I have issues. Especially ones that revolve around deeply traumatized fictional characters. || Mar. He/They.|| I write sometimes. My age ain't yo business but I am over 18. Nov 15.
I’m just gonna… summon the army… to see this… @lokisgoodgirl @lokisbiiiitch1993 @fandxmslxt69 @lokischambermaid @superficialdomina @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @mochie85 @sailorholly @mischief2sarawr
@divine-knight-hand YES!!!!! I always think of @superficialdomina when I see these things and I'M JUST GONNA SAY IT he'd teach you how to bind him up just like that tooooo 😇
And, like, now I’m imagining his soft eyes looking up at as he’s showing us how to do each knot. Like, he’s been wanting this for a long time and finally gained the courage to ask. Ugh, I’d be weak in the knees!!!
Also, it kinda reminds me of a certain Loki from a certain series I love where he’s learning to grow comfortable with and accepting of his own kinks as we finally grant him what he’s been dying for for probably centuries now… *Ehem* Into Submission *Ehem* 👀
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”
“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.
He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”
“… Excuse me?”
“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”
“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”
You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
“…What’s yours?” you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”
“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”
You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”
You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And that’s exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.
He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.
“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”
“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.
“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”
Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”
He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”
Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. “Are you sure—”
“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.
“You’re overheating!”
Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
“...Tired,” he croaked.
Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”
Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”
Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.
“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”
“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”
You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”
He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.
“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”
“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”
“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
“Crap—!”
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.
You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didn’t look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.
“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”
“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”
“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.
“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”
Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”
“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”
“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
No—he loved this.
“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
“Careful, sweets.”
“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”
“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”
Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”
“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”
“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”
“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”
“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
“Here.”
“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Exactly right, sugar.”
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”
“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.
Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.
“So goddamn pretty.”
“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”
“Like what?” you breathed.
“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”
You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
“Feels like I already have, little doll.”
Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.
It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.
“Bucky, please—”
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”
Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
“… No panties?”
Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
“Bucky, wait—!”
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”
“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”
“No?” he cut you off.
He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”
Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.
“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didn’t help him at all.
“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. Breed…
“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”
His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
“Oh my god—!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”
When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
“Understand, sweets?”
“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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✧･ﾟyou lie on the bed, running your fingers between your thighs and sighing at the ceiling, picturing Bucky’s strong arms around you, his lips trailing up your neck, his hands replacing yours.
✧･ﾟmetal fingers, running between the lips of you pussy. Hot lips leaving open-mouth kisses, as he plays with you until you come apart. You gasp his name to an empty room, your pussy dripping over the sheets. You need him. He isn’t here.
✧･ﾟthe only thing to do is let him know how much you miss him.
✧･ﾟbucky’s away on an overnight meeting, and he called you before dinner but you know he won’t be able to slip away. He’s surrounded by people who need his attention, but they don’t know how to get it. Not like you do.
✧･ﾟit’s a simple text. You push up your tits, pout at the screen, and snap a photo before sending it. Across the country, Bucky checks his phone, sure that it’s just another annoying spam text.
✧･ﾟthen he sees you. His pants get tight, his hand fisting on the table. Another one comes through, this one with your pussy on full display. He missed it. Misses you, and your warmth and softness.
✧･ﾟsomeone asks if he’s okay. He grunts and waves them off, but he’s so hard that hurts. He rubs his cock under the table, hypnotized by the photo. By your pretty eyes and mouth, that pussy he knows takes his cock so well, your fingers and how they’re brushing your clit. He knows you need him. You’re never able to feel it the same, without him.
✧･ﾟa third photo comes through, this one in the mirror. Your hair is messy, legs spread, pussy on full display. Bucky dismisses himself with a grunt, rushing to the bathroom without looking back.
✧･ﾟhis fist is on his cock before he’s even locked the stall. He fumbles with his phone, trying to call you, but his fingers are shaking. He needs to touch you, hold you, feel you, but you’re not around. all he has is this pretty, pretty photo.
✧･ﾟyou’d be so good for him. So soft and warm, pushing his limits until he pins you down and fucks you just how you like. God, he can almost hear you calling his name, almost imagine being inside that pussy as he beats himself into his hand-
✧･ﾟbucky cums all over your face, groaning your name between his teeth. He pants, wipes the release from his screen, and finally dials your number.
✧･ﾟ“you’re in trouble, doll," He rasps, and you giggle.
✧･ﾟ“good. Come home and show me how much.”
✧･ﾟbucky grunts. He will. After that little stunt, there’s no way he’s letting you off easy.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: no jokes im just horny, thank you✦
PAIRING: the winter soldier x doctor!reader
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: DUB-CON; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; doctor!reader (author knows nothing about medicine); 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; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; multiple orgasms; creampie (lots of cum :)); twisted ending.
