weren’t fully used to hearing him say it so openly—“I love you”—even after two years. It still made your heart race wildly in your chest, butterflies erupting in your stomach like a flock of wild things taking flight. Your lips parted slightly, a shy, overwhelmed smile tugging at them as you leaned into his touch, savoring the way his palm felt against your flushed skin. The garage felt smaller, more intimate, the distant echo of city sounds far above fading into nothing.
Suddenly, his hand dropped from your cheek, and his expression shifted. His voice came out softer than you’d ever heard it before, sounding vulnerable, almost hesitant, a rare crack in his usual confident demeanor. “Are you… ashamed of me?”
Your eyes widened instantly, heart clenching at the raw edge in his tone. “No! Of course not, Jungkook,” you exclaimed, reaching up to grab his hand and hold it tightly between yours. The words rushed out with fierce determination. “I could never be ashamed of you. You’re everything to me. It’s just… my parents are so uptight. They have this perfect picture in their heads, and you, with your tattoos, and your bike, the whole vibe— they wouldn’t approve right away. But if you really want this, if you want to meet them… I’ll do it. I’ll be strong for us. I promise.”
Jungkook studied your face for a long moment, taking in the way your brows furrowed with resolve, your cheeks still pink, and your eyes bright with sincerity. You looked so adorably determined, standing there in your sweater and bunny slippers in the middle of his gritty garage, you were like a sweet dream crashing into his reality. A low, affectionate chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound of it warm and relieving as the tension eased from his shoulders. “Okay, baby,” he said, nodding slowly, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “We’ll talk about it again soon. No rush.”
The heavy conversation dropped like a curtain falling, leaving the air between you charged. You felt a surge of relief and affection, grabbing at his hand more firmly and tugging him gently toward the elevator that would take you upstairs to his apartment. “Come on,” you whispered playfully, trying to pull him along with a small, hopeful smile, your fluffy slippers padding softly on the concrete.
But Jungkook shook his head, that familiar smirk returning to his face, full of intent. He didn’t budge, rooted in place like he had all the time in the world. You tilted your head, curiosity sparkling in your eyes. “What are you thinking about in that big head of yours, huh?”
He stepped even closer, backing you against the motorcycle again, his hands finding your waist as he leaned in. His voice dropped to a husky murmur, eyes gleaming with that fantasy he was about to confess. “I’ve always had this fantasy of you… sprawled across my bike. naked and needy for me. Right here in the garage, where anyone could potentially walk by if they’re not careful.”
You looked down shyly, heat flooding your face in a fresh, deeper blush that spread all the way to your ears. The image he painted sent a thrill racing through you, mixing nervousness with undeniable excitement. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sweater again as you peeked up at him through your lashes. “Really?” you asked softly, voice breathy and uncertain but undeniably intrigued.
Jungkook hummed in confirmation, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated through his chest. Without warning, his hands gripped your ass firmly again, squeezing the soft flesh through your silk shorts and pulling you flush against him. Another sharp smack landed on your cheek the sound echoing slightly in the garage and drawing a little gasp from your lips. A low growl escaped him, raw and hungry, as he lifted you effortlessly, strong arms flexing under his jacket as he sat you right on the seat of the motorcycle.
The cool leather of the bike pressed against the backs of your thighs. Before you could fully adjust to the new position, Jungkook’s hand grabbed your jaw with just the right amount of firmness— guiding, not forcing— and he kissed you hard on the mouth. The kiss was deep, demanding, and full of pent-up passion, his lips claiming yours as the garage faded away around you.
The kiss deepened instantly into something hard and consuming, as Jungkook’s mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. His tongue pushed past your lips, tangling with yours in a sloppy, heated dance. The taste of him flooded your senses. You moaned softly into his mouth, the sound vibrating between you as your manicured nails, pretty pastel pink to match your sweater, raked down the front of his clothed chest. The fabric of his shirt and leather jacket bunched slightly under your touch, but you could feel the solid, sculpted muscle beneath, the skin warm and firm. Each pass of your nails drew a low rumble from deep in his throat, encouraging you to press harder, to explore more.
His strong hands gripped your waist possessively, fingers digging into the soft curve there through the thin pink fabric. With effortless strength, he leaned you back along the sleek length of the motorcycle, guiding your body until the cool metal and leather of the seat supported you. The back of your shoulders pressed against the sturdy handlebars, arching your torso in a way that left you deliciously exposed and vulnerable under the dim garage lights. The position felt thrillingly precarious— the bike steady beneath you but the risk of the open garage adding an edge of excitement that made your pulse race.
Your bunny slippers dangled from your feet, one slipping slightly as your legs parted just a little for balance. The silk of your sleep shorts rode up higher on your thighs, and the cool air kissed your exposed skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from Jungkook’s body hovering over you.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jawline, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses and gentle nips that made you shiver. His breath was hot against your skin as he moved lower, lavishing attention on the elegant line of your collarbone now beautifully exposed by the off-the-shoulder sweater. The soft fabric had slipped further down one arm, baring more of you to him, and he took full advantage of it as his tongue traced the delicate bone, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.
Your hands wandered greedily over his broad shoulders, sliding along the smooth, worn leather of his biker jacket. You could feel the powerful muscles shifting underneath as he moved, admiring how incredibly toned he was, every inch of him sculpted from hours on the bike and in the gym. The way the jacket hugged his frame, the faint scent of leather and cologne mixing with the garage air, made him look so dangerously hot, like the ultimate forbidden fantasy come to life right there between your thighs.
“God, you’re so huge,” you whispered breathlessly, your fingers squeezing at his biceps through the jacket, marveling at the sheer size and strength of them. They flexed under your touch, hard as steel yet warm and alive, and the words slipped out in a reverent, needy little murmur that made your cheeks burn hotter.
Jungkook pulled back just enough to let out a deep, amused laugh, “Yeah? You like that, angel?” Before you could respond, his hand shot up to grip your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to his. With a wicked gleam, he leaned in and spit directly into your open mouth, the act so bold and intimate that it sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. Then his lips crashed back onto yours, kissing you even harder, tasting himself on your tongue as the sloppy makeout resumed with renewed intensity.
His hands moved with purpose now, sliding under the hem of your sweater. In one smooth, practiced motion, he lifted it up and over your head, the soft fabric whispering against your skin as it was tossed aside onto the nearby workbench. You were left in just your delicate lace bra and silk sleep shorts, the cool garage air raising goosebumps across your newly exposed torso.
Jungkook’s gaze darkened with lust as it roamed over you, drinking in every inch. His large hands cupped your breasts over the intricate lace, squeezing gently but firmly, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks that were already hardening under his touch. The sensation pulled a sharp gasp from your lips, your head lolling back against the motorcycle’s handlebars, eyes fluttering half-closed as pleasure sparked through you. Your back arched instinctively into his palms, offering more of yourself to him, the position leaving you beautifully displayed with your shoulders pressed back, chest pushed forward, and pink lace straining against his fingers.
The garage felt smaller, hotter, every sound amplified: your heavy breathing, the faint creak of the bike beneath you, and the low, appreciative growls escaping Jungkook as he continued to explore your body with reverent hunger. Jungkook’s mouth stayed fused to yours for a long, heated moment, the sloppy makeout growing even messier as his tongue explored every inch of your mouth with dominant hunger.
His hands never left your breasts, cupping the soft, lace-covered mounds fully in his large palms, squeezing and kneading them with just the right pressure that made sparks of pleasure shoot straight down your spine. He pulled back from the kiss with a wet pop, his lips shiny and breathing ragged, dark eyes locked on your flushed face before drifting lower. With a low, appreciative hum, he tugged the delicate lace cups of your bra downward in one smooth motion, freeing your tits to the cool air of the garage. Your nipples pebbled instantly under his gaze, and Jungkook didn’t hesitate, he latched onto one sensitive bud with his mouth, teeth grazing lightly before sucking hard, tongue swirling around the peak.
“Fuck, I love these tits,” he growled against your skin, the vibration sending shivers through you as he switched to the other nipple, nipping and sucking with greedy devotion. “So fucking perfect for me, angel. Always so soft.” His words were muffled against your chest, each pull of his mouth drawing louder, breathier moans from your parted lips.
You arched your back further against the motorcycle’s handlebars, pressing your chest eagerly into his face, one hand tangling in his dark hair while the other gripped the leather of his jacket for support. The position left you beautifully stretched out— shoulders braced, hips shifting restlessly on the bike seat, silk shorts riding higher up your thighs as pleasure built in slow, pulsing waves.
His free hand began a teasing descent, sliding down your stomach and slipping beneath the waistband of your silk sleep shorts. Jungkook groaned deeply the moment his fingers brushed against your soaked core, the sound raw and masculine, echoing softly in the underground garage. “So fucking wet already,” he murmured, voice thick with lust as he rubbed along your folds through the thin barrier of your panties. “This little pussy is dripping for me, isn’t it, baby?”
You whined his name desperately, “Jungkook, please…” the sound needy on your lips, as your hips bucked toward his hand practically begging for more friction. Your manicured nails scratched lightly at his scalp, tugging at his hair while your head lolled back again, exposing the elegant line of your throat. The cool metal of the handlebars dug into your shoulders, grounding you even as everything else felt like it was spinning with heat and want.
Jungkook chuckled softly against your breast, before he unlatched with one final, slow lick. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes gleaming with dark affection. “So needy,” he cooed, voice dripping with mock sympathy as he continued to stroke you lightly. “My adorable little thing, always so desperate for my touch. Such a good little whore for me.” The filthy praise made your cheeks burn hotter, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you at his words. He finally gave you what you craved, his fingers slipping under the edge of your panties to circle your swollen clit with slow with deliberate stroke, firm enough to make your thighs tremble but not enough to push you over the edge just yet.
Your whines grew louder and more impatient, filling the quiet garage as you rocked against his hand. Jungkook grinned at your reaction, then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of the motorcycle, the move fluid and eager. He yanked your body forward on the seat with strong hands on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so your pussy was perfectly positioned for him. You gasped sharply at the sudden shift, gripping the handlebars for balance as your slippers brushed against his sides.
He started slow with pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the first one side, then the other, nipping gently at the soft flesh while his hands held your legs apart. His breath ghosted over your clothed center, making you squirm.
Then his mouth was on you, trailing kisses directly over your soaked panties. He moved the fabric of your silk sleep shorts fully to the side but left your panties in place, pressing his tongue flat against the thin, damp material and licking a long, slow stripe up your center. The sensation was wet heat through the fabric, the teasing barrier, had you gasping loudly, your hand flying to his hair again and yanking hard as pleasure jolted through you.
Jungkook groaned in response, the sound vibrating right against your core, and then he began making out with your pussy over the panties like it was your mouth, deep, sloppy kisses, tongue swirling and sucking at your clit through the lace, nose pressed against you as he devoured you with filthy enthusiasm. Every lick and suck was deliberate, drawn out, building the ache inside you higher and higher while keeping you right on that delicious edge.
He knelt between your spread thighs, completely focused on your pleasure, the motorcycle steady beneath your arched body. Every swirl of his tongue around your swollen clit sent jolts of electric pleasure racing through your body, the barrier of the panties only heightening the teasing friction.
His large, tattooed hands gripped your soft thighs firmly, fingers digging into the plush flesh as he spread them even wider apart, opening you up completely for him. The rough handling made your silk sleep shorts ride up further, the fabric bunching uselessly at the side as he held you exactly how he wanted, now vulnerable, exposed, and utterly at his mercy. The motorcycle creaked slightly beneath you from the shifting of your weight, your shoulders still braced against the handlebars, back arched in a graceful curve that pushed your chest and hips forward. Your fluffy bunny slippers dangled helplessly in the air, one of them nearly slipping off as your legs quivered under his strong grip.
Soft, breathy moans spilled from your lips without restraint, filling the quiet garage with the sweetest sounds. “Jungkook… oh god, that feels so good,” you praised him in that gentle, angelic voice he adored so much, the one that always made his cock twitch and his possessiveness flare.
“You’re so good to me. I love your mouth, baby… please don’t stop.” Your words were laced with genuine adoration and desperate need, each moan and whimper encouraging him further. Your fingers threaded deeper into his dark, silky hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in rhythmic motions that drew low groans from him, the vibrations traveling straight to your core. You pushed his head deeper into your needy pussy, hips rolling subtly against his face as you chased more of that delicious pressure, completely lost in the sensation of his tongue worshiping you through the damp lace.
Jungkook responded with renewed hunger, his growls muffled against your soaked panties as he devoured you like a man starved. He sucked your clit through the fabric with just the right amount of intensity, then flattened his tongue again for broad, messy strokes that left the material drenched and nearly translucent. His hands kept your thighs pinned wide open, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin in soothing circles even as his grip remained firm and commanding.
Your praises continued in that soft, melodic tone, broken only by little gasps and whimpers whenever his tongue hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Yes… just like that, Koo…I’m so wet for you…” The words seemed to spur him on, his movements growing sloppier, more passionate, as if your voice was the only thing he needed to stay right there on his knees for hours.
Jungkook finally pulled back from between your thighs with one last, lingering lick over your soaked panties, his lips shiny and his breathing heavy. He rose slowly from his knees, towering over you as he stood between your spread legs. His hands made quick, impatient work of shedding the rest of his clothes, first shrugging off his leather jacket with a rustle of fabric, then yanking his shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
The sight of his toned, tattooed torso coming into view made your mouth water. He pushed his pants and boxers down his powerful thighs in one go, kicking them aside along with his boots until he stood completely naked before you, every inch of his muscular, inked body on full display under the dim garage lights. His cock stood hard and heavy, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward as it throbbed with need.
You leaned up on your elbows, the cool metal of the motorcycle’s handlebars still pressing into your shoulders as you watched him with wide, hungry eyes. With a shy but determined little smile playing on your lips, you reached behind your back, unhooking your bra and pulling the delicate lace down your arms. You flung it somewhere behind you, not caring where it landed, leaving your bare tits fully exposed to the cool air and his burning gaze. Your eyes stayed locked intently on his the entire time, soft and sweet, and full of adoration even as desire darkened them. A small, innocent smile curved your mouth, your angelic expression and the filthy position you were in making Jungkook’s cock twitch visibly.
He wrapped a large hand around his thick length, stroking himself slowly up and down as he drank in the sight of you; sprawled half-naked across his bike. The way his fist moved over his cock was mesmerizing, veins standing out along his forearm, tattoos shifting with each stroke.
He leaned down to kiss you, but you shook your head gently, placing a small hand on his firm chest and pushing him back just enough. “Wait,” you whined softly, voice breathy and needy. “I want to suck you off, Jungkook… please.”
“You don’t have to, angel,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, still slowly pumping his fist over his length.
You huffed cutely, bottom lip pushing out in a pretty pout. “But I want to… like, really bad.”
Jungkook let out a deep, affectionate laugh at your determination, the sound warm and husky as he nodded. “Alright, baby. Come here then.”
You slid off the motorcycle with shaky legs, the cool concrete of the garage floor meeting your slippers as you dropped gracefully to your knees in front of him. His dark eyes followed every movement, intense and possessive, watching as you replaced his hand with your own smaller one. Your manicured fingers wrapped around his thick cock, barely able to close fully around his impressive girth. You looked up at him sweetly as you leaned in, spitting directly onto his throbbing length, the warm saliva dripping down his shaft. Then you began jerking him off slowly, your fist gliding smoothly with a wet, obscene sound, twisting gently at the head on every upstroke.
You tapped the swollen tip of his cock against your soft, bare tits, smearing the mixture of your spit and his precum across your skin in teasing little slaps. Jungkook groaned deeply, hips twitching forward as he watched the filthy sight. “Fuck, you’re so sexy like this,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “My pretty little angel on her knees for me… so fucking perfect.”
You hummed happily at his praise, the vibration traveling through your throat as you finally leaned forward and took him into your warm, wet mouth. Your lips stretched around his girth as you began sucking him off with slow, devoted bobs of your head, tongue swirling around the underside of his cock while your hand continued to stroke what you couldn’t fit yet. The garage filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of your mouth working him, mixed with his low groans and your soft, muffled moans of enjoyment.
Jungkook’s large hand cradled against your jaw and cheek, his thumb gently stroking the flushed skin there as he felt the bulge of his own thick cock moving inside your mouth with every bob of your head. The sensation seemed to drive him wild, his dark eyes fixed intently on the way your cheek hollowed and swelled, a low, continuous groan rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Fuck, angel… you have no idea how perfect you look right now,” he praised, voice hoarse and dripping with lust. “That sweet little mouth stretching around me, taking me so deep. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. My pretty princess on her knees, sucking my cock like you were born for it.” His words wrapped around you like velvet, making your pussy clench with fresh arousal even as you focused entirely on pleasuring him
Your smaller hand worked tirelessly along the thick base of his shaft that wouldn’t fit fully into your mouth, stroking with smooth, twisting motions while your lips and tongue lavished attention on the rest. The blowjob grew increasingly sloppy and wet, saliva dripping freely down your chin, coating his length, and spilling onto your bare tits in shiny trails.
Your nails occasionally grazed his thighs or cupped his balls lightly, adding another layer of sensation that made his hips jerk forward instinctively. You moaned around his cock, the vibrations traveling straight through him as you lost yourself in the act, eyes watering slightly but never breaking the sweet, adoring gaze you kept locked on his face.
Emboldened by his praises, you pushed yourself further, relaxing your throat and sliding all the way down until your nose pressed flush against his abdomen. You held there for a few intense seconds before shaking your head slowly from side to side, the movement making his cock rub against every sensitive part of your throat. The feeling was overwhelming, but you loved it, loved the way it made him curse under his breath and tighten his grip on your jaw.
Finally, you pulled back with a dramatic gasp, strings of thick saliva connecting your swollen, glossy lips to his throbbing, glistening cock. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, hand immediately returning to stroke him fast and slick while you looked up at him.
A soft, breathless giggle escaped you at the sight of his absolutely fucked-out expression, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with pleasure, lips parted and jaw slack, dark hair messy from your fingers earlier. He looked completely wrecked, and the power of knowing you did that to him sent a thrill racing through your body.
“Shit, baby… I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that,” Jungkook warned, his voice strained and rough, hips twitching into your fist as he fought for control.
Still giggling softly, you tapped the swollen, leaking tip of his cock against your soft, spit-covered tits again, smearing the messy combination of your saliva and his precum across your skin in teasing little pats. The filthy sight made his cock jump in your hand. You tilted your head innocently, batting your lashes up at him with that sweet, needy expression he could never resist. “Will you fuck me now, Koo?” you asked in that soft, breathy voice, still gently stroking his length. “Please? I need you so bad…”
He nodded almost immediately, a dark, predatory smirk breaking through the haze of pleasure on his face. “Yeah, angel. I’ll fuck you real good. Gonna give this tight little pussy exactly what it’s been begging for.”
Without another word, his strong hands grabbed your waist with effortless power. In one swift, fluid motion, he flipped you over onto the motorcycle. You let out a surprised little gasp as your body was maneuvered, ending up lying back along the sleek, cool body of the bike once more. The leather seat and metal frame pressed firmly against your bare back and shoulders, the handlebars digging into your upper back and shoulder blades in that familiar, slightly uncomfortable but thrilling arched position. Your head tilted back over the front of the motorcycle, hair cascading down, while your bare tits heaved with anticipation and your legs parted naturally around his hips. The cool garage air kissed every inch of your newly exposed skin, making you shiver as you looked up at him with wide, needy eyes.
Jungkook didn’t waste a single second. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties, yanking them both down your thighs in one rough, impatient tug. He pulled them all the way off, tossing the delicate fabrics aside somewhere on the garage floor, leaving you completely naked and spread open on his motorcycle. His gaze raked hungrily over your body. You skin flushed and your nipples hard, dripping pussy glistening under the dim lights, as he stepped fully between your trembling thighs, his thick cock brushing teasingly against your inner thigh.
He wrapped one strong hand around his thick, throbbing cock, stroking it slowly as he gazed down at your dripping pussy with dark, hungry eyes. Then, with deliberate teasing, he tapped the swollen, leaking tip firmly against your swollen clit. The sudden contact made you yelp sharply, a high-pitched, needy sound that echoed softly in the underground garage. Pleasure sparked hot and electric through your core, your hips jerking instinctively upward.
Your hands flew up to his arms, sliding reverently up and down the toned, tattooed muscles there— feeling them flex and shift under your palms as he held you in place. The feeling of your soft, delicate touch and his hard, inked strength only made everything feel more intense.
He hooked one of your legs up and over his broad shoulder with ease, the new angle opening you up even more and stretching the muscles in your thigh deliciously. Your other leg he bent toward your chest, folding you nearly in half on the motorcycle seat so that your soaked pussy was completely exposed and presented to him. The position left you feeling vulnerable yet incredibly desired, your body folded and offered up like his personal feast. Jungkook dragged the thick head of his cock up and down your slick slit slowly, coating himself in your wetness, nudging teasingly against your entrance and then back up to your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of it filled the quiet space, making your cheeks burn hotter.
“You want it, angel?” he asked, voice low and rough, eyes locked on yours with that intense, commanding stare. “Want my cock stretching this pretty little pussy?”
You whined desperately, nodding your head quickly, hair shifting against the motorcycle as your hips tried to chase the teasing pressure. “Yes… yes, please, Jungkook,” you breathed out, voice trembling with need.
He smirked, still sliding his tip along your folds, pressing just slightly against your entrance before pulling back again. “How bad do you want it, baby? Tell me.”
You cried out, the words tumbling from your lips in a needy rush. “Really bad! I want it so bad, Koo… please, I need you inside me. I can’t take it anymore…”
Satisfied with your desperate plea, Jungkook slapped the thick head of his cock against your clit again, harder and rougher this time. The sharp smack sent a jolt of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through you, drawing a loud, broken moan from deep in your throat. Your back arched sharply against the bike, nails digging into his arms as your body trembled.
Without any further warning, he pushed inside you in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your tight, dripping heat. He set a rough, quick pace right from the start with deep, punishing strokes that made the motorcycle creak beneath you with every snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the garage, mixed with your breathy moans and his low, guttural groans. Each thrust dragged perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you, the angle from your folded position making him feel impossibly deep, stretching you open so deliciously that stars burst behind your eyelids.
His large hands greedily grabbed at your tits, squeezing the soft, bouncing flesh roughly as he pounded into you. “Fuck, you’re so fucking hot like this, angel,” he growled, voice deep and strained with pleasure, eyes devouring the sight of you falling apart on his bike. “Look at you… taking my cock so well. You love me fucking you like this, don’t you? Love how I tear this tight little pussy up?”
You could only nod weakly at first, head lolling back against the motorcycle as overwhelming pleasure rendered you nearly speechless. Your mouth hung open, soft whimpers and broken moans spilling out with every deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. Jungkook wasn’t satisfied with your silent response. He leaned over you slightly, still driving into you hard, and demanded, “Speak up, baby. Tell me.”
“Yes— yes, I love it so much!” you cried out, voice shaky and breathless. “I love your big cock so much, Jungkook… it feels so good, you’re so deep”
A sharp slap landed on one of your tits, the sting blooming beautifully across your skin as he tweaked and pinched your hardened nipple between his fingers, rolling it roughly. The mix of pain and pleasure made your walls clench tightly around his thrusting cock. He kept up the merciless pace, hips moving roughly, your entire body jerking and bouncing with every powerful stroke. You were being fucked dumb, eyes glassy, thoughts scattered, reduced to nothing but moans and the overwhelming sensation of him ruining you so perfectly on his motorcycle.
You mumbled incoherently about how good it felt, “So good… Kook, it’s so deep… feels amazing…” Your hand drifted down between your bodies, fingers desperately seeking your clit to chase even more pleasure, but Jungkook was faster. He smacked your hand away with a firm swat, replacing it with his own rough fingers.
He circled your swollen clit with expert pressure, matching the rhythm of his hips while his other hand continued smacking and groping your tits, alternating between sharp slaps and soothing squeezes. The combination sent you spiraling— pain and pleasure blending into one intoxicating wave that made your thighs shake and your pussy flutter around him.
His cock continued hitting so deep inside you with every thrust, the head brushing against that sensitive spot over and over, building the pressure higher and higher. Your bunny slippers bounced helplessly in the air, your nails digging into his arms as you held on for dear life, completely lost in the raw, filthy ecstasy of being claimed so thoroughly by him. His groans and growls grew louder and more primal, vibrating through his chest as sweat glistened on his tattooed skin under the dim garage lights.
The wet, filthy sounds of his thick cock driving into your soaked pussy filled the air, skin slapping skin, your juices coating his length and dripping down with every brutal thrust. You lifted your head weakly, eyes glassy and half-lidded, staring down the length of your folded body to watch in mesmerized awe as his glistening cock disappeared completely into your tight, stretched pussy only to pull back out shiny and wet before slamming in again. The sight was obscene and intoxicating, your soft folds parting around his impressive girth over and over.
He noticed your dazed gaze and let out a deep, breathless chuckle, still pounding into you. “You like how that looks, angel? Watching my cock wreck this pretty little hole?”
You nodded weakly, barely able to form words. “Yes…” you mumbled, voice hoarse and broken.
Jungkook slowed his pace for a moment, drawing out each thrust into a powerful, deliberate slam that jolted your entire body. The change in rhythm made you tremble uncontrollably, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your hands moved shakily upward, reaching above your head to grip the cool metal handlebars behind you for support. Your knuckles turned white as you held on, back arched even more dramatically, tits bouncing with every deep impact. Soft, breathy whines spilled from your lips as the pressure became overwhelming. “I’m gonna cum… Koo, I’m gonna cum…”
“Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?” he growled, voice thick with lust as he watched you fall apart beneath him.
“Uh huh, uh huh— fuck, don’t stop. Please don’t stop,” you begged desperately, nodding frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes.
That was all the encouragement he needed. Jungkook picked up speed again, fucking you even faster and harder, chasing his own high with deep, animalistic thrusts. His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he drove into you. “Look at you… so small under me, so fucking beautiful,” he rasped, eyes roaming over your flushed, writhing form. “I love this pussy so much, love this body, love fucking you stupid like this. You take me so perfectly every time, angel.”
You couldn’t even form real words anymore. The pleasure had melted your brain into a hazy fog, and all you could manage were soft, repeated little affirmations. “Uh huh… uh huh… uh huh…” The sounds slipped out with every brutal thrust, your head tossing weakly against the motorcycle as your body shook.
“My dumb little whore,” he cooed affectionately, voice rough yet tender as he slammed into you. “Gonna cum on my cock? Tell me.”
“Yes— yes!” you cried out, the word breaking into a loud, drawn-out moan as your orgasm crashed over you hard. Your pussy clenched violently around his thrusting cock, walls fluttering and spasming as waves of intense pleasure ripped through your entire body. You writhed and trembled beneath him, back bowing sharply off the bike, nails scraping against the handlebars while broken moans and whimpers poured from your lips. Your thighs shook, bunny slippers flopping wildly as the climax consumed you completely.
Jungkook followed right after with a deep, guttural groan. He pushed himself as deep as possible inside you, hips flush against yours as he came hard, thick ropes of cum flooding your pulsing pussy. His cock twitched and throbbed with every spurt, his body tensing above you as he rode out his release, growling your name under his breath. The garage fell into a heavy, satisfied silence broken only by your shared ragged breathing.
