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1️⃣ One-shot | 📚 Series
🆕 Contemporary | ⌛ Historical
💚 SFW / no smut | ❤️🔥 NSFW / smut / explicit
🫵 Reader-insert (x you)
🌈 LGBTQIA+ / GN / WLW / F/F / MLM / M/M
🌀 Fantastical
Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier/White Wolf
All Tied Up 1️⃣🆕❤️🔥🫵🌀
Victor Frankenstein
Figure Study Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | Pt. 5 📚⌛❤️🔥🫵🌀
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
All Tied Up | Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x goth!afab!reader
Synopsis: Fleeing from a compromised mission, the Winter Soldier hides in plain sight at a goth club. When he's mistakenly pulled into an underground dungeon with a bondage novice, he has to make a decision: stay and play the part or leave and risk getting caught?
Who's here: Bucky Barnes / Winter Soldier x goth!afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥 (explicit); 1️⃣ (one-shot)
Content (warnings): murder/assassination mention, weapons mention, Hydra mention (we hate Hydra), semi-public sex, porn with plot, dom/sub, rough sex, dirty talk, bondage, rope play, oral (f. receiving), suspension, spanking, p in v, creampie, birth control mention, sti testing mention, they/them pronouns for reader, tws calls reader 'bunny,' dual perspectives, reader isn't introduced until about halfway through the fic, no use of y/n
Word count: 6.5k
Author's note: BDSM/bondage/shibari community, please don't come for me, but please do offer any feedback/suggestions you have for the events depicted in this fic! I don't know what I'm talking about, and I'd love to learn to improve my smut. I hope you have fun with this fic and don't take it too seriously. Please remember: if you are inspired to practice bondage or rope play, do your research, prioritize consent, and be safe.
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
The Winter Soldier's heavy black boots stepped carefully along a dark, narrow alley. He held his breath as his utilitarian leather uniform slid silently across the brick wall.
"He's over there!"
A voice, somehow both deep and shrill, pierced the chilly autumn air.
They were coming for him, he knew. Yet, the Winter Soldier did not panic. He did not know, in fact, how to panic. The Winter Soldier always kept remarkably composed. He had once overhead the men at the Hydra laboratory call his countenance chilling. But, he did not mind. Indeed, he did not pay them any attention. The Winter Soldier did not concern himself with the trivial frivolities of men--largely, their opinions, and, chiefly, their emotions.
He stood on the balls of his feet. He heard the hurried, uneven footsteps of his pursuers. He was once the pursuer, he remembered, the predator. Now, he had become the pursued of the evening, the prey.
At this point in an average pursuit, the Winter Soldier would have adjusted his mask with his vibranium hand in preparation for a bloody fight. With his human--could he still call himself that?--hand, he would have retrieved his weapon of choice attached to the leg of his suit. He would win. He always did, of course.
But, the Winter Soldier did not have his mask. Nor, in fact, did he have his weapon of choice. He only had his uniform, the black smudges around his eyes, and his logical calculations.
The target was more, shall we say, skilled than Hydra had let on and had ripped the mask from his face mid-fight. One of the target's cronies, the very one leading the charge against him now, had stolen his weapon.
This had never happened before. It was almost as if Hydra had wanted him to get caught, the Winter Soldier mused. Then, he pushed the thought from his brain and stopped musing. The Winter Soldier did not think. The Winter Soldier certainly did not muse.
The Winter Soldier had made good use of his skills, of course. It was quite hard to destroy a being with vibranium in their body. The Winter Soldier had used his human hand to break the neck of the target. It only took a single squeeze to the airways and a ninety-degree snap of his wrist. Hydra would be pleased by the efficiency of this kill.
The target's crony shot wildly at the vibranium arm, using the Winter Soldier's own weapon against him.
The bullets bounced off of the arm easily and shot back at the crony. One went clean through his hand. Damn, the Winter Soldier heard his inner monologue say. If only it had bounced a few inches to the left. He, too, pushed this disappointment out of his brain.
The crony held a walkie-talkie in his good hand and brought it to his mouth. "Goliath is down! I repeat, Goliath is down! Follow my pursuit!" The crony shrieked quite desperately. Whether the desperation came from the pain in his hand or the loss of the target, the Winter Soldier could not discern.
Goliath? The Winter Soldier ignored the ridiculousness of such a name. Instead, he wondered if the target were one of those superheroes or vigilantes that Hydra seemed to detest so vehemently. Or, perhaps, he was a politician, a puppet, or a fixer. The Winter Soldier was only ever given the barest details of his targets. Not that further details would have mattered in the least to him or to his mission. He extinguished anyone who got in his way of fulfilling Hydra's commands indiscriminately. Stop thinking. Start seeing, Soldier.
Lights began to flash around the pair of them still standing. Engines roared in the near distance. The target's cronies were like ants, crawling closer and closer to their food source.
It was good that the Winter Soldier could outrun most things. Cars were more difficult, but not wholly impossible. It was good, too, that he had mapped out all of the alleys and side streets prior to his mission. The Winter Soldier knew how to fight, yes. But, fighting was often ostentatious. Messy. It left a trace. He knew, too, the underrated value of simply blending in when fighting was no longer a viable option.
It was no coincidence that he had found himself pressed up against this particular block wall of this particular alley. The Winter Soldier would never make an impulsive or hasty mistake. There was no happenstance, no chance, no fate. There was only logic and precision.
He knew where he would go in the case he had been compromised. He followed the vibrations under his feet until he knew for certain that he had reached his intended destination.
The Winter Soldier did not make a habit of peering, but he did make a habit of glancing swiftly over his shoulder. This is what he did now.
The Winter Soldier took a breath and stepped out gracefully, casually, from behind the alley. There was a quickly-moving line of patrons outside of this establishment, as he had anticipated. The majority of them were clad in black. Some wore heavy leather coats and pants, like his, and chunky boots, also like his. Others wore ripped nylon fishnets over shivering, otherwise bare legs. Many had exaggerated their features by painting their eyes and lips with dark makeup. They wore chokers or silver crosses or miniature bats or dagger pendants around their necks. Despite the solemnity of their attire, they had a jovial camaraderie among them. Groups huddled together from the cold. Partners held hands and kissed. Strangers chatted with one another about their taste in music. Quieter individuals contentedly read from their glowing phone screens or from a paperback book as they awaited their turn. It was curious how humans could behave so kindly, so harmoniously, with one another.
The Winter Soldier relaxed his shoulders and strode to the end of the line. He kept his back turned to the outside world, but his senses remained alert. He knew the target's cronies could recognize him, even from his back, even in this sea of similarly-dressed people. The Winter Soldier did not take chances.
Step by step, the Winter Soldier neared the entrance of the establishment. Then, mid-step, he stopped. His skin prickled. His senses ignited. He felt himself being watched.
This was to be expected, of course. When you kill a target, you expect repercussions. He would be prepared to fight at all costs.
The Winter Soldier felt eyes boring into his side. Was the crony only beside him? Had he really let him get so close? What an amateur move, Soldier. Disgraceful.
The Winter Soldier shifted his body to the direction of the watcher only mere inches away from him. He steeled his vibranium arm and hovered his eyes in the direction of the predator.
It was a woman. She had multiple piercings in her eyebrows, her nose, her lips. She had dark shadows on and below her eyelids, which mirrored his. She wore pigtails on the side of her head and severely-cut micro-bangs on her forehead. Her mouth twitched into a knowing smile. The Winter Soldier stared into her eyes. She was not threatening him, he realized. No. She was somehow inviting him. She licked her lips.
Heat rose along his neck and up to his cheeks. He cleared his throat. The Winter Soldier did not know quite what he was feeling, but he knew it was not wholly unpleasant, though unexpected.
The Winter Soldier decided to turn around and focus his attention back on the line. The woman giggled softly behind him.
Mercifully, he had reached the entrance of the establishment. A bored bouncer held a handful of neon, paper bracelets in their hand. To their left, a rusty cashbox sat on a weathered stool.
They smacked their gum and held out their hand impatiently. The Winter Soldier stood and stared. Despite his calculations and his extensive training, he had not anticipated this exchange.
The bouncer rolled their eyes and pointed to a sign on the door. "The cover charge is five dollars. Cash only."
The Winter Soldier blinked stupidly. Soldiers don't carry cash. They carry out someone else's vengeance.
He felt the woman behind him shift uncomfortably. His super-senses told him that she was rustling in her handbag. She had opened her mouth to speak.
"Hey, man, I can spot you--"
"There you are!"
The Winter Soldier, the bouncer, and the stranger turned to the voice coming from the doorway to the establishment.
The voice belonged to a witchy-looking woman in a dark, full-length velour gown. Its plunging neckline revealed an intricate tattoo that ran from breastbone to her neck. The Winter Soldier carefully examined the inked rendition of a grim reaper holding a scythe in one hand and a skull in another. Not bad, he thought, against his will.
The witchy woman reached out her hand to the Winter Soldier and yanked him inside.
The establishment was hot, humid, and dark. Lights flashed in time with the pace of music. Some bodies swayed and held onto each other on the dance floor. The rest sat in booths, nursing their drinks. The grungy floor was sticky under the Winter Soldier's boots.
It sends you spinning. You have no choice. Spellbound, spellbound! Oh, spellbound, spellbound! The Winter Soldier had never heard this type of music. Not that he listened to music. Yet, it tickled something in his brain. The story felt familiar, almost.
The witchy woman yelled to be heard over the pounding music.
"Thanks for coming so last minute," she said, flicking her wrist exasperatedly. "Our regular ropes guy can be a little flaky sometimes. Hey, if tonight goes well and you've ever got some free time on your hands...." Still leading the Winter Soldier confidently through the crowd of sweaty, leather-and-fishnet-clad bodies, she turned back to shrug and wink over her shoulder.
The Winter Soldier grunted, though he doubted she heard him. In his absolute confusion, he had simply no words. Whom did she take him for?
He followed her down a flight of stairs. Underground, the music faded to the background. Unexpectedly, she stopped in front of a door. It had been painted black with a golden trim.
She lowered her voice. Even removed from the blaring music, the Winter Soldier had to lean forward to hear her clearly. "They're new at this, so go gentle," she advised. "A sweet kid, but clearly inexperienced."
The witchy woman gave the Winter Soldier a once-over, lingering on his large and capable hands. She visibly shivered. He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she whispered, "I bet you could even show me a thing or two in there."
The Winter Soldier raised his eyebrows.
She smirked. "Have fun."
She knocked once, twice, threw open the door, and pushed the Winter Soldier inside.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ
You started experimenting with eyeliner, black nail polish, and adorning your clothes with safety pins when you were a teenager. You saved up your money from working a minimum wage job and bought yourself your first pair of chunky, pleather creepers. You checked out old-school goth rock CDs from the library and played them in your car as you drove aimlessly around town. You graduated to dressing like you were in The Craft and daydreaming about ghosts and gothic novels and strolling in cemeteries.
Yes, you were well aware you were a macabre little cliche.
When you started going to the local goth club, you hadn't had the intention of getting involved in a BDSM dungeon. Now, you were waiting in a dingy basement for person the manager kept calling "the ropes guy."
It had started with a few nights out to go dancing. Then, you started talking to people at the club. Conversations about certain alternative lifestyles piqued your interest. When you got home, you popped your web browser into incognito mode and started researching.
The lists of kinks and fetishes seemed endless. You scrolled and scrolled, but you kept coming back to something in particular: rope bondage.
So, you went back to the club, this time with an intention beyond just dancing to Siouxsie and the Banshees. You talked to some folks. You learned about the not-so-secret secret rooms in the basement and the off-hours parties and scenes for certain clientele.
You met with the manager who dressed like Stevie Nicks' goth cousin. She gave you the details and hooked you up with the room.
You bounced your stockinged knee excitedly as you waited on the black leather couch. The walls had been painted a deep, dreamy purple. The lighting was low and warm. There were even fairy lights strung across the back room. It felt like a cross between a vampire's lair and a coffee shop from the 90s. Plush pillows decorated the couch. The wall to the left of you held shelves and shelves of all sizes and shapes of toys, lube, handcuffs, riding crops, paddles, and an assortment of kinky things that went beyond your comprehension.
Between the door and the shelf stood an impressive suspension frame and a chest full of hemp ropes. You swallowed thickly at the sight.
You heard a low voice outside of the private room. One knock, two, then the door handle turned. You held your breath.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ
The Winter Soldier blinked at you on the leather couch. Black, chunky heals accentuated your legs. A garter clung around your soft thighs and connected your stockings to the bottom of a lacy corset. Swooping floral details danced on the fabric. The corset was evidently tight-laced and clung to your curves. (Yes, you knew this was not a historically-accurate way of wearing a corset, and you didn't care.) Your chest spilled over the cups and braced against the tight restraint with every breath. Your lipsticked mouth was slightly parted in wonder at the stern-looking stranger before you.
He glowered. The shadows of makeup around his eyes added a dramatic flair to the serious leather get-up he was sporting. The stranger was tall, broad-shouldered, and fit. Fuck, was he fit. He looked sturdy and capable, imposing and confident. His hair was long and loose and almost reached his shoulders. You mentally pictured him on his knees. In the fantasy, you were running your fingers through his hair and tugging it as he spread apart your legs with his hands and licked up your thighs.
His hands. You couldn't help but draw your attention to the metal gauntlet and sleeve. You wondered about the story behind it. Was he cosplaying someone?
The stranger followed your line of sight. Embarrassed, you quickly averted your eyes and gazed back up at his face. You felt heat rise to your cheeks.
Despite the devastating looks and stature and air of sexy mystery about him, you couldn't help but notice a certain chill that ran through your body. It wasn't a passionate chill, like the goosebumps you got when you were turned on. It was a disquieting chill: one that alerted a primal part hidden within you. It was a part that told you to be careful.
He studied you intently behind shadowed blue eyes. His face emotionless, save for deep concentration, he analyzed you. You felt as though he were pulling you apart and putting you back together again with his eyes.
The room was silent. A few moments passed. You watched his chest rise and fall as he breathed beneath the leather. The intensity of his gaze struck you and vibrated through your skin and down your body. Perhaps against your better judgment, your horniness overcame the small primal chill of warning. You shifted to subtly accommodate the stirring feeling between legs.
You rose awkwardly from the deep couch and approached the stranger.
The words were thick on your tongue. "Hi there," you said. Internally, you shook your head in embarrassment. Who says 'hi there' in a sex dungeon?!
You cleared your throat and put a hand on your hip. "I mean," you tried again, this time with a bit more confidence. "Are you the one rigging me up tonight?"
The stranger continued staring. You wondered if you were doing something wrong.
You began to babble.
"This is my first time ever doing something like this." Silence.
"I was attending this club, and then, bam, I end up here. Ha." Silence.
"I've been reading a lot about bondage and rope play and shibari, and, well, I'm ready to be your bunny!" Silence.
This was going terribly.
The stranger turned away from you and looked towards the door. For a split second, you thought he was leaving. But, no, he crouched down to the peep hole. He looked through it for a moment before rising once more, waiting a beat, and turning back to you.
"Are you, uh, waiting for someone?" You laughed nervously.
Silence. Then, the stranger just barely opened his mouth.
"Take off that vest, and get on the couch."
Vest, corset, whatever. You gulped and followed his instructions.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ
The Winter Soldier's voice came out hoarser, more ragged and craggy, than he had anticipated. When was the last time he had heard himself speak aloud?
He used his super-hearing to pick up on any inconsistencies or irregularities at the establishment, or, rather, the club, as the patrons called it. He could detect no intruders, no insistent footsteps, no demanding or urgent voices. He looked out of the peep hole. The pursuers had not tracked him here. For now, though compromised, he was safe. Hydra would deal with him later, the Winter Soldier knew. But, he could rest. He could rest here with you.
You wanted something from him. You, with your tight little corset, your anxious and excited energy radiating out of every pore, your awkward movements and mannerisms, your talk of first times, your poorly-concealed lust in your eyes. You wanted what the predator behind him in line wanted. The Winter Soldier recognized it as carnal desire. It was submission and dominance. It was a loss of control and a regaining of the most intimate power. It was the faint memory of a touch, a kiss, licking and sucking and rhythmic pounding and slapping and fucking and holding, a sensitivity that the Winter Soldier retained in the farthest edges of his mind. Was there, long ago, a version of himself who knew this desire and had claimed it?
Why not give you what you wanted? For the first night in recent memory, the Winter Soldier had time to kill.
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You sunk into the leather couch. The stranger strode toward you with long, purposeful steps. He dropped to his knees and caught your calves with his strong hands. You whimpered under his touch as he dragged your ass to the edge of the couch.
Your eyes rolled back in your head. Get a grip, he's barely touched you!
You tried to regain your composure as you watched the stranger at work. He had bent his head down, almost reverently, over your body. His hair fell in front of his face and blocked his expression from your sight. He threw your left knee over his shoulder and stretched out your right leg.
"Oh my god," you involuntarily whispered to yourself. If the stranger heard you, he didn't show it. No, he seemed completely and utterly enraptured by your leg. Holding it outstretched in his metal hand, he gazed at your leg. He pressed his face closer.
You were surprised when the stranger began rubbing his face on it. He began sniffing it and softly examining it with his lips and teeth. It was as if he were trying to get data or information from your body beyond what only his eyes could perceive. He looked almost like an animal.
Yes, this was...strange. But, it was doing something to you all the same.
The stirring between your legs was intensifying. Already, he was so close to fulfilling the fantasy you had envisioned only moments prior.
You opened your mouth to ask for more. Just before you could speak, though, you heard his low, raspy voice.
"Do these keep you warm?" He asked, referring to your stockings.
There was no judgment in his voice. He didn't even particularly sound turned on by the question. Instead, you registered simple curiosity in his question.
"No, not really--Oh!"
The stranger dropped your left leg from his shoulder and your right leg from his hand.
He roughly grabbed your ankles, one by one, unfastened your shoes, and flung them behind his shoulder. He growled under his breath.
"Then why do you have them on?" It was as if he sought a logical solution to the stockings stumper.
"They're for aesthetic purposes--Oh, okay."
Starting with your toes, the stranger made one long line up your leg with the tip of his metal pointer finger. In one swift motion, the stocking split in two and fell off your leg onto the grungy floor. He scooped up the ruined stocking and threw it behind him with the shoes. Then, he repeated the same action on the other leg.
He sighed in relief. Once more, he stretched out your legs and rubbed his face along them. You shivered and squirmed under the ticklish touch of his lips pressing into you and his teeth nibbling your flesh.
"This is better," he said, apparently more to himself than to you.
He kissed up your leg until he reached your inner thigh. He opened his mouth as if to bite you--hard. You arched your back and closed your eyes in anticipation of the pleasure that would follow the pain of his teeth. But, it didn't come. Yet.
The stranger mumbled into your quivering thigh, "What were you saying about ropes earlier?"
Your lower back fell back onto the couch. You peered down at him as he studied your skin. This must be his version of dirty talk.
You stretched up your arms to the sky and interlocked your wrists. You lowered your hands to your center to show him what you wanted. He followed your movement but remained silent, awaiting your word.
"I want you to tie me up."
He paused, watching you. One moment passed, then another.
"Why?"
You choked on your words. You weren't used to sexual partners asking about what you wanted. Wetness gathering between your folds, you now realized more clearly what a missed opportunity this had been.
"I like..."
The stranger lifted his eyes in concentration. You stared into the deep blue behind his black shadows.
"I like the idea of giving over control. I like the idea of being restrained, of being fully present, of feeling the ropes against my body, of receiving. Knowing that I can't follow all of my impulses, to touch or to kiss or give my partner pleasure. Knowing that I'm in a state of total surrender, of being dominated...."
You bit your lip.
"You want that?" The stranger voice was just above a whisper.
You nodded your head.
Then, even softer. "Then tell me it's what you want."