WORD COUNT: 10.1k
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 tags 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 barely say a word. All you can do is take, 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.
Hello!! I have come with an Avengers ask <3
Could we get them reacting to you kissing their knuckles or cheek?
You have such lovely writing btw ^^
Thank you so much!!!! If you want, my masterlist is always up for my other works and I have plenty of Marvel fics!
Btw, I love this ask so much! I got hit with a rush of inspo after studying for my midterms, and just wrote it all down today! These asks are keeping my sanity right now
Note: brief mention of makeup, but reader is still neutral! Anyone can slay tbh
The Avengers react....[To a kiss on the cheek from you]
Steve:
It felt like going off to war all over again, except this time he wasn't as enthusiastic. Typically, he'd always be up for a good fight, but he found his mind wondering back to his new team, his friends, and specifically you. He'd already left someone waiting decades ago, and he didn't want to relive it all over
"Hey, Captain," you gave a mock solute from where you had been reading. It used to annoy him, but not anymore. The moment you saw that look on his face, the one where he was about to do something stupid, you knew.
"Fury is sending me on a classified mission to Budapest," he said, getting straight to the point, "I'll be gone for at least two weeks, maybe even a few months."
Getting up, you stood in front of him, not daring get any closer, "So is this your way of saying goodbye?"
A smile tugged at his lips, "I guess it is."
"Then I guess I owe you a proper send off, Cap," you leaned in a bit, pressing your lips to his cheek, "Come back alive or you'll have to deal with me, and you know how I get when I'm angry."
Steve stood there, shocked for a moment. When he'd kissed Peggy all those years ago, it had left an impression, but this? It felt different. It felt like a reason to come back, instead of sacrifice himself all over.
"Wouldn't dream of seeing you angry."
Natasha:
If anyone was the center of a party, it was Natasha. Not that she tried or anything, she was just the type of person who commanded attention the moment she came into the room. So why had she spent most of the evening at Stark's gala with you of all people when she could have her pick?
"These idiots really know how to kill the vibe," she rolled her eyes nodding towards Thor and Tony currently taking turns chugging some sort of Asgardian mead, "They'll be tripping all over themselves by morning, sorta like you have been with me all night."
Then she had to throw in that signature smirk of hers.
"W-What?!" you grew flustered, "I just like hanging out with you instead of them, that's all."
"You always were shy," she teased, taking another sip. Shy? You'd show her shy! Leaning in, you pressed a quick peck to her cheek. She raised an eyebrow, "Honestly, I'm impressed. Took you long enough."
Tony:
For the past hour, you had been trying to figure out exactly how to style the outfit for Tony's big party tonight. Provided by him, of course. He loved to show off his wealth any time he could.
"You ready? This year, I'm showing up those investors-" he asked, showing up in the doorway in a tux before stopping to stare at you a moment. Usually, he'd have some snarky comment, but he only said, "Wow...you look great."
"Thanks," you smiled, adding the finishing touches to your lipstick and pressing a kiss to his cheek, where the expensive shade smeared on his cheek. "Let me know when you're ready and I'll tell Happy to get the car."
"I am ready," he insisted. You stared, "Uhh...Tony, you've got a bit of something on your face."
"Oh, I know," he grinned, "And I'm wearing it all night." Really, what should you have expected from him? Of course he'd pull something like this.
Your face never stopped being red for the entire party.
Thor:
Everyone in the Tower had went to bed hours ago, but you and Thor could stay up for hours, laughing and talking about everything and nothing, snacking on the box of Poptarts between you. Today, he'd even made the trip all the way from Asgard to join you on your birthday...
Thor felt like a best friend, maybe even more, but who were you kidding? Even if he was some loveable oaf, he was still technically the god of thunder and literal prince. Why would he feel the same?
"And then, I said, what hammer?" Thor burst into hardy laughs, and you laughed along, even if you had lost the point of the joke a long time ago.
Suddenly, Thor turned more serious, "I wanted to give you a gift for you birthday once the other had left," he pulled out an ornate dagger, presenting it, but the look on his face seemed almost shy? "You're one of the strongest mortals I've met, and you have the spirit of a Vallkrie."
"Is that Asgardian?" you asked, but you already knew the answer.
"It's common among Asgardians to, well," he fumbled, "Present a blade to the one we wish to, uh, court. Not court! What do you call it? Date?"
Before he could go on, you pressed your lips to his cheek, shutting him up. A smile spread to his face as he declared, "Another!"
So for the rest of the night you had another, and another and another....