Jungkook stayed buried deep inside you for a few long, lingering moments, savoring the way your pussy continued to flutter and milk every last drop from him. Finally, he pulled out slowly, obscene slap of his cock leaving your soaked entrance making you whimper softly at the sudden emptiness. A thick trail of his cum mixed with your own arousal leaked from your pussy, dripping down your thighs and onto the leather seat of the motorcycle beneath you.
His hands immediately moved to caress your sides with surprising gentleness, sliding up and down your flushed, sweat-slicked skin as if grounding you after the intensity of your shared orgasms.
He leaned down over your arched body, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His tongue fought against yours in a slow, messy battle, tasting, claiming, and soothing all at once. The kiss was hungry yet tender, full of the deep affection he held for you even in the middle of something so filthy. His cock, still hard and glistening, stood tall and proud against your thigh, twitching with renewed interest. It wasn’t unusual for him to stay ready for multiple rounds; your nights together often stretched on for hours, and tonight felt like one of those nights.
You whined softly against his mouth, pulling back just enough to look up at him with hazy, needy eyes. Your chest heaved, tits still flushed from his earlier attention, and your body trembled slightly from the aftershocks.
“Tell me what you need, baby,” Jungkook murmured, voice low and rough, one hand gently cupping your cheek as his thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. His dark eyes searched yours with that perfect mix of dominance and care.
Shyly, despite everything you’d just done, you averted your gaze for a second before whispering, “I want you to take me from behind… please.”
A wicked smirk spread across his face. “Yeah? Turn around for me then, angel.” He helped you up with strong but careful hands, maneuvering your boneless body into the new position on the motorcycle. He guided your upper half to drape along the seat and sleek body of the bike, your cheek and chest pressed against the cool leather, face turned toward the handlebars. Your knees rested on the padded seat, back arched deeply, and your ass raised high in the air, perfectly presented to him as your knees sunk slightly into the seat as you gripped the edges for balance.
Jungkook’s fingers immediately found your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles as he spat on his other hand. He rubbed the saliva up and down your dripping entrance, spreading the mixture of your combined fluids. You were already soaking wet, his cum still leaking steadily from your pussy, making everything slick and messy. He lined the thick head of his cock up with your entrance, ready to slide back into your heat, but you let out a needy little whine.
“Noooo, baby…”
He paused instantly, pulling back slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “No?”
You wiggled your ass back toward him invitingly, biting your lip as heat flooded your cheeks. It took him a second, but understanding dawned in his eyes, darkening them further with raw lust.
“You sure?” he asked, voice dropping even lower, one hand gently squeezing your ass cheek.
You nodded at first, then remembered what he wanted. “Yes… I’m sure. Fuck my ass, Jungkook. Please.”
A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat at your words. He sent a firm smack to your ass, the sharp sound echoing in the garage as the flesh jiggled under his palm. “Fuck, angel… you’re gonna kill me saying it like that.” He took his time, spitting on his cock and rubbing the head against your tight entrance, teasing and preparing you carefully even as his breathing grew heavier with anticipation.
Jungkook took his time, knowing it had been a while since you’d done this. He rubbed the thick, spit-slicked head of his cock against your tight entrance in slow, teasing circles, pressing forward just enough for the tip to breach the tight ring of muscle before gently pulling back out. The shallow thrusts were careful and deliberate, stretching you open little by little. Each time he pushed in, only the head and a couple of inches sank inside before he retreated, letting your body adjust to his impressive girth. The sensation was intense, burning pleasure mixed with that familiar fullness that made your head spin and your breath hitch.
His hands roamed soothingly up and down your waist and sides, fingers stroking your soft skin in long, comforting caresses. “Relax for me, angel,” he murmured, voice low and husky. “That’s it… you’re doing so good. Taking the tip so nicely.” He coaxed you gently onto his cock, hips moving in that slow, shallow rhythm while his palms mapped every curve of your body, grounding you and helping you ease into it.
You were breathing heavily, soft moans slipping from your lips with every careful push. After a few moments, you whispered breathlessly, “I’m okay… you can go deeper, but slow please.”
“Of course, baby,” Jungkook replied tenderly, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades. He gradually sank a little deeper on the next thrust, still moving at that measured pace, giving you time to adjust. The slow drag of his thick cock inside your ass had your toes curling in your fluffy bunny slippers, overwhelming pleasure building deep in your core. He listened intently to every sound you made, your heavy, shaky breathing and the soft, needy moans that grew louder as he worked himself further inside you.
You flipped your hair to one side, turning your head to look back at him over your shoulder. The moment your eyes met his, his gaze darkened with raw lust, pupils blown wide. He glanced down to where your bodies were joined, watching intently as your tight hole stretched around his cock. “Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “You’re opening up so good for me, angel. Taking my cock in your pretty ass like such a good girl.”
Emboldened by his praise, you wiggled your ass back against him, pushing yourself further onto his length. Jungkook let you take control, holding still as you began to fuck yourself back onto his cock. “That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, voice rough with restraint. “Use me. Fuck yourself on it.”
You whined desperately, whispering a string of “yes yes yes” as your hips started moving faster. You took more and more of him with each backward push until finally, after several moments of breathless effort, you sank all the way down, taking him completely inside your ass. Your hips moved of their own accord, rocking and grinding back against him in a needy rhythm, chasing that deep, full pleasure.
“It feels so good,” you gasped, tripping over your words as the sensations overwhelmed you. “Your dick is so big… so deep… it’s the best dick I’ve ever had, Koo… fuck, I love it…” You were going dumb again, babbling praises between breathy moans, completely lost in the feeling of being stuffed so full by him.
Jungkook’s cocky smirk returned as he watched you fuck yourself on him. He brought a firm hand down on your ass with a sharp smack, the sound ringing out in the garage. He gripped the soft flesh hard, molding and spreading your cheeks between his strong fingers, admiring the way you stretched around him. “That’s my girl,” he growled, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
Each backward roll of your hips drove him deeper, the stretch and fullness making your head spin with overwhelming pleasure. Finally, Jungkook’s patience snapped. His strong hands pressed down on your shoulders, sinking your upper body lower until your cheek was pressed flush against the cool leather seat of the motorcycle. The new angle arched your back even more dramatically, ass raised high and presented to him like an offering. Without warning, he took full control and began a sharp, punishing pace, thrusting hard and fast, using your ass like his own personal fleshlight. The sudden intensity made you cry out loudly, your body jolting forward with every brutal snap of his hips.
His hand tangled into your hair, fingers twisting in the strands as he yanked your head up, forcing you to arch even further. “Oh my fucking god—” you groaned, the words tearing from your throat in a broken, desperate sound as he fucked you relentlessly. The pace was merciless now, deep and powerful, his thick cock driving into your ass over and over, stretching you wide and hitting spots that made your vision blur. Tears of overwhelming pleasure streamed down your flushed cheeks, dripping onto the leather seat beneath you.
You were babbling complete nonsense, words melting into incoherent moans and whimpers. “Koo— ah, fuck, it’s so much— too good, please” Your voice cracked and trembled with every thrust that punched the air from your lungs. Jungkook’s free hand slid down between your trembling thighs, his fingers finding your swollen, dripping clit and rubbing fast, tight circles that made your legs shake violently. The dual stimulation, his cock ruining your ass while he played with your pussy, pushed you right to the edge again.
Suddenly, he sent a sharp smack directly to your soaked pussy, the wet slap landing right over your sensitive folds and clit. You jolted forward hard with a loud, broken cry, fresh tears spilling down your face as the sting bloomed into white-hot pleasure. Jungkook didn’t slow down for even a second. He kept fucking you hard and fast, hips slamming against your ass, hand still tangled in your hair while his fingers continued rubbing and occasionally smacking your pussy, mixing pain and pleasure until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Jungkook kept his sharp rhythm. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your head arched up while your cheek occasionally pressed into the cool leather seat. Sweat slicked both your bodies, the garage air thick with the scent of sex and leather. His voice came out rough and breathless as he leaned over you, lips brushing near your ear.
“You gonna cum again for me, angel?” he growled, voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. “Tell me, baby. You close?”
You nodded weakly against the seat, face half-buried in the leather, tears still streaking down your flushed cheeks. “Fuck yes…” you mumbled, voice hoarse and broken, barely coherent. “Yes, Koo… so close”
He continued for a few more powerful seconds, driving into you with deep, punishing strokes that made your vision spark with white-hot pleasure. Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder than the first. A loud, shattered moan tore from your throat as your body seized up, ass clenching tightly around his thick cock. Waves of intense pleasure ripped through you, making your thighs shake violently and your knees buckle slightly on the motorcycle seat. You writhed beneath him, slippers flopping helplessly as your pussy gushed and your ass pulsed rhythmically around him, milking his length with every spasm. Tears flowed freely now, mixing with the sweat on your face as you cried out his name over and over.
Jungkook groaned loudly at the feeling, his hips stuttering for a moment before he chased his own high with renewed ferocity. “Fuck— yes, just like that,” he grunted, gripping the soft flesh of your ass hard with both hands, fingers digging in deep enough to leave marks. He pushed in as deep as he could go, grinding and thrusting through your orgasm as his own release hit him hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep into your ass, pulse after pulse as he kept moving, fucking his release into you with shallow, possessive thrusts. “Shit, your ass feels so fucking good wrapped around me… milking me dry, baby. Taking every drop like such a good little whore.”
He kept groaning and grunting with each spurt, hips pressing flush against your ass as he emptied himself completely. “That’s it… my princess loves taking my cum deep in her ass, doesn’t she? Fuck, you’re so perfect, squeezing me so tight.” His hands kneaded and spread your cheeks, holding you open as he gave a few final, lazy thrusts to push his cum deeper inside you, savoring the way your body continued to flutter around him.
The garage fell into a heavy, panting silence, broken only by your shared ragged breathing. Jungkook stayed buried inside you for a long moment, one hand gently stroking down your spine while the other kept a possessive grip on your hip, both of you coming down from the intense high.
Finally, with a soft, reluctant groan, he pulled out of your ass carefully, his cum leaking out of you in a warm, messy trickle that dripped down your thighs and onto the motorcycle seat. The sudden emptiness made you whimper softly, your body completely spent. You flopped limply against the leather seat of the bike, cheek pressed to the cool surface, limbs loose and trembling. Your chest rose and fell with heavy, satisfied breaths, hair messy and sticking to your flushed skin, a dreamy, fucked-out smile playing on your lips.
For a few moments, there was nothing but comfortable silence between you— just the distant hum of the city above the garage and the sound of your slowing heartbeats. Then, out of nowhere, a soft, bubbly giggle escaped your lips. It started small and quickly grew into quiet, happy laughter that shook your shoulders.
Jungkook raised an eyebrow, a fond smile tugging at his own lips as he watched you, one hand still gently stroking along your spine. “What’s so funny, angel?” he asked, voice warm and amused, leaning down to brush a strand of hair out of your face.
You turned your head slightly to look at him, eyes sparkling with affection despite how wrecked you felt. “Nothing… I just… I love you,” you whispered sweetly, the words slipping out so easily and sincerely that it made your chest feel warm and full. “So much.”
His expression softened instantly, that signature cocky smirk melting into something tender and genuine. “I love you too, baby. More than you know.” He helped you up with careful, strong arms, supporting your shaky legs as he lifted you off the motorcycle. You leaned heavily against his chest, letting him hold most of your weight while he grabbed a clean rag from his workbench. He wiped you down gently, first between your thighs, then your ass, cleaning away the mess with slow, attentive strokes, murmuring soft praises the whole time. “You did so good for me tonight… my perfect girl.”
Once you were cleaned up, he slipped his leather jacket around your bare shoulders, the warm fabric engulfing you in his scent. He pulled you close again, cupping your face with both hands and kissing you deeply, slow and sweet this time, full of love rather than hunger. His lips moved softly against yours, lingering, pouring every unsaid feeling into the kiss.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, noses brushing. “Let’s get you upstairs, yeah? Shower, cuddles, and all the plushies you want when we get back to your room later.” He scooped you up bridal-style with ease, feet dangling as he carried you toward the elevator, pressing one last gentle kiss to your temple. “My sweet angel… I’m never letting you go.”
ᯓ★ SOMETHING ABOUT HIM IS MADE FOR SOMEBODY LIKE ME
genre. smut, one-shot [completed]
pairing. non-idol!bangtan, producer!yoongi x y/n, bestfriend’s sister to lovers
warnings. cussing, 4 years age gap, high sex-drive, under the influence of aphrodisiac, unprotected consensual sex.
word count. 10k
summary. Your brother, Namjoon, loves you far too much to leave you alone after your stupid ex-boyfriend dumped you. Determined to cheer you up, he insists on bringing you along as his plus one to his best friend—Seokjin, bachelor’s party. Growing up around his friends your entire life, neither you nor the rest of them find it strange—it’s simply the way things have always been.
When Seokjin books the hotel rooms for the trip, an unfortunate oversight occurs. A hotel staff misses the reservation for your room due to a system glitch, resulting in a double booking—and by the middle of the night, you’re left without a place to sleep.
With everyone else on the trip far too drunk and wasted to help solve the problem, you have little choice but to share a room with Yoongi—your brother’s closest best friend and, unfortunately, your long-time crush.
Everything was fine until you ate something you definitely shouldn’t have.
author's note. i woke up one morning having this concept in mind. the boy is mine by ariana grande is on repeat the entire time im writing this piece. i think it's fun and fitted to publish for yoongi's birthday. a little late but still a sweet treat for everyone! 𖹭
dedicating this to my forever starboy, yoongi ★
You carefully open the trunk of the black SUV parked in front of your house while Jungkook, your best friend, helps you with your luggage that seemed heavy enough to be carrying a dead body.
Used to how he likes to run his mouth when it comes to you, you completely ignore his sharp antics as he rearranges the pile of suitcases like Tetris blocks, making sure nothing will topple over during the trip.
“The hell shit are you carrying for a three-day beach trip?” Jungkook asked, catching his breath as he closed the trunk.
In your mind, you’re convinced it’s still too early to start bickering over nonsense, so you just simply raised your hand in the air for a high five, which he immediately accepted—a gesture that no matter what the situation is, you know by heart that Jungkook will never turn down.
As you walk toward the other car where your brother was in, Jungkook begins complaining again. Saying it’s unfair that your ridiculously heavy suitcase is riding in his brother’s car while you get to travel in Seokjin’s car with your brother.
The next thing you knew, he was already dragging you with him.
Jungkook has been your best friend for almost fifteen years now. He is the same age as you, and the two of you attended the same middle school, high school, and even the same college.
He is the younger half-brother of your brother’s best friend of more than fifteen years, Yoongi. Since both of your brothers are simply inseparable, the two of you are basically forced to hang out with each other when you’re young and you’ve been best friends since.
You and Jungkook may seem to squabble and banter all the time, but it’s just the way your friendship works. The level of your closeness can be compared to siblings.
People are always surprised when they’re finding out that the two of you are just friends. They’re always insisting that you would make the perfect couple since you’re about the same age and very close.
But the thought of being in a romantic relationship with Jungkook makes your skin crawl for two main reasons.
First, Jungkook is a known fuckboy who enjoys casual relationships with different girls, sometimes at once and seems almost allergic to anything serious or stable.
Second—and more importantly—you have secret romantic feelings for his brother, who is four years older than you. You’ve liked him since high school, and unfortunately for you, Jungkook knows about it. The only reason he keeps his mouth shut is because you threaten to cut ties with him the moment he tells anyone—especially his brother.
“Ready to go?” Yoongi asked from the driver’s seat before starting the car, following the silver SUV in front that belongs to Seokjin when all of you in the car hummed in response.
Hoseok, your older cousin—who is also part of your brother’s circle—sits in the passenger seat, while you and Jungkook occupy the back.
Hoseok starts a conversation over your recent breakup and tries to offer you some comfort while still keeping things light after hearing that your boyfriend of six months—now your ex-boyfriend—dumps you because he wants to “find himself.”
“I’m fine. It’s a good-riddance type of breakup, really. I don’t have enough energy to coddle his insecurities all the time—and I love pink way too much to be the man in the relationship,” you murmured, uninterested in the topic.
Everything you say is true.
The only thing hurting right now is your ego. This is the first time you’ve ever been dumped in your 26 years of existence. Not to be smug but you’re always used to guys doting over you.
You met your ex-boyfriend at the coffee shop across from your office. He happens to work around the same area. At first, you find him charming and cute—and he feels the same about you. That’s how the relationship started.
But eventually, you realized he is incredibly insecure. He constantly projects his lack of confidence onto you and always assumes you’re flirting with your coworkers behind his back. The only reason you lasted six months with him is because the sex was good.
As someone with absolutely zero patience for childish and immature behavior, it’s hard for you to understand where his insecurities are coming from. Thankfully, he ended things before you did.
Meanwhile, everyone around you—especially your brother Namjoon—is convinced you’re secretly depressed because of the breakup. That is also the reason why you’re currently in this car, following the SUV ahead carrying Seokjin, your brother, Seokjin’s brother Taehyung, and his best friend Jimin.
This three-day trip is supposed to be a celebration—Seokjin’s bachelor party.
He is a year older than Yoongi and older than the rest of the guys. With the wedding happening next week, and after more than fifteen years of friendship, it’s only natural that your brother and his friends are all part of this trip.
“Besides, me and your brother never really liked your ex-boyfriend, Y/N,” Hoseok confessed, still trying to keep the conversation going.
“Yeah, me too. He’s weird,” Jungkook agrees from beside you, barely looking up from his phone. “I told you to stop dating guys your age.”
That comment immediately sparks curiosity from the two older guys sitting in front.
“You like younger ones?” Hoseok gasped a little over dramatic, turning slightly in his seat to look back at you.
“No—”
“She likes OLDER,” Jungkook cuts in before you can reason out for yourself, emphasizing the word, older.
You tugged his hair in annoyance, making him hiss in pain. Shooting you a glare while rubbing the spot you pulled.
Your eyes unknowingly drift toward the rearview mirror—and that’s when you catch Yoongi’s gaze on you.
He glances at the mirror, meeting your eyes for a brief second before looking back at the road. The eye contact is quick, but it still makes your cheeks warm.
“Really? I didn’t know that,” Hoseok replied, amused with your preferences in guys.
“That’s because I don’t tell anyone.”
“About how old?”
“Umm… maybe four or five years, ah yes around that age gap” you answered your cousin as innocently as possible making sure to let Yoongi hear.
And you swear to God—you see the faintest smirk tug at Yoongi’s lips as you answer.
His subtle reaction sends a strange wave of nervous energy through your body, making you involuntarily press your thighs together as a jittery feeling settles deep in your stomach.
The car ride took almost three hours. You and Jungkook are drifting in and out of sleep in the back seat while the two older guys in front talk about random things the entire time.
Once the car is finally parked, Jungkook and Hoseok immediately start unloading the luggage, handing each suitcase over to its rightful owner. After making sure everything is out of the trunk and the car is safely locked, the group begins walking toward the resort and hotel Seokjin has booked.
While checking in, you keep bugging Jungkook about how hungry you are—and how ridiculously heavy your suitcase is—suggesting he should carry yours, earning several death glares from him.
Jimin and Taehyung soon joined the two of you while the older guys stayed behind to settle everything at the front desk.
Just like with Jungkook, you are completely comfortable with Jimin and Taehyung. They are both a year older than you. Taehyung is Seokjin’s younger brother, while Jimin is his best friend.
Back in high school, Jimin and Jungkook are both part of the dance club, and later he attends the same college as the two of you. He even shares a few classes with Jungkook, which makes your group naturally close and easy with each other.
Once checked in, everyone is sent to their assigned rooms. Seokjin makes sure to book them all on the same floor.
Namjoon and Hoseok share a room.
Jungkook and Yoongi share another.
Jimin and Taehyung are assigned their shared room as well.
Meanwhile, you and Seokjin each get separate rooms since you don’t have company with you.
Having a suite by yourself excites you, but there is one small issue—it’s a little farther away from the rest of the guys. While their suites are clustered together, yours sits at the far corner after turning left into a quieter hallway.
Before everyone part ways, Seokjin reminds the group that the yacht party will start at twelve, which also means lunch will be served there.
His friends really go all out for his bachelor’s party, renting a yacht for twelve hours starting at noon just for him.
You honestly have no idea what to expect. It’s your first time attending a bachelor’s party, after all.
Still, you convince yourself that nothing too inappropriate will happen, considering the people involved. Even though you are well aware that your brother’s friends are far from saints, you are also confident they’re not reckless either.
While getting ready for the yacht party, your hair dryer suddenly stopped working in the middle of styling your hair. Your suite has a built-in one but it’s the traditional hair blower that uses heat—yours is the heatless one, to prevent further damage on your ginger-colored hair that you’ve been maintaining for months now.
Annoyed, you grab your phone from the sink counter and text Jungkook, remembering that he uses the same one as yours.
You leave your room, dragging your half-open suitcase along the carpeted hallway on the way to Jungkook and Yoongi’s. Thankfully, you haven’t unpacked your suitcase yet, which makes it easier to bring the whole thing with you since you’re not even halfway done getting ready.
When Yoongi opens the door after you knock, the first thing you notice is his frowning face as he takes in the sight of you standing there in nothing but a bathrobe, hauling your huge suitcase.
“Uh… Jungkook’s there?” you asked when he doesn’t immediately let you in.
Without a word, Yoongi steps aside to give you space, and you walk in like you own the place. Meanwhile, before closing the door, he briefly looks down the hallway to make sure you aren’t being followed by anyone who might have seen you wandering around in just a bathrobe. Luckily, the corridor is empty.
As expected, Jungkook immediately starts bitching about you dragging your whole suitcase in their room. You just ignored him after reasoning out that it’s simply more convenient to finish getting ready in their suite instead of drying your hair here and then walking all the way back to your place afterward.
With three people sharing one bathroom, the process takes longer than expected. The delay eventually causes Seokjin to call Yoongi, asking where the hell everyone is.
As you fastened the large ivory ribbon around your half-ponytail, the two brothers kept calling your name relentlessly from outside the bathroom.
You stepped out with an annoyed expression, irritated at being rushed when you weren’t even fully satisfied with your appearance.
The moment you emerge from the bathroom, both men fall completely silent, eyes wandering on your fit.
You’re wearing an off-white ruffled bralette top with thin straps that hug your perfectly shaped breasts snugly, creating a soft cleavage. Paired with it is a long, flowy, tiered skirt in the same color, made of multiple soft ruffled layers that move gently as you walk. Underneath, you’re wearing plain white bikini bottoms in case you decide to swim later.
It’s moments like this that makes Jungkook wish he isn’t your best friend because you are completely his type and he will definitely hit on you.
If you weren’t always so open about how you feel absolutely nothing romantic toward him, he would probably risk everything just to get you into bed with him.
Meanwhile, Yoongi, even without an obvious reaction showing, couldn’t take his eyes off you.
Lunch is served on the yacht before the party officially begins. After eating, you hang out with the younglings—Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung on the lower deck while they roughhouse with each other like a bunch of overgrown kids.
A few hours after lunch, Seokjin’s bachelor party finally kicks off.
You’re a little surprised when a group of pretty ladies—dressed sexy but still appropriate—board the yacht just before it sails out to the open sea.
You soon learn that they are your brother’s present for Seokjin. They’re entertainers hired to keep the bachelor and his friends company.
It doesn’t take long for the yacht to be filled with loud music, laughter, and the chaotic energy of a group of men with raging hormones. Alcohol flows freely, and everyone is paired up with a pretty girl as a company.
You managed to slip away and choose to settle on the higher part of the deck alone, watching the party unfold below you like a scene from a movie.
Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung are long gone the moment the party started. They abandoned you without hesitation in exchange for the full bachelor-party experience. You cannot blame the guys and their hormones though.
You pulled out your phone and secretly recorded a video of Jungkook with a girl sitting comfortably on his lap while he flirts with her in a semi-drunken, delirious way. You make a mental note to use the video against him for later.
Your eyes eventually land on a familiar figure lingering near the edge of the lower deck.
Yoongi.
He stands quietly as he watches his friends party like crazy, slowly sipping his whiskey on the rocks.
You watch as he lazily twirls the glass in his hand, allowing the ice to melt just enough before taking another sip. There’s something about him that makes your breath hitch, the kind of presence that leaves you helplessly captivated by him and to every little thing he does.
A brunette, honey-skinned girl with stunning proportions stands nearby, keeping him company. They talk at a polite distance from each other, and every now and then you see Yoongi chuckle, wondering what could it be that she said to make him respond like that.
What really amuses you, though, is the complete lack of physical contact between them. In the middle of a bachelor party filled with flirting, drinking, and chaos, Yoongi looks like the most respectful man on the entire boat. The awkward sight between him and his companion makes you giggle by yourself.
You know Yoongi is stern with his boundaries, he isn’t fond of people in his space. During the time that he’s in a relationship with someone, his PDA is only limited to holding hands and grabbing waist.
But that alone isn’t enough to make you question his demeanor in bed, especially since you remember one of his ex-girlfriends drunkenly sharing intimate details about their time together with Yoongi to both you and Jungkook, making you want to experience it on your own.
Growing up, you watch Yoongi grow up too. For fifteen years, he and your brother are practically inseparable, which means you see him almost every day as well.
Over the years, you witness a few of his unsuccessful relationships. His last one lasted three years, and at one point you’re convinced he’s going to propose to her any day—until Jungkook casually told you that his brother ended things with his girlfriend.
That happened two years ago.
Since then, as far as you know, Yoongi hasn’t been with anyone. For two whole years.
For a long time, you assume it’s because he isn’t over his ex yet. But thanks to Jungkook’s constant reassurance that his brother is simply too busy with his job as a music producer. That makes you allow yourself to hold onto a quiet, ridiculous hope.
Maybe—just maybe—you still have a chance with the man who is four years older than you.
Eventually, the bachelor party winds down.
You spend the entire evening on the upper deck while the guys party below, thanks to the magazines stacked on the center table that kept you entertained.
When you finally check on them, the sight is disastrous. Everyone is completely wasted.
Taehyung and Hoseok are literally crawling across the floor. Seokjin drifts in and out of drunken sleep. Your brother looks only minutes away from passing out completely, and Jungkook is wandering around looking for you for some unknown reason, drooling slightly while muttering incoherent nonsense.
Yoongi is the only one who still seems remotely normal.
You have no idea how he managed to get all five men back to their hotel rooms easily. Meanwhile, you are stuck dragging Jungkook’s heavy, half-conscious body from the elevator to the suite he shares with Yoongi, and you feel like you might die halfway through the hallway.
Yoongi holds the door open for you as you guide Jungkook toward his bed.
Miraculously, the moment Jungkook reaches the room, he seems to regain a bit of consciousness. Without saying a word, he stumbles straight into the bathroom to take a shower.
You take that as your cue to leave.
After saying goodbye to Yoongi, you drag your heavy suitcase—the same one you brought into their suite earlier—back down the hallway toward your own room.
A few minutes after you leave, Jungkook steps out of the shower—still half-drunk—and makes his way to Jimin and Taehyung’s room.
Yoongi is left alone.
He’s about to set up his laptop and a few basic pieces of music equipment when his stomach growls in protest.
Rather than ordering room service, he decided to head down to the convenience store on the ground floor of the hotel.
As the elevator doors slide open, his eyes immediately land on you.
You’re standing near the front desk with your suitcase beside you, looking distraught and on the verge of tears. A staff member is speaking to you apologetically while a man stands nearby, clearly involved in the situation. In your hand, your phone is pressed to your ear as you attempt to call your brother, Namjoon.