You exhaled, feeling your cheeks get hotter. "Yes, it's what I want. Please give it to me. Please tie me up."
The stranger rested his forehead against your lower belly. He sighed and moved his lips languorously over your underwear, as if praying or chanting.
He bit your thighs. Hard. Hard enough to leave a bruise for at least a week. You squirmed under him. Stealthily, with his mouth still wrapped around your aching skin, he started pulling out rope from the deep pocket of his leather pants.
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The Winter Soldier knew a lot of things.
He knew how to unravel a parachute in the nick of time before crash-landing out of an airplane. He knew how to get people to talk, even when they had sworn they would go to their graves before saying a word. He knew how to stalk, how to hunt, how to map out dangerous terrain, how to fight hard enough and careful enough to leave a target with an inch of life left in them. He knew how to silently and remorselessly maneuver a mission and receive a curt nod of approval from his superiors.
The Winter Soldier knew a lot of things. One thing he was particularly skilled at, though, among his many treasured gifts, was rope.
The Winter Soldier had been trained to scale buildings, tie unbreakable knots, and even lasso weapons and targets. He was deft and nimble and knew how to apply just the right amount of tension.
And, he always, always, kept some extra rope on him.
The Winter Soldier rose to his feet and climbed over you. He sat up, keeping his knees on either side of your hips, and unravelled a long piece. He pulled it tight with his hands, and the tension made a sharp snap. You curled your toes as you watched him.
"Lift your back," he commanded. You did as you were told.
He easily looped the rope around your back and the top of your chest. He wound it once more below your chest. He secured the rope into a tight knot behind you.
"Lie down." The knot dug into your back as you settled back into the leather couch. You took in a sharp inhale, which had been made a bit more uncomfortable under the restraint. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but it required more precision. More focus. More presence in the moment.
The Winter Soldier admired his work. For the first time this evening, you thought you may have seen just a hint of a smirk on his lips. He tugged on the improvised bra-shelf-thing to ensure it was fastened to his liking. He grunted his approval and brought his hands over your nipples.
He pinched them hard enough for you to grit your teeth. He groaned with satisfaction. He squeezed the soft flesh around your nipples and brought one to his mouth. His long hair obscuring your view yet again, you found yourself in a position of feeling more than a position of seeing.
He sucked, bit, and licked you ravenously. He flicked his tongue against you at a pace to you that felt almost inhuman or, perhaps better put, superhuman.
Your nipple still between his teeth, he lifted his head to watch you. Your skin stretched to follow his movement. His teeth produced a searing sensation now. You gasped and lifted your hands to put your fingers in your hair.
Quicker than you could have imagined, the stranger forcefully gripped your wrists and held them by your thighs.
He only needed to say one word to stop the whining in your throat at the lack of contact: "No."
He moved on to your next side, pulling and stretching and biting your nipple, and watched you absorb his control.
He dropped his jaw and let you fall out of his mouth. Still holding your wrists against your sides, he maneuvered himself off of the couch. He kneeled between your legs once more and looked down at your body in concentration.
He cocked his head as he considered his next move.
"Put your knees up."
Your heels went straight to your butt. He positioned your wrists by your ankles and spread your legs wide apart. Then, he pulled out two more ropes from his pocket. Damn, how much can that pocket hold?
The stranger tied together your ankles and your wrists. He tied the long, unused rope to each side of the couch. He tested the resistance by tugging on the knots around your ankles.
When it was clear you weren't going anywhere, he brought his metal hand up to your underwear. The Winter Soldier wasn't taken aback by the visible patch of wetness on the fabric. He had been able to smell it the moment you not-so-discreetly adjusted your seat when he had entered the room. He heard the pulse throbbing insistently between your legs. The pulse became louder, faster, and stronger as his the tip of his metal finger brushed a line up and down your covered cunt.
The Winter Soldier couldn't help but smile to himself. Not that the Winter Soldier ever smiled, of course.
He toyed with the feeling of your folds through the fabric. When he found the little bud at the top, he pushed it in, as if he were pushing the button of an elevator. You groaned and writhed, as best as you could, beneath his touch. He made slow, lazy, insufferable circles up and down and around your underwear. Then, his finger found its way to the elastic band that clung to your hips. You heard the fabric tear under his touch. He collected your soaking panties and threw them behind his shoulder.
He devoured you. If his nipple play had been an appetizer, then this was his final meal. He ate and licked and sucked you like a man in starvation. He groaned repeatedly into your cunt. The vibrations sent shockwaves through your system. You couldn't help but try to clamp your thighs together. You wanted more, more, more. You wanted his face closer, his tongue deeper, his teeth sharper. You wished to coax him further into you, but your thighs were simply out of commission.
It was infuriating how he knew exactly what you wanted to do. Every time he felt your pelvic floor clamp and your thigh muscles long to reunite, he would pause before diving back in. You initially thought he was punishing you for trying to defy his control and his expert knots. But, then you felt a smile press into your cunt, you knew he had taken a break to laugh at you.
Feeling yourself getting close, you undulated against his face. The more he touched your sensitive skin, the louder your moans became. He pulled away.
"Quiet," he commanded.
You whined and tried your best. In your trance of delicious pleasure, however, you forgot his request. You became more and more vocal.
A cold, heavy smack landed on your clit. You bucked your hips at the pain and the pleasure of metal against your wet, enlarged nub. You felt more alive, more pleasant, than you had in the warm bath of his tongue.
"I told you to be quiet. Don't make me ask you again."
The stranger found his way to your stinging clit and nursed it with his tongue. He lifted his eyes and watched you struggle against the intensity of the sensation. You wanted so badly to come, but you didn't want it to end.
He realized your predicament. He also realized that you may have been expecting his command. He wondered to himself, if I tell them to come, will they?
"Come for me. Now."
You continued following his command, he saw. You held your mouth open in a silent scream as you rode your orgasm.
The Winter Soldier moved back to watch you unravel. It was a beautiful sight. Your body was warm and flushed. Your limbs tightened with pent-up desire and then fell softly onto the couch. Your head lolled to one side. Your breathing eventually slowed and steadied.
As you returned to the world, he carefully undid the knots at your ankles and kissed the red indents along your wrists.
"Bunny did so good," he murmured more to himself than to you.
You stretched your body and rolled out your ankles and wrists. You closed your eyes and smiled.
"Thank you, that was--"
The stranger had silently lifted you from the couch. He cradled you in his arms and led you to the standing frame.
He stood you upright and walked in a circle around the rig. He hummed as he mentally mapped his next steps. Then, he gave a small nod of his head and got to work.
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The Winter Soldier spread your legs apart and tied your ankles to the poles of the suspension frame on either side of you. Behind you, he lifted up your arms and crossed one wrist over the other.
"Stay."
Then, he threw rope over the frame and tied your wrists. You felt him retreat to the other side of the room.
Your body felt loose and relaxed, and your brain was dreamy and deliciously hazy. You didn't worry where the stranger may have gone. You simply savored the aftereffects of your first orgasm of the night.
The dream state didn't last long, though. He stealthily returned to his position behind your back and pressed himself into you. Awakened by his touch, you realized that the stranger had taken off his clothes and was completely naked behind you. Soft skin painted over hard, taught muscles. His hands roved over the length of your stretched torso. He pulled your hair, and you moaned as you leaned back into him. He licked up and down your neck, and you shivered with delight. Then, he turned your face to his and kissed you deeply. You realized it was the first true kiss you two had shared.
He pulled his mouth away from you and brought his metal hand to your slit. He gathered your wetness with a finger, then two, and entered you. The feeling was strange, even clinical. The cold, sleek hardness of his fingers were unlike anything you had felt before. He pumped in and out of you and pushed the palm of his hand into your clit. It felt almost impossible to not start getting vocal again, but you smothered your cries against your tightly-closed lips.
The stranger pulled his fingers out of you and dragged them up your belly, leaving a trail of wetness on your skin. You sighed and leaned as much of your restrained body as you could against him. You felt his hardness at the base of your spine.
You closed your eyes. When you opened them again, you realized the stranger had moved. He had come around to stand before you. His chest rose and fell with shallow, anguished breaths. His face was flushed, and his gaze was intense. His eyes reminded you of earlier in the evening, when he had first walked through the threshold of the doorway into your private room.
He grabbed your hips forcefully and laid his forehead on yours. He paused for a moment like this: you in his embrace, his hands stroking your soft skin, his breath tickling your face.
"I'm on birth control," you spoke very softly. "And, I've been tested. I want you inside of me, if that's what you want, too."
He held his breath for a moment. The Winter Soldier's body stored the memory of intimacy. He knew this was certain. Deep within him, there was still a small, flickering flame of desire that he had once cultivated with someone, somewhere. His body knew, yes, but his mind could not recall the specifics. In the decades he had been working for Hydra, he had never shared a moment of intimacy with another person. How could he? He never had the opportunity.
The Winter soldier involuntarily flexed his metal hand. How human was he anymore? Could he reproduce, even if he wanted to?
You peered up at him. He felt his eyes on you, but he did not look down. Instead, he kissed the top of your forehead.
Without warning, he bucked his hips forward and drove the tip of his cock into your stretched-out cunt. You hissed through your teeth and leaned your head back.
The stranger groaned as he pulled out and pumped back into you. Inch by inch, he worked to fill you. You clenched around him, squeezing his cock and urging him to go deeper, move faster, push harder.
"Please," you whispered desperately into his ear. "More."
The stranger began his torturous pace. He slammed into you, his movements rough and fast. With every hilt of his hips, his pubic bone smacked your clit and delivered sharp, tingly sensations. You saw beads of sweat start to form on his forehead, and you whined into his neck as he took what he wanted from you--what you wanted from him.
"Why are you so quiet now, huh?" He was toying with you. "This isn't good enough for you?"
You shook your head fervently. "It's so good."
"Then, show me," he commanded.
You willingly accepted his invitation to get loud again. You moaned, not caring that people were in the club, in the hallway, possibly even still outside of your door.
A cold, metal hand smacked your ass. You yelped.
"Louder." His voice was low, insistent, somewhat chilling.
You did your best, but the stranger still wanted more.
Another smack.
"I said louder."
By the second smack, you knew that you were on the edge. His voice, his movement into you, his hands. You allowed yourself to be completely free, completely uninhibited, completely unafraid of what your animal body wanted to do and express with this stranger inside of you.
It became too much. You panted and clamped around his cock.
"That's it," he encouraged you. "You want it? Take it."
With a cry, you convulsed around his cock. Wave after wave of pleasure radiated through your body. Still, he kept pumping into you, chasing his thrill. At last, you heard him groan and felt his release inside of you.
You breathed each other's air and clung together in silence. After a moment like this, the stranger rose to release the bind on your aching wrists. Like he did earlier with your ankles, he kissed the red indents sweetly. You rolled out your free wrists and rubbed them with your fingertips. Then, he unbound your feet and kissed your ankles.
He carried you once more to the leather couch and set you between his legs. He cradled you, and you leaned back into his firm chest.
The life of the club began to come back into focus. You heard footsteps in the hallway, the pounding bass of the music, the sirens from cop cars and firetrucks blaring on the street.
For this moment, the Winter Soldier felt an almost indescribable relief. Being here, held by the cool leather couch and holding the tenderness of your body, his body felt softer and his mind felt clearer. He realized there was a word on his tongue, yet he could not fully claim it. He furrowed his brows and parted his lips. His mouth pursed and formed into a round shape, a circle.
It was a J or a B, yes, that was the first letter. It had to be. But, what did it mean?
You reached for the stranger's hands clasped around your waist. You squeezed them and looked up to catch the softened gaze of this mystery person.
"Hey, I never caught your name, did I?"
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Tag list: @xxshadowlordezraxx @bellaisasleep @peggyao3 @the-quick-red-fox @stmartyr
This is the reading/interest account for @shyshyraven-writes. The handle was formerly @mysticsandmulder. To enjoy a compendium of some of my favorite non-fanfic posts, special interests, and hyper-fixations, keep scrolling. To read my fanfic and reblogs of my personal favorites, please check out @shyshyraven-writes. Note that, while @shyshyraven-reads is for all ages and all audiences, @shyshyraven-writes is MDNI and NSFW. ~ raven
BUNNY GONE WILD
the winter soldier x ditzy!reader [8.5k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; ditzy & clueless!reader; reader is mentioned to have hair & wears a skimpy bunny costume; size difference (he's beefy and taller than reader); original characters; mention of punishment and violence (suck dick, hydra); mention of alcohol & weed (they're not the ones intoxicated); mention of murder; bucky mainly speaks russian (it's english in cursive because I don't speak russian + I don't trust google translate when I don't have a basic knowledge of a language) and a little broken english; he asks reader to call him soldat; touch starved bucky; slightly dark & possessive!bucky; light fluff & angst; smut (no explicit consent but both of them want it); feral behavior; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); oral (f receiving); spanking & pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; nipple play; a little bit of degradation; sex in the woods; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); primal and rough sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; panty sniffing & stealing.
A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!
“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa.
“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time.
The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.
The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.
“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.
“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!”
“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.
This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him.
Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.
Just like at least thirty other girls at the party.
That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.
One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.
You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.
“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”
“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.
“Hey—”
Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.
“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.
The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.
A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.
Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.
“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.
The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.
“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.
Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.
Still, you glance back twice.
Each time, you catch him still looking at you.
Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.
Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples.
He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.
Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.
His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.
But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.
Fake.
Such a shame.
He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.
It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.
With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.
You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.
The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction.
No witnesses.
The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.
The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.
HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.
He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.
However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.
For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.
He can’t proceed with the mission.
HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.
The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.
Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.
With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.
Inside, it’s pure chaos.
The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.
People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.
The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.
A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.
“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.
You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.
Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.
The strange man is nowhere to be seen.
Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.
No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.
Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.
Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.
“Hey, Nic!”
All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.
Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.
“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.
“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.
“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.
Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.
She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.
“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.
Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.
“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.
Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”
“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”
Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.
“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”
Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.
“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.
As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.
Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.
Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”
If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.
“Cool outfit, dude!”
A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.
“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.
Hard.
“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”
The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.
At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.
Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.
Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.
He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.
He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.
And he waits.
Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face.
“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.
From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.
Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.
The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table.
You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing.
“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.
“Thank you, bunny.”
“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.
“Tactical guy is here.”
“Who?”
“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.
He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.
The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes.
She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.
“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”
Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it.
“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips.
“Go talk to him!”
“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”
“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”
Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.
Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”
“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.
If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.
You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.
With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man.
“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.
“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.
Still nothing.
“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.
“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”
He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?
“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.
“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”
“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.
Well, you spoke too fast.
The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.
It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.
The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.
On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.
But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.
“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.
Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you.
Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.
The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it.
“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”
He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.
“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”
You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”
Another confused blink.
“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.
Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.
“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.
“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.
That’s when it happens.
A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.
The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.
You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.
You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”
You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention.
The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.
“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.
“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.
But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.
“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.
Well, no. You are.
He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.
“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush.
He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!
Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”
“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear.
“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.
“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”
Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”
Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”
They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.
“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.
“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.
“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.
“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—”
“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly.
“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”
“Well thanks, you asshole.”
“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.
The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.
Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.
As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.
“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.
“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.
“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.
“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.”
The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch?
Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations.
The less you know, the better.
Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.
His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting.
“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.
“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut.
And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.
Wrong.
The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you.
And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.
The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps.
He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.
He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.
The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too.
He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.
Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.
His name.
He doesn’t own a name.
Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.
When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.
The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours.
The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly.
“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.
The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.
“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.
“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.
Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?
Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat.
The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.
With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little.
“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.
“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.
Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you.
“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.”
There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.
You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.
“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.
“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly.
His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.
“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.
The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.
“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”
“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.
A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all.
“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.
Finally.
The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.
Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left.
But like a man.
So he does it again. And again.
“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin.
“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.
“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”
He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind.
Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up.
“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own.
The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks.
He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.
The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.
Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.
You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.
The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.
When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear?
He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.
You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.
It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers.
“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind.
“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.
“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.
“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.
“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic.
“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”
Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones.
“Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.
You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock.
It feels too much.
His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.
He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.
But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.
Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.
“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.
With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.
Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.
He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.
You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.
Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.
“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.
His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE (1)
dockworker!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader [8k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear.
— ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ story MDNI; bucky’s in his 40s; grumpy!bucky (starts off rude and cold); mention of divorce; mention of deceased family members; reader is mentioned to have hair; descriptions of injuries & blood.
A/N: even if my exam went well (🥳) these nights my anxiety is through the roof, meaning I’m doing anything except sleeping lol. so I decided to be productive and finish this. I guess it’s also an alternative to gods, gore, & groping—I know many people don’t like monsterfucking.
btw I’m so excited I’m actually shaking as I’m writing this 🥹 these two are already my favorite!! fun fact: I had h2o: just add water ambient instrumentals on repeat while writing this 😭
hope you’ll enjoy 🌊
next part | series masterlist
Northwick sits at the edge of a stretch of coastline so remote that most maps barely seem interested in acknowledging its existence.
There is a road leading to it—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that winds its way through miles upon miles of dense pine forest and jagged cliffs, before finally surrendering to the sea. But the journey is long enough that very few people ever find themselves here by accident. Nobody even passes through on their way somewhere else, because the road ends here, at a cluster of weather-beaten buildings pressed between water and rocks. It feels like nature has been slowly reclaiming the town for years.
Most of the time, the sea and the sky blend into a single sheet of dull grey.
Drizzle visits often enough that the residents rarely bother carrying umbrellas anymore, choosing instead to endure the weather with the sort of weary resignation that comes from decades of losing the same battle over and over again.
The wind is worse. It never seems to stop entirely, always carrying with it the scent of salt, seaweed, and old wood. It comes shrieking off the water at all hours, rattling shutters and slamming loose signs against walls.
The sea itself is no friendlier. Dark, cold, and perpetually restless, it spends its days throwing itself against the cliffs with a violence that makes outsiders wonder why anyone had chosen to build a town there in the first place.
The truth is that nobody living here remembers a different life.
Certainly not James Bucky Barnes.
He has spent every single year of his existence within sight of that sea. He was born in the small hospital overlooking the harbor, attended the local school, worked the docks since he was old enough to lift a crate without embarrassing himself, and eventually inherited the modest house that had belonged to his grandparents before him.
His entire life can be traced through these streets: every corner carries a memory, every building has a story attached to it—although most of them aren’t particularly interesting.
His parents are gone now. His grandparents too. An assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins disappeared over the years until the Barnes family, which was one of the memorable families in town, had gradually been reduced to a single man living alone at the end of a quiet street.
He has a sister, but after a long series of arguments that neither of them seemed willing to lose, she eventually left for New York and they simply stopped trying to bridge the distance.
There was a period of time, many years ago, when he imagined things might turn out differently.
He married young enough to believe that marriage itself would somehow change him and introduce a desire for things he had never wanted before. Instead, it had simply highlighted the differences that had always existed between himself and his wife.
She wanted cities, opportunities, children, experiences and possibilities that stretched beyond the horizon.
Bucky looked around at the life he already possessed and failed to understand what was missing.
The divorce was not dramatic. There was nothing to hate, no one to blame, only the slow realization that they were standing on opposite sides of a road that kept fracturing each passing year.
When she finally left, loading her belongings into a rented truck before driving away from Northwick without a second glance, Bucky watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the road and accepted, with surprising clarity, that he would probably never see her again.
He was right.
More than fifteen years have passed since then.
No letters. No phone calls. No messages.
For all he knows she might have built the exact life she had always dreamed about.
The thought doesn’t bother him, and not because he is heartless; he has simply made peace with the fact that some people are meant for larger lives than his.
And Bucky chose this life.
He chose the quiet predictability of his routine.
Every morning begins with the same shrill of the same alarm clock, and every night ends at the same hour in the same bed.
Some people would call the repetition depressing, lonely... Bucky calls it peaceful.