Bruce:
Tonight had seemed like another, boring patrol when a group of HYDRA agents attacked out of nowhere. Now you laid on the exam table down in the lab, groaning through the pain as Bruce tended to the wounds. Hopefully you could ignore the pain and the proximity
"Does that stuff have to sting so much?" you complained, pretending not to care how gentle he was being.
"I wouldn't complain to the guy saving your life," he laughed as he wrapped the wound, "You got lucky, and you also gotta work on the temper of yours."
"You're one to talk about temper," you rolled your eyes, "Besides, I left them in much worse shape."
"Doesn't surprise me," he responded, taking off his gloves and putting away some things before turning with a more serious look, "I would hate to lose you."
"You won't lose me that easily," you responded, taking his hand in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, "I'm stuck with you, doc. We're lab partners."
You'd never seen him so uncomposed before as he mumbled, "Right, partners" before going on a tangent about wound care, but he never let go of your hand
Wanda:
By the time Wanda returned, you had already been sitting on her bed with the snacks for your nightly binge watch. With a smile, she joked, "Lucy, I'm home," before sitting down next to you. In typical sitcom fashion, you pressed a kiss to her cheek before your brain could register what you had done, only to be mortified once you did. Had you just...actually kissed her on the cheek? Sure, you did feel something for her lately, but actually doing it?
By the look on her face, she was just as shocked, "That...wasn't a joke, was it?"
Quickly, you looked away, shaking your head. "It's okay, look at me," she guided your chin back to face her, gaze soft "I had hoped....that it wasn't a joke, but I wasn't sure if you felt the same."
No joke, gags or need for an outdated laugh track...because this was real
Bucky:
Tonight was a hard night. Being with someone like Bucky came with a lot of those, and you knew a thing or two about that. After all, you had been an asset for HYDRA as well...the whole reason the two of you had grown close.
"I'm not what you need, what you should want," he insisted, staring down at his hands as if he could still see the blood on them, "You're better off leaving why you can."
"Leave?" you snapped, "I promised to stick with you to the end, and if you don't think I will, then you don't know me." Stubborn, you were always so stubborn.
"I do know you, and that's the problem," he shot back, "You'll stick around and eventually all my messed up stuff with start to mess you up."
"Bucky, we're both messed up," you sighed, taking a seat next to him on the bed, "We both did things...awful things and lived through horrible stuff." Being with him felt like looking back at your own broken reflection.
Taking his metal hand, you held it, "I love every part of you. The messed up ones, and the not so messed up ones, just like you want every part of me." Gently, you pressed your lips to the metal knuckles, kissing each one slowly to get the point across. Bucky felt his heart speed up, the action breaking him and putting together the pieces all at once. Nobody ever touched the arm...it was a reminder of the things he did
"You blush easy, you know that?" you teased, leaning into him. "Shut up," he grumbled, despite tightening his hold on your hand.
Sam:
The whole mission had been a bust, and under the smoke filled skies the last you had seen Sam was the sight of a pair of wings falling to the ground. You had warned him not to go, that you could take the flight, but when did he ever listen?
After you were done finishing off those HYDRA agents, you rushed into the debris, searching for him.
A voice from behind called, "Did you miss me?"
Turning, you saw him there, perfectly fine. "Idiot! I told you I would take the skies! You could have gotten hurt, or worse!"
"But I didn't," he tilted his head, and you were so angry you ran straight into his arms, not caring to lose your own wings. Amongst the anger, tears, and arguing, you pressed your lips to his cheek.
Sam only stared, and you could feel the heat of his cheek under your hand, "What was that for?"
"For a falcon, you're not very observant," you teased, "I thought I had made it obvious."
The whole flight back, you stuck close, wrapped in each other's wings
Loki:
When first met Loki, you quickly realized he was a shameless flirt as much as he was a trickster. At first, you assumed he didn't mean any of it, and was bored...but lately things were feeling a bit too real. One thing you could trust was your gut, and you knew you couldn't trust him just yet. Not to mention the conversation you had overheard from Thor the night before, speaking on how happy his brother had been near you. You refused to be tricked by that trickster, so you'd get the upper hand to see how he really felt...fight fire with fire
"Ah, I see I'm stuck with you again today," Loki approached, sounding bored taking you hand to press a kiss there as he had taken a habit of doing. Instead, you tugged him closer, catching him off guard as you pressed a kiss to his hand, even trying to imitate that annoyingly effective eye contact he did. He bristled, before gaining his composure, "I see you're being bold today."
"When am I ever not bold?" you responded making him smirk as he suddenly grabbed your waist, pulling you in. Despite the heat in your cheeks, you kept your stance, gaze cold, "I know you like to play games, but I'm not some stupid mortal who's going to fall for that charming act of yours. So, just cut it out, okay?"