“What happened?” Your head snapped on your side when Yoongi approached, placing an arm around your shoulders. His voice is calm, but his eyes are fixed on the receptionist, demanding for an explanation.
The staff quickly explains the situation.
When Seokjin booked the hotel rooms, the reservation system had been experiencing a major glitch. Because of it, your room had been double-booked. The man standing across from you had actually reserved the room weeks before Seokjin made the booking.
The staff members are deeply apologetic. They promised a full refund on your room and offered a fifty percent discount on all the rooms under Seokjin’s name as compensation.
Ordinarily, transferring you to another room would have solved the problem immediately, but luck isn’t on your side tonight.
Unfortunately, the entire hotel is fully booked—there isn’t a single spare room available.
The receptionist then offers an alternative, a complimentary stay at their sister hotel located about ten minutes away. Desperate and exhausted, you quickly accepted the offer.
Yoongi, however, reacts very differently.
“No,” he responded flatly while looking at the receptionist.
The single word is firm, almost cutting, as if the suggestion itself is ridiculous. Before the staff can say anything further, he simply adds, “We’ll figure it out,” and gently but decisively guides you away from the desk.
When you ask why he refused the offer, Yoongi only shrugs lightly.
“It’s not safe,” he explained. “Your brother will lose it in the morning if he finds out you moved to a different hotel.”
When the elevator returns to your floor, the two of you spend nearly an hour knocking on doors and ringing the phones of every one of the guys.
Too bad, everyone was far too drunk to hear anything. Not a single door opens.
With a quiet long sigh, Yoongi finally turns to you and offers the only solution left.
“You can stay in my room,” he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. “Jungkook’s in Jimin and Taehyung’s room anyway. He’s probably passed out with them by now.”
For you, it isn’t really a big deal.
You’ve shared space with Yoongi countless times before—just the two of you alone. Whenever your brother leaves the two of you in the living room while he steps out, or when you end up cleaning the aftermath of one of your or Namjoon’s birthday parties together, it has always felt normal.
Comfortable, familiar, but this time feels different.
Maybe it’s because Yoongi quietly insists on carrying your heavy suitcase. Or maybe it’s because, without saying much, he slips off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders when he notices that you’re still wearing your yacht outfit—one that leaves more skin exposed than the chilly hallway allows.
Whatever the reason is, something about this moment feels unfamiliar in a way the two of you have never experienced before.
The distance between your eyebrows slowly disappears when Yoongi tells you to sleep on the floor using the extra mattress and thick comforter he had just requested through room service.
For a moment, you had almost convinced yourself that tonight might turn into something special. After all, you are spending the night with your long-time secret crush.
That hopeful thought fades quickly when he casually reminds you that he is not much of an affectionate person and you’re not an exception for it.
An internal battle immediately begins in your mind—whether to protest or simply accept his rather cold offer. But the answer becomes clear just as quickly.
Yoongi is not Jungkook. You cannot act bratty toward him the way you do with your best friend. Yoongi, you’re certain, would not hesitate to throw you out of the room in the middle of the night if you pushed too far.
So you swallow your complaints.
After fixing your sleeping arrangement on the floor—though not without a bit of sulking—you pull a few things from your suitcase and head toward the bathroom.
You take a quick shower and go through your skincare routine, but halfway through it your stomach begins to growl with hunger. You are far too sleepy and tired to eat a full meal, but luckily you notice a bar of chocolate wrapped in a fancy red wrapper tucked among Jungkook and Yoongi’s skincare products on the counter.
Thinking that it’s just another snack Jungkook likes to stash somewhere in his things, you open the chocolate and begin munching while continuing your routine.
Halfway through the bar, your sugar craving already feels satisfied. You neatly place the remaining bar at the far corner of the sink counter.
After brushing your teeth, you slip into your pair of black satin pajamas—soft and comfortably loose.
When you step out of the bathroom, the suite lights are already dimmed.
Yoongi is sitting on the far side of the room, his back partially turned toward you as he works on his laptop. A pair of headphones rests over his ears, and the glow of the screen illuminates the sharp lines of his face.
Yoongi has always had a deep passion for music. Both he and your cousin Hoseok often stay over at your house late into the night, working alongside your brother. Namjoon frequently helps consult their lyrics, given that he is a writer and currently works as the editor-in-chief of a large publishing company.
You have always found yourself mesmerized every time Yoongi was in his element.
Tonight’s not an exception, even after he dismissed you to sleep on the floor while he enjoys the luxury of the huge, comfortable bed.
You scoffed silently at your own thoughts before settling into the soft comforter on your tiny makeshift bed, scrolling through your phone.
A few minutes passed, and you noticed something strange. Your heart rate begins to climb slowly for no clear reason. You lower your phone and stare up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what is causing the sudden flutter in your chest.
Instead, you just become aware of the faint beads of sweat forming along your forehead and the delicate line of your neck, trailing toward your collarbone. You feel hot even though the suite’s air conditioner is blasting.
You try to ignore the weird discomfort and decide to focus on falling asleep.
But no matter how hard you try to relax, you keep getting distracted by how warm your body feels. Without even realizing it, you even push the comforter away from your body in an attempt to cool down.
The strange feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it only grows stronger.
You begin tossing and turning restlessly, unaware of how much the movement is starting to distract Yoongi from arranging the synth on the track he’s working on.
Fed up by distress in your body, you sit up abruptly and head straight for the bathroom.
Standing in front of the mirror, you study your reflection. Your skin looks unusually flushed. You cup your face in both hands, surprised by how warm it feels. Your cheeks are deeply tinted red, your eyes glossy, and in a strange way your entire complexion seems to glow.
You close your eyes and try to concentrate on what exactly is happening to your body.
The warmth continues to build low in your abdomen, spreading through you in a way that makes your breath catch. You bite your lower lip as you feel a sudden, undeniable awareness of your own body.
A quiet gasp escapes you when the realization hits—you are aroused.
You squeeze your thighs together once you're certain of the wetness settling on the thin fabric of your underwear. Of all the times you get to be horny, it has to be tonight—when the only other person in the suite is Yoongi.
You pondered for a moment if you’re entering your ovulation phase but being the person you are, you don't usually track those kinds of things.
Brushing off the weird timing of your arousal, you return to the small mattress on the floor beside the queen-sized bed and attempt once again to sleep.
But you really couldn’t.
Your heartbeat continues to race, your body growing extremely warmer by the second, you’re almost panting. The sensation becomes increasingly overwhelming until your breathing grows heavier, slower, deeper.
Your legs pressed tightly together, afraid you might start grinding against nothing without meaning to. Your thoughts spiral with deep urge, and it feels as though you might completely lose control of yourself at any moment.
After several more tossing and turning, you stood up again and made your way to the bathroom for the second time.
You convince yourself that perhaps you simply need to pee—that maybe doing so will help you feel better. You focus entirely on that thought, hoping it will calm the storm raging inside you.
Meanwhile, Yoongi hears everything.
Every restless shift, uneven breaths, every small shuffle across the floor during the last twenty minutes.
At first he tries to ignore it, but eventually curiosity begins to creep in.
The suite is quiet enough that he can hear the faint sound of your muffled sniffing partnered with heavy huffing sounds of your exhales from the bathroom. A knot of worry tightens in his chest.
For a moment, he wonders if you absolutely hated sleeping on the floor—you started crying.
The second you step out of the bathroom, Yoongi closes his laptop and turns toward you.
“Y/N, you okay?” he asked, his eyes carefully studying you.
You stop just outside the bathroom door, caught completely off guard by him suddenly paying attention to you. Not knowing how to answer, you simply stand there, staring back at him in silence contemplating whether to share your non-problem with him.
Even in the dim lighting, Yoongi immediately notices that something is off.
He can see how flushed your cheeks are, the gloss in your eyes, the sweat on your forehead that’s dampening your baby hairs.
With genuine concern, he rises from his seat and walks toward you.
Without hesitation, he lifts the back of his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. Then after, both of his large hands move to cup the sides of your neck, feeling for any sign of a fever.
The contact makes you bite down on your lower lip as you are forced to meet his eyes.
Yoongi is much taller than you, which means you have to tilt your head upward to look at him. The position gives him the perfect opportunity to study your face more closely.
Now he notices everything more.
Your doe eyes, redness creeping on your eyeline, lashes fluttering softly in a way that feels almost unintentionally sexy. The deep crimson blush stained across your cheeks. And your lips—looking so soft, slightly parted, and impossibly full.
For the first time that night, Yoongi finds himself momentarily fazed.
You have no idea where the sudden boldness comes from, but when Yoongi asks if you’re okay, you find yourself reaching for one of the hands resting against your neck. Fingers slowly intertwine with his, holding on as if he is the only steady thing in the room.
“Yoongi… can you help me… please?” you whispered. Your voice is soft—so quiet that he almost doesn’t catch it the first time.
For a few seconds, Yoongi just simply stares at you.
It takes him a moment to process what you’ve said, his attention momentarily distracted by how sultry your voice sounds, making him wonder if you always talk like this.
Then something seemed to click in his brain. The familiarity of the signs you’re showing.
Yoongi abruptly pulls away and strides into the bathroom in a rush, catching you in surprise.
His eyes scan the large vanity countertop until they land on the half-eaten chocolate bar you had been snacking on earlier.
He stopped for a moment as if frozen. You watch his eyes widen slightly and his mouth slowly forms a small O as the realization sinks in.
“You ate this?” he was frowning when he asked.
Clueless and confused, you nod silently.
“But why?” he pressed again, his tone sharper now—almost accusatory, laced with disbelief, like you did something very stupid.
Your brows knit together by how small you feel right now.
“God forbid, I was hungry. Are you really upset that I ate your chocolate?” you spat, running a hand through your hair.
“Except it’s not just chocolate,” he responded, almost cutting you off. “This isn’t ordinary chocolate. It’s an aphrodisiac. Hoseok bought it as a prank gift for Jin-hyung’s party.”
Now it’s your turn to be dumbfounded.
The heat in your body seems to intensify all at once, spreading through you so strongly that it feels like you’re gonna pass out at any moment.
You quickly snatch the sweet treat from Yoongi’s hand, scanning the packaging.
The moment you confirm what it is, your stomach drops.
Your knees gave out, and you dramatically sank down onto the floor, suddenly wanting to cry from how overwhelming and embarrassing everything feels.
You don’t miss the part on the label explaining that the sweets can cause an intense increase in libido depending on how much is consumed.
And considering that the bar is nearly gone, it explains exactly why you feel like humping everything around like a dog in-heat.
Yoongi’s expression becomes soft, crouching down to help you back to your feet. He guides you gently toward the bed and sits you down, his actions more sympathetic than anything else.
From how warm your skin feels under his touch, he can only imagine how strange this must feel for you.
“What should I do, Yoongi? Should I go to the hospital?” you dreaded, your eyes pleading as you looked straight at him.
“You just have to let it pass,” he crooned.
He remains standing beside the bed, watching you as you roll your eyes at him.
“Ugh! I wish Jungkook were the one here with me right now.”
Yoongi’s brows immediately furrow at that.
For a brief moment, he wonders if you’re actually suggesting doing something far more intimate with his younger brother given your current state.
“I feel so hot… and weird… and—ugh! This is starting to frustrate me!” you groaned, fanning your face with both hands.
Realizing he’s likely going to be stuck dealing with this situation for the rest of the night, Yoongi suggested grabbing some ice cream from the convenience store downstairs with a heavy sigh.
Desperate for anything that might cool you down, you eagerly agreed.
A few minutes later, you’re standing in front of the freezer, examining the different flavors of mochi ice cream available.
Just as you’re deciding which one to get, the man who had originally booked your hotel room, the man who was just with you at the front desk earlier, approaches once he sees you, a couple of beers in his hand.
He apologizes once more for the mix-up, though you quickly reassure him that it wasn’t his fault.
He then followed to ask if you managed to find somewhere to stay for the night. You happily tell him that you did.
Not too far away, Yoongi stands at a distance, watching the interaction.
From where he’s standing, it’s painfully obvious that the guy is trying to flirt with you.
And when Yoongi overhears him inviting you to come hang out in his suite—to watch a movie with a few of his friends—his patience finally runs thin.
Without a word, he walks over, takes the mochi ice cream from your hand, and gently but firmly pulls you along toward the cashier.
By the time you step outside the store together, the stranger is already forgotten.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Yoongi exclaimed, eyebrows knitting together.
You glance at him, irritated and confused.
“What did I do this time?”
“Really?” he says incredulously. “You were actually considering going with a stranger for a ‘movie night’ just because you’re feeling horny right now?”
You choked slightly at how casually he said those words.
Immediately, you smack his arm lightly while glancing around nervously to make sure no one overheard him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you whispered sharply. “What if someone heard you and thinks I’m actually horny?!”
“Are you not?” he taunted with a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
You shoved him lightly again, even more annoyed this time.
Without another word, you marched ahead toward the suite, leaving him behind.
But as you walk away, you hear him chuckle softly.
When the two of you returned to the hotel suite, Yoongi immediately settled back in front of his laptop and resumed working, quietly eating his ice cream. He leaves you to yourself—and to your problem that’s still simmering deep inside your body.
You end up lying across his bed, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone. Yoongi notices, but says nothing. He is fairly certain that the last thing you’ll be doing right now is sleep.
You are hoping that the weird sensation coursing through you would fade soon.
Instead, it grows worse.
Much worse.
Your body turns unbearably sensitive, every nerve suddenly heightened. There is an irritating restlessness beneath your skin—a persistent itch you cannot seem to satisfy no matter how hard you try to ignore it.
A dull ache begins forming low in your abdomen once more, as though you are holding something back that desperately wants to be released.
Without even realizing it, you begin practicing controlled breathing—slow, deliberate inhales followed by steady exhales—trying to clear your mind and calm the relentless pounding of your heart.
The thought of touching yourself creeps quietly into your mind.
You glance toward Yoongi, considering to straddle on his lap and begin to hump him until you’re satisfied.
You cursed yourself with your dirty thoughts.
He probably wouldn’t mind if you slipped into the bathroom for a moment… right?
Letting out a deep sigh, you grab your phone and attempt to call Jungkook again, hoping desperately that he might finally answer and somehow rescue you from this miserable situation.
But the line rings unanswered.
Across the room, Yoongi is having his own struggle.
For the past fifteen minutes, his eyes have been fixed on his laptop screen, but his mind has been anywhere but on his work. Your constant shifting on the bed, the soft rustling of sheets, and the occasional frustrated grunt escaping your lips make it nearly impossible for him to concentrate.
Eventually, he exhales heavily and shuts the laptop completely this time.
He stood up, stretching his arms briefly before walking over to the bed.
From where he stands beside it, he looks down at you—clearly taking in the rather pitiful state you’re in.
“Go back to your bed,” he said flatly. “I’m going to sleep now.”
He spares you a quick glance before looking away, his attention drifting somewhere else around the room.
You didn’t move. You didn’t even answer.
Instead, you remained sprawled across the center of the queen-sized bed, gazing up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your lashes flutter slowly, your lips slightly parted as you continue trying to regulate your breathing. Your chest rises and falls unevenly, your skin still flushed with warmth.
So fucking arousing.
“Aish… hurry up!” he groans under his breath, attempting to sound annoyed—though it doesn’t quite land the way he intends.
Just by looking at you, he already knows you’re not planning to budge.
He was slightly surprised when you suddenly raises your hand toward him, the gesture resembling a silent request to help you stand up.
With a faint frown, he reaches out and takes your hand, offering a help.
But you have something entirely different in mind.
Using the last bit of strength you have left, you suddenly tug him forward instead. He stumbles toward you in surprise, and in one swift motion your free hand grips the collar of his shirt.
Caught completely off guard, Yoongi loses his balance as he falls forward over you.
His reflexes are quick enough for him to brace his arms on either side of your head before his full weight can land on you. Still, the lower half of his body collides lightly with yours, pressing down just enough to draw a soft whimper from your lips at the unexpected contact.
“The fuck you’re doing, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low, breathing ragged, and slightly surprised.
His heart began to pound, brain couldn’t function properly as much.
You hold his gaze without any trace of backing down.
Slowly, your arms slide around his neck, preventing him from easily pulling away if he tries.
“Can you help me just this once, Yoongi?” you muttered, your eyes pleading with unmistakable desperation.
Yoongi wanted to say something back but he couldn’t, completely distracted by how you say his name just now, so sultry, it almost sounded like a moan.
Before he can protest, you lift your head from the pillow and press your lips against his.
The kiss is gentle. Your soft lips move against his with careful curiosity, exploring slowly. You nibble lightly at his lower lip, tugging at it before your tongue brushes against his mouth in a timid invitation.
It is tender. Careful. Almost hesitant.
Realizing that Yoongi wasn’t responding at all, a wave of shame crashes over you.
Your mind immediately spirals, overthinking the worst conclusions.
You should stop. You should pull away before you embarrass yourself any further.
Reluctantly, you begin to withdraw, your lips leaving his. Your eyes sting slightly as the weight of the moment settles in your chest. Your arms loosen from around his neck.
When you open your eyes again, you find Yoongi staring directly at you.
His gaze is fixed—intense, almost analytical—as if he’s studying you and waiting to see what you’ll do next.
Shock is written plainly across his face.
He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word.
The silence is eating you alive.
“I—”
You tried to speak but was cut off when his hand suddenly slid to the back of your neck.
In one swift motion, he pulls you closer, crashing his lips against yours.
This time, the kiss is bold, craving, hungry, no trace of hesitation.
Your lips move against each other with growing urgency, your breaths mingling between them. His kiss is confident, consuming, and when his lips press firmly against yours, tiny whimpers of pleasure escape your mouth without permission.
His tongue prod your lips, demanding for an entrance instead of asking. He is using his mouth skillfully to devour you, waking up a much more intense desire.
His mouth slowly maneuvers over your jaw, placing wet kisses on your soft skin as you angle your head to give him more access. He traces your skin with his tongue while nibbling on your ears, swiping over the sensitive spots of your lobes.
“Yes, just like that.” You moaned, your hands wrapping in his locks, tugging at it softly while you’re getting drunk by the tingling feeling poking on your spine.
“You sure ‘bout this?” he whispered against your skin, asking for your permission.
The feeling of his mouth exploring your body, combined with the subtle weight of him hovering over you, tickles something deep in your brain. All you can do is moan in response and nod repeatedly, desperate for him to continue.
Your hands slide under his shirt, slowly drawing circles on his softly toned stomach as you savor the sensation of his mouth working against your neck—sucking on your supple skin until it leaves dark purple marks.
Every time his tongue circles a spot he’s marked, easing the sharp sting from sucking too hard, it feels like you’re getting drunk.
You involuntarily started grinding underneath his body, making sure to rub your core against his growing bulge— earning deep quiet groans from him.
As his mouth is busy leaving marks and love bites on your neck, his hands work on your pajamas, hastily unbuttoning them one by one until your plump, full breasts are freed. He left your neck for a while to adore your delicate body.
“So fucking sexy,” before thinking, the words already slipped out of his mouth.
He claimed your lips once again, passionate like the first time. When his fingers grazed the edge of your pants, your breath hitched, mouth slightly parted. He took it as an opportunity to swirl his tongue all over yours.
You lifted your hips slightly as he deliberately pulled down your pajamas with your panties all at once, making it easier to be discarded.
His hands were rough against your soft skin, the coldness of the steel from his rings touches your delicate thighs giving a thrill of excitement.
Once you’re fully naked underneath him, Yoongi propped himself up, hurriedly taking off his shirt and pants while looking at you. Eyes wandering on your beautiful body.
You do exactly the same, heavy lidded eyes are focused on him while he undresses. Once he successfully discarded his boxers, you see his massive hard cock slightly swaying as it hangs out.
Absent-mindedly, you licked your lips at his size, drawing a smirk on Yoongi’s lips.
You folded your knees upward, thighs slightly apart, giving him a good angle of your leaking hole.
Yoongi stares intently at you, cursing himself repeatedly in his head as he realizes his best friend’s sister is completely naked in front of him.
When you notice Yoongi staring at you for too long, a worry crosses your chest—thinking he changed his mind, that he might not be up for it after all.
You rose, kneeling on the bed, as you sat on them.
He just stands there, contemplating, his knees brushing the edge of the bed while his hand slowly strokes his cock, eyes locked on you.
“There’s still chocolate left, if you need it,” you murmured softly, your voice teasing slightly to mask the sudden awkwardness.
“H-huh?” he asked, as if he didn’t hear you the first time.
“I said, there’s still chocolate left,” you repeated. “You know, in case you needed help,” you continued.
Yoongi scoffed at your words. “I don’t need help, Y/N. I’m already painfully hard, as you can see,” he teased.
Your gaze drops to his cock as he continues stroking it slowly.
“Then why aren’t you touching me? Second guessing?” you pressed again, bold and direct, though the softness in your voice betrays a hint of worry that he might be having second thoughts.
“No, baby,” he cooed, his free hand moving to the side of your cheek, gently tracing your skin.
Your stomach flutters at the nickname.
Gathering enough courage, you slowly reach for his throbbing cock.
“Can I?” you asked for permission. He nods.
You bring your palm to your mouth, spit on it, then gently wrap your hand around him, spreading your saliva so your grip glides smoothly. Using your thumb, you carefully collect the precum leaking at his tip and spread it over his plush mushroom head.
You notice his hand, which had been caressing your cheek, drop to his side. His head falls back, eyes closing, mouth slightly parted, breath growing heavy—clear signs he enjoys what you’re doing.
You continue stroking him, feeling the friction of his shaft against your soft palms, tracing every angry vein, sending shivers up your spine.
Bringing your mouth close to his throbbing head, you spit on it again, then press your tongue flat to his tip, tasting the salty precum as you gently suck on it. When you release his head, it makes a nice popping sound, followed by a deep grunt from Yoongi.
You glance at him, checking if it hurts, but all you see is pure pleasure on his face.
You flatten your tongue and lick a slow stripe from base to head, then you flick your tongue over his tip once more, swirling it on his slit before going back to his base, placing soft kisses all over his balls then for the second time, licking a slow stripe from the base to his tip. Tongue wet and warm, your nose grazing the skin of his length.
“Fucking hell…” Yoongi let out a throaty curse, drunk and breathless.
Yoongi cups your jaw with one hand, taking his cock in the other, giving it a few shallow strokes before gliding the tip along your lips, teasing you.
“Fuck, Y/N, your brother’s gonna kill me,” he murmured, eyes fixed on his tip swirling along your plumped lips.
A soft grin tugs at your lips as you look up at him, making sure to flutter your lashes a little sexier.
“But hell, you’re so attractive right now, it feels like a sin not to touch you,” he continued, his voice deep and low, the kind that makes girls go crazy over with.
His hand leaves your jaw and grips your hair in a makeshift ponytail.
“I’ll just deal with your him later,” he whispered, lightly slapping his cock against your face.
“Mhmm, open up for me, baby.”
It’s not a request—it’s an order you willingly follow.
Yoongi shoves his massive, aching cock inside your mouth, broken curses slipping from his lips. His hand in your hair provides support as he continues to push himself.
Another delicious moan escapes his lips once his tip touches the back of your throat. Thanks to your nonexistent gag reflex, Yoongi feels like he’s floating in euphoria.
Your eyes start to water from how full your mouth is, your jaw aching from the stretch, yet there’s still part of him that can’t fit entirely.
Just his size alone is enough to make you wet. Yoongi is thick rather than long, but you still estimated he’s almost six inches with a fat girth.
A sudden memory flashes—the first time you touched yourself back in high school, imagining it was him, losing count of how many times you moaned his name.
Back in reality, you place your hand on his hips and take over. Slowly, bobbing your head, taking his cock in and out of your mouth, your free hand is pumping the remaining of his length.
Drool dipping down your chin as you take him further down, hollowing your cheeks, pace increasing but consistent.
Yoongi couldn’t help but to watch you take his cock, plump lips stretched obscenely wide around his girth, eyes glossy, and looking so fucking pretty while giving him the best blowjob of his life.
You notice his grip on your hair tightening—you know he’s close. But to your surprise, Yoongi stops you. He says he doesn’t want to finish yet with just your mouth.
“Now lay down for me, baby.” he instructed, finally letting go of everything that’s restraining him.
“Damn, you’re so beautiful.”
The compliment was a slip, Yoongi is so mesmerized with you tonight, he seemed to forget how to act properly with a girl in bed.
You tried to hide the blush creeping onto your cheeks, but it’s already too late.
“You know I’ll still let you fuck me tonight even without these flattering words, right?” you counter playfully.
Yoongi, who is hovering over you, looks directly into your eyes, his expression suddenly firm.
“I’m not the type to compliment girls just to get in their pants. We can just sleep now, and I’ll still think you’re beautiful when we wake up in the morning.”
Something about his words makes your stomach twist. A false hope begins to glimmer in your heart.
In the silence, your mind starts wondering if there might be a chance that Yoongi could like you romantically.
Your thoughts are instantly cut off when Yoongi starts sucking on your nipple while his free hand roughly massages the other, as if he has been craving it.
You let out a soft whimper, remembering how sensitive you are, and your body begins grinding against the pleasurable feeling.
Yoongi nips at the bud of your nipple, nibbles on the soft skin around it, and sucks on it hard enough to leave a mark—as if claiming what’s his.
While he is busy playing with your breasts, your hand swiftly moves in between your bodies until you find his cock. Slowly, you give it a few pumps before gliding it along the lips of your cunt, collecting your own arousal.
Yoongi jolts at the sudden contact, biting your skin a little too hard and making you hiss in pain.
The next thing you hear is his muffled curses as he buries his face into your heavy breasts.
You know now that gliding his tip along your leaking cunt makes his head spin, so you keep doing it until it starts feeling too much for you as well.
Both of you are panting from uncontrollable lust and arousal. Yoongi props himself up and kneels between your legs.
“Shit! I don’t have any spare condoms,” he realizes, frustration evident on his face.
Yoongi came to this bachelor’s party with no intention of getting laid, which is why he didn’t bother bringing condoms with him. And without having someone in his life for nearly two years, he never felt the need to keep one in his wallet.
“I—I got tested recently when I broke up with my ex, and I haven’t stopped taking my birth control,” you stated, slightly embarrassed by the sudden TMI.
“My last screening was almost two years ago,” he confessed, and you can see the hesitation and aching disappointment creeping into his expression.
“When was the last time you had sex?” you asked boldly in return, not really caring to know if he’s clean, you know he is, but deep down you just wanted to know if he has someone in his life recently, despite knowing he is single.
“Two years ago.”
His answer desperately lingers in your mind. You have no idea that Yoongi hasn’t been sexually active.
You tried not to overreact, but this is news to you.
Yoongi is a very attractive man—no one can deny that, especially since he decided to grow his hair long. Anyone who looks at him can tell he’s a decent man: well-spoken, a gentleman, and financially stable for his age.
He’s a highly sought-after producer in the industry, collaborating left and right with well-known artists. He has his own apartment and his own car.
A very eligible bachelor that could easily be getting different girls every night if he wanted.
“Fuck! I’ll drop by the convenience store real quick.” Yoongi is about to get off the bed, panic creeping into his voice as he noticed you haven’t responded.
You grab his hand, stopping him.
“Hey, I’m okay with it. You’re not going anywhere,” your voice speaks desperation.
“You sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured,” he replied, his voice soothing your nerves.
“Yoongi, please…”
“Please what, baby?”
A playful smirk is back on his face upon hearing your desperate pleas.
“I can’t wait anymore… mhmm want you inside me.”