Bucky reaches the harbor when engines start coughing to life and the first ropes are being dragged across wet wood.
He adjusts his gloves as he walks, fingers closing briefly in a fist around the worn fabric before releasing again, more out of habit than anything. His boots strike the planks in a steady rhythm that never changes, no matter how many years pass.
“Well,” a raspy voice calls from his left, tinted with exaggerated surprise. “If it isn’t the ghost of punctuality himself being five minutes late.”
Bucky doesn’t slow down, but exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that barely registers as acknowledgment.
Pietro appears beside him a moment later anyway, just like every morning, matching his pace with the effortless ease of someone who has never once respected personal space in his life. He has been working the docks for a few years now—one of the youngest of the group—and possesses the deeply unfortunate personality trait of wanting to talk to other people.
Specifically people who wish to be left alone.
“I was beginning to think you’d finally retired.” He continues, glancing at Bucky with a grin that suggests this is already the most interesting thing that would happen all day.
The older man lifts a crate without breaking stride, shifting it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing, then sets it down exactly where it needs to go.
“I’m forty-five.”
Pietro hums thoughtfully, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Exactly.”
Bucky throws him a glance and the blond young man does nothing to hide his smugness.
Workers move between warehouses carrying clipboards and coffee cups as forklifts rumble across the rain-darkened planks. There isn’t a particularly pleasant smell—a mix of diesel fumes and fish—but after nearly three decades of working here, he barely notices it anymore.
As a matter of fact, the harbor itself has changed very little since Bucky was a child. New boats occasionally arrive. Old boats occasionally disappear. Businesses open, fail, and reopen beneath different names. Yet somehow the place always remains fundamentally the same, preserved beneath layers of salt and stubbornness.
A few meters ahead, Sam and Drax are arguing over a misprinted shipping label, their voices rising just enough to cut through the wind. The moment Drax notices Bucky walking by, he immediately straightens, catching Sam’s attention with a light tap to his chest.
“Morning, Barnes.” He grins.
Bucky gives a single nod without looking at them properly, already scanning the area for whatever needs fixing or lifting before anyone else can complain about it.
The gesture, minimal as it is, detonates something entirely disproportionate in the group behind him.
There is a beat of silence, the kind that always comes just before trouble.
“Did he just—”
“Oh shit.”
“He acknowledged us.”
“Barton, write this down. We need witnesses.”
“Already got three.”
“You think he’s feeling alright?”
“I don’t know. Somebody check his temperature.”
Bucky closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, half a dozen colleagues are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.
Pietro walks right into his line of sight, turning to stare at him with open disbelief.
“Barnes,” he starts slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. “Was that... social interaction?”
Bucky shoots him a flat look.
“Have you never seen a nod?”
The dock erupts at once. Brock, who is standing near the edge of the dock, drops a coil of rope in theatrical shock.
“He talks!”
“He’s evolving.” Clint crosses his arms to his chest, nodding sagely.
Pietro clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back a step.
“I can’t believe I lived to see this day.” He sniffles, wiping away a fake tear.
Bucky resumes walking, expression unchanged, though his grip on the next crate tightens slightly as he lifts it.
“Don’t start, Maximoff.” He mutters.
But Pietro jogs ahead of him now, walking backward just to keep eye contact, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Seriously, you feeling okay, Barnes? You need water? A nap? Emotional support?”
“I’m fine.” He sighs.
“That’s the most words I’ve heard out of you in a week. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how language works.”
Bucky stops to set the crate down harder than necessary, the impact echoing loudly through the wood beneath it, before staring blankly at the younger man.
Pietro raises both hands in surrender, though his grin never falters.
“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone.”
But he doesn’t actually leave. He just sort of… shifts his weight.
Bucky exhales through his nose and decides to ignore him completely, moving to the side where a length of rope has been left half-coiled from earlier work. He starts redoing it properly, hands working in tight, repetitive motions that give him something solid to focus on.
“So...” The younger man draws out. “How’s your love life?”
Bucky considers walking directly into the sea.
See, the problem with living somewhere this small is that people become comfortable... far too comfortable. After decades of seeing the same faces every day, the boundaries that exist in normal society begin to erode, and privacy becomes communal property as everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.
Especially his.
“Dead.”
That answer, as always, triggers a round of snickers among his colleagues.
Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “You’re so funny, man.”
Bucky follows the movement of his hand with frightening calm, causing Pietro to immediately snatch it back, before he clears his throat awkwardly.
“I wasn’t being funny.” Bucky retorts as he picks up the rope, the movement sharper this time as his patience thins in a way that’s entirely visible to anyone who knows him well enough.
Unfortunately, his colleagues couldn’t give two fucks about it.
“You know,” the younger man quips, leaning casually against a stack of supplies as if he has completely forgotten why he is here in the first place. “My aunt’s still single.”
Bucky stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns his head, just enough to stare at him right in the eye.
“No.”
“Hey, c’mon now, you didn’t even ask her name!”
“I don’t need to.” He resumes walking.
Pietro is already at his heels. “She’s nice.”
He rolls his eyes to the sky. “I don’t care.”
“She makes excellent soup.”
“I can cook.”
He once again jogs ahead to face Bucky. “She’s rich.” He lifts his eyebrows knowingly.
“I’m leaving.” Bucky announces deadpan.
“What—” Pietro’s eyes widen. “You just got here!”
“I can still leave.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly.
The threat carries absolutely no weight, everyone knows it. Including Bucky, yet a chorus of protests promptly rises.
“You can’t quit.”
“We need you to scare the seagulls away.”
“Who’s gonna stop Maximoff from talking our ears off?”
“Hey!”
He shakes his head.
Some days he wonders if he’s the only serious person in town. Probably not, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to prove.
“Tell you what,” Pietro continues, clearly encouraged by his own stupidity. “If you won’t date my aunt, what about Ms. Hargrove?”
Bucky looks mildly horrified.
“No, no, hear him out.” Drax promptly intervenes, approaching the two of them.
“She’s only seventy-two!” Pietro continues.
“Seventy-four.” Brock corrects as he passes by.
“Still young at heart.”
“She’s been asking about you for years, Barnes.” Clint snickers, a cup of coffee already in hand.
“Everybody’s been asking about him for years.” Sam adds with a poorly concealed grin.
That, unfortunately, is true.
People ask constantly, because Bucky has become something of a local mystery. A man who lives alone on the top of a cliff, works alone, spends his evenings alone. Who has not been seen on a date in over two decades...
“She bakes.” Drax starts counting on his fingers.
“Oh, God.” Bucky mutters, tipping his head back tiredly.
“Excellent pies.” The other man continues solemnly. “She owns a house. She has all her teeth—”
“Most of them.” Sam interjects.
“Most of her teeth,” Drax agrees. “She grows her own vegetables. She volunteers at the church. She has strong opinions about parking regulations.”
“And she killed a raccoon with a shovel once.” Pietro adds with his stupid big grin.
Drax lights up. “See? She’s strong, a protector.”
“Leave him alone.” A new cocky voice appears.
Oh, great. Mr. Congeniality #2 has finally graced them with his presence.
“I bet he’s secretly married with some pretty businesswoman.”
“Shut up Storm, Barnes’ a ladies’ man.”
“Maybe he’s a spy.” Drax suddenly gasps, and he and Clint point at each other, clearly agreeing. “That’s why he always disappears after work! He might be working for the KGB.”
Johnny cringes. “The KGB hasn’t existed for thirty years, you idiot.”
Sam snorts. “Also, a spy who spends every day lifting crates and yelling at the weather? Really?”
“You don’t know if that’s a cover and he just pretends to work.”
“I know for sure he doesn’t pretend since you lazy asses are too busy gossiping like old ladies instead of doing your job like Barnes.” A deep voice interjects firmly and the group springs into action at once.
Sam bends down to inspect a crate as Pietro grabs a random clipboard from a nearby table, him and Johnny furrowing their brows at it with the intense concentration of someone attempting to decipher ancient scripture. Clint picks up a perfectly coiled length of rope and begins rearranging it for no apparent reason, while Drax plants both hands on a pallet jack and starts pushing it confidently in a direction that serves absolutely no purpose.
Fury shakes his head from the door of his office shack, choosing to ignore their quiet sniggers.
This is why, more than anything else, Bucky prefers the sea.
The sea minds its own damn business.
The longer Bucky works at the harbor, the more the routine stops feeling like something he follows and more like something that follows him instead.
It’s present in the way he ties his boots each morning, always in the same order, the laces pulled tight with a consistency he never consciously thinks about anymore. In the way he checks the weather without really needing to. In the route he takes to go grocery shopping, because some paths avoid certain corners and certain people who like to talk too much and ask questions that linger longer than he likes.
He thinks of these choices as efficiency. Or, if he is being honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be, as a way to preserve his peace.
Quiet people are often misunderstood. Others assume silence means absence, sadness, but Bucky has never felt better. He simply prefers to keep things where they belong: work stays at the harbor, the rest of his life within his house.
Memory, on the other hand, stays locked away in compartments he doesn’t open unless absolutely necessary.
Even grief has been assigned its proper space.
His parents belong to a drawer he doesn’t open often. His failed marriage to one he avoids entirely.
Eventually, even absence weaves itself into his routine.
And so Bucky goes to work every morning and comes home at the same time every evening. He fixes things that are broken and ignores those that are not worth fixing. He reads whenever he feels like it, though there is rarely anything new that piques his interest. He eats without much thought and sleeps enough to recover from exhaustion.
It’s not a life that demands attention, that’s precisely why it suits him.
His colleagues, though, treat it like something flexible that could be interrupted for conversation, for laughter, for questions that have no real purpose other than the enjoyment of seeing him grumble.
Bucky tolerates it all, but there are limits. They are not clearly defined, but simply translate into an internal threshold he recognizes immediately when it’s crossed.
A delay in starting the day. A change in the order of tasks. A request that requires him to be somewhere other than where he intended to be.
These are the kind of things that irritate him more than he ever expresses, because they are unnecessary.
And the world, in his opinion, is already full of many unnecessary things.
On that particular Thursday morning, nothing suggests it would be any different from the thousands that have come before it, because disturbances don’t announce themselves.
They don’t arrive with warnings or changes in weather that could be meaningfully interpreted as signs. They don’t break the rhythm of the town or alter the predictable movement of the harbor. If anything, they present themselves as almost insultingly ordinary, as though the world took care to disguise them beneath the same grey sky and the same restless water so that they wouldn’t be noticed until it’s already too late to ignore them.
Bucky wakes before the town has properly decided to exist for the day. He drinks his coffee in silence, standing by the window of his kitchen while the sky outside slowly shifts to a dull white. Watching the harbor lights flicker off one by one as the workers begin to arrive gives him a strange sense of tranquility.
He drives the same route through the narrow streets, passing the same abandoned buildings that have yet to be fully repaired.
At the docks, crates still need moving, boats still need unloading, and machines still need maintenance that nobody ever seems particularly grateful for until they stop working entirely. Pietro still talks too much, appearing beside him at inconvenient moments with questions that are more invitations to participate in conversations Bucky has no intention of joining. The others still laugh at his lack of participation, and he answers in the same way: briefly, reluctantly. Only when necessary.
When the end of the shift finally starts approaching, the harbor gradually empties around him as engines fall silent one by one. Warehouse doors roll shut at last and workers drift toward parking lots and side streets in loose groups, already discussing dinner plans, family obligations, and whatever local gossip has managed to survive the day.
Bucky avoids all three, which is how he finds himself at the far end of the outer dock, finishing one last inspection before heading home.
The outer moorings are more exposed to the weather than the rest, and by evening the wind has picked up enough to sting against his face whenever he turns toward the open sea. That’s why this is the kind of task nobody particularly enjoys.
Still, the lines need checking.
A damaged mooring left unattended can become a costly problem overnight, and Bucky has always preferred spending an extra ten minutes solving an issue now rather than dealing with the consequences later.
This section of the dock is also quieter, far enough from the warehouses that most voices blur together beneath the constant rush of the waves, and that gives him some sort of reprieve from his colleagues’ ability to turn any moment of silence into a forced conversation. It’s one of the few places where he can work without someone deciding that his apparent lack of enthusiasm is an invitation to fix it.
Bucky tightens the last line, testing the tension with a practiced pull before slowly standing back to his full height. The movement draws a familiar sting through his thighs, one he barely notices anymore.
Almost done.
A few more minutes and he can go back to his silent house and worn books.
His gaze drifts absently toward the water as he reaches for the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and his entire body stills.
At first he sees only a shape, a disruption in the surface several yards beyond the dock, where the harbor opens toward deeper sea. Something moves beneath the waves, slow enough that it might be debris caught in the current or a trick of fading light reflecting on the water.
He watches it for a moment, but eventually lowers his eyes back to the clipboard and continues writing.
It’s only when the shape surfaces again, closer this time, and holds its position in a way that no floating object should have been capable of, that the rhythm of his day finally stutters.
The shape rises and falls with the movement of the water, appearing and disappearing between swells. But it doesn’t tumble the way driftwood would have, nor bobs with the lightness of abandoned equipment.
Bucky cautiously rests one hand against the railing and continues staring with a deep wrinkle between his brows despite himself.
The shape drifts closer.
A swell lifts it.
For a brief moment, something iridescent emerges before disappearing again.
His eyes narrow.
Then, a human arm.
The realization doesn’t alarm him immediately. The possibility of people ending up in the water presents itself before anything more unusual could. A fisherman might have fallen overboard, or the current has carried a body farther than expected.
Neither explanation is pleasant, but both are infinitely reasonable.
Another wave rolls through the harbor, and it stirs the figure more harshly.
Strands of hair spread across the water. A shoulder becomes visible, then the outline of a head. The closer it drifts, the more certain Bucky becomes that he’s looking at a person, and although the sight should have inspired urgency, there is something oddly unsettling about the way the body moves—some small inconsistency his mind can’t quite identify but refuses to ignore.
It’s only when the water shifts again that Bucky swears he feels his heart stop for a moment.
The lower half of the body should have surfaced with the rest. Instead, the same iridescent thing flashes again beneath the water.
For a moment he thinks it might be a trick of the light—the evenings are dark here, and the sea tends to distort everything with its uneven inconsistency. He has spent enough years staring at moving water to know how easily the eye could be fooled. Yet when the figure rises again, there is enough distance behind him from the rest of the harbor and enough light across the liquid surface for Bucky to be confronted with an unjustifiable fact.
Because the upper half of the figure is human.
The lower half is not.
A tail emerges only briefly before slipping under water once more, but the glimpse still allows him to recognize scales that catch what remains of the afternoon light. He sees the shape of it and understands that whatever is floating toward the dock doesn’t belong to any category of living thing he has ever encountered.
“Hey, Barnes—”
The sound breaks through the unnatural quiet so abruptly that Bucky turns far more sharply than he intends to, the movement quick enough to make Sam take a step back.
“Whoa man,” he flinches, lifting his hands. “You okay?”
Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have answered immediately—perhaps with a grunt—and both of them would have gone on with their evenings without giving the exchange another thought. Instead, he finds himself standing there in silence, too aware of Sam’s growing confusion.
Of the fact that something half human and half fish is floating right behind him.
Now, Bucky has spent his entire life in Northwick. He understands how information moves through places like this, how a single unusual detail could travel from one end of the town to the other before sunset and somehow become common knowledge by breakfast. People talk. Most of the time it amounts to nothing more than harmless chats about neighbors, relatives, weather forecasts that end up being wrong, and private arguments that are treated like celebrity gossip.
Something like this, however, would not remain gossip for very long.
It would take one person looking in the right direction.
One person deciding to tell somebody else.
One person making a phone call.
The thought settles like a boulder in his stomach as he imagines the chain reaction unfolding beyond anyone’s ability to control it.
The harbor would fill with annoying strangers first, because people have always been drawn toward things they don’t understand, particularly when there is a possibility of witnessing something extraordinary with their own eyes. Then would come the reporters, eager to turn a forgotten coastal town into a headline. Scientists would inevitably follow, along with researchers, government agencies, and every other institution that believes to have the right to dissect, catalogue, study, explain, and ultimately claim the unknown.
The town would become famous, either as a tourist destination overrun with Airbnbs and souvenir shops selling mermaid-shaped keychains and t-shirts with the town’s name printed across the chest, or as a heavily restricted government zone surrounded by fences and security checkpoints.
For years, one of the things Bucky has appreciated most about living here is the simple fact that nobody cares about it.
People drive past it. Forget it exists. The isolation that others complain about has always suited him perfectly because it allows him to live at his own pace, untouched by the constant noise of the outside world. Bucky has no desire to watch that disappear because of whatever thing happened to be floating toward shore today.
Nor does he particularly enjoy imagining what role he might end up playing in the disaster.
The man who found it.
The man who saw it first.
The man everyone would inevitably want to speak to.
Questions, interviews, strangers knocking on his door, people expecting him to repeat the story over and over again to squeeze the news until the very last dollar.
The more he thinks about it, the more his anger grows.
All because of a creature he would have been perfectly content going his entire life without seeing.
Sam is still watching him, and the concern in his expression has deepened, gradually replacing whatever casual curiosity had prompted the question in the first place.
“Bucky?”
Only then does Bucky realize how long he has been standing there, silent. The pause has stretched far beyond what’s normal, long enough that another few seconds might encourage Sam to get closer and see for himself what has captured his attention.
That can’t happen.
Not now.
Perhaps not ever.
“Yes.”
The answer is devoid of any emotion yet delivered with enough certainty that someone else might have accepted it without question.
Sam knows him too well for that.
For a long moment he studies Bucky’s face with the skepticism of a man who has already reached the conclusion that something is wrong but has not yet decided whether it’s worth arguing about. The wind moves between them, tugging at jackets and carrying the distant sound of waves against the rocks beyond the harbor, while behind Bucky the figure continues drifting steadily through the dark water.
Eventually, Sam exhales and gives a small nod.
“Alright,” he hums. “Pietro wanted me to ask if you’re coming to Joe’s for a beer.”
“No, I’m beat.”
Sam stares at his friend for a little longer, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But he doesn’t make any move to leave.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly convinced as he frowns. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the open sea out of sheer habit before meeting Bucky’s gaze.
“Well, don’t stay out here all night.” He sighs.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Sam nods again, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
“See you tomorrow, Barnes.”
Bucky grunts in response, waiting until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared completely before allowing himself to look back at his new problem.
The first indication that Bucky has made a catastrophic mistake arrives approximately halfway between the maintenance ramp and his truck.
Up until that point, the plan seemed bothersome but achievable. Certainly not smart, but achievable.
You, the creature—because he still refuses to think of you as anything else—were fully unconscious as the current eventually carried you near enough for him to step off the ramp and into the freezing water. From there, he decided that he would check whether you were alive, get you out of the water, and then figure out the rest somewhere private.
Instead, the moment his hand finally closed around your wrist, the entire evening began deteriorating at an alarming pace.
The first problem was that you were barely alive. The pulse beneath his fingertips was weak, but still there.
The second problem revealed itself only after he managed to drag you close enough to properly examine you, and that forced Bucky to immediately abandon several much simpler solutions, because his nose instantly caught the revolting smell of seaweed mixed with iron.
The blood was difficult to see at first in the dark, diluted by water, but red streaks had spread around you as the waves shifted, eventually staining his palms and clothes once he reached underneath your shoulders to keep your face above the surface.
Bucky adjusted his grip and promptly regretted it when the movement caused the weight of your tail to shift again.
“Jesus Christ.”
If there was one thing he had learned during the last twenty minutes, it was that mermaids are significantly heavier than they look.
His attention then settled on the scratches scattered across your arms and shoulders—thin deep lines that looked as though a ferocious beast with big claws had taken an interest in you with all the intention of turning you into its next meal. More marked your sides as others disappeared around your back.
The damage to your tail, however, was horrifying.