"You wound me," He made a dramatic gasp, pressing a hand to his heart, "As if I'd ever take you for a fool. I'm aware you're far more clever than to fall for such tricks. It's what makes you so infuriating."
Leaning in, he whispered in your ear, "I can assure you it isn't an act."
Your gut told you, for once, he wasn't lying. Nothing good could come from this, but honestly? You didn't care.
Okay...so I know I made these a lot longer than normal, but I loved this ask so much!
Requests for more Avengers reacts are always open to drop in my inbox!
I am back. I am back with middle-aged ship smut fic. It’s like I never left. Tho this time it’s Lim/Melendez flavoured. And the way I see this ship is: Neil worships the ground that Audrey Lim walks upon and she permits him. Good shit. Continue reading for approxmiately 6.5k more words of that good shit.
Title: A Rush of Bourbon to the Head
Summary: Post 2x09. Neil and Audrey meet together for bourbon and start 2x10 waking up next to each other in bed. This bridges the gap.
A fic in which:
-Audrey says the word ‘fuck’ a lot
-Neil looks adoringly at Audrey
-Bourbon is drunk
-Fucking is done
-Heart to hearts are had.
Teaser:
He smiled, then reached out and gently covered her hand with his own, “You’re a great surgeon, Audrey,” he said warmly, “And you would have made a great chief.”
“There is a lot of wisdom in this bourbon,” she teased, squinting down into it to avoid the burning intensity of his gaze.
“You found any, yet?”
“I might have,” she said, mouth a little dry, still not sure if what she was thinking right now was wisdom or insanity. Maybe a little of both.
Link: AO3
On days like today, heading in to Crowley’s bar felt more like coming home than her own place. There were few problems, she’d found, that couldn’t be improved upon by mulling them over with a glass of bourbon.
She didn’t bother looking for Neil, just wound her way through the familiar layout of tables and chairs with the same surgical precision she applied in the OR until she found him at their regular places.
Surgeons could be a surprisingly superstitious lot. She had never subscribed to much of it herself. But there were certain constants in the universe you just didn’t fuck with. Like the perfect spot in your favourite bar, deduced over years of careful experimentation and testing.
Collapsing into the chair beside him, she signalled for another two bourbons with some curt hand gestures, then shrugged off her leather jacket. It felt strange to wear it without her helmet in tow, or her Ducati, for that matter. But it had felt stranger not to wear it at all.
“I was never gonna confront Andrews,” she said bluntly, without so much as a ‘hello’ to warm things up first. She had been stewing since Andrews’ announcement, and had worked out exactly what she wanted to say to Neil. No point beating about the bush. “I was playing you. But damn if you didn’t actually make it work.”
She didn’t add what they both knew – that if she had confronted Andrews, it was unlikely he’d have reacted with anything other than resentment towards her for challenging him.
Neil shook his head. “It didn’t work for anybody,” he pointed out, flatly. “He played us both. He set us against each other.”
Audrey sighed, looking away from Neil. That was true enough. All those years of working, of grafting, of giving her blood, and sweat, and soul to this job, and that conceited bastard was just going to ‘retain his title’.
“I think you were right,” Neil continued, pulling her out of her bitter thoughts” She looked up and met his eyes again, sipping at her drink. The familiar burn was oddly soothing, purging some of her anger.
“Even if you were just bluffing,” he paused and she raised her eyebrows at him. He’d always had a penchant for the dramatic, even when they’d been residents together. And he’d never known how to just spit something out, he had to take his time, mull it over, let the moment build. “We need to stand together.” He nodded to himself.
“Where was that wisdom two days ago?” she demanded, unable to keep the distinct note of indignation from her voice.
If she was being fair, it probably wouldn’t have made any damned difference. There was no greater power in heaven or earth that could match Andrews’ sense of self-importance. But she wasn’t in the mood to be fair. Nothing else in life bothered, why the fuck should she?
Neil gave her a small half smile and raised his glass, “Still in the bottle.”
She huffed a soft laugh and they both sipped at what passed for wisdom these days.
People called Neil arrogant, but that only showed how little they knew him. He came across that way, and he could be an ass at times. But his heart was generally in the right place, and he had the rare ability to be able to back down and admit he’d fucked up. She appreciated that.
It made it hard to be mad at him. Since she wanted to be mad at something right now, she might still have ended up taking things out on him. But it had been a long day, and she knew that he was just as upset and angry as she was. Time to stand together, follow her own advice. Even if it had been mostly bullshit at the time.
“What other pearls of genius are in there?” she asked.
I've said before that subs should kiss each other way more often, and this is true, but it's also true that Doms should make out with each other sloppy style, grasping at each other, wrestling for control, straining against each other's while they grind together frantically, getting off on pleasing each other just as much as they are competing for dominance.
stormborns
germansingergirl