There is a shift in the air. The sexual tension between you grows thicker with every passing second.
Yoongi positions himself back between your legs. He lifted one of your legs onto his shoulder while the other rested against his hip.
He takes his still-hard cock, giving it a few lazy pumps until precum leaks from the tip, then aligns himself to your entrance. He spits onto you, the saliva landing directly on your clit, then uses the tip of his cock to spread it along your cunt as added lubrication.
“Relax for me, baby.”
He massages your clit a few times with his long digits before suddenly dipping three fingers into your leaking hole, pumping it aggressively a few times making sure you are prepped. A sultry whimper escapes you, followed quickly by soft grunts of frustration when he pulls them out just as suddenly, leaving you craving more.
He slowly pushes his cock into your hole, giving you time to adjust.
His cock is so fat forcing your tight walls to stretch around him, snug, slippery, and tight. The mix of pain and pleasure makes you gasp for air, while he’s biting his lip to keep himself from slamming deeper too fast.
Broken curses and series of moans of repeated, ‘yes, yes, yes’ fill the quiet of the room, your whimpers are high and breathy, while his are low, deep, almost turning into desperate grunts.
“Just a little more,” he grunts against your ear.
Your nails are digging to the back of his shoulders as you can feel the drag of every vein of his cock along your velvety walls until his length is fully sheathed inside you.
Yoongi stopped momentarily so you can fully adjust to the stretch. Your breaths are heavy as you feel the thick pressure settling deep in your belly as if your body was being filled too full.
You can’t help but to clench around him repeatedly when you become aware of a swollen spot on your belly where his cock bulges from inside of you.
He gently presses on the spot, sending extreme pleasure to your core.
“Okay to fuck you now, baby?” he asked, cocky and proud.
After a few eager nods from you, Yoongi starts moving—deliberate and slow. He pulls halfway out before thrusting fully back inside with force.
He notices the pain registering on your face as he rams into you, so he brings his thumb back to your clit, pressing against it, making sure to hit the bundle of nerves while drawing slow circles to distract you from the discomfort.
When he sees your expression shift from pain to pleasure, he takes it as a sign to quicken his pace.
Your cunt releases more wetness while Yoongi continues to play with your clit, making it easier for his cock to glide in and out of your tight hole. A feeling that makes him curse himself for how good it was.
His slow, deep thrusts soon turn into shorter, faster ones.
Yoongi fucks you with intention—strong and brutal. His eyes remain fixed on you, watching you lose yourself as he drives into your cunt again and again.
His hands move to grope your breasts, which bounces deliciously in sync with his thrusts.
All you can do is moan beneath him, screaming his name over and over as both pain and pleasure take over your body.
Maybe it’s the aphrodisiac. Maybe it’s the feelings you’ve hidden for him for so long. Either way, this is the best sex of your life.
Yoongi shifts his position, bringing both your legs onto his hips as you automatically wrap them around him. He bends forward to kiss your lips while continuing to fuck you.
His movements remain relentless and steady, shoving himself fully inside you each time, giving you some of his weight whenever his pelvis meets the lips of your cunt.
“Oh my god! Oh god, oh god—right there! Yes! Yes!”
You cry out in pleasure when Yoongi begins hitting your g-spot. Your nails further claw down his back, making him hiss at the mixture of pain and pleasure.
Losing your mind is an understatement.
“Yoongi, I’m gonna come—oh fuck! Don’t stop,” you choked out as warmth pools in your lower abdomen.
“Yes, come for me, baby. You deserve it.”
A few more direct thrusts against your g-spot sends you over the edge.
Yoongi feels your walls tighten and pulse around his cock, followed by a rush of warm liquid spilling from your cunt as he continues thrusting deeply and slowly—still rubbing your overly sensitive clit while you ride out your orgasm.
As your peak begins to fade, Yoongi quickens his pace once again, chasing his own climax.
His hips snap fast and short with brutal force while his lips nip and bite at your neck.
You noticed how loud he’s getting, moaning your name repeatedly and muttering broken curses in between as his thrusts become sloppy and uneven—a clear sign he’s close.
“Can I come inside, baby?” he asked, almost pleading, his face buried in the crook of your neck, voice low and breathless.
“Yes…” you answered back without hesitation, overwhelmed by the pleasure coursing through your body.
“Y/N… baby…” he cooed between heavy breaths.
“Yes, Yoongi, yes… all you want.”
Yoongi cried out a long, guttural moan—the kind that made you squeeze your eyes shut because of how intensely arousing it sounds.
Still bucking his hips, you feel hot ropes of liquid shooting deep inside you. You also feel his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, careful enough not to hurt you but still sending delicious sensation through your body.
You absentmindedly bite your lower lip when you realize he’s coming more than the normal amount. His release begins spilling out of your cunt as he lazily keeps thrusting his spent cock, yet he still isn’t done.
It makes you wonder when was the last time he even touched himself.
A few moments later, Yoongi’s body fully collapses on top of you.
Your hand moves to the back of his head, slowly stroking his long hair as he keeps his face buried against your neck.
“Hell, did it really take me this long to risk everything for you?”
Yoongi’s words are clear—you’re sure you heard them right—but you still struggle to understand what he means.
You want to ask him. You want to know if there’s even the slightest chance that he likes you too.
But no words came out.
With his head resting near your chest, you wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart is beating right now.
The ray of sunlight hitting directly across your face slowly pulls you out from slumber. Your eyes flutter open, still heavy with exhaustion, and you attempt to shift your body away from the blinding light.
But a weight draped over your back makes it difficult to move.
Still half lost in the haze of the previous night, your mind slowly begins piecing things together. A heavy arm is wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. At the same time, you become aware of a warm presence nestled against the back of your neck—steady breaths brushing softly against your skin.
Yoongi is spooning you from behind.
A small smile spreads across your lips. You have imagined something like this for years.
There has always been something about Yoongi that draws you to him—something quiet and magnetic that captured your attention long ago, back when you were still in high school, despite the age gap between you.
Through all your attempts to catch his attention over time, it is almost amusing that your brother, Namjoon, never once noticed that among all the people in his circle, you treated Yoongi differently.
Even while quietly admiring him from afar, you never stopped yourself from dating other people. Still, none of those relationships ever lasted very long.
Because, somewhere deep down, you have always been hoping for a chance with him.
And now, it is actually happening.
You feel Yoongi stir slightly behind you, his arm shifting just enough to loosen its hold. Taking the opportunity, you gently turn your body to face him.
“Good morning,” you greeted softly, smiling as you brush a few strands of his long bangs away from his face.
Instead of answering right away, Yoongi leans forward and presses a soft kiss against your forehead. Then another against the tip of your nose.
And finally, a brief peck on your lips.
Heat instantly rises to your cheeks.
“Feeling better now?” he asked with his bedroom voice, eyes still adjusting to the morning light filtering into the suite.
“Mhm,” you nod. Then, after a small pause, you add, “But I’m sore.”
A quiet chuckle escapes him.
“Can we stay like this for a while?” he murmured, pulling you a little closer against his chest.
Then quietly, “I’m not sure if I’ll still be able to hold you like this once I tell Namjoon what happened.”
You blink in surprise at his sudden openness.
Tilting your head slightly, you search his face.
“We don’t have to tell them what happened,” you suggested gently, hoping to ease whatever worry he might be feeling.
This time Yoongi looks directly at you. A small crease forms between his brows as he frowns slightly.
“I don’t date in secret, Y/N.”
Your eyes widened in surprise, thinking you were suddenly hallucinating.
“DATE??”
Your sudden outburst startled him, and for a brief moment the confidence in his expression falters. He mentally curses himself for jumping ahead without properly asking you first.
“I thought you liked me—”
“You knew?!” you interrupted.
Yoongi nods sheepishly.
“Jungkook told me—”
“That fucker— I swear to God—”
“Baby…” Yoongi murmured softly, cutting off your mini rant with a calming tone as he pulled you again closer to his chest. You gladly snuggled against him.
“I’m sorry if I startled you. We can take it slow,” he mumbled, his gaze steady and sincere as he watched your reaction. “You know… get to know each other better before we start dating. Assuming your brother doesn’t kill me first when I tell him.”
You hold his gaze for a moment.
Then you shook your head.
“Fuck taking it slow—and fuck Namjoon. It’s my decision if I want to date you now,” you said firmly before leaning forward to place a few soft pecks on his lips.
A smile spreads across Yoongi’s face.
He shifts slightly, about to lean over you and deepen the kiss—
When suddenly the suite door swings open. Both of your heads snap toward the doorway.
Standing there is Jungkook, who very clearly has just woken up.
For a split second he freezes, eyes widening as he realizes he has just walked in on his older brother sharing a bed with someone.
“Shit!” Jungkook panicked, quickly stepping back out and pulling the door closed again.
Just seconds later, the door swings open once more—this time with added force.
“Y/N? What the hell?!” Jungkook blurted out in disbelief as he strides into the room and shuts the door behind him.
He stares at the two of you, clearly stunned by the sight.
Yoongi is already preparing to kick him out, but you instinctively pull the comforter higher around yourself, curling closer to Yoongi in embarrassment.
Your eyes follow Jungkook as he casually walks toward the bathroom.
The moment he disappears inside, you lean closer to Yoongi and whisper hurriedly into his ear.
“Yoongi… I’m still naked.”
Your face burns at the realization that Jungkook—your best friend—just saw you in bed with his brother, fully naked under the thick comforter, but he doesn’t know that, right?
“The hell do you want, Jungkook? Can you get out?” Yoongi called toward the bathroom, his tone calm despite the situation.
“Took you long enough, hyung,” Jungkook teases as he steps back out.
“Fuck you. Get out,” Yoongi barked, rolling his eyes, though you can see a restrained smile tugging at his lips.
“Okay, okay—I just needed this.” Jungkook raises a hand, showing the toothbrush and toothpaste he grabbed from the sink as he walks toward the door.
But before stepping out, he pauses dramatically.
A mischievous grin spreads across his face as he tilts his head back slightly, tongue poking on the inside of his cheeks cockily, hands resting on his hips.
“You’re so dead when Namjoon-hyung finds out,” he teased his brother with a laugh.
And then he disappears, closing the door behind him.
Silence settles in the room again. That’s when a realization quietly dawns on you.
The real reason Jungkook never once tried to make a move on you all these years is because he knows.
jungkook x reader (f) x yoongi: cartel boss!yoongi, right hand man!jungkook who is down horrendous and concerningly horny for mc, established relationship to more
wc: 4.2k
cw: jungkook is down horrendous, hotwifing disguised as cuckolding, obsessive undertones, voyeurism/exhibitionism
It’s definitely not a conventional look for a birthday party: the birthday boy is cuffed to a chair, watching his girl get railed flat by his second-in-command.
The birthday boy is The Serpentines’ psycho boss Min Yoongi, and he is enjoying the fuck out of it.
The atmosphere in the ostentatious hotel suite is positively buzzing with anticipation.
Yoongi walks into the room in a crisp suit, sporting snake monograms on his cufflinks, pure elegance dripping off of him not unlike any given day. You gaze at his sexiness from the accent chair you’re reading a magazine on with your legs crossed, trying not to crassly drool, and in return, he gawks at the mesmerizing sight of his girl that massively overshadows the neon nightscape behind her. He gallantly reaches for your hand and places a kiss on it as if this is your special day.
He is very appreciative that you have generously indulged his requests for the night—wore his handpicked selection of attire all the way down to your shoes, put on the jewelry he had specially flown in, painted your nails in his preferred color…
You look so fucking gorgeous that if he can’t get a hold of himself, he’s going to ruin his appetite before dinner.
“Like what you see, birthday boy?” you throw your arms around his neck, discreetly rubbing yourself against his crotch.
“Don’t tempt me or I’ll fuck you right in front of them,” he heavily exhales and nods towards the security detail by the door. “I’m barely holding it together.”
“You’ve wanted this that much?” you chuckle into his ear, gently biting his earlobe. “You seem more… enthusiastic than usual.”
“It’s you,” he gropes your ass with one hand while the other brings your fingers to his lips for a bite, opting for a kiss at the last second. “It’s always you.”
There is a reason he has dolled you up like a luxuriously packaged gift tonight. Although it is his birthday, the present is for someone else to open.
And he’s never looked forward to something this much.
A knock interrupts the sultry melodies playing over the speakers. Yoongi glances at the door, then at you, and smiles.
“It’s showtime, baby,” he slaps your ass as you disappear to wait for your cue.
Jungkook enters the room flanked by two of his men looking like loyal hounds, cocky swagger of owning half the city dripping off of him.
“Happy birthday, my liege,” he dips his head with the respect he reserves for less than a handful of people in the universe, then immediately cracks up once he absorbs the opulence cradling the room. “Jesus, you’d fucking die if you weren’t obnoxiously extravagant for once, wouldn’t you?”
The boss and his right-hand man slam their hands against each other for a firm shake and pull each other into a brief hug. They sit down by the gargantuan windows and engage in empty chitchat as they sip on the most expensive scotch money can buy. The weather. The game last night. Whether they should branch into solicitation for murder or not.
“What is this good news you kept teasing the entire week?” Jungkook taps his index finger on the glass resting on one leg folded over the other. “If it’s not a sizeable increase in my cut, I’ll be very upset. You hit fifty million thanks to me.”
“Funny you should say that,” Yoongi presses two fingers on his temple. “It is about a reward I feel like giving you.”
“Is the first digit finally a two?” Jungkook smirks with contentment.
“Even better,” Yoongi grins wider.
“Gentlemen.”
You make your entrance like the main character you are, hips swaying with radioactive temptation, and when he looks to his right, Jungkook confirms it’s not an auditory hallucination. He visibly falters, not expecting to see you tonight at all, and he is doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that he is mentally undressing you, jaw dropped, poise in shambles. He watches the way your heels kiss the rug with every step you take, and he realizes he is fucking jealous of the floor you walk on.
It’s a miracle he manages to snap out of it.
“Is this a fucking prank or something?” he creases his brows at his boss.
“I’m just showing hospitality,” Yoongi gracefully brings his scotch glass to his lips.
Jungkook starts fighting for his life when you sit right on his lap, your arm flung over his wide shoulders inducing the kind of panic that can easily send him to the ER. He is sure he is no longer the man he was before your ass made contact with his thighs.
“You know, I hear everything that goes on under my roof. Tell me if this quote seems familiar to you:” Yoongi lounges back, his smile faint but amused to the high heavens, “I’d fuck her so good she would make me her side bitch on the first thrust.”
Jungkook chokes on air. It doesn’t help that you are also chuckling into his ear.
“Look, I can explain…”
“No need,” Yoongi shakes his head without an ounce of his usual tranquil fury. “Here’s your chance.”
That just CANNOT be possible.
It’s a loyalty test, isn’t it? It’s not like he’s going to offer him his princess on a silver platter on his goddamn birthday or anything…
“You want me to fuck your girl?” he arches his brows in genuine surprise.
“If you’re interested, of course.”
IN
TE
RES
TED?!
It’s not even remotely enough to describe his willingness levels. If he were any more interested, he would have to check himself into a psych ward for lust-induced psychosis. He lives for this. He eats, sleeps, and thinks this. If you knew how many times he jerked off to you in the past three days alone, you would issue a restraining order against him in the blink of an eye.
The first time because you wore his favorite sundress, the second time because you touched his arm while laughing at one of his jokes, the third time because you moaned through a yawn, the fourth time because he imagined what you’d look like pregnant, and fifth time to exorcise himself for the fourth time…
He is your self-proclaimed number one fan, entirely obsessed with you, and you getting even more comfortable on his lap, playing with his curls, watching him crumble under you has to be the biggest fanservice in the history of everything.
“What? You’re scared he’s gonna shoot you?” you purr into his ear.
“You don’t just hand things out,” Jungkook turns to Yoongi. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one,” he shrugs, perfectly serious. “Unless you call me being present a catch.”
Years he has spent jerking off to you in shameful silence, and you are being offered to him just like that? This is a trap. It has to be a trap. Or a once-in-five-lifetimes miracle.
Possibly both.
“That’s… That’s it?”
“Well, there is one more thing, and I can’t stress how important it is,” Yoongi adds, letting the moment linger in the air to drag on the suspense. “You have to act like you’re doing this against my will.”
Jungkook is bewildered out of his mind, utterly incredulous of the words coming out of this man’s mouth.
Okay.
Fuck, okay.
God, okay, fuck, jesus!
He is already half-hard under you. He might last four minutes, six if he can force himself to imagine the unsexiest things his mind can possibly render. He’s desperately thinking of ways to sustain himself longer so he doesn’t wake up from the horniest wet dream of his life extremely prematurely.
“What are my limits?” he asks as he clears his throat.
“Nothing’s off limits. The worse, the better,” Yoongi answers. “Anything she accepts, you can do.”
“How long do I have?”
“However long you can last, but the second you cum, it’s over.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, crazy loyal to your man?” Jungkook turns to you, his on-brand cockiness slowly waking up from the chokehold.
“Who says I’m not?” you answer leisurely. “Loyalty isn’t about what I put inside me.”
He charmingly smiles, stealing the briefest glance from Yoongi’s way in the meantime.
“Then here’s what we’re going to do.”
Your neck is right there for him to kiss, but he needs to break his five-year record and wait for five more minutes. He whispers his scheme into your ear, doing his best not to fucking pass out because of your perfume in his nose. Then he stands up to bring a chair for his boss to sit, changes the song to one of his favorite bedroom jams, and orders you.
“Dance for your man, beautiful.”
To every other person on the planet, Yoongi is an unreadable enigma, the embodiment of calm control and velveteen menace, but you can tell from the glint in his hooded eyes when something starts awakening within him. You climb onto the birthday boy’s lap and slowly roll your hips to the rhythm, every curve of your body wrapping around him as you move. The drag of his tongue across his lips devolves into a bite as he admires the tattoo between your tits. He has half a mind to say fuck it to everything and bend you over to fuck your wits out of you until he fully decimates you.
He is so hypnotized by the devil’s slutty bride grinding on cock that he doesn’t even realize his hands are cuffed behind his back until he hears a click.
“Honors?” Jungkook gives you two more pairs to tie Yoongi’s ankles to the legs of the chair.
“Just how many pairs of cuffs do you walk around with?” you chuckle.
“There is always an opportunity if you know where to look,” he nods towards the door and points at the security detail, “and yours is right over there.”
The man of the hour is properly pinned to his place. Jungkook sprawls on the couch right across him, then takes your hand and pulls you closer.
“Now, where were we?” he smiles at you like a man in possession of the uppest of hands.
Because he did.
Credit where credit is due, he fakes the most convincing composure of all time as he fights the raging urge to grope you everywhere, treating you like the queen you are with the sublest of touches. Hands coarse from handling guns become a pair of feathers tickling your body, gently sliding from your back down to your waist. He is so lost in the sheer sight of you that he can’t even register Yoongi’s presence in the room.
“You have a rep among us lowlifes, you know,” he softly kisses your shoulder.
“How so?”
“Call me crazy, but every time I keep post outside, you suddenly feel this need to fuck your man for some reason. Then you scream so loud that one would think you’re doing it on purpose to get me horny,” his hands reach your ass and he gives it a firm squeeze, “which you do by the way.”
“Yeah, you’re fucking crazy,” you chuckle.
“Damn straight,” he responds, dead serious, not smiling at all. “I’m fucking crazy about you.”
He heaves a deep sigh, lips parted, devouring you with his eyes. The warmth of his breath tickles you, and you feel the first drops of your slick starting to pool between your legs.
“He has an army of guys at his disposal,” he brushes your cheek with a single knuckle. “Why do you think he asked for me?”
His hands keep exploring your body. With each curve he feels under his touch, he turns a little more feral, grows a little bigger, and breathes a little heavier, biting his lips not because he is turned on, but to tame himself.
“Because he knows you get me weak as fuck,” he whispers against your skin.
“I get you weak?” you chortle. “How come I’ve never known this?”
“When it’s a cartel boss’s princess in question, you can’t really declare that shit out in the open on account of wanting to live,” he says matter of factly, “but since I have a free pass tonight, I can say whatever the fuck I want.”
His mouth ghosts on your collarbones, but he fails to practice restraint. His lips are momentarily pressed on them, drawing a wet trail from one side to the other. He leaves his own body and watches himself from afar as he slowly drags the bust of your dress down. Not all the way, just enough to tease himself with the sight of your cleavage. He can’t help himself and licks a stripe between your tits. When he makes you moan for the first time, he immediately thinks he’s not built for this. You’re too much temptation, and he is too weak for you, willing to collapse this entire cartel if it means you’ll ride him for five more seconds.
“Fuck being a princess,” his rampant jealousy morphs into a desperate plea as he pulls your face closer. “Come be my queen instead.”
You take his lips between yours, and he loses all control.
What was meant as a teasing peck instantly turns into a very heavy makeout session. Messy. Wet. Pornographically loud. Your hands in his hair, his fingertips sunk into your thighs, his cock throbbing harder under you every time your teeth tugs at his lips. You remember that hunger from somewhere.
The creak of the chair and the sound of metal clinking steal your attention. You break the kiss and turn around to witness a very tense Yoongi, the only other man who kisses you like this.
“If you’re flinching just with a kiss, we’re gonna have a fucking problem later on, boss. This is going to get a lot worse,” Jungkook warns him, then grins like a maniac. “I’m about to go all the way with your girl.”
Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but there’s an equally deranged smile on his lips.
“Nervous?” you coo at Jungkook.
“Wouldn’t you be if your favorite pornstar was perched on your lap like this?” he licks his lips. “I’m a huge fan.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and takes out a miniature vial filled with white powder, then draws a line across your tits. He snorts the coke so deeply like it’s his backup supply of oxygen, and when he looks up at you again, his blown pupils almost completely eclipse his irises. You are pleased. You are aroused. You are loving this, and you want to see how much more feral he can get over you.
“Which one of my movies do you like the best?” you cradle his face.
“Prison guard,” he answers without a beat. “By a landslide.”
“It’s the latex, isn’t it?”
“It’s everything about you,” he growls, jaw clenched with animalistic desire. “Fucking step on me.”
His fingers brush against the blackletter S tattoo right between your tits, and his face contorts upon the mental image he created for himself.
“It’s okay. I know a guy,” he kisses your chest. “It’ll be a J in no time.”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time a lot deeper, messier. You moan into each other’s mouths, and the slurping sounds echo in the suite. You grind faster on his lap, stuck between wanting to tease him and making him cum untouched for you.
“I always imagine it’s you when I get my dick sucked. I can’t help it,” he confesses into your ear, voice almost like a whimper as he sneaks one hand between your legs to caress your supple thighs. “I don’t care if it’s for one night, you’re finally mine.”
He finally starts unpacking you, dragging down the straps of your dress first. Slowly, still teasing himself as if he’s not gonna die if you so much as kiss his cock. Then he yanks your bust down and reveals your breasts, almost passing out at the sight.
“I can be your side bitch. That could be my new job,” he fondles them, falling in love with the way they feel in his palms. “Now that would be the promotion I fucking deserve.”
“Being his right-hand man doesn’t cut it?” you sneer.
“No, but you being my wife would.”
He traps your nipple in between his lips and starts sucking on it, his tongue stealing a couple of licks every now and then. He stays latched to you as you undress him. Blazer off, shirt off, belt off. Before you take his pants off, he trades places with you and makes you sit on the couch, then kneels before you like a faithful servant. Your thighs make a sticky sound as he spreads your legs, and he gulps way too thickly when he sees just how wet you are.
“You’re not gonna cry, are you?” you tease, tangling your fingers into his locks again.
“I might, actually. You into ruining hot men?” he asks, face way too serious for it to be a joke. “No worries if not. I’ll just get my tear glands removed.”
He wraps his arms around your thighs and gets into position, staring at your folds just like a predator looks at its prey.
“Look into his eyes when I eat your pussy,” he instructs. “Show off your new fucktoy.”
He licks one stripe across your cunt, and the sound that rips from your throat is unholy.
He starts giving you the deepest, sloppiest, and loudest head of your goddamn life like he is trying to prove something. Your eyes meet Yoongi’s, and it thrills the shit out of you to watch him watch you. His eyes are all hooded, snitching on how he’s dying of arousal as his spoiled princess gets pleasured out of her mind by a total simp, his cock straining his pants. It’s almost art, the way it goes down. No sight in the world can be this fucking sublime.
“Look at him. He fucking hates how much he loves this, but he can’t do anything about it,” Jungkook chuckles into your pussy. “He can’t go anywhere. He acts all tough, but we both know what a fucking simp he is for you.”
Two fingers curl into you as he licks a slow drag from your slit to your clit, giving it a strong suck at the end. You spit on your fingers and play with your nipples, riding his face faster for as much friction as you can get. He pins you in your place and spreads your lips, then starts flicking his tongue on your clit so fast that a buzzing sensation sets in.
“D–Deeper… Fuck me deepe— Yes. Now suck harder. Spit on it, baby, get it slipp— God, yes. Yes. YES, HARDER!!!”
You fall apart on his tongue, getting sucked hard and fingered deep just like you’ve ordered. He doesn’t let go until he reaches that sweet spot of overstimulation, enjoying the sight of you squirming for him just for a little while.
“But if he wants to be with you, he’s gonna have to watch me wreck you,” he rises on his knees, chin covered with your slick, and pulls you close to let you taste yourself. “Now sit on my cock, beautiful.”
He stands for you to undo his pants first, and you swallow hard when you face his crotch, fully salivating when his cock springs free. Leaking. Flushed. Huge. Raging erection staring at you to devour it. You lean in and steal a taste from his tip. Low, almost quiet sounds of pleasure escape his lips as you tease his slit, but when you lose control and choke on his girth, he full-on growls.
“God, you’re fucking killing me,” he throws his head back, eyes fluttering shut like your lips were rimmed with morphine.
He wants to fuck your throat and your cunt, and it’s driving him crazy that he can’t do both at the same time. If he lets you blow him any longer, he’s gonna grab a fistful of your hair, and god knows what will follow afterwards. He barely manages to peel himself away and sits back down, pulling you onto his lap again.
“Into me,” he pulls your body closer, your back flush against his chest. “Spread wide so your man sees everything perfectly.”
You gasp when his tip prods your entrance, and it turns into a drawn-out moan when he starts sinking into you, inch by thick, delicious inch. As Yoongi watches another man take what’s his, he makes the kind of sound grown men are not supposed to make. He is so fucking into it, leaking at the sight of Jungkook’s thick cock stretching you, wet squelch of your pussy complete music to his ears. A part of him is riddled with jealousy, but the part that is infested with fatal amounts of lust consumes it at record speed like flesh-eating bacteria.
It doesn’t matter how much time Jungkook takes to disappear into you; he is still actively losing a piece of his mind permanently. His lips are latched to your neck, your arm is thrown back behind his nape, his hands are fondling your tits, and his cock is buried six feet under you, fucking you so hard like he’s going to die within the next ten minutes. He can’t believe you’re actually falling apart on his lap, screaming horrendous profanities with eyes squeezed shut. A sight he’s dreamed of, drooled over, jerked off to, now in technicolor, rushing in his veins worse than the coke he snorted and getting him twice as high.
“You’re gonna kill me. God, you’re gonna fucking kill me,” he keeps repeating, voice faded as fuck as he licks into your ear. “Should I call over one of my boys to eat your pussy, too, huh? Do you wanna be a proper slut for me?”