Even now Bucky finds himself grimacing whenever his eyes drop to the big bloody stains on the beach towel wrapped around it.
Several scales were torn away completely and parts of the fin looked shredded. Deep gouges crossed sections of muscle that probably made swimming impossible, as the amount of blood surrounding the wounds suggested that whatever had happened to you was quite recent.
The sight alone was enough agonizing to make Bucky wince.
And because the injury somehow made the entire situation feel more real.
Unfortunately, the third problem proved considerably more immediate: transportation.
Bucky stops briefly beside a stack of lobster traps to adjust his hold before continuing toward the parking lot.
You remain entirely unhelpful throughout the process.
“Could’ve at least woken up.” He grunts. “You don’t have to hold a conversation. Just enough to explain why your mauled tail is so damn heavy.”
The closest thing to a response he receives is your head rolling slightly against his shoulder.
His jaw clenches.
“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”
The walk should not have been difficult, his truck is visible from the dock, a distance he crosses almost daily without effort. Tonight, however, every step seems determined to prove some previously unknown law of physics regarding large aquatic women.
The tail keeps shifting, the fin catching against his legs.
Twice he nearly lost his grip entirely.
The second occasion could have been particularly catastrophic because it occurs directly beside a puddle deep enough to soak both of you. The sudden jolt nearly sends you slipping from his arms and onto the hard concrete.
Bucky lurches forward instinctively.
“Absolutely not.” He tightens his hold.
“No.” He grits out, his chest heaving quickly under the exertion. “We’re not doing that.”
He stops for a second, enough to properly recover his balance.
“If I drop you in a fucking parking lot after dragging you out of the damn sea, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m leaving this town.”
By the time he finally reaches the truck, his lungs are burning.
The vehicle sits alone beneath one of the lampposts, exactly where he left it that morning, completely unaware that its owner has apparently spent the evening acquiring a mermaid.
Bucky stares at it for a long moment, before he looks at you.
Then back at the truck, before his eyes fall on the tail.
A deep sigh escapes him.
“Stupid dock.”
He shifts your weight.
“Stupid town.”
He takes a step forward.
“Stupid Sam.”
A particularly awkward portion of your tail nearly slides out of his grasp.
“Stupid fish-lady.”
The nickname feels unfair, but he uses it anyway. Because blaming himself would have required accepting that every terrible consequence currently happening is the direct result of a decision he had made entirely on his own.
The irritation only grows as Bucky awkwardly maneuvers you on the passenger side, already wondering how exactly he intends to explain the blood covering his clothes if anybody happens to drive past before he gets out of there.
That concern alone is enough to make him move faster.
Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman through the harbor after dark would already guarantee several months of gossip.
Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman covered in blood would almost certainly result in the police becoming involved.
And carrying an unconscious, half-naked mermaid covered in blood...
Bucky doesn’t even bother finishing the thought.
Some things are too large to contemplate while lifting.
The passenger seat offers the illusion of structure. It’s familiar, comfortable... None of which matter the moment he realizes that your lower half doesn’t, in fact, respect the concept of seating.
The tail doesn’t fold, nor moves in any cooperative manner. It simply exists—heavy and entirely indifferent to the existence of upholstery.
Bucky stands before the passenger seat for a moment longer than necessary, breathing hard with one hand braced on the truck door while the other supports your shoulders. He stares at the seat with quiet resentment.
“Of fucking course.” He grits out under his breath.
Carefully, he tries once again to lower you into the seat anyway, because he has already wasted too much time trying to not drop you on his way back to the truck. The moment your weight shifts fully into the cabin, the tail slides sideways with alarming inevitability, dragging across the door frame before settling awkwardly along the floorboard, resulting in the fin to bend unnaturally.
Bucky pauses to look at it for a long moment, arms open as if ready to catch you, before he lets out a slow sigh.
“This is fine.” He murmurs, in the same tone of someone who is trying to convince himself as well.
The engine starts with its usual reluctant groan and for a few seconds there is a brief, deceptive sense that the worst part has just begun.
The road away from the docks is, as always, in a state of neglect that could only be described as communal acceptance of decay. Potholes interrupt the asphalt at irregular intervals, forcing the truck into sudden dips that make the suspension complain loudly, while uneven patches send vibrations through the chassis that consequentially reach the passenger seat.
And you.
The first jolt is mild, barely noticeable. The second makes your upper body shift forward enough for Bucky’s arm to shoot out instinctively, bracing across your chest to push you back against the seat.
“Yeah,” he exclaims flatly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road. “That’s right. Stay there.”
Another pothole hits immediately after, harsher this time, and the truck lurches hard enough that your entire weight shifts again.
Bucky’s hand moves without thought, catching your arm firmly before you can tilt any further.
“I don’t know who the hell is in charge of this town,” he states far more loudly than before, steering one-handed as the road curves unexpectedly. “But I would very much like five minutes alone with them and a shovel.”
The truck bounces again and your tail scrapes against the floorboard with a dull, dragging sound that makes his jaw clench.
“We have time and money to build a fucking dock extension nobody asked for, but fixing the only road anyone actually uses is apparently optional.”
The silence that follows is, as always, entirely unhelpful. It makes the entire situation worse—at least if you had been awake, he could have been annoyed at you directly.
Instead Bucky is forced to distribute his frustration evenly across the universe.
The truck continues forward, tires thudding rhythmically over uneven pavement, while the landscape outside the windows shifts from industrial structures to the quieter edges of town. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, casting brief white flashes across the interior of the truck that make you look almost unreal, as though you were the beloved, ethereal character out of a forgotten fairytale rather than a half-dying creature tossed around by the cruel sea.
Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally bracing you when the road demands it, each movement growing more automatic the longer the drive continues.
Eventually, the houses grow farther apart and the roads slightly less cratered, until the familiar shape of his street comes into view.
Only then does he notice the faint sting in his muscles, how tightly his shoulders have been locked.
Bucky parks into his driveway with more precision than usual, worried that any sudden turn might somehow jerk your body one final fatal time. When the truck finally comes to a full stop, he allows himself to exhale properly.
For a long moment, he just sits there with the faint noise of the engine ticking as it cools, and his hands still on the wheel.
Then, slowly, he turns his head.
You are still unconscious. Still inconveniently alive. Your tail occupies roughly eighty percent of his passenger seat in a way that suggests you have no intention of becoming easier to deal with at any point in the near future. Saltwater has already begun to dry in uneven patches across the upholstery and Bucky already knows he is going to regret the smell for a very long time.
With a tired sigh, he tips his head back against the headrest, letting his eyelids flutter shut.
Even for him—broad-shouldered and built for hauling anything the harbor demands—this is a new kind of effort. It settles deep into his muscles in a way that ordinary work never does, accumulating in his forearms and shoulders and along the length of his back with a dull, persistent ache that sharpens every time he shifts in his seat.
Crates have handles, machinery can be pushed, and even the heaviest loads usually possess the decency to distribute their weight evenly. But between the painful wounds and the sheer mass of that ridiculous tail, carrying you feels more like wrestling with gravity itself.
Now that the adrenaline has worn off, a knot throbs beneath his left shoulder blade. His lower back protests when he breathes too deeply, and his hands faintly burn from how tightly he had been holding on.
Bucky drags a hand down his face, and as he sits in the dark in the middle of his quiet driveway, he’s forced to acknowledge the next dreadful step: getting you inside.
That night, locking the front door comes with a heavy weight on his chest.
He can no longer pretend this is temporary. The ocean is not going to reclaim you overnight, nor the harbor is going to quietly undo his fate.
Officially you are, for the foreseeable future, his responsibility.
The bathroom is the only place that makes even a limited amount of sense, because as far as Bucky is concerned fish need water to survive.
He carries you in carefully, adjusting his grip more than once with low, strained groans, and by the time he finally manages to lower you into the tub, he is already panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain alone. The tub itself is barely large enough, your body forced into a curled position that makes the entire thing feel wrong from every possible angle.
With a long sigh, he can finally focus on the injuries.
Every time he peels back maimed scales or moves a section of the tail enough to inspect the wounds, he finds himself pausing for a fraction too long, hissing quietly as he registers just how extensive the damage actually is.
The scratches along your arms and torso are deep enough that he cleans them with antiseptic without hesitation, muttering under his breath the entire time.
“What the fuck did you do?” He shakes his head, though there is no indication you could hear him.
The gauze comes next, wrapped carefully around injuries that would have required a hospital if you had been human. He works methodically, hands steady out of habit more than comfort, leaning closer than he would have liked in order to keep the bandaging tight enough to stay in place without cutting off circulation.
The tail is another story.
Nothing about it behaves like something that could be treated in a conventional medical way. Bucky does what he can, though, gently wiping the blood, applying antiseptic where it makes sense, and then carefully positioning the injured section so that it remains mostly above the waterline while the rest of you is gradually submerged.
It’s an awkward compromise, the kind that makes him repeatedly adjust the placement of towels and folded fabric until he is reasonably satisfied that nothing is actively getting worse.
Bucky stands over the edge of the tub for a long moment, one hand braced on the tiles to support his aching body as much as he can while he watches absently the water fill around you. At least something in your posture finally eases a little.
“That’ll have to do.” He mutters, finally breathing properly once he steps into the hallway.
Over the next three days, the house stops feeling his in any meaningful sense.
The bathtub remains occupied at all times, which means that basic routines have to be adjusted in ways he finds increasingly irritating. At one point, after nearly knocking over a bottle of soap while trying to maneuver around the bathroom, he stares at you for a long moment.
“This is ridiculous.”
You don’t respond, which he has already established as your primary method of communication.
On the third day, he drives into town and returns with a large tub that requires significant rearranging of his living room to accommodate. The old furniture is pushed aside with minimal ceremony, the new container placed near the center of the space like some kind of absurd contemporary art installation he refuses to acknowledge as emotionally significant in any way.
“I’m not doing this for you,” he grunts while dragging it slightly to the left. “I’m doing this because I need a place to shower without stepping over a fucking unconscious fish.”
When he finally deems the position satisfying, he stops right before the tub and stares at you.
“You’re not even supposed to exist.”
By the fifth day, Bucky has acquired a new kind of routine, because now every part of the day revolves around returning home.
He checks on you before leaving for the dock. At first, the visits are practical and necessary: he needs to make sure the water is clean, that the bandages have not come loose during the night, that whatever infection he has been quietly expecting has not finally decided to appear.
The tail still unsettles him every time: some mornings he rounds the corner carrying a mug of coffee and stops at the sight of the scales beneath the surface before remembering that there is, in fact, a mermaid occupying his living room.
The realization is somehow never less strange.
He checks on you again when he comes back for lunch. He tells himself it’s because no sensible person would leave an unconscious stranger unattended for twelve hours yet this conveniently ignores the fact that he has never once come home for lunch before, though. It happens on the third day of this new arrangement for the first time ever, not even realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into his driveway instead of sitting with the others eating his sandwich.
The second time, he pretends it’s intentional. Until he gives up trying to justify it altogether.
The moment he returns in the evening, before taking off his boots—before even putting away his keys—Bucky walks to the tub.
His groceries sit forgotten by the front door more than once. One evening he tracks muddy footprints across half the house because he catches sight of the injured part of your tail on the brink of falling into the water, so he ends up jogging straight past the mat. Another time he leaves the television running in the background for nearly an hour before realizing he has spent the entire time sitting beside the tub staring blankly at the water instead of watching the stupid show Sam insisted he would like.
At some point during the night, he inevitably finds himself getting up for no reason he can adequately explain, walking across the house in silence and standing beside the tub just to confirm that you are still breathing.
Sometimes he remains there longer than necessary, enough to notice that the house sounds eerily different at night. The old pipes creak, the wind howls against the windows, water shifts softly whenever you move in your sleep... and he catches himself waiting for that sound.
He hates himself.
It’s fucking humiliating and he’s fully aware of that.
And then there is the staring.
Bucky would like to claim that it only happens while he’s changing the bandages, while his hands are occupied with gauze and antiseptic and his mind with the careful reminder of making sure nothing has worsened overnight, because that would somehow justify it.
Yet there are moments when he lingers there long after cleaning your wounds, sitting beside the tub with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his attention no longer anchored to anything in particular, as though he has simply forgotten to stand up and leave. Only after several seconds does he realize that his eyes have settled on your slack face and stayed there without permission.
The problem is not simply that you are beautiful, though even that thought irritates him in a way he doesn’t fully care to examine, because it’s too simple and therefore too easy to dismiss. The problem is that everything about you feels impossible in a way that doesn’t sit comfortably within the ordinary structure of his life.
Although silence was forced upon you, your magnetic presence still creates an unsettling contrast with the quiet, predictable weight of his house. At the end of the day, you are something borrowed from a place that doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of the world.
More than once, while standing in the middle of tasks that require his full attention, he finds himself wondering what color your eyes are, and not as a question he intends to answer, but as something that simply appears in the background of his thoughts and refuses to leave when he tries to push it away.
It leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue, because it’s unnecessary and Bucky doesn’t have time for unnecessary things. It implies a level of attention he has no intention of giving, even though it returns again and again in the quietest moments, as persistent as the sound of the tide against the harbor walls.
At work, he is more silent than usual even by his own standards, which is something Pietro comments on more than once with the kind of exaggerated concern that suggests he is both amused and genuinely uncertain whether something is wrong. Even the few words he normally allows himself seem to cost more effort than they should, part of his attention already drifting back toward the house without him fully noticing it.
There are moments when he finds himself standing still, eyes fixed on the open stretch of sea beyond the harbor where the water darkens with depth and distance. His thoughts lose their usual shape and linger instead on the parts of the world that have never been accounted for in humans’ understanding of it.
It’s not simply the sea as he knew it, with the predictable rhythms of tide and current and the weathered ships moving in and out of the harbor, but something broader and less defined. Your existence is indeed the confirmation that most of it remains unseen, untouched, and entirely outside of anything he has ever had reason to consider.
Bucky wonders, without meaning to, how many things move beneath that surface without ever breaking it, how many shapes exist in the deep water that have no connection to anything on land, and whether the world has always been fuller than it looks from the edge of a dock.
The thought is not particularly welcome, because it doesn’t fit into anything that Bucky normally considers useful.
Another ten days pass and you still haven’t awakened, but your breathing has stabilized and that has to mean something. Right?
That morning, when he steps closer to the tub, Bucky is already reaching for the edge before his brain fully registers what his eyes are seeing.
The bandages on your tail are still in place, though slightly shifted from movement he had not witnessed. The injuries beneath them look marginally less severe than before—still far from healed, but no longer actively worsening.
He frowns slightly as he leans in, adjusting the gauze diligently and checking the open wounds with the same clinical focus of the last couple of days.
“Still looks like hell,” he mutters. “But at least you’re stable.”
He straightens slowly with a sigh, unconsciously letting his gaze trace the length of your body until they reach your face.
And there, he meets your eyes.
Your open eyes.
Bucky freezes mid-motion, both his hands still hovering over your tail. His lips part pathetically at the ethereal sight, but before he can comprehend what’s happening, you scream right in his face.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
I think it's pretty cool that Merlin is okay with murdering someone every week. Always makes me sad when they make him well-adjusted in fanfics. Let that man be insane
Read the rest of the series here: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | Pt. 5 ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Synopsis: The mystery of the séance continues as Victor reveals the story of the dark angel. Reader brings Victor home for the first time, plays with his hair and gets him a little choked up.
Who's here: Victor x afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥 (explicit); 🌀 (slightly fantastical)
Content (warnings): seance, dark angel, nudity, amab masturbation, nipple play, hair-pulling, consensual choking, Reader doesn't get off, no use of y/n, not beta read (please excuse any typos)
Word count: 3k
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
"Red! Red! All red! Blood red! I am the angel to whom you pray! I am the angel who guides and guards you! Fear me not, lest you fear your maker! For maker and you are one and shall be once more! Rise and receive your call!"
Lady Killigrew's ominous words hung heavily in the seance room.
An otherworldly wind whooshed through you. Its uncanny chill left you shivering beneath your many layers of garments. You and the other guests sat in silence for several minutes. The only noises you heard came from Lady Killigrew, the medium. She panted irregularly. Her fingernails scratched the polished wooden table.
The wind blew through you once more. In the darkness, your eyes slowly adjusted to the vague shapes and outlines of the people and candles. You started to doubt your senses as, beyond all belief, you saw movement inside the largest candle at the center of the table. No, it couldn't be! First, a thin, blue color emerged at the wick. Then, a yellow, an orange, and, finally, a fiery red. A new flame danced within the candle and illuminated the possessed medium and the transfixed man across from her.
Victor stood rigidly staring at the writhing and groaning medium. Palms still on the table, his tented, clawing fingers were a mocking simulacrum of the other guests' hands around the table. He leaned forward and shrugged his shoulders into the back of his worn waistcoat. Mouth slightly agape, he narrowed his eyes and contorted his face, as if to peer more closely at the creature within Lady Killigrew.
You watched him reach one of his hands towards her. Is he trying to beckon the thing?
Just as Victor opened his mouth wider to speak, Lady Killigrew took a sharp, loud inhale. The guests seated around the seance table flinched. Gasps echoed round the gathered crowd. You held your breath.
Lady Killigrew's neck snapped back. Face turned toward the vaulted ceilings, her lips formed a silent scream. Corded veins in her neck popped and protruded. Trembling hands crawled up her chest to her piqued face. She pulled at her skin and covered her eyes with her fingertips. Then, she collapsed onto the table.
Shrieks emanated from the crowd. The seance guests clung to each other and looked away from the crumpled body. Some of your stablemates rose to approach the lifeless medium.
Victor, though, continued staring. You sat by his wide, head whipping between the medium and this strange man (growing stranger by the second, it appeared).
Maurice, your friend and Lady Killigrew's assistant, rushed to her. He checked the pulse in her neck with two frantic fingers. Then, he rose to meet the eyes of the frightened crowd.
"The seance is over, everyone," Maurice projected confidently, yet you noticed the quiet quivering of his words. He, too, was afraid. "Should you like to stay, please move to the sitting room. Lady Killigrew's servants will provide you with refreshment."
The crowd merely stared at Maurice.
"Now!"
Clattering boots and swishing skirts rang across the parlour and receded as the guests disappeared into the sitting room.
Maurice shot Victor a befuddled look. Get him out of here! He mouthed at you.
You tugged at Victor's sleeve. "Come, now, we must go. She needs privacy."
He darted his eyes toward you. His hard, focused expression softened once he met your gaze.
Victor nodded his head and loosened the grip of his hand nearest you off the table. He held it out, palm first. You interlaced your fingers and lead him to the front door.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
The two of you walked silently, hand-in-hand, as you approached your personal carriage. Your chauffeur did a double-take when he saw you: harried, exhausted and dragging beside you a dazed Victor.
"You're back early," he called out to you.
Words escaping you, you shrugged. How do you explain that your new friend/new lover/possibly mad and definitely mysterious un-barron-like Barron conjured a ghost powerful enough to scare away half of Edinburgh?
The chauffeur lowered from his seat to the ground and helped you and your companion into the carriage. Victor, wide-eyed and staring at nothing, kept your hand firmly squeezed in his.
As you travelled on in the direction of your family's estate, the silence served as a comfortable cushion between your fidgety awkwardness and Victor's continued bewilderment.
A few miles in, you spoke. "Would you like to talk about it?"
Victor simply replied with a shake of his head.
How funny, you thought to yourself as the carriage pulled into your private entrance within the estate. We have seen every part of each other, yet this is the first time we ride in a carriage together. It struck you as odd how mundane and utterly normal this moment felt, despite the exceedingly odd circumstances of Lady Killigrew's party.
By this point, Victor had appeared to be enlivened a bit. His eyes, once wide and fixed, had softened round the creases. They resumed their careful, deliberate, searching stare. His hand, though still in yours, loosened into a comfortable position. Exiting the carriage, he gave a brisk nod and brief expression of gratitude to the chauffeur. He no longer shuffled, but rather strode, out of the carriage and down the walkway to the estate.
You realized Victor's ability to change from state to state, mood to mood, within minutes was intriguing, yes, but also unlike anything you had ever known.
He gazed at the estate and took in every detail of the rich, ornamented, delicately-carved architecture. "So, this is where you live, then?" He spoke flatly; for him, your family's estate was merely another piece of data in the construction of you and your life. It was mere observation.
"Indeed."
You tightened your hand around his and tugged him toward the door that led to your quarters.
You heard the slight smile in his voice as he asked, "Is this really very proper or ladylike of you, Madame?"
"I would most certainly hope not," you responded and knocked at the door.
A tight-lipped servant whipped the door open, as if she had been standing there all night awaiting your return.
"Poppy," you greeted her.
"You're back early."
"So I've been told."
Poppy stepped away from the doorframe to let you pass. Victor looked toward her, but she saw straight through him. He frowned in dismay at her rejection, and you stifled a giggle. You had an arrangement with Poppy: pretend as though any and all late-night guests were invisible, and we will get on swimmingly.
"Quite rude, isn't it?" Victor grumbled to you as you climbed the two flights of stairs to your chambers. "Not even a 'good evening' to spare."
"Perhaps she didn't see you, Victor." He groaned. You enjoyed ribbing him.
You and Victor arrived at your chambers. As you paused at the mahogany door to turn the handle, you turned back to peer at Victor. He seemed nervous, almost giddy, in anticipation.
You opened the door. You swept your arms in the direction of your room and allowed Victor to enter first.
He took in the room: the fixtures, the art upon the walls, the prepared fire roaring at the hearth, the soft bed encased snuggly in white linen sheets. He continued standing and staring. This must be how he spends much of his life, you thought. Standing and staring.
"Victor," you called to him. Like an obedient dog, he turned his head. You shut the door with a click.
As if transfixed by the context (you, your room, alone, at night), Victor began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
You inhaled, physically responding to the sight of him shedding his clothes, and forced yourself to find the right words. You approached him and put a tender hand to his chest. He lowered his hands to his waist.
"Victor," you tried again. "I know you said you do not want to discuss what happened--"
He shuddered slightly. Blood rushed to his face and stained his cheeks crimson.
You found his hands once more that evening and held them.
"--But, we really must. I cannot rest here with you, let alone do anything else, until you give me some sort of explanation for what happened. Even one sentence, one word, would do. You needn't tell me everything."
He cast his eyes downward to his shoes. He gave your hands a firm squeeze.
"The dark angel," he began, choking a bit on his words. "The being that spoke through the medium, your friend, tonight.... It is the same entity that has visited me throughout my life."
He cleared his throat and continued. "Since the death of my mother, the dark angel has come to me in my dreams. It begins as the same life-size statue of St. Michael that resides in my bed chambers--"
You blinked forcefully at that last sentence, but you decided to let it go for now.
"But, then it morphs into something...different. It animates and stretches itself before me. It removes its placid face and reveals a ghastly skeleton underneath."
He shuddered again as you listened intently.
"The dark angel always visits me at the time something important, something impactful and life-altering, happens in my life."
He bit his lip and shook his head before turning to meet your gaze.
"You believe me, don't you? I have never told a soul, not a soul, about the dark angel. How the medium could have known that.... I am a man of reason, of logic and science. If those dreams are not only dreams, I.... I don't know who I am, or what I am, anymore."
You sighed and kissed his hands. "I believe you, Victor."
All was silent for a moment. Then, you spoke again, "You know, I never believed that my friend The Great and Mystical Lady Killigrew could commune with the dead or the otherworldly. I thought it was fun--a parlour game, a delightful and indulgent delicacy for the mind and senses. But, now, I am not so sure...."
You met his eyes again. "But, I do know for certain that you are safe here with me. Thank you for telling me."
He shrugged and leaned forward. You accepted his invitation and allowed him to place a kiss upon your forehead. You tugged at his half-unbuttoned waistcoat. "Come, now. Off to bed."
You changed in front of each other shyly, mindful of the vulnerable parts you wished to hide from the other. You both kept your eyes downcast. When they did meet, you giggled with embarrassment. How strange to be so intimate in some ways and yet still not know each other at all!
You wore a floor-length nightgown with a loose opening at the chest. You crawled into bed, your back against the plush pillows. Victor, you realized was still naked. You felt yourself blush. Blush!
"Forgive me that I do not have any nightclothes for you, Victor, unless you wish to borrow my gown." They were all loose shapes, anyways. Nightgowns were akin to potato sacks, and he could easily fit into whatever you had.
For a moment, he looked puzzled. "No, why? I always sleep nude," he explained as he crawled into bed with you.
You watched him as he looked down upon the opening of the nightgown at your chest. You were veritably surprised when he turned to lie on his side, snuggle into you and lay his head upon the soft skin below that opening.
It felt instinctual to raise your hand to his inky curls, made even more disheveled by the humid rainy evening and the bizarre turn of events at Lady Killigrew's place, and massage his scalp.
He sighed contentedly as you moved your hand down to the strong planes of his back. Your fingers worked the irksome knots and muscles below his soft skin.
As you did this, he traced his fingers over the exposed skin of your chest beside his head.
"I don't know much about you, you know," he said wistfully, almost dreamily and almost only to himself.
A surge of defensiveness and dismissiveness overcame you. That's because I don't want you to know about me, you thought.
You took a breath. "If you play your cards right, maybe you will." It was a cheerful turn of phrase that had worked in the past when your lovers started drifting too close to the real you.
He huffed in disapproval. "No, I don't think that will work for me. The next time I see you, I demand you tell me one thing about yourself. Something important. Something vulnerable. Not your favorite colour or whatever."
You scoffed. He looked up at you expectedly. "Yes, alright, Victor. One thing."
He harrumphed. "Good. And, we really should be getting back to the figure study project. We have become quite lax, indeed."
You playfully smacked his arm. "You drew me just last week!"
He sighed in mock despair. "It is simply not enough. Ouch!"
You had smacked him again.
Moments passed in slow, languid silence. Victor rested on your chest as you traced the smoothness of his back. Absent-mindedly, you reached up to play with his hair once more.
Unaware of the strength of your hand and the pressure applied, you tugged firmly on his curls. A low moan escaped Victor's lips. At first, you thought you had unintentionally hurt him. A growing firmness below Victor's belly told you otherwise. You bit your lip. His cheeks grew red and he looked up at you sheepishly.
You looked down at him and tugged at his hair again. He moaned once more and squeezed the side of your body with desire.
"You like that, don't you?"
He nodded in affirmation.
You felt your nipples hardening under your linen nightgown. Victor noticed them, too. He licked his lips.
You adjusted the looseness of the dress's opening. Victor let out a shaky breath as you uncovered your chest. You grabbed at your breast and squeezed it. You pinched your nipple until you began to moan. Victor had grown fully hard against your thigh. Unawares, he started to rut against you.
Your hand still in his hair, you brought his head to your chest. He groaned and sucked eagerly, greedily. The vibrations from his throat brought forth cascading ripples of pleasure against your sensitive skin. He hollowed his cheeks to take as much of you as he could, and he beat his sharp, quick tongue against your hard bud.
You rolled your head back and ushered Victor to your other side. Blood rushed to your most delicate parts. A low throbbing occupied the space between your legs.
"Victor, I want you to do something for me."
He nodded vigorously.
"Give me your hand."
He raised his palm to you. Taking it in your free hand, you licked across his palm and spit into it.
"I want you to touch yourself as I play with your hair."
Victor groaned as lowered his hand and grasped his length. His breathing quickened as he entered a pleasurable rhythm. Your breathing quickened, too, as watched him. You were enraptured by the movement of his body and, as you tugged on his hair, how quickly you could turn him on.
Victor turned to lie on his back. You leaned over him. His cheeks were flushed, and his face looked both relaxed and concentrated. You released your hand from his hair, and the relaxation faltered for a moment. He whined impatiently.
You shushed him and brought your thumb to the softness of his full lips. He opened up for you and eased in your thumb with his tongue. He sucked hard on you, and his eyes fluttered in delight.
An idea came to you. You wrapped the curve of your palm to Victor's neck. You pressed your fingers down gently, and he shivered under your touch.
"Do you like it when I touch your neck like this?"
Again, he nodded vigorously.
You dragged your thumb out of his mouth, leaving him slack-jawed. Then, you covered your hand over his throat and gave him a light squeeze.
Victor moaned and raised his hips. You smiled coyly to yourself.
"Can I do that again, but a little harder this time, Victor?"
"Please, yes, please."
You squeezed harder this time. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
You gasped. Power and pleasure seized your body. You acted almost involuntarily, as if your body knew exactly what to do next.
You modulated the pressure around Victor's neck. Tighter, softer, faster, slower. As you choked him, he continued playing with himself.
His breathing became more labored. His hips moved faster on the bed.
Then, his voice, low with desire and aching with lust, said, "Your sheets.... I don't want to--"
"I want you to. I want to keep you on my bed. Please, Victor. Please."
With that, the promise of his permanence on your bed, he moved his hand faster and harder against himself. You wished to lower yourself onto his aching cock, but you could not will yourself to let go of control over his perfect, smooth neck.
Victor let out a cry and released himself on your white sheets. He collapsed, panting and glowing, on the bed. Completely out of breath, he closed his eyes and grasped for you. He held you tightly and burrowed into the nape of your neck.
You reached for his hair again. This time, you did not tug or pull. You simply caressed his curls gently and tenderly as the two of you languidly drifted off to sleep.
summary: a complicated morning after with marc leads to a spill of shown yet not said feelings
warnings: none.
word count: 1.5k
now listening... les by childish gambino
You woke up to the sudden gain of consciousness. Dark, silent, and soothing after a night of deep sleep. Your body felt sore, but you didn't want to open your eyes yet. You just wanted to relish the night before. The date. The dances, the drinks and the eventful time in bed with him. Marc Spector. The man it had taken you so long to get your claws on.
You loved him dearly, even if you weren’t sure it was mutual. Over three months as his casual girlfriend, you were sure of what you felt, and even sometimes, you thought he reciprocated your feelings, but it was hard for him to show them just because. He was afraid, you could tell. Afraid of things that were stronger than him. Afraid of the love you gave him, and afraid of not being good enough to deserve it.
That was why you weren't surprised when you finally opened your eyes to find his side of the bed empty. A sigh left you. You wondered where he could be, and why he wasn't there next to you.
You brushed some hair out of your face to get a good look at the space. The room was a mess. Discarded in a frenzy, without knowing where they would land, the clothes you recognized as the ones you were wearing the night before hung off some of the furniture. You were sure some of it was on the floor as well though.
Still a little sore, you sat on the bed, letting your legs fall to the floor like a cascade. You found Marc’s t-shirt next to your feet, and you had the instinct to put it on, but then you thought he wouldn't like seeing you so comfortable walking around his flat. You weren't even sure he'd been a hundred percent comfortable the night before. So you chose to put on your own clothes, ignoring the morning-after etiquette like a champ.
After fighting with your own dizziness to get dressed, you exited the bedroom. Your slow walk let you take in all the details you hadn't paid attention to before, but eventually, you reached the main area of the apartment. You saw your bag hanging from one of the chairs, but just when you were about to reach out, you noticed Marc in the kitchen, separated from the living room with an island.
You couldn’t help it. An impulse dragged you towards him. He was facing the counter. Just as you were about to throw your arms lazily around his waist, he spoke.
“You’re not as sneaky as you think.”
The words stopped you. You scoffed, smiling, yet you hugged him from the waist anyways, burying your nose against his spine. He sighed heavily. You hesitated, wondering if that had been a relief sigh, or an annoyed sigh.
“... ‘s what I get for trying to strike from the back,” you commented.
“Cowardly move.”
“Thought you’d call it smart.”
“It is smart,” he turned his head to glance at you before returning his attention to the task at hand. “Doesn’t make it less cowardly.”
Silence. You were comfortable, hiding your face away in his back, getting to smell his fabric softener, his cologne, his scent as a whole. You felt his body shift constantly with his breaths.
You really, really didn’t want to leave.
So you opted for small talk.
“What were you doing?”
“Making coffee.”
You awaited the invitation. A simple “You want a cup?” or, even better “Can I make you anything?”. Yet it didn’t reach you. It didn’t even seem to reach him.
“I thought you’d leave,” he mumbled.
You hesitated, taking a deep breath. “I thought so too,” you said in a breathy voice, adjusting your hold around his waist. “I was actually about to.”
“What’s stopping you?”
Oh, he was unbelievable. The rush of indignation was such you felt his warm, comfortable scent cut off. Your eyes popped open.
“I don’t think you want to hear it.”
You knew how he would get if you said the words. He’d close over himself, refuse to talk, refuse to say it back. You weren’t protecting anyone but you, by not saying what you felt out loud. Marc lowered his head. His coffee was ready. He had everything set to turn around and sit to have his breakfast in peace. He could even indicate where your bag was so you couldn’t delay your departure. But he didn’t do any of those things.
“... you’re right, I don’t.”
Saying that didn’t satisfy him. He actually did want to hear it. What he didn’t want was to deal with the aftermath, like he was doing now. The aftermath of your night was starting to turn into a dreaded serious conversation. Marc had tried convincing himself that it would be over soon. You’d wake up, say hello, and leave. But you weren’t doing the last part as he wanted. And he also felt selfish, hoping you’d accommodate to his own fucked up mind. You should leave him, he thought, you were too good to be dancing back and forth like this.
“At least tell me if we had a good time,” you probed.
Marc swallowed, hesitant. But why was he taking so long to answer? He had had a good time. In fact, he’d had one of the best times of his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t thinking about vengeance, or Khonshu, or Randall, or all the people he’d taken lives from. He found himself thinking about your laugh, the way your eyes curled up when you smiled, your more than invasive hair and the fact that, even knowing how he was like, you were still there, hugging him from behind after sleeping together. Hell, some goddamn normalcy at last.
“I had a good time,” he replied, not realizing he had a little smirk going on. “You?”
You paused. He was asking about you. That made you smile too.
“I had a good time too.”
He gave up on having coffee at the table. Instead, letting your touch ground him, he took the cup to his lips. It was strange. A few days ago, he wouldn't have let anyone (not even you) hug him like that. He sighed.
You were still doubtful. He hadn’t shown any sign of affection back yet. You, with your arms around him, your nose on his t-shirt, as close as you could get, were only getting vague answers. You bit your lip, resisting the need to yell at him. You knew he was reserved on the matter but a part of you had been hopeful that something from the night before would’ve managed to change him. What a fucking idiot, you thought.
Oh, but not receiving anything back didn’t stop you.
“... Marc?”
“Yeah?”
“Should I leave?”
Marc was struck for a second. Why would you even ask him that?
Silence was making you insanely nervous. And you knew why. Somehow it felt like there was more to that question than you were letting on. Should I leave and stop pretending you love me as much as I love you?
Marc knew this. You spotted his jaw clenching, his head turning quick to look away, deflecting on what he had now on his back. All of this, and his lack of answer was more of an answer than any sentence he could speak. You sighed, slowly unwrapping your arms away from him.
“Wait.”
That was when he turned around. You saw his eyebags, dark from sleeplessness, his lips twitching and the bite marks you’d left in his neck from when you were too far gone to care where your teeth landed.
“I can leave if it’s bothering you. I know I can be a little imposing…”
“No, you’re not imposing,” he replied, placing the cup on the counter and reaching out to wrap his hands around your waist.
A tug pulled you closer. His scent crashed all over you again. Cologne, softener, and that something unmistakably him
“I mean it, you know? It’s okay if you don’t want me here.”
“I do… I do want you here,” he insisted. “Listen, I know I’m… I might not be the best partner in the world but… I'm trying my best, okay? And I tried my best last night and I’m trying my best now and I’ll keep on trying my best because… I care about you.”
“You care about me?”
“Care, yeah… I fucking love you,” he exhaled, as if saying that had punched the air out of his lungs. “It’s scary as shit, but I love you.”
Those words made you feel your chest tighter than usual. But no matter the body reaction. None of that stopped you from tenderly raising your hand to frame his face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even lean into it.
“... I love you too.”
As if on instinct, Marc smiled. Again. Two times today and both had you involved. He let you lean in and press a kiss to his lips, slow, tender, savoring. A comforting thought brushed across him. The aftermath wasn’t so bad after all.
Read the rest of the series here: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Synopsis: You, Victor's new friend and research subject, leave behind the laboratory for a night and attend a séance at an old friend's grand estate. As your relationship grows beyond scientist and figure study, a strange encounter leads you to question who Victor is...and what secrets his mysterious past holds.
Who's here: Victor x afab!reader
What to expect: 💚 (SWF / no smut); 🌀 (fantastical)
Content (warnings): séance, discussion of religion, spirits, afterlife, banter, flirting, explicit age gap (between Reader and OC), spookiness ensues, possession, overstimulated Victor, discussion of Victor's family backstory, rich Victorians ~not like other girls~, no beta reader so please ignore any mistakes or typos
Word count: 4.8k
Scroll down to the bottom for the author's note and the 19th-century historical note. Come for the smut yearning, stay for the history. Enjoy!
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
It pleases me greatly to extend an invitation to a most thrilling opportunity. I most verily believe we shall, together, explore the limits of ration and logic. Even your skilled mind of measure and reason shall find itself grasping for comprehension and explanation. You will believe what you do not see, and you will see what you had once thought you could not believe.
Such an opportunity as this is not so readily found in the quiet routine of a laboratory or even the ghastly spectacle of a medical college operating theatre. Indeed, what awaits you shall bend your concepts of reality and illusion, past and present, life and death.
Pray, of what do I speak, do you guess? And, will your guess prove correct?
Only time shall tell.
Should you find yourself intrigued and prepared to submit to the wiles and wonders of this invitation, please do meet me at the following date, time and address.
Most sincerely,
Your Loyal Friend
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
My Loyal Friend,
While I cannot deny my intrigue, I likewise cannot yet say I am prepared to commit myself to submission. We shall see how the night unfolds, shan't we?
Ghost stories 'round a fire? Dancing naked under the full moonlight in a graveyard? Building a sacrificial altar for the Devil? Whatever it may be, I am there.
Until we meet again, I remain most ardently yours.
V. F.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
The carriage wheels rattled upon slick, uneven cobblestones. Rain pelted the rooftop and obscured the view of the world beyond the carriage windows. Lights, shapes and colours on the streets of Edinburgh danced in blurry lines and fragments from your vantage point. It was late. Yet, friends and lovers, seekers and diviners, artists and writers, audience and actors still roamed in search of good fun and good drink.
You adjusted the sleeves of your bodice and felt for the decorative flowers at the nape of your neck. For this evening's festivities, shall we call them, you had selected a navy blue dress. It was soft to the touch and delicately embroidered with a black butterfly brocade. The silk fabric attracted the light of the blur outside. A brief shimmer radiated off of your dress when lamplight and angles converged at the right intersection.
You peered out of the carriage window. The outline of Lady Killigrew's estate appeared in the distance, as if in a dream. Having been there many times before for balls, parties and similar soirees as tonight's, the heavy rain could not obfuscate the familiar spires and arched windows of the gothic-revival architecture.
Lady Killigrew was a pseudonym, naturally. With a little digging, you were sure you could have ascertained her identity. Though you were an inherently curious, some might say even nosy, creature, you had to admit that you preferred the mystery of Lady Killigrew's anonymity. It was simpler this way.
The carriage driver whistled to his horse as you approached the estate. The horse slowed its trot and came to a stop. The driver helped you down from the height of the carriage and onto the pathway leading to Lady Killigrew's estate. You popped open your blood-red umbrella and stepped out into the storm.