He shoves his fingers inside your mouth and collects your spit, then starts rubbing your clit, swollen and sticky, desperately fast like a starved animal. Nothing else exists in this moment. It’s just him and you, and this is all about how he’s the one you’re crumbling over, how he’s the one making you drool with your eyes rolling back, and how you’re moaning his name.
RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR MAN!
“That’s it. Let go. Show him who’s really the boss. Show him who you really want,” he orders, laughing more deliriously as his arousal peaks, seconds away from snapping. “I love you. God, I fucking love you. I’ll fill you up so good, then I’m gonna watch him eat it. Milk me. Milk it out of me, baby, you’re fucking KILLING ME WITH THIS!!!”
Jungkook assumed it would be you, but it’s Yoongi who reaches the finish line first, cumming untouched simply by watching this beautiful disaster. You can’t believe what has just unraveld before you, and he looks so fucking good, all fucked out without a single touch, that it pushes you over the edge. Jungkook senses the danger when you clench too hard around him and forces himself to his absolute limit to hold it. Until he makes sure those rhythmic pulses around him are fully involuntary. When he finally lets go, an inhumane sound rips from his throat, so guttural it could be a scream of agony. His orgasm gives him a terrible instant headache like a brain freeze, and you can feel the warm wetness gushing out of you, making you wonder just how large that load was.
A dense hush of pure satiation falls over the room, and your faded chuckles and heavy breathing are the only thing that echoes for a while. This is bliss. Utter and unmitigated bliss. You rest in Jungkook’s embrace until your limbs are loaded with some strength again, then you carefully pull him out of you. You stand up, thick strings of cum dripping down your thighs, and undo Yoongi’s restraints, soothing his cuffburns with soft kisses.
“You got a bit carried away there with the confessions, Jeon,” he smirks at Jungkook.
“Hey, what happens in the scene, stays in the scene, man,” Jungkook answers, one arm draped over his eyes, still trying to catch his breath.
“So if I asked you to tag team her with me right now, you wouldn’t do it. Is that what you’re saying?”
Jungkook removes his arm and looks at him, trying to assess how serious he really is, but all he can see is yet another enigmatic smile. Yoongi rises to his feet, reclaims your lips for himself again, then gallantly reaches for your hand and places a kiss on it as if this is your special day. As if you’re not all disheveled, covered in cum and spit.
“I’ll take over the pussy worship duties for a while,” he declares. “Join us if you can manage to recover.”
You cross the threshold to the bedroom hand in hand, and Jungkook watches you kiss Yoongi while removing his blazer. Then undo his belt. Then he watches Yoongi wrap the belt around your wrists and lay you down on the bed. Even though he just came, his cock faintly throbs. He might have accidentally picked up an addiction worse than cocaine tonight.
Fifty million can’t hold a fucking candle to this narcotic delight.
Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,695
Summary: When Curtis is in a bad mood and taking it out on you, you try to soothe the savage beast as an act of self-preservation.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Soft!dark!Curtis. Forced exhibitionism. Forced use of clamps (nipple and clit). Overstimulation. Pussy slap. Soft degradation. Oral sex (m receiving). Cock worship. Cum play.
A/N: I swear to god, the way this man makes my brain go brrr 😵💫
Although you weren’t the source of Curtis’ current ire, unfortunately you were on the receiving end of his agitation and bad mood.
From what you had gathered, he’d been working for months to kill a rival named Wilford and take over his territory, but Curtis’ plan had failed and Wilford had survived.
And since Curtis didn’t have control over that, he turned to something he did have absolute control over: you.
Which is why you were currently naked and on display on the pedestal in his office, sniffling back more tears as you stewed in misery thanks to the nipple clamps and clit clamp he was making you wear.
You hated them, because they hurt so much, and you had been wearing them for what felt like hours now. You swore you couldn’t remember what it felt like to not feel so oversensitized and throbbing in the worst way ever from some of your most intimate parts.
A few fresh tears spilled over and when you went to quickly wipe them away before Curtis noticed, you jarred your breasts, whining as the clamps tugged and a jolt of pain zapped through you.
He looked up from his computer, his eyes glittering as a mean smirk curled his lips. Snorting, he sat back in his seat, tapping his fingers along the arm rest as he drawled, “God, your tolerance for pain really is shit.”
“Please…” you pouted, lower lip wobbling as you tried not to full on burst into tears, because you were so miserable and felt so vulnerable and you just wanted to hide.
“Get over here,” Curtis huffed.
You had never moved so quickly, despite the way your body throbbed as a result, hopeful that Curtis would let you remove the clamps and give you a break at the very least.
As terrible and terrifying as he could be sometimes, he didn’t often hurt you on purpose, especially after the whole Franco debacle, and being on the receiving end of this type of treatment was making you feel very emotional and weepy.
Curtis just lounged, watching you for a long moment as you trembled before him before he straightened in his seat. His fingers were dexterous as they removed the clamp from your clit before doing the same to the nipple clamps. He tossed the contraption onto his desk, and it jingled as all the connecting chains pooled atop his workspace.
Since you had never used clamps before, you didn’t know what happened once they were removed. The intense rush of blood to your oversensitive nipples and clit had you whimpering, a wave of dizziness washing over you and making you sway on your feet.
It certainly didn’t help that Curtis gave your pussy a slap, and you whined as your knees buckled and you fell against him with a pathetic, “Please, don’t. It hurts, I can’t…”
Curtis sighed, but he didn’t say anything, instead his hands encouraged your closer. His fingers trailed along your sides, then your ass as you sniffled and tried to get your feet under you. He maintained those soft touches and caresses along your bare skin before he reached for the back of your neck and guided your face down to his.
You trembled as he kissed away the tear tracks on your cheeks, unconsciously leaning into him, craving softness and comfort, especially after being so vulnerable. You shivered when his tongue snuck out to taste the salty brine of your misery before he pulled away.
Curtis’ grin was wicked, his voice tinged with command as he told you, “Show me how grateful you are for my kindness, the way I’m not forcing you to take my cock or playing with all your pretty puffy parts to make you cry some more for me.”
You shuddered at the very thought of either of those things and didn’t hesitate to sink to your knees and reach to undo his pants.
Anything to keep him occupied in a different way than making you hurt any more.
“Good girl.”
The smidge of praise had you even more determined to lead Curtis down this path, away from his prior bad mood and devious machinations–to soothe the savage beast.
So you forced yourself to meet his gaze as you freed his hard cock from his pants and gave it a stroke before beginning to lick and suckle at his tip. You knew he liked it–the eye contact that you struggled with–especially when you were using your mouth on his cock.
“There you go,” he hummed as you took him into your mouth.
You bobbed up and down a few times, working him over before guiding him deeper into your throat. You held him there as long as you could before gagging and pulling back to gasp in air.
It was like you were on a weird sort of autopilot now, focused on just one thing and one thing only–pleasuring Curtis to keep him content and keep yourself off of his shit list.
You tongued along the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein there before you went to take him back into your mouth–your throat again–but his words made you still.
“As much as I love fucking your throat, I want something different today. I want you to worship my tip and balls, pretty prize, show me just how much you love my cock.”
Despite your current circumstances, something about Curtis’ request had a flood of heat filling your face, and your eyes fell away as you squirmed. You took a shaky breath, unsure of what exactly to do, but you just did the first thing you thought of and started with a kiss to the crown of his cock.
Curtis laughed, but his hips shifted up, seeking more as he hummed, “God, you’re such a sweet little slut.”
Your face bloomed with heat all over again, but you tried to focus on the task at hand. The way Curtis was so hard in your grip. The way his cock was dribbling an endless river of pre-cum.
The way he was so obviously affected by you.
It made your traitorous pussy flutter, a gush of slick seeping from your cunt and staining your thighs.
Pressing your legs together, you tongued at Curtis’ tip, teasing his hole and making him groan, before sucking on the mushroom head.
Your hands descended to fondle his sac, fingers tracing over the soft texture of him.
You kissed your way down his length until you were mouthing at his balls, and Curtis shifted in his seat, squirming for the first time ever.
His hand reached for you, cradling the back of your head as he rutted his hips, eager for more. Something about that eagerness–how undone he was becoming, because of you–made you moan, and Curtis grunted as he felt the vibration of it.
You worked his cock with slow tugs and twists of your hand as you sucked and laved along his sac, until you felt his cock twitch in your grip as he moaned.
“Fuck, sit back, let me see you,” Curtis gritted. “Jerk me till I cum, and aim it at your face and tits. I want you covered in me.”
His eyes were nearly black with lust and need, and you ignored the wild fluttering of your pussy as you did what you were told. You squeezed his cock with the kind of pressure you knew he enjoyed most, your hand jerking him quickly as you aimed just like he said.
A moment later, Curtis gave a loud, primal groan as his hips jerked, his cock throbbing as he came. His big body writhed in his seat as he gripped the chair arms until his knuckles turned white.
You flinched, eyes closing as you felt the first spurt of his cum hit your face. It wasn’t just the warmth of his release that had your face burning, it was the humiliation factor too. Being covered in him, being made a mess, as you felt more ribbons of his sticky cream coat your skin, dribble down your throat and in between your tits.
Even as you told yourself you hated it–hated him–your pussy was quivering and leaking more slick, just adding to the burn of your shame and humiliation.
“Fuck, that’s enough,” Curtis panted, shoving your hand off his cock.
You waited a beat before wiping at your eyes so you could blink them open, your gaze finding Curtis sagged back in his seat, breathing hard. His handsome face was rosy, his eyes fixed on you, shining with satisfaction in such a feral, primal way that it made your breath catch.
The air around you felt heavy, charged, like it was crackling with energy as the two of you stared at each other for a moment.
Then Curtis arched his brow at you, expectant, and you knew exactly what he wanted, without being told, because by now, you knew him that well.
“Thank you,” you whispered, making him grin.
“Fuck, I said ‘worship my cock,’ and you delivered, didn’t you, pretty prize?”
Your eyes fell to the floor, your face heating again, for what felt like the millionth time, as you squirmed at Curtis’ feet.
“Go kneel on your pedestal so I have the perfect view of how pretty you look covered in my cum.”
Wincing, you rose to your feet, but before you could step away, Curtis grabbed your wrist. His eyes twinkled as you gasped, and he yanked you close, tugging you down and leaning up to catch your lips in a ruthless, toe-curling kiss.
He deepened it quickly, his tongue licking into your mouth and making your mewl, and then he was pulling away just as fast, a boyish grin curling his lips as he sat back and watched you blinked owlishly as you tried to gather yourself.
“I like the taste of myself on your tongue, pretty prize. Now go on, go put yourself on display for me,” he husked, turning you and giving your ass a gentle pat.
And as you moved back to the pedestal on weak, trembling legs, you could feel Curtis’ heated gaze on you the entire time.
The way this was supposed to be super mean and degrading and then ended with Curtis being so smitten LOL. I cannot predict this fictional man ever.
NEXT PART
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I was thinking about Curtis' Prized Possession Reader getting a little drunk.
On one hand, I imagine she wouldn't want to drink because it's even scarier to lose any bit of control and be less vigilant. Perhaps even Curtis makes sure she doesn't drink, he wants her fully responsive at all times.
But on the other hand, what if she's just the slightest bit tipsy. Maybe he made her accompany him and gave her a drink or two himself. Now she's more clingy, relaxed, cute giggle at something random. Maybe even blurts out she's horny.
Uninhibited
Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,863
Summary: It only takes a couple of drinks and a surprise encounter with a sweet, furry baby to have you letting your guard down for the first time in months.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Mob elements. Captivity. Soft!Dark!Curtis (shocking, I know lol). Mentions of alcohol consumption and gossipy, judgemental assholes. Unprotected sex. Allusions to oral sex (f receiving).
A/N: Eva, I absolutely love this ask, but for the life of me, I cannot imagine this Reader giggly and letting loose with Curtis, let alone blurting she’s horny lol. However, I did have a thot… 👀 and I hope you like what I came up with.
Please note: this does NOT directly follow the last installment, Tit for Tat, timeline wise. I would say it likely comes after Chase the Nightmares away but before Placate.
Prized Possession Masterlist
It had been so long since you had a drink, that after only one cocktail and a flute of champagne, you were feeling the effects of—and also regretting—being too nervous to eat all day.
But you couldn’t help it, because here you were at some fancy party hosted by one of Curtis’ mob associates. It was the first time he had taken you out with him publicly, and just as you had feared, as soon as you had stepped foot in the room at his side—anchored close by his thick, possessive arm around your waist—the staring and whispering had begun.
Everyone knew who you were. What you were.
Curtis’ prize.
You felt your insides wilt the further Curtis had led you into the ballroom, and when he had surprisingly offered you a drink, encouraging you to, “Loosen up, pretty prize,” you had accepted.
Now, an hour or so later, as you slipped from the fancy bathroom a few halls over from the party, you felt a little lightheaded but also so relieved to have a moment away from it all.
You were taking a few slow, steady breaths to try to reinforce your armor, to feel more in control, when you heard it.
A tiny, quiet mew.
Perking up, you tentatively moved further down the hall, further away from the party and deeper into the opulent manor belonging to the party host, who was a complete stranger to you and probably just as terrible as Curtis.
A few more yards and half a dozen quiet meows later, you stepped into what looked like a child’s room. Just across the floor, clambering out of a plush cat bed, was a tiny white kitten who only meowed louder when it saw you.
“Oh my gosh!” You breathed, a genuine smile splitting your lips as you rushed across the large room and sank to your knees without care.
Why should you care if the expensive, fancy gown Curtis had picked out for you was now pooling on the floor? Or that the sweet little ball of excitement hopping toward you would likely get fur all over it?
You couldn’t even remember the last time you had seen a kitten, let alone played with one. Probably not since you were a child, and in this moment, you felt as innocent and carefree as one as you cooed at the furry baby and lifted it between your hands to get a better look at it.
“Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” You gushed as the kitten continued to wiggle and chirp some more under your full attention.
Giggling, you cradled it against your chest, giving it gentle scritches atop its head. When it started to purr–much louder than you expected from such a tiny creature–you outright laughed for the first time in you couldn’t remember how long.
Soon, you were giggling and cooing up a storm–completely uninhibited in a way you hadn’t been in so, so long–as the kitten squirmed from your hold and began to jump and pounce along the folds of your dress that you used as a makeshift toy to entertain it.
And that’s how Curtis found you minutes later.
Sat on the floor, your gown spread around you as you giggled and played with the kitten, completely oblivious to his presence and the way he watched you for a few long moments, mesmerized.
Because in all the months that you had been with him, Curtis had never heard you giggle or laugh. He had never seen you smile so freely and without reserve. He had never heard you talk in a silly baby voice or see you be so gentle with such a vulnerable creature.
It was like you had escaped the dark shadows of his world–the mob underbelly–and returned to your rightful place, one that allowed your light to shine–and that light, it was such a rare commodity in Curtis’ world.
It allowed him to witness a new side to you, which only made him want to possess you more ardently than ever before. It made Curtis want to greedily claim you and covet that pure light of yours all for himself, like a dragon hoarding a precious treasure.
Without realizing it, he took a step toward you, his weight making the floor creak and alerting you to his presence.
Your head snapped up, and as soon as you saw him, your smile dropped. The joy that had lit your face was instantly snuffed out as you protectively cradled the kitten against your chest and stared at Curtis in fear.
“Please, I’m sorry—“ you started, but he cut you off with a wave of his hand.
“Relax, pretty prize.” Curtis kept his steps slow and even as he moved closer. “Seems like you snuck away and found the best company at this thing.”
You were stunned–and wary–as Curtis crouched beside you and reached out his big hand. It was a protective instinct that you didn’t have time to think better of or suppress, recoiling from him and taking the kitten with you.
But Curtis just seemed amused as he watched you, his eyes gleaming as his lips twitched and he murmured, “You think I’d hurt it?”
“Can you blame me?” you replied without thinking, your own eyes widening as you cursed having touched even a sip of alcohol if this was the result–being dangerously bold with someone who could truly make you pay for it.
Smirking, Curtis held your gaze as he once again reached out, clocking the way you stiffened but didn’t recoil this time as he used one long, lone finger to gently pet along the kitten’s head.
You deflated with a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as the kitten began another round of loud purrs, and it seemed as if you thankfully hadn’t stoked Curtis’ ire by hiding away in here and then practically sassing him due to your less than sober state.
All too soon, Curtis was lifting the sleeping kitten from your hold, grinning as you pouted at him but didn’t object as he moved to place the kitten in its bed. Your lips tilted into an almost smile as you watched the kitten turn in circles a few times before eventually curling up and falling into a peaceful, sound sleep.
You were so busy watching the kitten, you didn’t realize Curtis was just as avidly watching you. Not until he stroked your cheek just as softly as he had petted the kitten just moments ago, and you turned to him to find his darker-than-normal gaze intently fixed on you.
“Sometimes I forget how sweet you are,” he husked, his knuckles gently drawing down the length of your throat and making you shiver.
It was instant the way your body perked up in awareness—throbbing with a shameful interest and need—as Curtis continued to gently touch you. Until you were squirming and avoiding his gaze, wishing that he didn’t have such a primal effect on you always.
After everything.
“You look very pretty tonight,” he murmured, gently stroking beneath your chin before tilting your shy gaze up to meet his.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Your eyes started to fall away again, but Curtis’ touch shifted, until he was gently gripping the front of your neck and holding your head aloft.
Your gasp was sharp and startled—scared—as you met his gaze. “Please,” you trembled. “Don’t hurt me.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hurt you,” Curtis hummed. “I want to make you feel good.”
You were startled for an entirely different reason now as Curtis swiftly rose to his feet, gripping your hand to take you along with him. A moment later, you were down the hall in a spare bedroom, pressed up against the closed door as Curtis kissed you so hungrily, there was no other word for it than ravished.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or the reprieve from prying eyes and gossip that had greeted you at the start of the night–or maybe it was just your traitorous body finally luring your frazzled mind to the dark side–but when Curtis’ hand began to descend your body, when it worked its way beneath the long folds of your skirt, then between your thighs, you welcomed his sinful touch.
You begged for it.
“Please,” you gasped, your head falling back as Curtis’ lips blazed a hot trail of kisses down your throat.
“You’ve got me aching, I’m so hard for you,” Curtis gristled against your neck, giving a nip sharp enough to make you whine in need before his tongue soothed over your skin.
You were so wet by the time Curtis sank into you, that he bottomed out in one slow, deep thrust that had you both moaning as his forehead dropped to yours. You panted and squirmed as your pussy fluttered and clamped around him, earning another throaty groan from Curtis before he started to move inside of you.
He kept his promise and didn’t hurt you, but your coupling was quick and rough–desperatre. Your bodies rutted against one another, your moans smothered against each other's lips until you were cumming with a sharp cry of delight and clinging to Curtis’ broad shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to this moment.
“Fuck,” he grunted, burying himself as deep inside your cunt as he could before giving shallow ruts as he came and pumped you full of his seed.
You shivered as the warmth of his pleasure bloomed inside of you, making your pussy flutter all over again as you sank back against the door, completely boneless and dazed to boot.
And–as Curtis had promised–feeling good.
So good that you didn’t want this moment to end, and when Curtis went to pull away, you clung to him, giving sleepy blinks and a discontent pout that made his lips twitch and his eyes dance at you.
“Come on, pretty prize, this party’s a bust, and I’d much rather get you home where I can eat your sweet, needy cunt at my leisure.”
Laughing as he felt you clench in response to his words, Curtis finally pulled away. He took a moment to put himself back together again, then another moment to do the same for you.
When he glanced up, Curtis found you watching him with a furrow between your brow. Whether it was due to his rare, gentle caretaking, or your own contentment in this moment, he wasn’t sure, but regardless, he caught your chin with his fingers and leaned in to kiss you slowly.
You made a soft, sweet sound of surprise against his lips that had Curtis smirking as he pulled away, and when you swayed after him–mindlessly chasing his retreat–a deep rumble of satisfaction vibrated his chest as he touched his lips to your forehead and hummed, “You’re so fucking sweet.”
Then, much like you had started the evening, you ended it nearly the same way–with Curtis’ thick arm curled around your waist. Only this time, he was leading you from the room–and the party altogether–shouldering most of your weight as you struggled to walk on your jelly-like legs, uncaring of the numerous gazes and judgemental whispers that accompanied your departure.
He’s such a mindfuck 😩 But also: I’m so here for it.
NEXT PART
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I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @sirisshamelesshoelibrary and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘
Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️
Pairing: CEO!Yoongi x Employee!Reader
Genre: Office AU, Workplace Romance, Strangers-to-Lovers, Slow-burn romance, flirty chaos, rom-com, fluff, smut, Grumpy-Sunshine trope
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content [messy make-outs in CEO's office, nipple play, oral f receiving, fingering, soft and gentle love-making, Unprotected sex (refrain IRL)], Workplace Tension, Rumours and insult by a co-worker, Jealousy turning in makeout, Yoongi being grumpy-sulky-cute boyfriend
Rating: 18+| Minors DNI
Word Count: ~13.5k
[MASTERLIST]
The WiFi in your apartment died for the last 3 days.
Seventy-two hours of nothing but the mocking blue “No Internet” circle spinning like it was personally judging your life choices. And the worst part? Your current drama had just dropped episodes 4 and 5.
The kind of episodes that end on a cliffhanger. You were spiritually hemorrhaging. You arrived at the office that morning looking like someone had personally kicked you out of your own apartment.
Seated at the lunch table, you dropped your head onto your folded arms with theatrical despair. “Do you guys understand the emotional devastation? The male lead literally whispered ‘Saranghae’ and then... bam... truck-kun. I’m in mourning. Actual mourning.”
Jimin, mid-bite of his kimbap, didn’t even look up. “You say that every time when episodes are gonna drop.”
“This is different,” you insisted, lifting your head just enough to glare.
“This is soul-destroying. This time the episodes are already dropped and it's been 3 days I haven't watch them. I am not even opening insta because of spoiler edits.”
Hoseok patted your shoulder like you were a sad puppy.
Namjoon, being the human equivalent of a walking Wikipedia, offered, “You could use the office Wi-Fi tonight. It’s gigabit. You’d be done in like… ten minutes.”
You sat up so fast your chair squeaked. “Genius. Evil genius. I love you.”
“Don’t get caught,” Jimin warned, finally looking amused.
“I’ll be undercover,” you promised, already mentally mapping your escape plan. “Like a ninja.”
That evening you stayed behind after the last person left.
The open-plan office slowly emptied until it was just the hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of emergency exit signs. You dimmed your monitor brightness to absolutely no one, and crawled under your desk like a soldier in enemy territory.
The LAN port was, of course, in the most inconvenient corner possible. “Come on, you stupid little rectangle hole,” you muttered.
Click. Success.
You crawled back out, dusted off your skirt, stood up triumphantly.
...and screamed.
A man was standing three feet away.
Tall. Black turtleneck. Black slacks. Black hair falling slightly into even blacker eyes. Hands in pockets. Expression so blank it was almost weaponized.
Your soul left your body for a solid three seconds.
You yelped, slammed your laptop half-closed behind you, and pressed your back against the desk edge so hard you were probably going to have a bruise shaped like a drawer handle tomorrow.
He didn’t flinch... Didn’t blink...
Just tilted his head the tiniest fraction.
“What are you doing here this late?” His voice was low, raspy, the kind that made you feel like you’d been caught red-handed while robbing the bank.
You swallowed. “W-Work.”
A beat of silence... Thick Silence...
“…Very urgent work... Important Spreadsheets,” you added, because apparently your mouth had decided lying was now its full-time job.
His gaze flicked down to the laptop you were clutching like it contained state secrets, then slowly back up to your face.
One eyebrow lifted barely. But it was enough.
You tried for bravado. “Actually, what are you doing here? This is the marketing floor. You are here after hours. Without any ID or visitor badge. I could report you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Not a smile. More like his face had decided smiling was too much effort but it would humor you with a half-second preview.
He took one step forward.
You took one step back—and immediately hit the desk. There was nowhere to go.
Then he moved again. And again.
Until both his hands braced on the desk, one on each side of your hips. Not touching you. Not even close. But close enough that you could smell clean laundry and something faintly like cologne and quiet authority.
You were officially caged between a very expensive desk and a very dangerous-looking stranger.
He leaned in just enough that you had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Your heart was doing somersaults inside your ribcage.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” you managed, voice higher than usual.
He studied you for a long moment... long enough that you started cataloguing every micro-expression. The way his lashes were unfairly long. The tiny silver hoop in his left earlobe. The curve of his lips.
Then, very slowly, the smallest, most dangerous smirk you’d ever seen curled one side of his mouth.
“Clearly,” he said, voice velvet and gravel at the same time, “you haven’t seen me before. So you don't know me.”
You blinked. “Should I?”
He held your gaze for one more excruciating heartbeat. Then he straightened, pulled his hands off the desk, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Just… left.
You stared at his retreating back until he disappeared around the corner toward the executive elevator. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for a full minute.
“…Who the actual hell was that?” you whispered to the empty office.
Your laptop pinged softly.
Download progress: 14%.
You looked at the screen. Looked at the dark hallway where Tall, Dark, and Terrifying man had vanished. Looked back at the screen.
“…Worth it,” you decided, and sat down to wait for the remaining download like your life depended on it.
The next morning arrived like a betrayal.
You shuffled into the office ten minutes late... hair in a slightly chaotic half-bun, concealer doing heroic work under your eyes, and an Americano clutched in your hand.
Episodes 4 and 5 had finally downloaded at 10 p.m., and you’d stayed up until 2:00 watching them back-to-back while ugly-crying into a pillow.
The entire marketing floor was already gathered near the glass-walled conference room, buzzing with that special brand of corporate excitement reserved for surprise announcements.
You slid into the back row between Hoseok and a very confused intern who was still holding a stack of color-coded Post-its like they were a shield.
“What’s going on?” you whispered, leaning toward Hoseok.
He grinned like he knew something you didn’t. “Big Announcement. You didn't check the CEO’s mail?”
You took a long, fortifying sip of coffee. “If it’s another ‘synergy workshop’ I’m faking my own death.”
The double doors at the front opened.
Mr. Min—the current CEO, silver hair, kind eyes, stepped forward with the kind of proud-dad energy.
“Good morning, everyone,” he began, voice warm and grandfatherly. “I know we’ve all been wondering about the future of the company, especially after the merger talks died down. Well… I’m happy to finally introduce the person who will be taking over as CEO from today.”
A dramatic pause... Everyone leaned forward slightly.
“My son. Min Yoongi.”
The room exhaled in a collective “oooh.”
You took another casual sip of coffee, unbothered. Rich people had rich kids. Whatever. Probably some freshly graduate, with lots of attitude and in loafers with no socks.
Then the new voice cut through the room—low, raspy, unmistakable.
“Good morning.”
Your entire spinal column turned to ice. You froze mid-sip, lips still wrapped around the straw.
Very slowly... like turning your head might detonate something—you lifted your gaze.
There he was.
Black suit today. Crisp white shirt. Tie loosened around neck, top button undone just enough to be quietly devastating. Hair pushed back, exposing that unfairly perfect forehead.
Same silver hoop glinting in his left ear. Same dark, unreadable eyes scanning the room like he was cataloguing every single soul present. The man who’d caged you against your own desk last night like some k-drama.
Your soul didn’t just leave your body. It travelled to whole another universe.
Without conscious thought, your coffee mug rose, slowly, slowly, until it covered the bottom half of your face. You could still see over the rim—just barely—but mostly you were hiding.
Hiding very obviously... In front of thirty people...