Victor stood under an oil lamp a few meters from the entrance to the estate. The warm glow of the lamp bathed his features. A scowl, a furrow of concentration, a distant gaze and clenched jaw. A certain sense of rage and sorrow emanated from his being. Yes, he was Victor, without a doubt.
A black umbrella shielded him from the downpour as he scanned the dark night. For what? For you? Or, was he merely in search of answers for a scientific quandary?
Though his eyes, squinted and focused, moved intently to decipher the shapes and figures in the cloak of darkness, he still did not register your presence. You strode slowly to his side with a heavy trod. Perhaps, even if he would not recognize you, he would surely hear the click-clack of modest heels upon cobblestone.
You crept closer, until you were nearly under his umbrella. Still, he gazed forward, locked in a reverie only available to his eyes. You took this opportunity to examine your guest.
He sported a loose, linen shirt identical to the one you had last seen him wore in his laboratory. Only, this shirt was not as gratuitously stained and wrinkled as the previous. Victor either had copies of the same pattern and fabric (very possible, for a man as particular and efficient as he) or he had scrubbed and scrubbed the stains until they broke free from the threads (also very possible, if he were as skint as he claimed to be). You appreciated either option.
Over the shirt, he wore a black, weathered waistcoat. You were close enough to notice the tiny, white, embroidered diamond shapes on the lapels and chest, as well as a few errant threads peaking out behind seams. He had chosen standard, black slacks and a simple overcoat to complement the look. You saw evidence of stretching, pulling and sun-bleaching on the elbows and neckline of the coat. You wondered if the coat was once too small for him or, indeed, if its measurements had been designed to fit the body of another. A circle of gauzy, red fabric hung around his neck, masquerading as a cravat. From this proximity, you noticed he was freshly-shaven. The scent of aftershave, a surprising smell on Victor, wafted your way.
You decided to get his attention. You lowered your register and leaned in toward him. "I say, Sir, have you got your invitation?"
Victor widened his eyes and blinked. He looked down, clearly flustered, and started searching his pockets. He mumbled something to himself about not knowing he needed to bring an invitation. Empty-handed, he gazed back up at you.
You covered your hand over your mouth and laughed. You realised you enjoyed it when Victor was a bit bewildered and uncomfortable.
The panic softened and drained from his eyes. The crow's feet kissing the corners of his eyes wrinkled, and he burst into a grin. He echoed your laugh and moved closer to you.
"You devilish woman," he proclaimed, in mock frustration. "I could have fallen off of this sidewalk from fright, and then what would you have done?"
"What would I have done?" you asked, in amusement. "How should I know! What would you have done? You are the doctor, after all."
He rolled his eyes and bounced on the balls of his feet.
"I reckon I would have been bollocksed, I say," he replied.
"Capital observation, my good Sir." You held out your arm for him to take. "Shall we?"
He looped his arm in yours. Realising it was wet from the rain, you recoiled back.
"Victor!" you cried. "You are quite soaked!" You shook off your hand. Rivulets of raindrops flew back into the damp night air.
He bit his lip. "Yes, I would imagine so. It is raining, after all, Madame."
You two turned to walk to the entrance of Lady Killigrew's estate, each at a comfortably dry distance underneath your respective umbrellas.
You sloshed through the gathering rain underfoot. How was it he was so wet if he had taken a carriage as I did? You thought for a moment and then put the pieces together.
"Victor," you asked, hesitatingly. "Had you walked here with only your umbrella? My, it would have been--"
"Nearly two hours?" he finished your sentence. You heard a tone of self-pitying martyrdom that was not entirely put-upon for your amusement. It was now your turn to roll your eyes. "Yes, I hadn't a choice, really. Besides, I quite enjoy a long stroll. It gives one a chance to"--he breathed in deeply--"fully imbibe the city, no?"
Prideful man. You spoke. "Victor, had you needed arrangements for a carriage to attend, you only needed to communicate as such to me. I would have found a way, surely."
By now, you were only steps away from the entrance. You looked in his direction surreptitiously. You could tell he was a bit hurt by your offer, though, to you, it made all the sense in the world.
He bit the inside of his cheek and replied, "You are my good friend, Madame. Not my patron. I needn't your assistance."
You sighed and knocked at the door. As you awaited a response from the other side, you deliberately, and forcefully, slammed your umbrella into his. He staggered back and yelped.
"For what bloody reason?!" He stared at you incredulously.
You inspected the damage. "Is it broken?" you asked sweetly. "Oh, my, oh, dear, what a shame that is. It seems you will need a carriage tonight, I suppose." You turned back to the door and smiled to yourself.
He shook his head, which had been quickly made damp from the rain, and glowered up at you. "It is fine."
You knocked at the door again, more impatiently this time. "I do believe we shall have some fun tonight, Victor, shan't we?"
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
The man who welcomed you at the door was not an attendant or part of Lady Killigrew's staff. Rather, he was your friend, Maurice, dressed in the Lady's preferred fashion: provocative. He had decorated his eyes with thick lines of charcoal. He had painted his pursed lips with an ostentatious red. He wore a woman's corset over his bare skin--this was a decision that made you think ouch. It must have been uncomfortable without a slip to protect his skin. Yet, the attendant wore it with absolute glee and confidence. His pants were similar to Victor's standard, black slacks.
"Maurice," you greeted him and curtsied.
With a perplexed face, Maurice eyed your new guest up and down. "Did you invite this man?"
You brushed past Maurice and into the entryway. "Play nicely," you whispered in his direction and discarded your and Victor's umbrellas.
Victor trailed behind you like a lost puppy. You glanced behind him and witnessed him taking in all of the colours, the noises, the people and the beautiful, new chaos of Lady Killigrew's estate. People of all persuasions had gathered in the parlour. Some had dressed in costumes (one even appeared to be the late Marie Antionette's twin), and others opted for vibrant haute couture of the era. The other guests gathered in groups. Clearly, the drink from Lady Killigrew's stash had been flowing freely. They laughed boisterously and exchanged flirtations smiles with knowing eyes. They spoke too loudly and touched too frequently for polite company. One group in the centre of the parlour was having a lively debate. About what, you weren't sure, but you were quite transfixed at the woman standing on the table and angrily pointing to a man with beady eyes and a shocked expression.
Victor caught up with you, and you walked together towards the parlour in stride. "Have you ever heard of the expression," he said to you in a low voice. "There can be too much of a good thing?"
You turned on your heels to face him. You put your fingertips to his lapels, tugging at them and then smoothing them out. The new information presented to him in this room clearly overwhelmed him.
You spoke soothingly. "Are you feeling overcome?"
He nodded and looked at his feet. "I am ashamed. I cannot even handle a party," he muttered.
You tutted. "None of that, now. I do not quite know what it is like for you, having been so accustomed to this lifestyle for years now. Yet, I do understand and sympathize. This is all new, no?"
Victor kept his head hung low and did not respond.
You brought one of your hands up from his lapel to his chin. Raising his head, you looked him dead in the eyes and spoke sternly, "There is no shame here."
He gave you a tight-lipped smile and repeated, "There is no shame here."
You raised your hand to his curls. The storm had wreaked the most delightful havoc on them. You twined his locks between your fingers and smoothed out the most cowlicked parts.
"Very good," you affirmed him. You reached down to grasp one of his hands in yours. Victor gave you a surprised, almost fearful, look. His eyes roved over the crowd, as if worried this public display would ruin your reputations entirely. He was so transparent with his emotions, whether or not he knew it.
"Be not worried," you spoke under your breath. "No one will care, truly. Touch is not a sin here, not in the eyes of the church nor in the eyes of society. Now, let us find some privacy."
As you walked together out of the parlour and into an adjoining corridor, you ran your thumb comfortingly over the back of his hand. Several times throughout your journey to a quieter room, friends and acquaintances greeted you and Victor. They waved their hands or approached for conversation. You acknowledged them by name, and you both smiled kindly. However, you made it clear that you were unable to stop. Indeed, you had a mission to fulfill. Once this truth became known to the other guests, a few raised their eyebrows in admiration and whistled.
You reached the corridor and turned to face Victor. His face was as red as a beet. You reached for his arm to lay a calming hand. Though, to your dismay, he was still dripping wet from the rain. You flicked your hand toward the wall. "My God, Victor, you will catch your death. Let us find a fire to rest before and dry you off."
"That is a myth," he shrugged. "Perpetuated by the convergence of cold, wet weather in the winter and early spring and the increase of illness among the people. To think mere water could cause disease is, frankly, incorrect. Now, consider one is outside in unpleasant and inhospitable weather for several hours or days without access to a heat source, then, yes."
You began trying doorhandles, most of which were locked from the prying eyes (and, sometimes, hands) of party guests. At last, a door gave way. "This is promising," you muttered under your breath. "Now you shall have your opportunity to not die from the rain, eh?"
Victor groaned in response.
You peered in the open room, expecting to find a couple, or more, of people disrobed and bringing pleasure to one another. You sighed in relief. The room was completely empty, despite a roaring fireplace. Perfect.
You motioned for Victor to follow you. The room was small, but cheerful and cosy. Books, old and new, lined the wooden shelves that stretch across the length of the walls. Where there was, though little, available space for decorations, Lady Killigrew had hung painted portraits of her ancestors. Even from a distance, you could see their resemblance in their whimsical, crooked smile and mischievous, daring eyes.
Victor stood in the centre of the room and took it in. "This must be one of the libraries. A converted sitting room of sorts, I imagine, to entertain a small, familiar crowd. You build a room such as this for comfortable conversation, not to impress."
You marveled at Victor's astute, and correct, estimation. You then remembered what he had shared with you about his upbringing the last time you saw one another. Victor had come from some branch of nobility in Geneva. You wondered what his family's estate had contained--the books and sitting rooms, as well as the stories and secrets.
You made yourself comfortable on the plush, velvet settee before the fireplace. You stretched out your limbs and sighed in relaxation. Victor ran his fingertips over the leather spines of the books. "Incredible," he said to himself.
You patted the settee to get his attention before he became entirely enveloped in the library and lost all commitment to company and the evening's event. "Choose a book and come sit," you commanded. "And, you shall read it to me as we bathe in the firelight."
"Which book?" he asked over his shoulder. "There are too many to pick, and I know not what genre you prefer."
"Poetry, over there. Anything there, pray."
Victor paused. He was deciding whether to continue browsing the anatomy and medical sciences section or follow through with your preference. You heard him sigh as he reluctantly crossed the room in search of poetry. You could not help but smirk to yourself behind his back.
Finding the expansive poetry collection, Victor cocked his head to examine his options before choosing a small, blue volume. He padded over to the settee, taking off his overcoat and unbuttoning his waistcoat for comfort. He sat, cleared his throat and looked toward you for further instruction.
You plopped on the settee closer to him and grabbed the book from his hand. "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Lord Byron."
He leaned into you, as if to wrestle the book from your grasp, he laughed. "Be gentle, Madame!"
You smiled smugly and guarded the volume against your chest. At last, he relented. You thumbed through text. Unable to choose a certain selection, you resigned to choosing at random. You tilted your head onto Victor's shoulder and closed your eyes as you flipped rapidly through the pages. His long curls tickled your forehead. "Tell me when I should stop."
Victor was quiet for a while. The only sound you heard from him was his ever-increasing breath. You were nearly prepared to ask him if he had heard you when he spoke. "Stop!"
You opened your eyes. Your index finger hovered over a passage from Canto III as you passed the volume back to Victor, which he held in his right hand.
He cleared his throat once more and flexed his open left palm. You slid your hand into his and squeezed it. As he began to read, you settled in and closed your eyes again. His voice was melodic and rhythmic, one that could carry you to sleep.
They mourn, but smile at length; and smiling, mourn:
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthrall;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Victor started shaking. Your eyes flew open to check on him. He set the book on a small side table, his eyes wide and unfocused. You reached toward him, laying a hand on the softness of his linen shirt.
"What is it, Victor?" you asked soothingly, as if speaking to a smaller, younger version of the strange man you had chosen to accompany you tonight.
He swallowed thickly, yet could not speak. He merely shook his head.
Knock, knock. A hand rapped at the door that served as a barrier between the quiet mystery of the cosy library and the humming din of the party.
The door opened, revealing Maurice at the threshold.
"Ah!," he sighed, vindicated. "I have only been looking for you two for ages now. Bloody good use of my time, isn't it? What are you doing, even, reading books? Come on, then, Lady Killigrew is prepared to begin." Maurice stood at the door until you both rose and marched toward him wordlessly. The three of you walked the length of the corridor and returned to the parlour.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Lady Killigrew's guests had transformed from unruly, showy peacocks to a quiet, attentive audience. How eerie, you thought of the tonal and visual change of the parlour. Around half of the dozens of candles had been snuffed out. The warm glow around the room seemed to be a whisper of what it had been earlier.
A candelabra drew the attention the table at the centre of the parlour. It was the very same table upon which the woman once stood as she argued with the beady-eyed man. There were seven chairs: Lady Killigrew occupied the head of the table, while two couples sat with expectant, anxious energy. Two empty chairs sat across from Lady Killigrew, sandwiched between the two couples. You sighed to yourself, knowingly. She had saved those for us, hadn't she?
The remaining guests, who had not been invited to the table, circled them. They peered over their glasses and each other's shoulders to get the best view. Some murmured to their companions and acquaintances in low voices as they awaited the spectacle promised to them.
Lady Killigrew was a confident, minxy woman. She held herself as if she knew a secret. She commanded the room like a seasoned actress, a cunning lover and a merciless assassin.
The Lady snapped her head toward you, Victor, and Maurice. Her eyes locked firmly onto yours as she watched your little crowd approach her table. She lowered her gaze to the two empty seats, indicating they were reserved just for you. You felt Victor's hand touch the back of your waist. You glanced back and noticed fear in his eyes. She intimidates him, you thought. You shook your head reassuringly at Victor, smiled and pulled out his chair. He settled in stiffly, uncomfortably. Lady Killigrew ripped her gaze away from you two and silently thanked Maurice with a nod of her head
As you propped your elbows on the table, you drank in Lady Killigrew. An old friend, you had known her since you had come out to society. Raven hair, intense eyes, angular nose like a bird's beak, thin lips painted in an iridescent gold tonight. She wore her hair mounted upon her head. This, of course, was contrary to the fashion of the day, which encouraged a strong middle part and low chignon. This, of course, was entirely the point: Lady Killigrew thrived in differentiation and distinction. Small jewels had been braided in her tresses. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, peridots and amethysts dripped from her head to her ears, neck and chest. She wore a high-necked, forest green evening dress. You wondered if her collar was where she kept the ectoplasm she enjoyed spitting up during her performances.
Like Maurice, she had decorated her eyelids with thick streaks of charcoal, adding to the mystery, intensity and undeniable mischief of her being. Twenty years your senior, Lady Killigrew accented her crow's feet and frown lines with shimmery shadow and beauty marks. Your age difference, however, had not prevented you two from engaging in a casual dalliance a few summers ago. Purely a physical relationship with the undergirding of deep friendship, you had stopped pursuing anything further before romance could complicate your connection. One could have drawn a diagram of the pattern of similar dalliances you had shared with your friends and acquaintances. You never came close enough to a veritable romantic relationship. But, you thought, I shall save that examination for another day.
Lady Killigrew looked into the eyes of each of the guests seated around her table. Then, she addressed them by their first names, eschewing all titles and formality of polite society.
She looked to the couple on her left.
"Alexia. Connell."
Then, to the couple on her right, she spoke.
"Vanessa. Dorian."
And, finally, she faced you and your guest, who gulped audibly, and called upon you.
She breathed in deeply and exhaled. The entire room held its breath, as she raised her head to engage the crowd hanging on her every move.
"Tonight, friends and guests, we shall embark on a journey of soul and spirit unlike any you have before experienced and unlike any you shall ever experience again."
She then shifted her eyes to meet the individual gazes of each of you around the table.
"You, at this table, have the immeasurable honor of partaking in the transcendence of life and death, present and past, under my mystical expertise. You see, at every communion I hold, the spirits guide me to choose three of my dear friends and their guests to sit at my table."
You and Victor exchanged glances. You gave him an apologetic shrug.
Lady Killigrew laughed dryly, mirthlessly. "If you were not aware, you, guests, have been invited to a séance." The crowd watching the table tittered and laughed as the three guests wiggled in their chairs.
You shot a glance at Victor. We can leave at any point, you silently communicated. He shook his head no and frowned in concentration, as if to say quiet, I'm listening to the medium.
"I am Lady Killigrew," your host continued. "I have been called upon the spirits to tell their stories. Tonight, we shall doubtless encounter spectacles that shock us and leave us questioning our own religious teachings, nay, even our own realities. What we shall experience together can only happen here and now. Know, too, there is no magic nor deception. All brought to you this evening comes from the spirits who desire to make their voices heard."
She pursed her lips and allowed the gravity of her words to fill the air between her enraptured guests.
"To begin, I shall ask all gathered at my table to place their hands upon the surface, like so." Lady Killigrew demonstrated by resting her hands, palm-down, and forearms on the whiny, dark oak. A circle of limbs emerged upon the table. This forced proximity allowed you to reach out your pinky to Victor's very own. He stretched out his fingers slightly, so your pinkies would touch as the séance progressed.
"I endeavour to keep all souls, both of the present and the departed nature, safe tonight. Therefore, I shall guide us in the routine of the evening, beginning with an ancient incantation."
Lady Killigrew closed her eyes and tilted her head backward. "Holy divine forces, protect our friends and guests tonight from all rogue, malevolent and fiendish foes who may seek to disrupt, or worse, destroy the very essence of our beings."
You felt Victor's fingers shake slightly. You brought your pinky over his.
Her eyes popped open, and she sighed contentedly. "That is settled. This room is, henceforth, a sanctuary of spiritual awareness and communication. We reject and rebuke all else. Now, we turn to you, great spirits of the beyond. Enter the séance room!"
Was it your imagination, or did you feel a cold breeze upon the nape of your neck? A buzzing in your chest? These terrible nerves. I must remain calm.
Lady Killigrew shut her eyes once more. Underneath her lids, you saw her eyes darting back and forth. She furrowed her brow. She was searching for a spirit to bring forth into the séance room.
"Red, red, all red, blood red."
You heard muttering across the table. You knew Lady Killigrew's speaking voice intimately. Over the years you had attended her séances, you, too, knew the voice she put upon as a medium. Yet, this voice was different: lower, more gravelly, more distant.
"Red, red, all red, blood red."
Victor's pinky started twitching underneath yours. You looked at him through the corner of your eyes. His cheeks were fiery red.
Lady Killigrew gasped and flailed, as if rising for breath from the turbulent waves of the sea. She opened her eyes and rolled them to the back of her head. Then, in her medium voice, she spoke. "Spirit! I hear you, yes, I do. 'Red, red, all red, blood red,' you say. Stay with us, spirit! We wish to hear you, we do. All rest, leave this space at once!"
The table started shaking and bouncing upon the laps seated at the table. You felt the floor beneath your shoes. It was still.
Lady Killigrew raised her voice and pounded the table with open palms. "Speak, spirit! Speak! I command you! I am your medium, your vessel!"
She dropped her head suddenly, prompting a cry from among the crowd. The two other couples at the table stared at her with open mouths and wide eyes. You heard Victor swallow thickly beside you.
As she raised her head, she began groaning and growling, like an angry, threatened dog. Her visage had changed completely. The mischief and boldness of a seasoned séance socialite dissipated. This face, this new face, was stoic, determined and statuesque. You felt a shiver course through your body. This is not her! This is not her!
The low, gravelly, distant voice returned, heightened now. "Red! Red! All red! Blood red! I am the angel to whom you pray! I am the angel who guides and guards you! Fear me not, lest you fear your maker! For maker and you are one and shall be once more! Rise and receive your call!"