Hoseok side-eyed you. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Shh,” you hissed through barely moving lips. “Act like I don't exist.”
Yoongi stepped forward beside his father.
The CEO beamed and launched into the usual proud-parent energy: top of his class at Seoul National, Wharton MBA, already restructured three subsidiaries in Europe, blah blah terrifying competence.
You barely heard any of it.
Because Yoongi was now walking the line of employees.
One by one.
He greeted people with the politeness: a nod, a quiet “nice to meet you,” a brief handshake if they offered. Voice so soft it almost disappeared into the carpet.
Expression calm. Professional. Untouchable.
Until he reached your row. He stopped directly in front of you.
Your mug was now practically glued to your nose. You could feel the condensation dripping onto your chin.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.
You peeked over the rim... barely one eyeball visible...
His gaze locked onto yours.
And then... God help you, he smirked... again.
It wasn’t big.
It was the tiniest upward curve of one corner of his mouth, but it carried the same energy as last night’s “interesting.” Like he’d caught you stealing company WiFi and was mildly entertained by your entire existence.
“We’ve met before,” he said.
Quiet... Casual... Like he was commenting on the weather.
The entire marketing team turned to look at you. Thirty pairs of eyes.
Hoseok’s jaw actually dropped.
You choked.
Not dramatically. Just a small, pathetic inhale of coffee that went down the wrong pipe. You coughed once... violently... mug sloshing, eyes watering.
“N-no we haven’t,” you wheezed, lowering the mug just enough to speak. Your voice cracked on the second syllable.
Yoongi’s smirk deepened by approximately 0.3 millimeters. Devastating.
“Really?” he murmured, tilting his head the exact same way he had last night under your desk. “Because I distinctly remember someone screaming when they stood up from under a desk. And then trying to hide a laptop screen like it contained national secrets.”
A ripple of confused laughter moved through the team.
You wanted to die.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to yeet yourself out the nearest window.
“I... I was working late,” you managed. “Very important… spreadsheet emergency.”
“Under the desk?” he asked, deadpan.
“I-I was searching for LAN Port...” you blurted.
Hoseok made a strangled noise that might have been laughter or sympathy or both.
Yoongi studied you for another long second. Then he simply nodded once, like you’d passed some invisible test only he understood.
“Looking forward to working with you,” he said. Voice velvet. Eyes glittering with something dangerously close to amusement.
He moved on.
Just like that.
He left you standing there with coffee dripping down your chin, face burning hotter than the surface of the sun, and thirty coworkers staring at you like you’d personally invented workplace drama.
Hoseok leaned in the second Yoongi was out of earshot. “Okay. Spill. What the actual hell was that?”
You stared straight ahead, still clutching your mug like a lifeline.
“I think,” you whispered, “I accidentally interrogated the new CEO last night. And now he knows my face. And my scream. And probably the name of my drama.”
Hoseok blinked. Then grinned so wide it threatened his ears.
“Bestie,” he said, patting your shoulder, “you’re so screwed.”
You looked down at your half-empty coffee cup.
“Yeah,” you sighed. “I think I just downloaded way more trouble than two episodes were worth.”
Later that afternoon your phone buzzed once on your desk. A single message from the internal company chat, sender: Executive Office.
“CEO Min would like to see you in his office. Now.”
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor and kept falling. You stared at the screen like it had personally insulted your entire bloodline.
Beside you, Hoseok noticed the color drain from your face and leaned over. “What’s wrong?”
You turned the phone toward him so he could read it. Jimin and Namjoon both scooted their chairs closer like this was group therapy.
“I’m getting fired,” you whispered, voice cracking. “For downloading only two episodes.”
Jimin winced. “Told you to be careful.”
Namjoon rubbed his temples. “Just… go. Maybe he wants to congratulate you on your excellent taste in kdrama.”
You glared at him and stood up on shaky legs. “If I don’t come back, tell my mother I loved her.”
Jimin rolled his eyes at your dramatic self.
The walk to the executive floor felt like a death row march. The elevator dinged cheerfully.
You hated it.
Yoongi’s office door was already ajar. You knocked once... barely a tap—and pushed it open.
He was seated behind the massive glass-and-mahagony desk that probably cost more than your entire apartment. White shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, silver watch catching the late-afternoon light, expression so calm.
He didn’t look up right away. Just kept reading something on his tablet.
You stood there like a guilty schoolchild sent to the principal.
Finally he lifted his gaze. Dark. Steady. Unreadable. “Close the door.”
You did. The click sounded final.
He didn’t speak for another long second. Then he reached for a single sheet of paper on his desk, slid it across the polished surface toward you.
You stepped forward, looked down.
LAN usage log.
Your extension.
Date: yesterday.
Total downloaded: 48.7 GB.
You gasped so loud it echoed off the walls. “You checked?”
Yoongi leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “I check everything.”
Your mouth opened... Closed... Opened again... “That’s—that’s an invasion of privacy!”
“Is it?” His voice was soft, almost gentle. Terrifyingly gentle. “Company network. Company policy clearly states no personal streaming, torrenting, or large-file personal downloads exceeding 5 GB per month without prior approval.”
You felt your soul try to exit through your feet.
“I’ll delete everything,” you blurted. “Right now. I’ll format my laptop. I’ll—I’ll never do it again. Please don’t fire me. I need this job. I have rent. And WiFi bills. And electricity bills.”
He watched you spiral in perfect silence.
Then, very quietly... “What drama was it?”
You blinked. Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”
“The one worth risking your job,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was speaking to someone very sleep-deprived. “What’s the title?”
You hesitated.
Then looked at the door. Looked back at him. Looked at the usage log like it might spontaneously combust and save you.
Then, in the tiniest voice possible, “…Love in the Slow Lane.”
He didn’t react at first.
Just held your gaze.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted—barely. “That’s my favorite too.”
You stared at him with a mouth slightly opened. Your sleep-deprived brain refused to process. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke around.” He leaned forward slightly. “Episode three ended with Ji-hoon finding the letter in the rain and truck scene. Episode four opens with the flashback to university. Correct?”
You nodded mutely, too stunned to form words.
He tapped one finger once on the desk. “I haven’t watched four and five yet. Due to Work.”
Then he continued, casual as if he were discussing quarterly projections, “I won’t report the usage. Or fire you.”
Your heart restarted. “Really?”
“On one condition.”
You swallowed. “What is it?”
“New episodes drop every Friday night. You watch the rest with me. Here. After hours. No more solo downloads on company WiFi.”
You blinked again. Several times.
“You… want to watch Love in the Slow Lane… with me?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have time to download it myself. And apparently you’re already an expert at late-night viewing.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, because you had zero filter. “You’re blackmailing me with company WiFi usage to be your drama buddy?”
His eyes glittered. “I prefer ‘mutually beneficial arrangement.’”
You stared at him for a long moment.
“…Fine,” you said at last. “But if you spoil anything while watching, I’m leaking your viewing history to the entire marketing floor.”
The tiniest huff of amusement escaped him. Almost a laugh.
“Deal.”
The very next evening you showed up at 8:45 p.m. with a suspicious paper bag that smelled like convenience-store kimbap and ramyeon. He was already there... lights dimmed, massive 85-inch monitor on, episode four paused at 00:02.
You hesitated in the doorway.
He glanced over. “You’re late.”
“W-Work...,” you replied.
“Sit.”
You sat. On the leather couch facing the screen.
He stayed behind the desk for approximately thirty seconds before giving up on the pretending and moving to sit beside you—close enough that your knees almost touched.
Episode four played.
You screamed at the truck scene... again.
He side-eyed you. “You’ve seen this.”
“I’m reliving the trauma for emotional support.”
He huffed... almost a laugh.
By episode five’s ending credits you were both yelling at the screen in unison about how unfair the coma plot was.
And just like that, a routine was born.
Every Friday after the last person left the floor, you slipped into his office like a thief. He’d already have the lights dimmed, the huge 85-inch monitor on the wall queued up, two cans of cold brew sitting on the side table like silent offerings.
He always pretended to be “finishing emails” when you arrived... papers spread out, glasses perched on his nose—but the second you sat on the leather sofa opposite his desk, he’d close the laptop without a word, join you and hit play.
You screamed at every plot twist. “NO! He did NOT just push her into the fountain again!”
“Shh,” he’d mutter, though his eyes never left the screen.
By the third week he’d started a running list on his phone: Pending Dramas to Binge. Nevertheless, Our Beloved Summer, Twenty-Five Twenty-One, Business Proposal, Crash Landing on You, Lovely Runner...
You glanced at it one night while the credits rolled. “I’ve already seen more than half of these.”
He didn’t even look up from pausing the next episode preview. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“You used 48.7 GB of company bandwidth in one night.” He finally met your eyes, deadpan. “Consider this as payback.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself—bright, startled, echoing in the quiet office.
He didn’t smile... Not really. But the way his gaze softened for half a second before he hit play again? That was more dangerous than any cliffhanger.
And somewhere between episode six of Love in the Slow Lane and the opening credits of Nevertheless, you both never realized that the real slow burn wasn’t on the screen.
It was sitting three feet away, pretending he didn’t care, while secretly and eagerly waiting every Friday night just for this.
The whispers started small.
Like the first crack in thin ice.
It was a quiet Friday evening a couple of weeks into your secret drama ritual. Most of the floor had already clocked out, but someone from Administration... Minji, had stayed behind to finish a quarterly audit.
She was walking past the executive wing with her arms full of folders when she saw it... the faint blue glow leaking under Yoongi’s office door at 10:17 p.m., and two silhouettes on the couch, and your loud laugh.
By Monday morning the rumour had churned out three different versions.
Version one: you were sleeping with the new CEO for a promotion. Version two: you were blackmailing him with something scandalous.
Version three: you were somehow his secret fiancee from an arranged marriage setup.
None of them were true.
All of them were loud.
Hoseok, Jimin, and Namjoon cornered you in the break room during lunch. Hoseok slid the door shut behind him with dramatic flair. “Okay... The entire building is talking about you and CEO Min.”
You paused mid-bite of your convenience-store triangle kimbap. “Talking how?”
Jimin leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Talking like ‘she’s in his office every night until 2 a.m.’. Talking like ‘she must be giving him something extra-special to keep her job.”
Namjoon adjusted his glasses, looking pained. “There’s also a theory that you’re his secret fiancée from an arranged marriage nobody knew about. That one’s gaining more attention than other two versions.”
You snorted so hard soy sauce nearly came out your nose. “Every night till 2 a.m.? Fiancée? Seriously? We’re literally just watching dramas and yelling at the screen when the second lead does something stupid.”
Hoseok’s eyes widened. “You’re still doing the drama thing? With him? In his office?”
“Every Friday... after hours,” you confirmed cheerfully. “He brings fancy popcorn now. The kind with truffle oil. It’s elite.”
Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize how this looks, right? People are saying you’re trading favours. That your character is… questionable.”
You set your kimbap down.
Looked at all three of them... really looked. Then smiled, soft but steady.
“I really appreciate that you all are worried but... I don’t care about those rumours,” you said simply.
“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not blackmailing him. I’m not stealing company secrets. I’m watching a drama with someone who also likes the drama. That’s it. If people want to make up stories because they’re bored, that’s their Friday night. Mine’s definitely better than theirs.”
Hoseok blinked. Then slowly started grinning. “You’re actually insane... do you know that?... In the best way.”
Namjoon sighed, but there was fondness in it. “Just… be careful. Office politics can get ugly fast.”
You shrugged, picking your kimbap back up. “Let them talk. I’ve got episode twelve queued and truffle popcorn waiting.”
Later that week the gossip took a sharper turn.
It was a Thursday afternoon—the kind where the office felt half-asleep and the coffee machine was making more noise than actual productivity.
You and Jimin were leaning against the high counter in the break room, sharing a bag of shrimp crackers. Jimin was mid-story, about how his last night blind date was total disaster and reenacting the way his blind date had tried to impress him by doing aegyo.
That was when the door swung open.
Seung-ho—the senior accountant strode in like he owned the oxygen in the room. He glanced at the two of you, clocked the laughter, and his lip curled.
He didn’t even pretend to reach for the coffee pot.
Just stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, and muttered loud enough for both of you to hear, “Must be nice, huh? Giggling like schoolgirls while spreading your legs for the boss so you don’t have to do any real work.”
The words landed like ice water down your spine.
The laughter died in your throat.
You turned slowly. Jimin froze mid-chew, cracker halfway to his mouth.
You straightened, shoulders back, voice clear and sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me?”
Seung-ho blinked, clearly not expecting pushback. His smirk faltered for half a second before he doubled down. “You heard me.”
Jimin was already moving... stepping half in front of you like a human shield, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
“Watch your mouth,” Jimin said, low and lethal. “You don’t talk to her like that. Ever. Stay in your damn lane, Seung-ho, before someone puts you in it permanently.”
Seung-ho scoffed, but there was a flicker of unease now. He looked between the two of you—Jimin radiating quiet fury, you staring him down without flinching. Then he turned and walked out.
The break room door clicked shut.
You exhaled shakily, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. “I was two seconds from throwing my coffee at his stupid face.”
Jimin turned to you, expression softening instantly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, though your voice wobbled just a little. “Just… gross. Really gross.”
Jimin pulled you into a quick side-hug. “He’s an asshole. You handled that like a queen.”
You managed a small laugh. “Thanks for the backup.”
“Always.”
And neither of you saw the way a certain figure had paused outside the door thirty seconds earlier, coffee cup halfway to his lips, expression going from neutral to thunderous in the span of one heartbeat.
Later that evening, after the worst of the workday had dragged itself to a close, you escaped to the rooftop terrace. The city lights were starting to flicker on below.
You sat on the low concrete ledge, knees drawn up, staring at nothing in particular.
Footsteps approached.
Hoseok appeared first, carrying two cans of iced coffee like peace offerings. Jimin was right behind him, still simmering. Namjoon brought your favorite snacks.
Hoseok plopped down beside you without preamble and pressed a cold can into your hand. “Emergency mood-lifter delivery. Drink. Then talk.”
You cracked it open. Took a sip. “I’m fine. Really. Just… needed air.”
Jimin sat on your other side, cross-legged. “You were more than fine earlier. I’m proud.”
Hoseok grinned. “Legendary. I wish I’d seen it live.”
Namjoon stayed standing—arms crossed, gaze thoughtful. After a minute he spoke, voice quiet but deliberate.
“Seung-ho’s gone.”
You looked up. “Gone?”
“Transferred. Effective immediately. Busan branch. They announced it in the afternoon all-hands email—‘structural realignment to strengthen regional operations.’ He was supposed to head the Q3 audit team here. Now he’s on a train tomorrow morning.”
You blinked. “Busan?.”
Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. Funny how fast these things move when someone crosses a line.”
Hoseok whistled low. “That’s not coincidence.”
Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “You think…?”
“I think,” Namjoon said carefully, “someone has very good ears. And very little patience for people who talk to Y/n like that.”
You stared at the city skyline, the cold can sweating against your palm. You didn’t say his name.
You didn’t have to because you knew.
Hoseok bumped your shoulder gently. “Hey. You didn’t deserve that crap. Not even a little. And whoever made sure Seung-ho’s transferred. They’re on your side.”
Jimin leaned closer. “We all are.”
You let out a long breath... half laugh, half relief... and shared a group hug with all three of them.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I know.”
Downstairs, in an office with the lights still on and the monitor still glowing faintly, Min Yoongi sat alone.
He hadn’t moved since the break-room incident.
His phone sat face-down on the desk.
He hadn’t texted you yet.
But when your phone buzzed twenty minutes later... after you’d finally dragged yourself home and collapsed on the couch—it was one simple line:
Yoongi: You okay?
You stared at the message for a long time. Then typed back:
You: Yeah. Thanks to my friends. And… maybe someone else.
Three dots appeared... Disappeared... Appeared again...
Yoongi: Good.
Next Friday you didn’t go to the office at all.
Around 10 a.m., still cocooned in the world’s oldest, softest blanket, head pounding, throat scratchy, you fumbled for your phone and opened Yoongi’s chat.
You: Hey. Don’t think I ditched you because of the stupid office rumors. Not feeling great today. Calling in sick.
The reply pinged back in under two minutes.
Yoongi: Okay. Rest.
Two words. Classic Yoongi. No fuss, no emojis, no dramatic concern. Just… rest.
You stared at the screen for a long moment, the corner of your mouth lifting in a weak, watery smile. Then you flipped the phone face-down on the cushion, burrowed deeper into the blanket mountain, and tried to sleep.
The rest of the day passed in a hazy blur of half-dozing, coughing, sneezing, and forcing down lukewarm porridge. By evening the headache had dulled to a low throb, but your energy was still at rock bottom.
Around 9 p.m. the doorbell rang.
You groaned, debating whether to ignore it.
Probably Hoseok with emergency soup or Namjoon showing up with herbal tea and unsolicited medical advice but they always informed before actually visiting. You dragged yourself upright, blanket still draped around your shoulders, and shuffled to the peephole.
Your heart did a clumsy somersault.
Min Yoongi stood in the hallway outside your door.
Black hoodie, hood up. Black baseball cap pulled low enough to shadow most of his face. Hands buried in his pockets. Looking exactly like a man who had driven across half the city on a Friday night just to see you.
You opened the door slowly.
He lifted his gaze.
His eyes flicked over you... puffy eyes, messy hair, oversized hoodie that used to belong to your brother.
“You look like death,” he said.
Flat. Concerned in that grumpy way only he could manage.
“Thanks,” you croaked. “You didn’t have to come all way here.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I was already in the car.”
You blinked and stepped aside. “Come in before the neighbors start their own rumor party.”
He stepped inside.
Took off his shoes without being asked and looked around your tiny one-room apartment.
You closed the door and leaned against it. “My WiFi’s fixed now. If you want… we could watch here? Episode twelve’s already downloaded.”
He glanced at your laptop on the coffee table. Then back at you. “You should be in bed.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
He gave you The Sigh... the long, theatrical sigh and walked straight to your couch like he’d sat there a hundred times before.
He dropped down and pulled the cap off and tossed it onto the armrest. Ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it messier than before.
You hesitated for half a second, then shuffled over and sat beside him. A minute of comfortable silence passed. The fairy lights cast tiny golden flecks across both your faces.
Then, quietly you asked... “Did you do that?”
He didn’t look up. Already had your laptop open on his thighs, fingers moving over the trackpad.
“Do what?”
“You know exactly what I’m asking.”
He paused—cursor hovering over the play button.
Then clicked anyway.
The familiar opening credits rolled across the screen: soft piano, golden-hour sunlight filtering through cherry blossoms, the OST that always made your chest ache in the best way.
“You ate something,” he said instead.
You waited.
He kept his eyes glued to the screen.
“…Don’t change the topic,” you muttered. “I already ate. Like three spoonfuls of porridge.”
He didn’t reply right away.
You turned to him slowly.
He still wouldn’t meet your eyes. Just watched the drama unfold like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Yoongi…” You caught yourself mid-name, cleared your scratchy throat. “I mean—Mr. Min. About the transfer?”
He exhaled through his nose. “No.”
Then, barely a whisper—like he was admitting it to himself more than to you, “…Maybe.”
You felt something warm bloom in your chest. Something quieter. Softer. You leaned back against the couch. Let your shoulder brush his—just barely.
He didn’t move away.
Halfway through the episode you murmured, “Thank you.”
He grunted.
But when the male lead finally confessed under the fireworks... he didn’t complain when you grabbed his sleeve and squealed.
And when the credits rolled, he didn’t get up to leave.
Just sat there in the dim glow of your fairy lights, hoodie sleeve still caught in your fingers, watching you while you watched your laptop screen.
After a long moment he spoke—voice low, almost thoughtful. “I’m thinking it’s better to watch them at your place or mine rather than the office.”
You tilted your head, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around your small, lived-in space—posters, lights, dying plant, you and something in his expression softened another fraction. “Less eyes. Less rumors. Next week… my place.”
You grinned—tired, sniffly, cheeks still fever-flushed, but unmistakably bright.
“Deal.” You poked his arm weakly. “But you better have my favourite snacks. The spicy shrimp chips. And those chocolate mochi things.”
He huffed—almost a laugh. “High-maintenance.”
“Extremely,” you agreed cheerfully.
He finally moved then... stood, stretched, pulled his cap back on. But before he headed for the door he paused, looked down at you still curled under the blanket. “Take medicine. Drink water. Sleep.”
You mock-saluted with the blanket edge. “Yes, sir.”
He shook his head once... fond expression, and let himself out.
The door clicked shut softly.
You stared at it for a long minute, sleeve still warm where his arm had been. Then you pulled the blanket over your head and smiled into the dark.
The following Saturday evening found you standing outside a sleek high-rise in Gangnam, staring up at the glass-and-steel monolith. Yoongi had texted you the address at exactly 6:47 p.m... no emojis, no directions, just a pin drop and one line: Come up. 32nd floor.
You’d spent the entire subway ride second-guessing your outfit oversized sweater, jeans, sneakers, and now the private elevator was shooting you upward so fast your stomach flipped.
The doors opened directly into his penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights glittering across the Han River. Minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and cream. And the faint, mouth-watering smell of something simmering on the stove.
Yoongi appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark apron tied around his waist like he’d been born wearing it. He looked… domestic. Dangerously domestic...
“You’re early,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Traffic was light,” you lied.
You’d actually arrived twenty minutes ago and spent them pacing the lobby like a nervous puppy, hesitating whether you should actually visit him or not. “Smells good. Did you order in?”
He gave you a look that said he was mildly offended on behalf of whatever was bubbling in that pot. “I cooked.”
You blinked. “You… cook?”
“Occasionally.” He asked you to wait in living room and turned back toward the kitchen island, where two bowls waited beside a steaming rice cooker.
You were already curled up on the couch when he emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls. He set the bowls on the low coffee table without looking at you, ears just the tiniest bit pink under the soft lighting. “Enjoy.”
He dropped onto the couch beside you—closer than usual. His thigh pressed lightly against yours. Neither of you moved to create distance.
You poked his arm with your chopsticks before taking a bite. “Okay, this is actually amazing. Like, restaurant-level. You are actually a good cook.”
He grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
What you didn’t know... was that he’d called his father at 6 p.m. that evening, voice low and awkward in the penthouse kitchen. “Dad… what was that dish you made the first time you wanted to impress Mom? The one she still talks about?”
His father had laughed so hard Yoongi had to hold the phone away from his ear. “Min Yoongi, are you finally trying to cook for a girl? The same girl who hid behind a coffee mug during your introduction? I knew it the way you looked at her that day.”
Yoongi had nearly hung up. “Just tell me the recipe.”
Another booming laugh. “Japchae. And tell her I said hello. I like her already. She makes you less grumpy.”
Yoongi had ended the call with a muttered “I’m hanging up now,” but the pink on his ears had stayed for the entire cooking process.
His dad knew.
His dad was already planning family dinners in his head.
And you? You were happily twirling noodles around your chopsticks, completely oblivious.
The episode played on. Your legs stayed pressed together.
Halfway through the episode... right when the second lead was doing his usual noble, suffering, silent-pining routine, you threw your hands up dramatically, nearly knocking over your bowl.
“If they don’t let the second lead confess soon, I’m filing an actual petition. This is emotional attack.”
Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh into his spoon. “Dramatic.”
“It’s not dramatic, it’s justice.” You turned to him, cheeks flushed from the spicy stew and the low lighting. “Confessing isn’t that hard. Just say the words. ‘I like you.’ Boom... Done... World keeps spinning.”
He set his bowl down carefully on the table and turned his body slightly toward you. The movement was slow, deliberate.
“Confessing is overrated,” he said, voice quieter than the OST still playing softly in the background.
You blinked and tilted your head. “Why?”
He looked at you then... really looked. Not the quick scans he usually did. Not the amused side-glances. Full, steady eye contact that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
Very slowly, like he was choosing each word with precision, “Because some people are terrible at it.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it.
The drama kept playing... dialogue, music, tension, but it all faded to background noise. You searched his face for a joke, for sarcasm, for anything that would let you laugh this off and keep pretending it was just drama-club banter.
There was none.
Just Yoongi—quiet, unreadable, watching you like he was waiting for something.
You swallowed. “So… what do terrible confessors do instead?”
He didn’t answer right away and just held your gaze a beat longer. Then, softer than you’d ever heard him, “They cook while waiting for you. They transfer assholes who insults you. They show up at your apartment when you say you’re sick. They let you scream at plot twists and steal their office wifi.”
Your breath caught.
You opened your mouth... Closed it... Tried again. “That’s… That's a lot of effort for someone terrible at confessing.”
“Maybe,” he murmured. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for the right moment.”
The episode ended. Credits rolled. Neither of you moved to pause or skip or do anything normal.
You cleared your throat, suddenly too aware of how close everything felt. “I… I-I should probably head home. It’s late.”
You stood up too quickly. The blanket tangled around your ankle.
Your foot caught on the edge of the coffee table and you pitched forward... His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist, steadying you in one smooth motion.
You froze.
He froze.
You were standing inches apart now.
His grip was gentle but firm, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse was hammering like a traitor. Neither of you moved and for once his expression wasn’t guarded or smirking or pretending to be annoyed. It was just… open.
His voice dropped quieter than you’d ever heard it. “You still owe the company forty-eight gigabytes of internet usage.”
You let out a shaky laugh that came out more like a whisper. “How do I repay it?”
His gaze flicked down... just for a heartbeat... to your lips. Then back up to your eyes.
It was slow... Deliberate...
A smirk curved one corner of his mouth, the same dangerous little twitch that had started everything under your desk weeks ago. “I’ll think of something.”
The words hung between you like a promise and a question all at once. His fingers stayed circled around your wrist.
Your breath caught. You didn’t pull away.
He didn’t let go.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought finally formed, bright and undeniable, Oh no... Feelings...
The subway station was only a five-minute walk, but every step felt heavy. You kept replaying the last ten minutes in your head on a loop that refused to pause.
His thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. The way his gaze had dropped—just once, just for a heartbeat, to your lips. That slow, deliberate smirk. “I’ll think of something.”
You swiped your card at the gate, descended the escalator, and found a spot on the platform. The train arrived with a soft whoosh of air. You slipped inside, found an empty seat near the window, and pressed your forehead against the cool glass lurched forward.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, but you weren’t really seeing it.
He hadn’t said “I like you.” Not once... Not directly...
And yet every single thing he had said felt heavier than any three-word confession could have been.
“They cook while waiting for you.”
“They transfer assholes who insults you.”
“They show up at your apartment when you say you’re sick.”
“They let you scream at plot twists and steal their office wifi.”
You closed your eyes, cheeks warming even in the air-conditioner. He’d listed it all so casually. Like those weren’t the exact moments you’d replayed in your own head.
He’d looked at you the entire time without flinching or looking away.
And when his gaze had flicked to your lips—God. It hadn’t been accidental. It had been intentional. Slow. Hungry in the quietest way. Like he was already imagining what came after the “something” he’d promised to think of.
Your heart gave another stupid, traitorous thud.
What were you supposed to do with that?
Pretend it hadn’t happened?
Or... worse... actually hope he meant every word?
The train slowed for your stop.
You stood, gripping the overhead rail a little too tightly. The doors opened. Cool night air rushed in.
You stepped onto the platform, the crowd parting around you like water, and realized you were smiling. Small. Secret. The kind of smile that hurt a little because it was so new.
He hadn’t confessed. Not out loud. Not yet. But he’d spent weeks confessing in every other language he knew how to speak.