You could scarcely believe it when you felt Victor's hand clench and claw at the table beneath you. It was as if an animal had possessed his body. You tore your eyes away from Lady Killigrew. As if summoned, as if beyond his total control and free will, Victor stood and faced the voice emanating from the medium's twisted mouth.
At once, the parlour candles extinguished. All was utter darkness.
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Author's note: It took me a while to plan out and write this installation of Figure Study because I wasn't sure if it would best fit as a one-shot or the first chapter of an entirely new series. Yet, as I wrote it, I realised the Reader's voice is so undeniably the same as in Figure Study! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If it felt out of place or if you have any suggestions/feedback, I certainly encourage your thoughts!
If you are a fan of the written-for-a-modern-audience spooky Victorian genre, you may recognize the names of the four other séance guests around the table: Alexia (Tarabotti) Maccon and Connal Maccon from Gail Carriger's "The Parasol Protectorate" series and Vanessa Ives and Dorian Gray from Penny Dreadful (and, you know, Oscar Wilde). I love the crossover of spookiness and sensuality. This period lends itself to an exploration of this intersection, and I hope it came through the words.
Last author's note: I had initially planned for things to get smutty between Victor and Reader in the library, but the pacing didn't work for this round. Fear not, there will be more smut to come. Just a little delayed gratification for my frankenbabes.
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Historical note (feel free to skip if you're not a Victorian nerd): Speaking of Penny Dreadful, the character of Lady Killigrew and the design of the séance room came from an ICONIC scene from the show! In terms of the incantation steps and some of the language that Lady Killigrew uses, I used The Seven Stages of a Seance from Sarah Penner's The London Seance Society (which takes place ~20 years after the timing of GDT's Frankenstein). If you are interested in learning more about séances, I recommend Jamie Loftus' podcast "Ghost Church" and Genevieve Manion's podcast "My Victorian Nightmare." I have also heard that Alex Owen's The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Victorian England is good, but I haven't read it yet.
Lady Killigrew was a real person, though totally unconnected from the Victorian era and spiritualism.
This dress from the Met collection inspired Reader's outfit. (Yes, the dress is American and a little before GDT's timing, but still).
@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction aldjakjdajhsja thank you so much! I love your content, and I am so honored that you like the fic series 😭 your reactions are killing me in the best way 😭 😭 😭 [happy hand flaps] 🐦⬛ 👋
Pick Me Up | Marc Spector x you | Moon Knight One-Shot
Synopsis: Marc picks you up from the airport. When you come back to your shared apartment, Marc makes it clear how happy he is to have you home.
Fandom: Moon Knight (2022)
Who’s here: dom!Marc Spector x sub!brat!afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥 (explicit)
Content (warnings): one shot, no use of y/n, not beta read, Marc Spector smut, Steven Grant mention, Jake Lockley mention, Khonshu mention, ADHD Steven Grant, antidepressant mention, Gus the goldfish is still alive in this universe, Porn With Plot, bathroom sex, teasing, dirty talk, dom/sub, bathing kink, bratty reader, temperature play, orgasm denial, birth control mention, p in v, creampie, praise kink, slightly possessive Marc, loving and cute Marc
You: Hey, I’ve just landed. Thanks for waiting for me xx. <3 Wya?
Within seconds, Marc responded to your text.
Marc: Arrivals. Bt halfway down. Glad ur home. <3
When you had texted that cross-country flight had been delayed that morning, Marc had responded that he would pick you up. You had to admit–to yourself, of course, but not to the other boys–that you were relieved Marc would be driving you back home. Frankly, Marc was the clear winner behind the wheel.
Steven, highly defensive on the road, was terrified of cars. For him, going ten under the speed limit was dangerously close to speeding. He regularly slammed on the breaks with little warning and missed exits out of fear of merging.
“Scenic route’s just as good, innit?” Steven would mumble quietly to himself. You would groan and roll your eyes in equal parts affection and annoyance as the GPS recalculated.
And, Jake, well…Jake was terrifying behind the wheel. Even a trip to the pharmacy was a mission for him. He expertly, but aggressively, darted in between cars at top speed without flinching.
“All these fuckin’ people don’t know how to fuckin’ drive, and I gotta get my girl’s fluoxetine,” Jake would sneer at the sheer incompetence, as he called it, of everyone else on the road. You would cling to the passenger seat’s grab handle for dear life in equal parts admiration and horror.
Marc, though, was perfectly competent and content in the driver’s seat. He calmly managed traffic and tricky situations on the road. His eagle eyes and his confident decisiveness made him one of the best drivers you knew, full stop–and certainly the best driver for you out of the three boys.
You reacted to Marc’s latest message with a heart and slid your phone in your pocket. A warm, tingly tightness had spread over your chest. You peered over the headrests in front of you as fellow passengers rose from their seats and collected their bags. Impatient to move, you shook your leg as the line shuffled at a snail’s pace toward the jet bridge.
At last, it was your turn. You gathered your belongings and bounded out of the plane. You hastened your pace, weaving between other travellers and their suitcases. Catching up with passengers who had been rows and rows ahead of you on the aircraft, you pressed on through the moving walkways and escalators. The need to find Marc drove your every step.
After navigating the labyrinthine layout of the airport, you reached arrivals. Stepping through the automatic glass doors, a rush of brisk wind whipped at your face and neck. You rested for a moment and welcomed the biting, stinging air upon your skin. You closed your eyes and breathed it in its sharpness for a moment. The cold morning reinvigorated and enlivened you. It broke you out of the thoughtless mundanity of the airport and your earlier travels. Now, as the fresh wind danced on your face and traveled through your throat and lungs, you felt more awake, alive, and one with your body.
You opened your eyes once more and scanned your surroundings. Arrivals were packed today. Cars occupied every lane. Their bright, flickering turn signals and brake lights created an eerie, disjointed glow against the asphalt and concrete overhand. Some drivers honked at each other, and some came close to running into pedestrians in their hurry to exit the airport. Tires squealed as they braked abruptly and luggage wheels rattled on the austere, grey walkways. The sweet voices of reuniting loved ones carried across the mechanical racket of travel.
Willing yourself to block out the overstimulating colors and sounds, you rose on your tip-toes and squinted into the distance to find Mark’s car.
You first recognized the make and model of the car. Then, his familiar curls. Then, the cut of his jaw and his high cheekbones. The moment you reached his eyes, though, was the moment you were sure it was him, despite the distance and the tint of the window. Marc attentively watched the traffic. Outwardly, to someone who didn’t know him well, he would appear calm. He might have seemed pensive, perhaps, but nothing more than that. You, however, could read the deep concentration on his face and the searching vigilance in his eyes. Something was occupying his mind. Was he mentally planning his next mission? When was the last time Khonshu visited him? Or, was he simply, restlessly, awaiting you?
As if sensing your presence, Marc turned his head in your direction. His stoic visage transformed into a familiar softness when he saw you. Marc’s shoulders dropped, and his whole body seemed to relax into the leather driver’s seat. His eyes, once focused and analytic, grew warm. Sunshine and carlights cast moving shadows over his face, bringing out the different characteristics that you loved. When he smiled, a rare but genuine smile, the corners of his lips lifted only slightly. The crinkles of his eyes became more creased and prominent. A rosiness blushed on the apples of his cheeks. You waved to each other from a distance. You felt a lightness in your body, as if you were floating. It occurred to you that Marc almost resembled Steven when he looked at you this way.
Marc flicked on his hazards and stepped out of the car and crossed to the passenger’s side. Evidently, he had decided against wearing his coat. Marc was wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt. He leaned against the car, arms crossed, and cocked his head and watched you as you navigated the flow of rushing vehicles and foot traffic. With anyone else, you would have felt uneasy with this prolonged stare. Yet, you were accustomed to Marc’s intense eyes. All at once, you saw in him eagerness, playfulness, and—if you weren’t mistaken, and you never were—hunger.
As you approached the car, Marc leaned over and opened the backseat.
“You’re late,” he said, greeting you with a raised eyebrow and mock sincerity.
You threw your bags through the open door onto the seats and leaned in to give him a brief kiss on the cheek.
“What are you gonna do about it? Make me sit in the back?”
You opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. Marc peered inside.
“Don’t tempt me.” He shut the door carefully and returned to the driver’s seat.
You pulled out of arrivals and followed the signs to the highway. No talking, no radio. You only heard the constant, low hum of the car’s hearing system and the whoosh of the other vehicles on the road. You looked out the window and allowed your mind to wander as you soaked in the safety and companionable silence of this moment.
The highway stretched on and on in a long line of monotony and predictability. You could tell Marc was at ease. He was so familiar with the route, in fact, that he loosed his right hand off the wheel and reached over to caress your thigh with his fingertips.
This certainly got your attention.
You moved your attention from the world outside to this little world you and Marc had created together. You leaned toward him and interlaced your hand with his. His hand was strong and muscular but soft and warm. You ran your thumb over the top of his hand before flipping it over palm-up. With the tip of your index finger, you traced the lines, ridges, and calluses.
After a few minutes of playing with his hand, you glanced up. Marc was smiling.
***
You pulled up to the apartment you, Marc, and the boys shared together. Marc expertly parallel-parked on the street. He came around to meet you on the passenger side as you unbuckled and stepped out onto the pavement. You leaned against the car and looked up at him. He wore the same hungry expression from earlier that morning. He bridged the space between you and rested a hand against the car door, only a few inches away from your face.
He wasn’t one for public affection, so Marc’s proximity surprised you. Surprised, but not disappointed. At this angle, you saw the strength of the muscles in his forearm and bicep. The sunshine cast a glowy halo around him, defining his curls and the sharp cut of his jaw.
You reached out a hand to his face. “May I?”
Marc nodded in agreement, eager for your touch.
You cupped your hand behind his head and delicately caressed his cheeks with your thumb. You counted the tiny freckles on his forehead and above the bridge of his nose. He leaned toward you, playfully nuzzling his nose against yours. You giggled and heard him hum to himself contentedly.
The kiss was only awkward at first because Marc couldn’t stop smiling. You batted his face away and laughed.
“Lips! I want your lips, not your teeth!”
Marc straightened his face to look very serious. He had to purse his mouth to keep from cracking.
After some of the silliness subsided, you tried again. Marc’s lips were pillowy-soft and full, gentle and warm. He smelled clean and slightly musky and tasted of coffee. He loosened his hand from its resting place on the side of the car. He reached around to your neck and massaged it delicately before trailing his fingers down to your shoulder. His other hand snaked around your waist.
You were wrapped up in each other, intertwining the curves and heat of your bodies and breathing in each other’s scents. You ran your hands along Marc’s bare arms, feeling goosepimples under your fingertips. He moved a hand to the one of the buttons of your jacket, popped it open, and tugged you even closer.
“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured.
***
The apartment was practical but well-lived-in and cozy. Each boy had their own method of organization, so you could tell who last cleaned.
Marc was extremely efficient and neat, thanks to his military training. He couldn’t help but clear plates minutes after you finished a meal, line up shoes, and restock kitchen and bathroom supplies. He kept his clothes folded in his dresser and arranged by color in his closet. Before you, he had never heard of the concept of a “clothes chair,” and he regretted finding out as soon as you had told him.
Steven was naturally more disheveled and unconcerned with order. Always on a new hyperfixated side quest, he scattered himself around the apartment: books, video game consoles, printed-out articles, photographs, letters, sweaters and shirts, his nametag from work. He would leave his fidgets around the house and then go searching for them with a bewildered expression on his face days later.
“I last had my Rubik’s Cube on the couch, hadn’t I?” (No, he hadn’t.)
Steven tidied in bursts of energy. As if it suddenly occurred to him, he would stand up from whatever he was doing, cross the room, announce he was going to clean, and go at it for a few hours. His tidying method reflected how he approached life, really. He wandered until something grabbed his attention. Once it did, it took hold of him–intensely.
Jake hated cleaning, but he had found a workaround. Whenever the house was sparkling and smelling of astringent, pine-scented cleaner, you suspected that Jake had hired someone to deep-clean the apartment. You would later receive confirmation of when Marc checked his bank statement and groaned.
“The bastard stole my credit card to pay for the cleaning service. Again.”
***
The shoes were nearly organized in a line in the short hallway that led to the kitchen. The coatrack was neat. There were no errant scarves or hats, as everything had been carefully and nicely draped along the hooks before your arrival. You unbuttoned your jacket and hung it up as Marc unlaced his shoes.
He padded across the kitchen floor over to the coffee machine and poured himself a small mug. You watched him lean against the counter and exhale happily. He seemed relaxed and relieved to be back in your home, his safe place.
You kicked off your shoes and set them carefully beside Marc’s pair. You realized, now in the comfort of your apartment, how sore your body felt. You had woken up early to be shuffled from cramped place to cramped place. You felt like a crumpled piece of paper. Sighing audibly, you stepped on your tip-toes and stretched out your limbs. Marc took notice and watched you curiously.
You yawned. “Yes, Marc?”
He paused. “You’re tired?” Though technically a statement, it sounded more like a question when Marc asked it.
You shrugged. “I just need to wake up a little bit, you know? Get energized.” You yawned again, shook your head, and patted your cheeks to bring a little life back into your body.
Marc furrowed his brows and pursed his lips in thought. “Hmm. Okay. You could do some jumping jacks.”
You shot him an annoyed look and walked over to the large fishtank in your living room.
“Hi there, one-finned wonder,” you cooed to Gus, the little goldfish swimming in circles in the massive tank. “Have you been causing any trouble lately?”
As if he had heard you, Gus opened his little fish mouth and swam up to see you.
“Marc! Look! Gus has something he wants to say!”
Marc rolled his eyes and reluctantly put down his coffee mug–making a bit of a show of it, if you were honest–and strode over to the two of you. He held out his hands as if to say “and what?”
You put your hands on his chest and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. You noticed a smudge left from your lip balm and wiped it off with your thumb.
“Really? After all this time, you don’t have any affection for our son?”
Marc spun you around, so you were facing the tank again. He scoffed.
“Our son?” he said. “No, this cold-blooded thing belongs to you and Steven.”
“You’re calling Gus cold-blooded?! Our faithful pet?!” You pointed to the goldfish making bubbles and swimming around aimlessly, blissfully ignorant of Marc’s slander.
You felt him shrug behind you. “Dogs are pets. Fish are food. What do you want me to say?”
He had wrapped his arms around your waist by now. At this, you tried to wiggle away from him, but he only held you tighter to keep you from escaping.
You tried to be outraged, but couldn’t control your laughter. You smacked his arms playfully.
He spun you back around to face him. You continued scolding. After every word you spoke, though, he gave you a kiss to make you laugh even louder and smile even harder.
“You” – kiss – “are” – kiss – “just” – kiss – “terrible!”
With that, he held your face in his hands and kissed you on the mouth. He squeezed you tighter. You hummed under his kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck. You bit his lower lip, and he lowered his hands to cradle your hips. You ran your fingers through his hair and opened your mouth to welcome his tongue. He moaned and began trailing kisses across your jaw and down your neck. You angled your head backwards to give him the best access. He sucked gently on the dip below your jaw, and you rewarded him by scratching and massaging his scalp under your fingertips.
Marc continued kissing down your body and started shedding your clothes. Your sweater fell to the ground, and he kissed your shoulders, the notch of your collarbone, your upper chest. He fell to his knees and lifted your undershirt to sweetly rub his nose along your tummy. You giggled, ticklish under his touch, and felt him smile against your skin. He kissed your stomach as he fumbled with your bra and lifted it over your head.
Marc looked up at you under hooded eyes and long eyelashes. He didn’t break contact as he opened his mouth to take in your nipple. You breathed in sharply and tightened your grip on his head to pull him even closer. Feeling the sensations of his tongue and the vibrations of his mouth as he hummed and sucked, you wanted him to take as much of you as possible. Your eyes rolled back as the throb between your legs became stronger. He delicately took you between his teeth, mixing pleasure and pain all at once.
He soothed the radiating sting of his bites by lapping at your nipple. Then, he moved to the next side, repeating the intoxicating pattern. You whined, and his hands moved to squeeze your ass. He peered up at you again with a cocky, devilish look in his eyes.
“You like that, baby?”
You nodded and bit your lip.
“Tell me you like it when I have you in my mouth,” he encouraged.
“It feels so good when you’re sucking on me, Marc.”
“I bet you’d like me to suck somewhere else, huh? My dirty little girl likes my tongue all over her, doesn’t she?”
You moaned out your agreement.
He released his hold on your ass and brought his hands to your outer thighs.
Marc teased you.
“Do you want me to suck you here?” he said, hands still on your thighs.
You shook your head no.
“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.
“Higher,” you replied. Your face felt hot and red, and your heart raced in your chest.
He raised his hands to his hips, just skirting past the place you most craved his touch. You whined again, this time in frustration.
Marc tsked. “Use your words, or you won’t get what you want.”
“Please, go lower. I want your mouth on my clit.”
Marc unzipped your pants and lowered them. He kept his mouth just inches from the bundle of nerves that was currently causing you a great deal of pulsating distress. He took a finger and traced the slit underneath your underwear. You breathed in sharply. You could have sworn he laughed smugly to himself. Before you had a chance to question him, you felt his finger flicking your clit.
The sensations were powerful, but you wanted more. Marc could tell. He removed his hands and leaned back on his haunches. Your eyes flew open as you gasped.
“You think you deserve more?” he asked, reveling in the power he held over your desire.
“Yes, please, Marc, I need your touch. I need your mouth on me.”
He sat thinking for a moment.
Finally, he said softly, “I want you to follow me to the bathroom. We’re going to get you nice and clean, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”
***
Marc drew your bath as you wiggled out of your pants and underwear. Now fully naked, you prepared yourself by brushing out your hair and exfoliating your skin. Marc sat on a towel on the floor and kept a careful watch on the water, testing its temperature frequently and adding enough soap to make it feel sudsy and smell luxurious.
He rose from his spot and nestled himself behind you. You leaned into his strong, capable body as he ran his hands along your torso and thighs.
“So soft,” he murmured as he stroked your skin. “It’s time for your bath, love.”
He gingerly helped you sink down into the bath. The hot water stirred and briefly sloshed over the side of the tub. Neither of you cared. You eased into the caress of the warm water and arched you back to get more comfortable. Marc returned to the floor, leaning an arm on the tub.
He handed you a plush washcloth. “Wash yourself.”
You did as Marc instructed and began to wash up and down your arms. You collected the water in the towel and rung it out, letting droplets fall in rivulets atop your chest. Marc carefully eyed you as you tightened your grip around the cloth.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try to get in?” you asked, your voice drowsy and blissed-out. “I’m sure we could find a way to make you fit.”
“No,” he responded, decisively and assertively. You realized, then, that he had made his mind up long before you had even taken off your clothes. He wanted to play dom and tell you exactly what to do. “I want to watch you.”
Being a bit of the brat you were, you looked directly into his eyes and stopped washing yourself. You taunted him. “What do you want to watch?”
Marc grit his teeth, clearly frustrated by your disobedience. “I think you know,” he said, quickly and gruffly. “Now, do what I said, or I’ll have to punish you.”
You felt a liquidy warmth pool between your legs, a feeling distinct from the water around you, and let him have what he wanted.
You lathered up the washcloth with the bath bubbles and ran it over your skin. Then, you washed your hair with citrus-scented shampoo and conditioner. You closed your eyes as you massaged your scalp and rinsed the products out of your locks. When you opened your eyes, your gaze wandered to Marc. He couldn’t get enough. You listened to his breath, quick and ragged. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. As if completely unaware of his actions, you noticed him running his hands over his thighs. You swallowed thickly and narrowed your focus to the fabric growing tighter between his legs. His jeans were straining to contain the hardness inside. You felt another rush of wetness between your own thighs as you thought of how much he wanted to fuck you.
Almost involuntarily, you spoke for the first time in minutes. Of course, it came out bratty again. You kept your eyes between his legs and said, “Do you need some help with that?”