And you... bright, chaotic, drama-obsessed you... were finally starting to understand every single one. You pulled your phone out as you climbed the stairs to street level.
No new messages except “Text me when you reach home.”
You didn’t expect any.
But when you reached your apartment door and slipped inside, kicking off your sneakers, you let yourself whisper—just once, to the empty room, “Maybe I’m terrible at it too.”
Then you smiled again, bigger this time, and went to bed with the memory of his thumb on your pulse still tingling under your skin.
It happened so gradually that neither of you noticed until it was already too late. The “secret drama club” turned into something else entirely.
At first it was just occasional dinner after work.
Yoongi would text you a single line at 7:45 p.m. after office almost emptying... “Lobby. 10 minutes.”, and you’d find him waiting by the side entrance, hands in his coat pockets, pretending he hadn’t been checking his watch every thirty seconds.
He’d take you to the tiny samgyeopsal place three blocks away. You’d spend the entire meal teasing him about how he never talked much while he grumbled that you talked enough for both of you.
Then came the late-night drama marathons.
Sometimes at his penthouse, sometimes at yours.
You’d show up with your favorite spicy shrimp chips and a ridiculous amount of chocolate mochi, declaring each new episode. He’d pretend to be annoyed when you paused every five minutes to rant, but he never once told you to shut up.
Instead he’d just lean back, arm stretched along the couch behind you, and quietly say things like “That plot twist was predictable from episode three” while his fingers brushed your shoulder every time you laughed too hard.
It was a Thursday. The office was empty except for the hum of the air conditioning and the glow of your monitor. You were finishing a client presentation deck, eyes burning, when the lights in the hallway flickered on.
Yoongi appeared in your doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, looking like he’d been waiting for you to give up.
“You’re still here,” he said.
You rubbed your eyes. “Deadline. You?”
“Same.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you for a beat. “When are you leaving?”
You glanced at the clock... 10:42 p.m., and sighed. “Just a few more minutes. Then I’m heading to the subway.”
He nodded once, expression unchanging. “Pack up. I’ll walk you out.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to. You’re staying till late, right? You were saying earlier you had some work.”
“I’ll stay a few more hours after,” he said simply. “Doesn’t mean I’m letting you walk alone this late.”
You didn’t argue.
There was something quietly final in his tone that made your chest feel warm despite the exhaustion. You saved the file, shut your laptop, grabbed your bag, and followed him to the elevators.
The building was silent except for the soft ding of each floor passing. Outside, the night air was crisp, streetlights were casting long shadows.
Halfway to the subway entrance, you slowed.
He slowed with you.
You reached out without thinking, grabbed the sleeve of his coat, fingers curling into the fabric.
“Yoongi.” You didn't correct yourself this time.
He stopped and looked down at your hand, then up at your face.
He made a soft questioning hum in his throat.
You swallowed. Heart suddenly loud in your ears. “Are we… dating?”
He sighed like the question personally offended him.
“You want an official stamp letter?” he asked, deadpan. “Company seal and everything?”
You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. “…That’s not an answer.”
He stopped walking then.
He turned to face you fully under the yellow glow of a streetlamp. The city noise faded into background static. For once he didn’t look away, didn’t hide behind that trademark Min Yoongi poker face.
Just looked at you... steady, quiet, a little fond, a little exasperated.
“Is this not obvious?” he said softly.
Your brain short-circuited... Completely...
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Felt your cheeks heat despite the cool night air. The subway entrance was twenty steps away, but it might as well have been on another planet.
All you could focus on was his sleeve still caught in your fingers, the way his eyes hadn’t left yours, the quiet way he was waiting—not pushing, not teasing, just… waiting.
Your cheeks burned. Your grip on his sleeve tightened.
“I… oh,” was all you managed.
Yoongi’s smile finally broke free into a soft chuckle... small, dangerous, devastating. “Yeah. Oh.”
He reached up, brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done, then started walking again, gently tugging you along. “Come on. You’re going to miss the last train if you keep malfunctioning.”
You fell into step beside him, heart still racing, sleeve still in your grasp. You didn’t let go until you reached the platform.
“So… we’re dating,” you said, testing the words out loud.
“Congratulations,” he deadpanned. “You figured it out.”
You laughed—bright, unstoppable. “Does this mean I get to call you my boyfriend now?”
He groaned, but his fingers found yours and laced through them without hesitation. And when the train doors opened, he didn’t just nod this time. He leaned down... slow, deliberate... and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your forehead.
“Text me when you get home,” he said against your hair. Then he stepped back.
You stared at him, dazed, as the doors closed between you. The train pulled away. You touched your forehead, fingers trembling just a little.
And somewhere between Gangnam and your stop, you realized, Yeah... This was definitely dating.
The next morning you floated into the office like someone had replaced the floor with clouds.
Your steps were lighter, your smile wider. You even hummed the Drama OST under your breath while waiting for the elevator—something you never did in public.
When the doors opened on your floor, you practically skipped to your desk, dropping your bag with a happy little sigh and immediately opening your laptop with a dreamy grin.
Hoseok noticed first.
He froze mid-sip of his iced americano, eyes narrowing like a detective who’d just spotted a suspect. Jimin, two desks away, tilted his head and whispered, “Is she… glowing?”
Namjoon, ever the observant one, adjusted his glasses and muttered, “She’s daydreaming already and it’s only 8:45 a.m.”
The three of them exchanging the exact same we need to talk look without saying a single word.
For the next hour they watched you like hawks.
You stared at your screen for a solid thirty minutes without typing, chin in hand, replaying the way Yoongi’s thumb had brushed your wrist and how he’d said “Is this not obvious?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.
A tiny, ridiculous smile kept tugging at your lips.
Hoseok leaned over the partition. “Okay, spill. You look like you won the lottery and got free lifetime ramyeon.”
You blinked, snapping out of it. “What? I’m just… happy. Productivity vibes. New day, new me.”
Jimin appeared on your other side, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. “New day, new you? You’ve been smiling at your keyboard like it just proposed to you. Twice.”
Namjoon slid into the empty chair beside your desk, pretending to check a file but clearly not. “You also checked your phone thrice and sighed dreamily in last 5 minutes. That’s not normal. Even for you.”
You tried to deflect, laughing a little too brightly. “Guys, I just had a really good sleep! And the drama last night was peak. Male lead almost confessed... almost. My heart is full.”
Hoseok wasn’t buying it.
He spun your chair so you faced all three of them. “Nope. This is different. We know you.”
Jimin poked your arm. “Come on, bestie. We’re your emotional support trio. Who do we need to threaten? Or congratulate? Or both?”
You felt your cheeks heat. You tried one last dodge. “It’s nothing. Really. Just… the usual.”
Namjoon gave you the disappointed look. “You’re blushing. You never blush like this even when you talk about drama.”
You bit your lip, trying to play coy. “Okay, fine. Let’s just say… the secret drama club got an upgrade. A very official upgrade.”
Silence... Then three simultaneous reactions exploded.
Hoseok’s mouth dropped open. “No.”
Namjoon actually stood up. “No way.”
Jimin grabbed your shoulders, shaking you gently like he was checking if you were real. “Girl. The CEO? I knew it! I knew the second he transferred Seung-ho that something was up! But dating?! You’re dating the boss?!”
Namjoon was still processing, glasses slightly askew.
You leaned back, cheeks still pink, sunshine brighter than ever. “You guys are the worst and the best. Just… be normal.”
Jimin was already vibrating. “We need details. Every single detail. Does he smile? Like an actual smile? Does he get soft when you tease him? I need to know if our grumpy CEO is whipped.”
Namjoon just shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Just… be careful, yeah? But also... congratulations.”
You leaned back in your chair, still glowing, still bubbling, and grinned at your three best friends.
“He’s still grumpy,” you said softly. “But he’s my grumpy now.”
Hoseok fake-gagged. Jimin squealed. Namjoon just sighed like a proud dad.
It been few weeks and the new intern arrived like a burst of golden retriever energy wrapped in a pressed white shirt and wide-eyed enthusiasm.
Jungkook was twenty-three, fresh out of university, ridiculously polite, and apparently incapable of going five minutes without smiling.
Within his first day he’d already helped three people carry boxes, complimented the office coffee machine.
And today somehow he ended up at your desk asking for help with the photocopier settings.
“Noona, want to grab lunch?” he asked, leaning against your partition with both hands in his pockets, head tilted like a curious puppy.
“There’s this new place around the corner that does really good bibimbap. My treat? As thanks for saving me from the printer apocalypse earlier.”
You laughed... easy, automatic, the same laugh you gave everyone who made you smile. “You’re buying already? Careful, I’ll get used to it.”
Jungkook grinned wider. “That’s the plan.”
From the two floor above, Yoongi watched the entire exchange, standing in hallway just outside his cabin.
He stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but the way his jaw tightened when you laughed... at whatever Jungkook had just said was unmistakable.
He gestured animatedly, probably telling some story about his university days, and you nodded along, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Yoongi’s fingers tightened once against his bicep. When Jungkook walked away, then he also turned away, walked back to his desk, and picked up his phone.
Your phone buzzed two minutes later.
Yoongi: CEO wants to see you. Now.
You groaned loud enough that Hoseok peeked over from the next desk. “What now? Did you download another forty-eight gigabytes from your boyfriend's wi-fi?”
“Worse,” you muttered, standing up. “It's not the boyfriend who summons. It's the boss summons.”
You took the elevator up to the executive floor.
His office door was ajar. You knocked once, pushed it open.
Yoongi was seated on the wide black couch, legs crossed at the ankle, laptop balanced on his thighs as he typed with focused intensity. The room was dimmer than usual... blinds fully-closed. He didn’t look up when you entered.
“Yes, boss?” you asked, keeping your tone light and professional in case anyone was lingering in the hallway.
He kept typing for another few seconds—long enough to make you shift your weight, then closed the laptop with a quiet snap and set it aside on the cushion next to him.
Only then did he lift his gaze, dark eyes locking onto yours. “You’re close with the intern.”
You blinked. “...What?”
He leaned back against the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting casually on his thigh. “You laughed at his joke.”
You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. The pieces clicked together so fast your brain almost made an audible sound. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m observant,” he corrected, voice low and even.
You crossed your arms. A slow smile started tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re jealous.”
He exhaled through his nose... the classic Yoongi sigh of reluctant surrender. “...Whatever.”
Your heart did a tiny, traitorous flip. The grumpy CEO of the entire company was lounging on his own office couch admitting that he was jealous over an intern’s lunch invitation.
It was ridiculous. It was adorable.
You crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until you were standing right in front of him. He watched every step, expression still guarded but eyes softer now, tracking you like he couldn’t look away.
You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently with one hand, and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the other cheek.
His eyes widened... comically, for half a second. The faint pout that had been forming on his lips froze, then deepened into something even more unfairly cute.
You pulled back, grinning. “There. Feel better?”
You started to straighten.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not hard, just firm enough to stop you mid-step.
Before you could react, he tugged.
You stumbled forward with a small yelp.
He guided you down effortlessly, pulling you onto his lap until you were straddling him on the wide couch, knees sinking into the leather on either side of his hips, hands braced on his shoulders.
“Yoongi—”
He didn’t let you finish.
One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other curled possessively around your waist, and he kissed you.
Not the soft forehead pecks or the quick cheek brushes of the past few weeks.
This was different.
This was hungry.
His lips moved against yours with quiet, deliberate intensity—like he’d been holding this back for longer than he’d ever admit. You gasped softly into his mouth and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tilting his head just enough to fit perfectly.
Your fingers found his hair, threading through the dark strands, tugging lightly. He made a low sound in the back of his throat... half growl, half sigh, that sent heat racing down your spine.
The kiss turned heated fast.
His hands slid under your blouse, palms warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back, pulling you closer until your chest was flush against his. You rocked forward instinctively, hips pressing down, and he groaned—quiet, controlled, but unmistakable.
The sound vibrated straight through you.
One hand left your back to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he kissed you slower now, deeper, savoring every slide of tongue, every small sound you made.
The couch leather creaked softly beneath you both.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips hovering over his, swollen and slick.
“Still jealous?” you whispered, voice wrecked, teasing.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he dragged his teeth lightly over your bottom lip, tugging before releasing it with a soft pop. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no real bite in it—only heat.
You grinned against his mouth. “Make me.”
His eyes darkened instantly. “Careful what you ask for.”
Before you could fire back, he kissed you again—harder this time, possessive, one hand sliding up your spine under the blouse until his fingers splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you exactly where he wanted.
You whimpered into his mouth when he nipped at your tongue, then soothed it with a slow, filthy lick. Your hips rolled down again—deliberate this time.
He hissed through his teeth, fingers digging into your waist.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, the rare curse slipping out like he couldn’t help it. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You pulled his hair a little harder, tilting his head back so you could kiss along the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re so dramatic.”
He let his head fall back against the couch for a second, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Then his hands slid lower, gripping your hips, guiding you into another slow grind that made both of you gasp.
“Not dramatic,” he rasped. “Territorial.”
You nipped at the spot just under his ear... the one that always made him shiver. “Say it properly.”
He turned his face, catching your lips again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “You’re mine,” he said between kisses, voice gravel-rough. “Not his noona. Not anyone’s. Mine.”
You moaned softly, fingers tightening in his hair. “Then prove it.”
His control snapped—just a little.
In one smooth motion he flipped you both so your back hit the couch cushions, him hovering over you, one knee braced between your thighs. The new angle pressed him right where you wanted, hard and insistent through his slacks.
You arched up instinctively, chasing friction, and he dropped his forehead to yours with a strangled sound.
“Tease,” he accused, voice wrecked.
“Says the man who dragged me onto his lap in the middle of the workday.”
He leaned down slowly, eyes locked on yours, dark and intent.
His fingers found the top button of your blouse. One by one he worked them open watching your face the entire time. The fabric parted inch by inch, revealing skin, lace, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
When the last button gave way, he didn’t pull the blouse completely off; he simply pushed the sides apart, letting the material slide off your shoulders just enough to pool loosely around your elbows, trapping your arms in the softest, most teasing restraint.
Only then did his mouth find your neck.
Open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing, sucking lightly enough to leave faint marks you’d have to hide tomorrow. You tilted your head back, giving him more room, fingers digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
“Yoongi…” His name came out like a plea.
He hummed against your skin, pleased, the vibration traveling straight down your spine. “Say it again.”
“Yoongi,” you breathed, louder this time, hips chasing up in a slow, deliberate grind. “Please.”
He groaned, low and filthy, and kissed you once more... desperate now, all pretense gone. Hands everywhere. Hips rocking together in a rhythm that had the couch creaking louder, leather protesting under the movement.
When you finally broke apart again, both of you were panting, foreheads pressed together, hair mussed, clothes askew—your blouse hanging open and draped around your elbows, his shirt half-untucked, tie completely forgotten somewhere on the floor.
He looked down at you... eyes blown dark, lips red and wet, expression wrecked and possessive and so unbearably soft at the edges.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, lips brushing his as you spoke. “Jealous over a freshly graduate intern.”
He huffed a laugh against your mouth... short, breathless, the sound vibrating through your chest. “He called you noona.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His hair was mussed, lips red and wet, eyes dark and a little dazed. Still grumpy, but the possessiveness in his gaze was unmistakable.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly. Not a question... Not a demand...
Just a fact he was stating.
Your heart stuttered.
You leaned in again, pressing one more soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I am.”
He kissed you once more... slow this time, almost gentle... then rested his forehead against yours, hands still firm on your waist.
“Stay for lunch,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Here... No interns.”
You laughed softly. “Deal. But only if you admit you were jealous.”
He sighed again—long, dramatic. “...Maybe.”
You grinned, pressing one last teasing kiss to his pout.
The conference room was dead silent except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional nervous cough from the marketing team.
The quarterly strategy presentation was in full swing.
Yoongi sat at the head of the long table, arms crossed, expression carved from stone... pure intimidating CEO mode. His dark eyes scanned every slide like he was personally auditing the company’s soul.
The team was sweating. Literally sweating...
Someone’s tie looked two sizes too tight, and the intern Jungkook kept wiping his palms on his pants under the table. You were midway through your section, laser pointer steady, voice professional, when your phone buzzed once against your thigh.
You glanced down under the table.
Notification: Episode 25 of Love in the Slow Lane – FINALE RELEASED!
Your automatic sunshine smile broke through before you could stop it. Without thinking... because your brain apparently short-circuited at the words “finale released”—you unlocked your phone under the table and fired off a quick text to the only person who would understand the urgency.
You: Final episode dropped... 🥰🤩
You hit send and slipped the phone back into your lap, heart already racing with excitement.
Two seconds later, your laptop—currently screen-sharing to the projector—lit up with the incoming message notification in massive, crystal-clear letters across the entire wall.
Yoongi: DON’T YOU DARE WATCH WITHOUT ME.
The chat bubble hovered there for everyone to see. Bold. Unmissable. Phone mirroring had betrayed you in the most spectacular way possible.
The room froze.
Marketing team manager Mr. Park slowly turned his head toward you like a horror-movie ghost. Then toward Yoongi. Then back to you. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Namjoon, Jimin, and Hoseok, who had been sitting in the back row pretending to take notes... were visibly fighting for their lives. Namjoon had both hands clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
Jimin was biting his lip so hard it was turning white, eyes watering with suppressed laughter. Hoseok had pressed his forehead to the table and was making tiny wheezing noises into his sleeve.
Jungkook, the poor innocent intern, stared at the projector with wide bunny eyes, mouth forming a perfect O. “Wait… what?”
A stunned whisper floated from the left side of the table.
“…without him?”
Another, louder: “Episode?”
Then Jungkook... bless his pure innocent heart... whispered in absolute shock, “They… watch dramas together??”
The entire room turned into a sea of 👁️👄👁️ faces. Someone dropped their pen. Another person’s coffee cup tilted dangerously.
Yoongi didn’t even blink.
He simply leaned back in his chair, voice calm and terrifyingly composed. “Miss Y/N, you may continue with the presentation.”
You felt your soul leave your body, hover near the ceiling for a second, then slam back in.
Your face was on fire.
You cleared your throat, somehow managed to point at the next slide with a trembling laser, and continued like the professional you were pretending to be. “A-as I was saying… the proposed budget allocation for Q3 campaigns…”
The rest of the meeting dragged on in awkward, electric silence.
Namjoon had to fake a coughing fit to hide his laughter.
Jimin kept muttering “oh my god when this meeting will end” under his breath.
Hoseok was now hiding behind his notebook, shoulders still shaking.
Jungkook looked like he’d just discovered his favorite noona was secretly living in a K-drama.
When the final slide clicked off and the lights came back up, Yoongi stood slowly, buttoning his suit jacket with the same calm precision he used for everything else.
Before anyone could bolt or start whispering, he spoke—casual, low, like he was announcing the weather.
“Before any of you decide to spread rumors in the group chat, let me make this clear.” He glanced once around the room, then settled his gaze on you. “She is my girlfriend.”
The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the sound of your heart thumping so louder.
Yoongi continued, completely unbothered. “We’ve been together for a while now.” A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Any questions?”
No one dared.
Jungkook’s hand shot up instinctively, then immediately dropped like he’d touched a hot stove.
Namjoon finally lost the battle and let out a strangled laugh-snort into his fist. Jimin wheezed, “I NEED AIR!” while Hoseok just clapped once, slow and proud, muttering, “Finally.”
Yoongi looked at you across the table, eyes soft in that secret way only you could read. “Meeting adjourned.”
You stood there, blouse still perfectly professional, cheeks burning, heart doing cartwheels. The entire marketing floor was about to explode with gossip.
And you?
You were officially, publicly, undeniably the CEO’s girlfriend.
Destiny really had chosen violence today.
The building had gone completely quiet by the time you slipped into Yoongi’s office. The last fluorescent light in the hallway flickered off behind you as the door clicked shut.
He was already on the couch, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking far too relaxed for someone who’d just detonated your secret life in front of whole marketing department.
You crossed your arms and launched in immediately.
“Why are you so harsh on the marketing team? My manager was literally shaking before the meeting even started. You stared at him like he personally invented budget overruns.”
Yoongi didn’t reply.
Instead he reached out, fingers curling around your wrist, and tugged you forward until you stood between his knees. Before you could pull away, he stood up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss along your jaw.
You tried to keep your scolding tone. “And don’t think you can distract me. Announcing we’re dating in the middle of a quarterly strategy meeting? Really? Everyone's eyes were this big...”
You held up two fingers an inch apart “...and Namjoon nearly choked on air trying not to laugh. The whole room went silent. Like funeral silent.”
His lips moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the side of your neck, sucking gently at the spot that always made your breath hitch.
You kept going, voice faltering only slightly. “You can’t just... mhmm—drop ‘she’s my girlfriend’ like it’s the weather forecast. People are going to talk. HR is going to talk. I was trying to act normal and you...”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then your cheek... soft, teasing pecks that melted the edges of your fake anger.
His hands slid to your waist, pulling you down on the couch with him until you were straddling his lap, skirt riding up your thighs.
You kept going, even as your voice started to breath. “And don’t think I missed how you looked at me the whole meeting like you were already planning this. Ughhh... You’re impossible. I came here to be mad at you, not—”
Yoongi hummed against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight down your spine. “Keep complaining,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “I like it when you’re feisty.”
You tried. You really did. “The finale dropped and now everyone knows we watch dramas together and... wait, what about the finale? We were supposed to watch it tonight—”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark and hungry.
“Fuck the finale,” he said, voice low and rough. “We can watch it tomorrow.”
Then he kissed you properly... deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he was starving for it.
Your complaints dissolved into a soft moan as his hands roamed up your sides, fingers deftly working the buttons of your blouse open one by one.
He parted it slowly, pushing the sides apart to reveal your bra, then reached behind you to unhook it with a single practiced flick. The lace fell away and he palmed your breasts immediately, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch.
“Yoongi... wait... we’re still in the office—”
“Empty building,” he murmured against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “Door's locked... No one’s coming back.”
You rocked down against the hard length straining through his slacks, already wet and aching. “You’re impossible. I came here to yell at you.”
He chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. “Yell louder then.” His fingers slipped under your skirt, pushing your panties aside, stroking through your slick folds. “Or moan my name. Either works.”
You gasped when he circled your clit, slow and teasing. “This isn’t fair.”
“Never said I play fair.”
You arched into him with a whimper. “Yoongi—”
He hummed approval against your mouth, pinching lightly, rolling the peaks between his fingers until you were squirming in his lap.
“Love when you say my name like that,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. “Keep going.”
His mouth left yours to trail down your throat, open-mouthed kisses turning into bites and sucks that would leave faint purple marks by morning.
When he reached your breasts he didn’t hesitate—lips closing around one nipple, tongue flicking, then sucking hard enough to make you cry out.
His hand worked the other, pinching and tugging in rhythm with his mouth until you were panting, fingers tangled in his hair, hips grinding down desperately. “Yoongi... please—”
He switched sides, giving the other nipple the same filthy attention, teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly. “So sensitive,” he rasped against your skin. “Already dripping for me and I have just started.”
You whined, tugging his hair harder. “Then touch me properly.”
He lifted you just enough to shove your skirt up to your waist, fingers hooking into your panties and dragging them down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull.
You kicked them off somewhere behind the couch, the soft fabric whispering against the floor.
His hand slid between your legs immediately... two fingers stroking through your slick folds, parting you gently before circling your clit once, twice, slow and teasing.
You gasped, head falling back against the couch cushion. “Fuck... Fuck... yes—”
He watched your face intently, eyes dark and focused. “Already this soaked,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Just from me calling you mine in front of the whole room?”
You nodded frantically, hips twitching toward his hand. “Yes—God, yes... couldn’t stop thinking about it—”
“About what?” He pushed both fingers inside you in one smooth glide, curling them upward right away, pressing against that spot that made your breath hitch. “Tell me.”
You moaned, thighs trembling. “About… about how you looked at me. Like you wanted to drag me out of there right then. Claim me.”
He groaned at your words, pumping slowly at first, long, deep strokes—then faster, thumb finding your clit again and rubbing tight, relentless circles.
“I did,” he rasped. “Still do. Every time someone looks at you too long I want to remind them who you belong to.”
“Yoongi...” Your voice cracked on his name as he curled harder, scissoring his fingers slightly to stretch you. “...Fuck—right there... don’t stop—”
“Like this?” He angled his wrist, pressing deeper, thumb never leaving your clit. “Or harder?”
“Harder... please—fuck, just like that...”
He added a third finger without warning, the stretch burning sweetly, filling you completely. You cried out, back arching off the couch, walls clenching around him.
“Too much?” he asked, voice suddenly softer, though his fingers didn’t slow.
“No... no... perfect,” you panted, hips rocking desperately to meet every thrust. “Feels so good... don’t you dare stop—”
He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “You’re dripping down my hand, baby. Making such a mess. All because I said you’re mine?”
“Yes... yes—yours... only yours—” You were babbling now, words tumbling out between moans. “Keep going... please... gonna come—”
Your thighs shook violently, walls fluttering wildly around him. “Yoongi... close—fuck... I’m...”
Then he pulled out suddenly, ignoring your frustrated whine.
“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked and gravelly from restraint. “Want to taste you first.”
He flipped you onto your back on the couch in one smooth, practiced motion, spreading your thighs wide with firm hands. Before you could even catch your breath, his mouth was on you—tongue flat and broad, dragging a long, slow stripe up your center from entrance to clit.
The first contact made your hips jerk off the leather. “Fuck... Yoongi..”
He hummed in approval against your folds, the low vibration traveling straight through your core. “You are so wet for me,” he murmured, lips brushing your clit as he spoke. “Taste so fucking good.”
You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth—gentle at first, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in tight, rapid circles.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling and tugging hard enough to make him groan into you.
“Like that?” he rasped between licks, pulling back just enough for you to feel the words against your swollen flesh. “Tell me.”
“Yes—Go deep, yes... don’t stop... ”
He plunged his tongue inside you then, fucking you with it in slow, deep strokes while his thumbs spread you open wider, exposing every sensitive inch. You bucked against his face, thighs trembling.
“Yoongi... oh my God... right there—”
He growled low, the sound rumbling through you like thunder. “That’s it. Ride my tongue, baby. Use me.”
You did... hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth, chasing the pressure of his tongue curling inside you. He pulled back for a second, lips glistening, eyes dark and blown as he looked up at you.
“Look at you,” he said hoarsely, voice thick with want. “Falling apart just from my mouth. So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”
“Yoongi... please—” Your voice cracked, hips canting up toward him. “I need—more... ”
He didn’t make you beg twice.
He dove back in, lips sealing around your clit again, sucking hard while two fingers slid inside you—curling immediately against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
He pumped them in time with the flick of his tongue, relentless, filthy wet sounds filling the quiet office.
“Gonna come for me?” he asked, words muffled against your pussy. “Want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to taste it.”
“Y-Yes—fuck... yes...”
He sucked harder, fingers curling faster, thumb pressing firm circles just above where his mouth worked. The coil in your belly snapped without warning.
You came hard and fast, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the couch, a broken, loud moan of his name tearing from your throat as you pulsed around his fingers and tongue.
He didn’t stop... kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, drawing out every aftershock until you were whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.
When he finally pulled back, lips and chin shiny, he crawled up your body, pressing soft, wet kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, finally to your mouth.
“Taste yourself,” he murmured against your lips, kissing you deep so you could taste the evidence of your release on his tongue.
You moaned into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck, boneless and wrecked.
“Still mad at me?” he whispered, smirking against your lips.
You laughed breathlessly, fingers tangled in his hair around nape. “Shut up and fuck me already.”
He chuckled low, already reaching for his belt. “Yes, ma’am.”
He rose up just enough to shove his pants and boxers down his thighs, cock springing free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. He lined up carefully, eyes never leaving yours, and pushed inside in one slow, deep stroke.
Both of you groaned at the stretch, low and long.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice softer now, almost reverent. “So tight… always feel so fucking perfect around me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, pulling him deeper until there was no space left between you. Your hands slid up his arms, fingers curling around his biceps.
“Yoongi…” you breathed, voice trembling with how full you felt. “Slow… please. Just like this.”
He stilled for a heartbeat, forehead dropping to rest against yours, breathing you in. Then he began to move... long, measured rolls of his hips, dragging out every inch on the withdrawal before sliding back in just as deep.
The couch creaked softly beneath you, a gentle rhythm now instead of frantic.
“Like this?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Just feel me?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Yeah… just like that. Don’t stop.”
One of his hands cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. The other slipped between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit and circling with the lightest pressure—enough to keep the pleasure building slow and steady, never rushing.
“Look at me,” he whispered when your lashes started to flutter shut again. His voice was rough with emotion, not command. “Want to see you. Every second.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his dark, unguarded gaze. There was no smirk, no teasing glint... just raw adoration and something achingly tender.
“Yoongi…” Your voice cracked on his name. “I love you.”
The words slipped out unplanned, quiet and certain.
He froze for half a breath, then exhaled shakily against your mouth. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” you repeated, softer, fingers tightening in his hair. “So much.”
He kissed you then—slow, deep, swallowing the tiny sound you made as he rolled his hips in that same gentle rhythm. When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was wrecked.
“Love you too,” he said against your lips, the confession almost a groan. “Fuck… love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
Your walls fluttered around him at the words.
He felt it... groaned low in his throat—and kept moving, steady, unhurried, letting the pleasure build like a tide.
“You’re close again,” he murmured, thumb still circling your clit with feather-light touches. “Can feel you squeezing me… so sweet.”
You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how good it felt, how full, how loved. “Yoongi... please—”
“Come with me,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Want to feel you come around me while I’m inside you. Just us.”
The words, the gentle grind of his hips, the soft circles of his thumb—it all crested at once.
You came with a soft, broken cry of his name, clenching tight around him, trembling from head to toe. Tears slipped down your temples as the pleasure rolled through you in long, warm waves.
He followed right after—burying himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, a low, wrecked groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you.
For a long minute you just breathed... sweaty, tangled, hearts hammering against each other.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead he shifted carefully, rolling so you were draped across his chest, still connected, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.
“Stay like this,” he whispered into your hair, voice thick. “Just a little longer.”
You pressed a trembling kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Always.”
He exhaled shakily, one hand stroking slow circles on your bare back.
“Love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like the words were still new and precious.
You smiled against his skin, eyes closing. “Love you more.”
As the moment settled down, you finally laughed weakly, fingers carding through his damp hair. “So… we’re really doing this? Full public dating era?”
He pressed a lazy kiss to your temple. “Told you. You’re mine.”
You tilted his chin up, meeting his eyes. “And you’re mine. No more glaring at interns. Or announcing things in meetings without warning me.”
He smirked. “No promises.”
You swatted his shoulder lightly. “Yoongi.”
“Fine,” he conceded, kissing your palm. “I’ll warn you next time. Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile wouldn’t leave your face. “And the finale?”
“Tomorrow,” he promised, already nuzzling back into your neck. “Your place. Snacks. No interruptions. Then I’ll love you on your couch too.”
You laughed, bright and helpless. “Deal.”
He hummed contentedly, arms tightening around you. “Stay with me at my penthouse tonight,” he murmured against your skin.
And as the city lights glittered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, you let yourself melt completely into the man who had turned your entire life into the best kind of k-drama.
A/n: Guys, can somebody let me know why Yoongi is bias wrecking me so bad currently? Also Thanks to him, I am still sobbing while listening to Like Animals, especially the lyrics of his verse😭😭😭
· ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations
pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️
[ here´s a bunch of throwback fics that i hold dearly in my heart ]
LEMME INTRODUCE YOU TO SOME 2023 ART PIECES BY ( @wildestdreamsblog ). If you´re into angsty, manipulative, possessive, obsessive, soft yan!bts as much as i was you´re gonna love these, trust. 1) finding out they cheated on you - hyung line ver. / maknae line ver. 2) trying to move on - maknae line ver. / hyung line ver.
bewitched - ( @borathae) smut, fluff, vamp!yoongi, witch!reader, you put a spell on him so he cant cum till you say so, ON MY SOUL I FELT THIS ALL THE WAY TO MY TOES, the smut is gewwwd and the fluff is amazing ughhh, loved it
i´ll float away - ( @ppersonna ) angst, hea. yoongi idol!au. LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING RIGHT NOW,, THIS IS THEE BEST YOONGI ANGST IN THIS WHOLE SITE, POINT BLANK PERIOD, TRUST. a wHOLE 2020 banger. It has STRONG topics so read the warnings
belly bulge -( @euphoricfilter ) bf!joon ,,,,,do you even have to ask what this is about?, ITS A LOT GOING ONNNNNN, talking about big beeffy thick wide strong bear built namjoon and his big ol dicc, who wouldnt like this??, he jerks himself off throught your stomach...
forg_tful - ( @joon4eva ) namjoon. established relationship, angstt, fluff, this one makes me cry every tIMEEEE, he forgets something important for the 2394823948th time so reader thinks he just doesn´t care, he doesn´t like being away from her :((((, but he owns it up bc he is a grown mature emotionally stable man, we love it
split - ( @sombreboy ) smut, snake hybrid!jimin, he has a fORKED tongue and TWO cocks!!!! :D NOW THIS, i remember reading it a long time ago and thinking it was the best hybrid!jimin fic out there, i´ve read about him being a cat, a dog, etc but a SNAKE??? now that´s new, loved it
love language - ( @rmnamjoons ) soulmate au, mute!reader, non idol!joon. THE FLUFF IS BEAUTIFULLLLLLL, i love joons pov before meeting her, and the day the meet???? i died, it was so cute
trust me - ( @bbangtan-ddaeng ) ANGSTTTT YESSS, and also? NO HEA. idol!namjoon . he thinks you cheated on him. ITSS GEWWWDD pls read pt. 2 as well. matter fact, just go ahead and read EEEEVERY piece of work of her´s, it´s an angst fest.
faded love - ( @jamaisjoons ) angst, fluff, cheating husband!jimin, ceo!jimin. "he doesn’t need to say it. because you can feel your husband, park jimin, falling out of love with you." ANGST FESSSTTTT, another one for my personal collection, i love this sm
let love be enough - ( @jingabitch ) ex-husband!tae, cheater!tae, divorce au, you meet again after 20 years on your daughter´s wedding. YUPPP this is an angst fest right here, probably my favorite tae angsty fic out there, i LOVE IT
the curse of a crush - ( @army-author ) fluff, supernatural au, down bad witch!taehyung, witch!reader, he´s so in love with you he thinks you´ve cursed him with a love potion, SO CUTEEE
night after night - ( @brown-bi-beautiful ) smut, angst, crack, fluff, semi-retired fuckboy jk, red flag jk, stalker jk, break up au, lovers to exes to lovers, he fucked around and found out so he is FREAKING ouT, also he is beggING okk.. we love that, he also has a Harley bc he is bad boy™, they make up anyways bc he is pussy whipped.. or in love, whatevs you wanna call it
you good?? - ( @mono-moonchilds ) drabble, smut, "what if you gave jungkook head?" is righT bc i´ve been thinking about it for a min!!! he is mean ok yall know he is a brat buT, the head is too good to do all that, the man was shaKINg for godssakeee, so good he had to answer with a thumbs up bc reader drained him fr, left him so brain dead he couldn´t even speak
crave you - ( @7deadlysinsfics ) idol!jk, crack, smut, fluff, hispanic choreographer reader, texting, taejikook, jk is HORNY but he´s a softie too, he´s got a big big fat crush, strenght kink bc we all know he can throw her around like a ragdoll
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
18+ | MDNI - masterlist
PAIRING: farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader
SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
WARNINGS: pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader & have a salt-and-pepper stubble, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival (this man is disgustingly whipped); reader uses "jamie" a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 26.2k
A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy!
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
“Watch your head.”
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
“You look lovely tonight.”
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
“There’s my pretty girl.”
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
“You wearing the brown boots today?”
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER
The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”
It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.
“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”
His brows draw together. “Went off how?”
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”
“The art teacher.”
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
“Yeah.”
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
“I remember.”
“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”
Bucky’s expression softens instantly.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
“C’mere.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward his lap.
“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
“I’m not.” You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”
Your face burns.
“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.
A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
“They came out pretty nice, huh?”
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.
“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
“Send me those pictures later.”
You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”
That earns you a look.
“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME
Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”
“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”
“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”
“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. “What—no!”
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
“You’re exaggerating.”
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was simply checking how it fit.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.
“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
“Ain’t.”
“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.
“Not anymore.”
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”
“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
“Mhm.”
“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.
“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.
“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”
You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”
“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”
“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
“Means I make the laws around here.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”
At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls.
“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.
First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.
“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”
“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”
“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.
“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.
“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”
“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?”
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”
“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”
“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
“Baby—”
“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”
“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”
There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.
“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”
“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”
He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”
“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”
“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.
“That’s anxiety.”
“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”
“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”
“To who? A bowling ball?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
“What?”
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
“Steve!” He whispers sharply.
The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
“What.”
“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.”
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.
“Then why are you doing all this?”
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”
“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”
“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
“This is tea.”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”
Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”
And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
“You ate dinner?”
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”
“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”
“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.
“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”
“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”
“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
“Bucky!”
“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.
“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.
“I know you could.”
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
“I know you can, baby.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
“C’mere, baby.”
And just like always, you go.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You wanna help?”
You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”
And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.
You nod silently.
“Then stay.”
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
“Hold this for me.”
“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”
“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
“I’m fucking useless.”
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
“I’m working , sweetheart.”
“Mhm.”
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?”
You try to appear unbothered. “What?”
“You being a needy girl.”
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
“I am not needy.” You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.
“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
“Oh, you’re trouble today.”
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”
You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire, doll.”
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
“I need you, Jamie.”
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
“Jamie—”
“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.
“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.
See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.
You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”
“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”
“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.
“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.
“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
“Mhm.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
“You need ice.”
“Mhm.”
“And water.”
“Probably.”
“And you should sit down for a minute.”
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”
That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
“…Little bit.” He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”
“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”
“You don’t have a concussion.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
“Too cold?” You ask softly.
“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”
“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
“Keep spoiling me like this.”
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you murmur. “Better?”
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?
Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”
“For falling asleep here.”
“You were tired.” He frowns.
“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”
Your lips part slightly. “Well—”
“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
“I liked waking up next to you.”
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”
“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.
“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.
“What happened?”
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
“Show me.”
You turn in surprise. “What?”
“Show me what you gotta do.”
“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
“This all for one class?”
“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”
You blink once. “Yes?”
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”
“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
“Is that a frog?”
You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”
“He encourages them.”
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Good for him.”
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
“Oh no.”
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
“No, no, no, no—”
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“Sweetheart.”
You barely hear him.
“Where are my tights? Fuck—”
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
“Sit down for me.”
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.
“You got thirty seconds.”
“Bucky—”
“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“What about bottoms?”
“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”
“They’re different.”
“Mhm. I’m learning.”
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”
“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
“Bucky—”
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
“C’mere.”
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“You need protein.”
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”
“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.
“A little.” You nod reluctantly.
“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
“You got everything?”
You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”
“That usually means no.”
You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
“You forgot to fill this.”
“Oh.” You frown.
“And your portable charger.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.
“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
“Why won’t this stupid thing—”
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
“There.”
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
“You did good.”
You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”
“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
“Now go teach your little gremlins.”
“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”
“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.
“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You don’t even think before stepping in.
“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”
You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”
That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“He’s still a student.”
His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.
“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.
“Didn’t look like you did.”
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.
“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.
“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”
“I did help.” You frown at his back.
“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.
“C’mere a second, baby.”
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
“We’re not doing silence, okay?”
Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”
“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.
“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.
“Then help me understand.”
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”
“But I still made you feel that way.”
That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
“C’mere, babygirl.”
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”
“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.
“You still flinched.”
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.
“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.
“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.
“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.
“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”
Your arms tighten around him at that.
“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”
“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
“That sounds very therapist of you.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”
You nod slowly. “I can do that.”
“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.
“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
“You alright?”
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
“Were you scared of me?”
You almost flinch back. “What?”
“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”
“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”
“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.
“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”
His expression softens at the full name.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.
“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.”
“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
“She sees you every day.”
“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”
Tonight is no different.
“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
“You say that like you’re any better.”
The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”
“Mmh, that’s not true.”
“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”
You frown. “She was sick.”
“She had dust on her nose.”
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”
“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
“Any future is right if you’re in it.”
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”
END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕
Author Notes: Of all the fic to return to you with after being away over two months, it's this mean Steve...
this is the same Steve/situationship from Hot Water and Kitchen Counter
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You come to with pleasure radiating from your slick and aching core. You’re in the delicious confusion between asleep and awake, at first unable to tell if you’re still dreaming, because the sensation between your legs is so fiercely, exquisitely good. A tongue runs a slow, careful circle around your clit, then sucks, then releases, then presses with the firmness of a promise. You gasp, a wild animal sound, and arch your back, your chest keening upward from the bed.
You feel the strong hands gripping your hips, the slow, possessive drag of teeth. Things are still new fairly new with Derek, and you’ve had sex a few times, but this is the first night you invited him to sleep over. He hadn’t put his mouth on your most intimate parts yet, though you’d been hoping he would, but you’re not complaining now. Better late than never, and all the better if he was finally eager enough to devour you that he had to wake you up in the middle of the night.
You moan appreciatively and start to tease one of your breasts as your other hand reaches down to tangle in Derek’s hair.
Only your fingers don’t comb through the mop of semi-short curls you’d been becoming more familiar with.
No.
This hair is straight.
Your eyes shoot open, and you try to scoot away, but with no success. Iron-strong hands clamp down, one to your hip and one flat to your belly, pinning you with a casual, absolute authority. The tongue—god, the tongue—doesn’t stop; if anything, the pace becomes even more deliberate, as if responding to your alarm with smug certainty.
Your vision sharpens, pupils blown wide in the moonless dark. Panic ricochets through your limbs, but the grip on your hips is an unbreakable vise. You grope for context, memory, reason—last night, you’d fallen asleep with Derek, bodies tangled, skin to skin, almost feeling safe for the first time in months. You’d moved across the country, desperate to leave the obsession behind, to put miles and months between yourself and the man who’d once held the world’s attention. The man whose attention you had fallen prey to.
But when you wrench your head to the right, the vision that meets your eyes is so wrong it takes the air out of your lungs. Derek—sweet, funny, uncoordinated Derek—in his boxers, wrists and ankles lashed to the guest chair with zip ties, duct tape stretched across his mouth. His eyes are wide and watery from fear and shame. Your heart lurches, then stutters, a single, panicked drumbeat.
Steve lets you feel the flicker of triumph ripple through his mouth before he drags the flat of his tongue up your center, tilting his chin so he can meet your frantic, pleading stare head-on. There’s no malice in his face, only the intimacy of careful hunger, the kind that should make you feel desirable—special—but only feels like a curse laid on your body, an old claim stamped over every cell.
You want to scream, but your voice crumbles in your throat, too knotted with disbelief and terror. You feel a savage guilt for Derek, for the confusion and terror in his eyes, and it mingles with the confusion of your own body betraying you, bucking into Steve’s mouth with a reflexive, desperate pleasure. Steve knows it, too. He never lets you pretend, and the awful thrill of that shoots heat through your entire body.
He lifts his mouth, shining with you. “You miss me.” It’s not a question.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you? That you could vanish, play house with someone else?” He’s not angry, not even disappointed. He’s something worse—a little amused.
He wipes his mouth, runs his thumb over your slickness, then brings it to your lips and presses, urging you to open.
“Did you think I’d forget about you?” The thumb presses harder, against your teeth, until you part your lips and let him slide in, the taste of yourself a bitter confirmation.
You cannot look at Derek, trussed and helpless, so you stare at the ceiling, trying to memorize the precise number of paint cracks above your head, as if counting them could anchor you to this reality, make it less of a nightmare. Steve’s palm presses down, heavy on your abdomen, holding you in place while he climbs up your body, planting slow, proprietary kisses along your skin as he goes. His hands are everywhere, cataloguing, reacquainting, staking claim.
“You don’t belong to him.”
Steve’s hands grip your thighs and yank you open, hips canted up so there’s nowhere to hide. You squirm, or try to, but he’s already undone his tactical pants, somehow keeping your legs pinned with one forearm while he shoves his pants down just far enough to free himself. The edge of the zipper scrapes your skin and the cold, practiced drag of his cock through your wetness is so familiar it makes your head ring. He never needed to prep you much, never needed sweet talk or foreplay—your body always betrayed you, just like this, slick and clenching and ready, even with a horror show playing out three feet away.
“Don’t look at him,” Steve growls. The command vibrates through the base of your spine. He lines up and pushes, slow at first, then hard and all the way, the stretch making you whimper before you can stop yourself. “Look at me,” he snaps, hand wrapping your throat hard enough that the world collapses to a pinhole of his furious blue eyes. “You look at me and remember who you belong to.”
You nod, or something close enough. His expression softens, cruelly, as he brushes a strand of hair back from your forehead, as if he’s tucking you in for sleep rather than staking his claim to your body.
“God, you’re so fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, voice a low croon, every syllable vibrating through your cunt as he draws back and slams in again, sealing your hips together like a puzzle that only he can solve. “You really thought you could run away?” Each thrust is a question mark punctuated with bruising emphasis.
You shake your head, but he grabs your chin, thumb digging into the hinge of your jaw. “No, no, don’t lie. You did think that. You thought you’d start over, escape me. But you were wrong,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and foul and achingly familiar. “You’re mine, and you will always be mine. You want proof?” His hips piston, unrelenting, bruising, his hand never leaving your throat. You make a strangled sound—half terror, half the involuntary pleasure that shames you more than his violence ever could.
“Christ, you’re clenching. You like it when I take you like this,” he says, grinding in deep enough you feel the base of him grind against your clit. He lowers his mouth to your ear, breath hot and thick. “Say it.”
You choke on a sob, the words stuck in the cage of your throat. Steve’s fingers tighten, more warning than threat. “Say it,” he repeats, and the timbre of his voice—low, old as the first sin—thrums through your bones, through your traitorous flesh.
“I—” you gasp, the inside of your head dissolving, bright white at the edges. “I’m yours.” Your voice is a paper-thin whisper, no louder than the tick of your heart.
He hitches your knees higher and pounds into you, not even pretending to care about Derek’s strangled sounds just feet away. Steve’s thumb strokes your jaw, almost tender. “Listen to me,” he says, then leans down, voice low and private against your ear. “I’m going to fuck you until you forget his name, and then I’m going to keep fucking you and fill you up with my cum, unquestionably breed you tonight, because I can smell how ripe you are.”
More humiliation. But with his super human strength and hearing, this shouldn’t surprise you either.
“If you do a really good job for me, I might even let him live. Does that sound fair to you?” His eyes hold yours, blue and diamond-hard. You’re nearly delirious from the pace he’s set inside you, the friction and force and certainty of him, and shame eats you alive because you’re close—damnably, pathetically, wetly close.
He reads it in you. He always does. “That’s my good girl,” Steve croons, voice all honey and razor wire at once. “You want to come. You want me to make you come right here, right in front of him. Prove it to me.”
He leans his weight forward and slams in again, making your whole world condense to that stretch, that ache, that pressure building inside you. Your eyes water; you will not cry, will not give him that satisfaction. But your body is lost, wrecked by him, every sweet nerve shredded on his rhythm, pain wrapped up tight with pleasure, horror inseparable from heat. It builds, inevitable as a tidal wave. Steve holds your face as you come, wants to see it, wants it to be for him alone. You break, shuddering around him, a choked scream escaping your throat, every atom of yourself violently claimed.
He fucks you through it, relentless, somehow only gaining momentum. You’re numb to everything but sensation, a single nerve lit up from within. When he comes, it’s with a guttural, satisfied groan, arms braced so hard on either side of your head you think the bed frame might splinter. You feel jet after jet of his release, warmth blooming inside you, grossly comforting in its familiarity. He stays buried for a few seconds after, grinding your hips together in a knot of animal insistence. For a moment there is only your mingled breathing, the wet, obscene sound of your aftermath.
He rolls off, leaving your body slicked and hollowed and shaking, but he holds onto your wrist so you can’t scramble away. “Don’t move,” he warns, voice ripe with threat and promise.
Steve releases your wrist and stands, looming over the bed, his face unreadable, perhaps even bored. Blood pounds in your ears. You watch, paralyzed, as he saunters over to where Derek is bound. Derek’s chest heaves, sheer terror in his eyes as Steve offers a tight smile and then, with clinical detachment, grasps his cock—still fat and half-hard and glistening with your shared filth. Steve pumps once, twice, collecting a mess of slickness in his palm, and then leans down.
He smears it across Derek’s face, in broad strokes, painting your shame onto his cheeks and lips. Derek thrashes desperately but the chair tips and clatters uselessly. The tape muffles his wounded howl. The smell of sex, so thick in the room, seems to intensify. Steve wipes his hand on Derek’s hair.
“There,” he says, almost kindly. “Now he gets to have a part of you too,” Steve says. “Isn’t that nice?” He pats Derek’s shoulder with cruel gentleness. The mockery in his voice lands like a slap, and even through the numbness, it stings.
Steve returns to you, crouching by the side of the bed, level with your ruined face. His finger traces the edge of your jaw, then tips your chin up. “You see, sweetheart?” His voice softens, but the chill never leaves it. “No matter where you run, I’ll always know how to find you. I’ll always know how to make you feel this alive.” He brushes a stray tear away with the pad of his thumb, as if kindness could ever stitch this moment back together.
He palms your cheek, and you can feel the tremor in his hand, not rage but something more elemental. Possession. His gaze is a raptor’s, sharp and infinite, and his voice almost gentle as he says, “You’ll remember this, every morning, every night, every time you catch your own reflection.” The words root in your bones, dark seeds. “You’ll remember whose you are, especially when you can’t hide it anymore. I’m going to make sure of it.” His thumb presses into the soft place under your jaw, forcing your head up. “I want you round and ruined with me.”
I feel like I should run and hide. *taps microphone* I don't even know if this thing is still on.
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Characters/Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 299
Summary: He said he'd find you.
Content/Warnings: NON-CONSENT/RAPE; slapping/rough manhandling; mention of male receiving oral; smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse); breaking and entering
Author Notes: Written day 6 of @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles challenge. All pieces must be 300 words or less. Prompt in bold-italics.
not necessary to have read, but this encounter takes place 7 weeks after Hot Water
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“Can you be good for me?” he asks.
You’re crying, you can’t stop.
Something sharp cracks across your cheek. So sudden and bright that it shocks the tears out of your eyes, and for a moment you’re too numb to cry, too startled even to breathe. He looms over you, the hand that had struck you now gripping your shoulder, squeezing so tightly it feels like the bones there might splinter.
"Tell me you'll be good," he says again, quieter this time, but not softer. It’s a command, not a question.
You nod, the movement stilted, puppetlike. Your cheek stings, your throat sore from him already brutally fucking it. That was his greeting when he broke into your home, waiting for you to get back from work.
He spins you around and shoves you over the kitchen island. The edge of the counter bites into the juncture of your hips to things, his hand at the back of your head as he holds you in place.
Your thighs quiver as he shoves your skirt up over your hips, exposing you to the cold air. When he tears away your panties, the elastic snaps and the fabric burns your thighs, but you barely register it before the thick head of his cock is pressed between your legs. There’s no slow build, no easing you open. He thrusts in, forcing you to stretch around him, and your body—traitorous, blameless body—slicks with the panic, the rough need, the memory of him and everything he’s done. The first push is a brand, tearing a gasp from your throat. The next is worse.
“You missed me, didn’t you?” he says, voice raw and hushed against your hair. His grip on your hip is a bruise blooming, a promise of purple come morning.
Steve finds you again in Rude Awakening
more SEXY SEPTEMBER SCRIBBLES
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Characters/Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader
Word Count: 550
Summary: Your chance encounter on your dream vacation with Americans retired Golden Boy is anything but golden... it's a nightmare.
Content/Warnings: NON-CONSENT/RAPE; explicit smut (oral: male receiving, unprotected vaginal intercourse); threats; breaking and entering
Author Notes: this is just a bit of dark filth that sprouted from an ask by @buck-star, but it spiraled into more than I felt was appropriate to put in an ask without proper/more formal warnings.
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You've had half a glass of sparkling wine.
And it's been such a nice time talking to the Steve Rogers. You didn't think you'd run into anyone worth talking to at all during your vacation. This was just a handful of days away for you. You wanted to take advantage of all of the wonderful amenities at the resort since this was a true indulgence you'd saved up for and splurged on.
You didn't pay much mind to the man who slipped into the hot tub a little way down from you initially. And then he struck up a bit of conversation, and that's when you looked and saw who it was.
It had taken everything for you not to let your jaw drop once you realized it was the former Captain America.
And he was nice.
So you ended up gravitating to him and talked for an hour.
You sort of considered staying longer because he just was so nice to talk to, but you were starting to feel the extent of staying in the hot water for so long, because you'd already been there a while before he showed up. But he grabbed your wrist and asked you to stay just a bit longer, so you said okay, not needing much convincing.
And he pulled you to sit closer to him.
When you tried to leave again a half hour later, there was no coaxing you to stay this time.
No.
He smoothly but powerfully insisted.
As you'd started to shift and stand, he'd pulled you right into his lap, back flush to his chest. He put his hand over your mouth, and banded his other arm around your waist, and pressed you firmly down to feel the evidence of his massive, hard cock against your sex.
He told you to stay quiet or else he'd rip your suit clean off you, meaning you'd have to try and escape him naked.
Play nice - let him play with you - and he'd let you keep your clothes and your dignity and be on your way when he was satisfied.
And so your shook your head on a quiet sob and let him move aside the crotch of your swimsuit and tried to be as quiet andd compliant as possible as he fucked and groped you and said all kinds of filthy things in your ear, emphasizing most of all that no one will believe you if you ever try and tell this story to anyone. He pumps you full of his cum twice. Once in his lap, and once with you propped up/hanging over the edge of the side of the hot tub that has the beautiful drop off view of the snowy mountains, and then he tells you to have a good night and leaves.
He breaks into your room the next morning, waking you up by filling your mouth with his cock to remind you that you should keep your mouth shut, to let you know that he can get to you anywhere, and then before spilling in your mouth, he pulls out, throws your body around - as if you need reminding that he's a terrifying super soldier - and fucks your cunt again to spill his seed inside you.
He kisses your bare ass and says not to be surprised if you see him again. He says he likes your holes, and he's only had two of them. And don't worry - he's found people who were impossible to find, so he'll find you when he wants to.
So.
That happened.
And that's why I couldn't just drop that as a full answer to an ask. Even if Steve's not looking for permission, I'm definitely going to be thorough about letting people consent to whether or not they want to read this kind of content.
Steve finds you seven weeks later...
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