Marc was snapped out of his reverie. He frowned. Without breaking eye-contact, he reached down into the tub and pulled the plug. Water gushed into the drain. Using your feet, you tried to wrestle the plug away from Marc. He just stared, satisfied, at your feeble attempts.
Cocky and smug, again, he chastised you. “I told you what I wanted you to do. You need to learn to listen.” He replaced the plug, and the water stopped swirling out of the tub.
You narrowed your eyes in annoyance. How dare he try to take this luxurious bath away from you!
You kicked some water in his direction. It splashed mostly on his shirt. Little drops clung to his face, which he wiped off with an unamused look. You giggled, and he glared.
Marc took off his shirt, threw it on the ground, and crept across the bathroom floor to sit face-to-face with you. “What am I going to do with my little brat?”
Marc brought his hand to your face and touched two of his fingers to your lips. You opened your mouth greedily and took them in. You hummed as you sucked on them, anticipating a delicious “punishment” for your transgressions. You felt your walls quiver at the thought of Marc’s fingers inside them.
He pulled out his fingers with a pop and grinned. You returned his smile. He traced his wet fingertips over the water and dipped them towards your middle. You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply, preparing your body for his touch.
Yet, his touch did not come.
Instead, you felt a rush of cold water pooling at your feet. Startled, you yelped, but you tried to remain still.
“Are you going to behave now?” Mark asked, his hand resting on the temperature gauge and a lopsided grin still on his face.
You breathed in as you fought the cold stinging your feet and crawling up your ankles. “Yes, Marc, I want to behave now.” Despite your shock and annoyance, the words still came out breathless. You felt your whole body shaking with desire.
“Very good,” he replied. “I want you to touch yourself.” God, those eyes, you thought to yourself, his voice. “Everywhere. I want you to make yourself feel so good, knowing that I’m right here beside you. I’m going to watch you and tell you when I want you to come.”
You rolled your head back and started from the top of your body, pushing your wet hair out of your face and trailing your fingers down your neck. You held your chest and slowly rubbed it in small circles until you found your nipples. You pinched them, hard, over and over again. Moans and gasps escaped from you, and your hands wandered to your stomach.
At last, you reached your center. You found your slit and spread the wetness across your folds, up and down and up and down. You reached your clit and took a shuddered breath, making tight circles. Down, inside yourself, up your slit, pulsating your clit, over and over again.
Marc stared at you intently. You watched him unzip his jeans, reach into his underwear, and pull out his throbbing, leaking cock. You bit your lip to stifle a moan.
“I want you to beg me to touch myself,” he said. You raised your eyebrows, surprised. He hadn’t asked this request of you before, but you were intrigued.
“Marc,” you said softly. “Touch yourself. I need it.”
“Ask me again,” he responded, undeterred and unrelenting, “Nicely.”
“Please,” you pleaded, your voice breathy. You were already almost over the edge. “Please, touch yourself. I want it so bad. It’s the only thing I want. Please, please give it to me.”
“That’s my girl,” he growled as he wrapped his hand around himself and made deliberate strokes along his hardness. Marc was moving so slowly. You knew he was holding off on making himself come. You arched your back as you thought of what he had in store for you.
Your face and chest became warmer. Your breathing became shallower, your moans deeper and louder and faster. Your stomach started tightening in anticipation, and the throbbing in your clit started to hurt as you touched yourself and watched him do the same. Your whole body begged for release. Marc could tell.
“Not yet,” he commanded in a low voice. “Hold off.”
You groaned in frustration as you willed your body to slow down. You heard yourself pleading with him incoherently, asking him nicely to let you come.
“Will you behave me again, or will you put up a little bratty fight?”
“I’ll do whatever you want of me, I swear.”
Marc nodded. “Then, show me. Come for me. Now.”
You stopped fighting the tightness and the intensity. You surrendered your body to what it most wanted at that moment, shutting your eyes and crying out. Your legs shook, sending ripples and waves over the edge of the tub. You knew some of the water must have overflowed onto Marc, but he was completely unfazed–he remained transfixed on watching your body climax in the bath he had prepared for you, still slowly stroking himself.
When it was over, you slumped back and gave yourself a moment to breathe. Stars sparkled in your vision, and the edges of the world seemed softer. The bubbles had faded in the tub, but you had no idea how long you had been in this complete state of rapture with Marc by your side. Citrus, sweat, desire, and the luxurious scent of the dissipated bath soap mingled in the tub and enveloped your body.
As you sighed contentedly, Marc reached across the bathroom for a plush towel he had kept warm for you in a towel-heater. He helped you as you lifted yourself up in the bath, more careful this time to not make such a mess. Your legs still wobbly, he held your hand as you stepped onto the bathmat. He wrapped the warm towel around your body and pressed his forehead to yours.
“You did such a good job,” he breathed, leaning his body into yours. You could feel his cock hard and twitching against your stomach. “But, we’re not done yet.”
He drained the tub. Once you were stable enough, he decided to pick you up and carry you across the bathroom to the sink. You were limp and warm in his strong arms.
Marc set you down and turned you around, so your ass and upper back flush against the side of the long counter. With another towel in his hand, he began to dry you off, starting with your feet. He kissed every inch of the skin he patted dry. When he got to the spot between your legs, he teasingly, and infuriatingly, kissed your clit. You moaned, wanting so much more than just a kiss.
On his knees, he looked up at you and grinned wolfishly. “Not yet,” he said. “You need to be patient.”
He continues drying, caressing, and kissing your body. When he reached your chest, you gripped the counter. He licked, sucked, and bit at your nipples again until they started to hurt. The overstimulation of his mouth reignited the intense throbbing of your clit.
At last, he dried off your hair and threw the towel to the ground. You looked down, noticing he was still wearing his jeans.
Marc followed your eyeline and laughed. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Please,” you begged, remembering his request in the bath. You put your lips close to his ear as you spoke gently. “Please, can I take off your pants?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to.”
You wasted no time. You examined his nakedness and marvelled at his skin soft and his muscles taut and toned under the low light. He’s so hot, you thought to yourself, like you were fucking for the first time and not the hundredth.
“Can I please touch you?” you asked. He nodded.
You put a hand on his chest and trailed it down his stomach until you reached his hardness. You massaged him, tenderly at first then tighter and faster. He closed his eyes and moaned, biting his lip. Impatiently, he grabbed your ass to bring you closer to him.
He looked so fucking hungry. Shaking, you sat on the counter to stabilize yourself. His eyes widened, and he lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, you had made the right decision.
Putting a hand on each of your inner thighs, he said, “Open wide for me, and put your ass on the edge of the counter.”
You did as you were told. Though you were being submissive, you still felt a delicious surge of power move through you as he lowered to his knees. He kept his gaze up, and you loved seeing him in such a vulnerable and sexy position–one wholly meant to pleasure you. Your fingers curled around the counter, knowing what would come next. It was just a matter of when.
He kissed the inside of your thighs tenderly, but you didn’t want it tender. You wanted him to go hard and fast and make you beg for more. You could feel his grin in his kisses. He knew exactly what you wanted, but he was going to make you wait. When he, at last, ran his tongue along your slit, you almost broke open. It felt so sharp and so good. You cried out and felt his grin again. God, he must be so pleased with himself.
He went faster, burying his face into you. He dug his hands into your hips, a slight pain that kept you grounded in the moment. He changed the pressure and the rhythm, moving from fast to slow and hard to soft and back and forth and back and forth. He teased you, kissing, licking, and sucking on it, but never enough to make you burst. You undulated against his face and tied up your fingers in his hair. You pressed him even closer into you, telling him without words that you wanted more. As he kept working on you, heat spread throughout your core. Your face burned, and your vision was almost hazy. Feeling your stomach tighten and your breath quicken, you knew you were on the edge.
Reluctantly, you released your hands from his gorgeous curls. “Marc,” I breathed and whined. “I’m going to come.”
He looked up, but he kept his tongue on your clit. You bit your lip in desperation–near agony. Then, he tore his tongue away from you. You cried out as he pulled away and stood up. His mouth and jaw were covered in his spit and your wetness. “Turn around. Brace yourself on the counter.”
Legs unstable, you persevered. You scooted your ass off the counter and backed up to him.
With him behind you, he asked, “Are you still on the pill, baby?”
You had been on birth control for years, but Marc still always checked before going inside you without other protection.
You smiled and nodded vigorously.
Marc held onto your hips. You could hear delight in his voice. “I’m going to fill you up so good, baby.”
Your walls fluttered as he stretched open your cunt. You angled yourself down to be in the best position to receive his pleasure.
Marc hissed, “You’re so wet for me, so tight. You feel so good. All ready just for me.”
He buried his length into you and pumped rhythmically. Your bodies slapped against each other as his fingertips pressed roughly into your hips.
“You like it when you take it like this, huh?” he asked roughly, thickly. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”
“Yes, no one fucks me like you do,” you moaned, telling him the words he longed to hear. “No one could make me feel like this. Only you.”
“You won’t want to leave again, knowing how good this cock makes you feel? Say it.”
“I don’t ever want to leave again. I could live off this cock.”
“Mmm, yes, I know you could. I like hearing you say that. You’re so greedy, but I think you deserve a little treat.”
Your eyes fluttered in anticipation of his next command.
He paused, choosing his words. Then, he spoke. “Touch your clit as I fuck you.”
You used your left hand to steady yourself against the counter as your right hand reached down your body. Already, the sensations became too much to bear. You moaned louder, impatient to come again.
Marc knew you were close. He huffed and picked up speed in his hips. Your vision started to blur. You felt so in tune with him and with your body, as if everything else in the world melted away. In your gasps and moans, your skin and sweat, you couldn’t tell where he ended and where you began. The tightness in your stomach returned, and you knew you only had seconds before you came. This time, you couldn’t hold back.
“I’m gonna come, Marc,” you said.
He worked you harder, giving you everything you wanted. You bucked your hips and felt your shudder. You cried out, legs shaking uncontrollably. You had come, but he was still going inside of you. He worked on you deliciously and rhythmically until the point of his release.
When he was finished, he slumped his head on your shoulder. You spun around to face him and giggled at how cute and sleepy he looked all of a sudden–so contrary to the dominant persona he loved to take on when you had sex.
You ran your fingers through his hair lovingly and helped lower him to the floor for a bit of rest. You snuggled on his chest and ran your fingers tenderly along his collarbones and shoulder. He clung to you, completely spent.
You enjoyed a few minutes of silence together as you caught your breath and rested drowsily. Then, suddenly, Marc looked up at you and chuckled.
“What?” you asked beneath a grin.
He squeezed you tight and nuzzled your neck. “Nothing. I’m just really glad you’re home.”
Read the rest of the series here: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Synopsis: You, Victor's new friend and research subject, leave behind the laboratory for a night and attend a séance at an old friend's grand estate. As your relationship grows beyond scientist and figure study, a strange encounter leads you to question who Victor is...and what secrets his mysterious past holds.
Who's here: Victor x afab!reader
What to expect: 💚 (SWF / no smut); 🌀 (fantastical)
Content (warnings): séance, discussion of religion, spirits, afterlife, banter, flirting, explicit age gap (between Reader and OC), spookiness ensues, possession, overstimulated Victor, discussion of Victor's family backstory, rich Victorians ~not like other girls~, no beta reader so please ignore any mistakes or typos
Word count: 4.8k
Scroll down to the bottom for the author's note and the 19th-century historical note. Come for the smut yearning, stay for the history. Enjoy!
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
It pleases me greatly to extend an invitation to a most thrilling opportunity. I most verily believe we shall, together, explore the limits of ration and logic. Even your skilled mind of measure and reason shall find itself grasping for comprehension and explanation. You will believe what you do not see, and you will see what you had once thought you could not believe.
Such an opportunity as this is not so readily found in the quiet routine of a laboratory or even the ghastly spectacle of a medical college operating theatre. Indeed, what awaits you shall bend your concepts of reality and illusion, past and present, life and death.
Pray, of what do I speak, do you guess? And, will your guess prove correct?
Only time shall tell.
Should you find yourself intrigued and prepared to submit to the wiles and wonders of this invitation, please do meet me at the following date, time and address.
Most sincerely,
Your Loyal Friend
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
My Loyal Friend,
While I cannot deny my intrigue, I likewise cannot yet say I am prepared to commit myself to submission. We shall see how the night unfolds, shan't we?
Ghost stories 'round a fire? Dancing naked under the full moonlight in a graveyard? Building a sacrificial altar for the Devil? Whatever it may be, I am there.
Until we meet again, I remain most ardently yours.
V. F.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
The carriage wheels rattled upon slick, uneven cobblestones. Rain pelted the rooftop and obscured the view of the world beyond the carriage windows. Lights, shapes and colours on the streets of Edinburgh danced in blurry lines and fragments from your vantage point. It was late. Yet, friends and lovers, seekers and diviners, artists and writers, audience and actors still roamed in search of good fun and good drink.
You adjusted the sleeves of your bodice and felt for the decorative flowers at the nape of your neck. For this evening's festivities, shall we call them, you had selected a navy blue dress. It was soft to the touch and delicately embroidered with a black butterfly brocade. The silk fabric attracted the light of the blur outside. A brief shimmer radiated off of your dress when lamplight and angles converged at the right intersection.
You peered out of the carriage window. The outline of Lady Killigrew's estate appeared in the distance, as if in a dream. Having been there many times before for balls, parties and similar soirees as tonight's, the heavy rain could not obfuscate the familiar spires and arched windows of the gothic-revival architecture.
Lady Killigrew was a pseudonym, naturally. With a little digging, you were sure you could have ascertained her identity. Though you were an inherently curious, some might say even nosy, creature, you had to admit that you preferred the mystery of Lady Killigrew's anonymity. It was simpler this way.
The carriage driver whistled to his horse as you approached the estate. The horse slowed its trot and came to a stop. The driver helped you down from the height of the carriage and onto the pathway leading to Lady Killigrew's estate. You popped open your blood-red umbrella and stepped out into the storm.
Victor stood under an oil lamp a few meters from the entrance to the estate. The warm glow of the lamp bathed his features. A scowl, a furrow of concentration, a distant gaze and clenched jaw. A certain sense of rage and sorrow emanated from his being. Yes, he was Victor, without a doubt.
A black umbrella shielded him from the downpour as he scanned the dark night. For what? For you? Or, was he merely in search of answers for a scientific quandary?
Though his eyes, squinted and focused, moved intently to decipher the shapes and figures in the cloak of darkness, he still did not register your presence. You strode slowly to his side with a heavy trod. Perhaps, even if he would not recognize you, he would surely hear the click-clack of modest heels upon cobblestone.
You crept closer, until you were nearly under his umbrella. Still, he gazed forward, locked in a reverie only available to his eyes. You took this opportunity to examine your guest.
He sported a loose, linen shirt identical to the one you had last seen him wore in his laboratory. Only, this shirt was not as gratuitously stained and wrinkled as the previous. Victor either had copies of the same pattern and fabric (very possible, for a man as particular and efficient as he) or he had scrubbed and scrubbed the stains until they broke free from the threads (also very possible, if he were as skint as he claimed to be). You appreciated either option.
Over the shirt, he wore a black, weathered waistcoat. You were close enough to notice the tiny, white, embroidered diamond shapes on the lapels and chest, as well as a few errant threads peaking out behind seams. He had chosen standard, black slacks and a simple overcoat to complement the look. You saw evidence of stretching, pulling and sun-bleaching on the elbows and neckline of the coat. You wondered if the coat was once too small for him or, indeed, if its measurements had been designed to fit the body of another. A circle of gauzy, red fabric hung around his neck, masquerading as a cravat. From this proximity, you noticed he was freshly-shaven. The scent of aftershave, a surprising smell on Victor, wafted your way.
You decided to get his attention. You lowered your register and leaned in toward him. "I say, Sir, have you got your invitation?"
Victor widened his eyes and blinked. He looked down, clearly flustered, and started searching his pockets. He mumbled something to himself about not knowing he needed to bring an invitation. Empty-handed, he gazed back up at you.
You covered your hand over your mouth and laughed. You realised you enjoyed it when Victor was a bit bewildered and uncomfortable.
The panic softened and drained from his eyes. The crow's feet kissing the corners of his eyes wrinkled, and he burst into a grin. He echoed your laugh and moved closer to you.
"You devilish woman," he proclaimed, in mock frustration. "I could have fallen off of this sidewalk from fright, and then what would you have done?"
"What would I have done?" you asked, in amusement. "How should I know! What would you have done? You are the doctor, after all."
He rolled his eyes and bounced on the balls of his feet.
"I reckon I would have been bollocksed, I say," he replied.
"Capital observation, my good Sir." You held out your arm for him to take. "Shall we?"
He looped his arm in yours. Realising it was wet from the rain, you recoiled back.
"Victor!" you cried. "You are quite soaked!" You shook off your hand. Rivulets of raindrops flew back into the damp night air.
He bit his lip. "Yes, I would imagine so. It is raining, after all, Madame."
You two turned to walk to the entrance of Lady Killigrew's estate, each at a comfortably dry distance underneath your respective umbrellas.
You sloshed through the gathering rain underfoot. How was it he was so wet if he had taken a carriage as I did? You thought for a moment and then put the pieces together.
"Victor," you asked, hesitatingly. "Had you walked here with only your umbrella? My, it would have been--"
"Nearly two hours?" he finished your sentence. You heard a tone of self-pitying martyrdom that was not entirely put-upon for your amusement. It was now your turn to roll your eyes. "Yes, I hadn't a choice, really. Besides, I quite enjoy a long stroll. It gives one a chance to"--he breathed in deeply--"fully imbibe the city, no?"
Prideful man. You spoke. "Victor, had you needed arrangements for a carriage to attend, you only needed to communicate as such to me. I would have found a way, surely."
By now, you were only steps away from the entrance. You looked in his direction surreptitiously. You could tell he was a bit hurt by your offer, though, to you, it made all the sense in the world.
He bit the inside of his cheek and replied, "You are my good friend, Madame. Not my patron. I needn't your assistance."
You sighed and knocked at the door. As you awaited a response from the other side, you deliberately, and forcefully, slammed your umbrella into his. He staggered back and yelped.
"For what bloody reason?!" He stared at you incredulously.
You inspected the damage. "Is it broken?" you asked sweetly. "Oh, my, oh, dear, what a shame that is. It seems you will need a carriage tonight, I suppose." You turned back to the door and smiled to yourself.
He shook his head, which had been quickly made damp from the rain, and glowered up at you. "It is fine."
You knocked at the door again, more impatiently this time. "I do believe we shall have some fun tonight, Victor, shan't we?"
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
The man who welcomed you at the door was not an attendant or part of Lady Killigrew's staff. Rather, he was your friend, Maurice, dressed in the Lady's preferred fashion: provocative. He had decorated his eyes with thick lines of charcoal. He had painted his pursed lips with an ostentatious red. He wore a woman's corset over his bare skin--this was a decision that made you think ouch. It must have been uncomfortable without a slip to protect his skin. Yet, the attendant wore it with absolute glee and confidence. His pants were similar to Victor's standard, black slacks.
"Maurice," you greeted him and curtsied.
With a perplexed face, Maurice eyed your new guest up and down. "Did you invite this man?"
You brushed past Maurice and into the entryway. "Play nicely," you whispered in his direction and discarded your and Victor's umbrellas.
Victor trailed behind you like a lost puppy. You glanced behind him and witnessed him taking in all of the colours, the noises, the people and the beautiful, new chaos of Lady Killigrew's estate. People of all persuasions had gathered in the parlour. Some had dressed in costumes (one even appeared to be the late Marie Antionette's twin), and others opted for vibrant haute couture of the era. The other guests gathered in groups. Clearly, the drink from Lady Killigrew's stash had been flowing freely. They laughed boisterously and exchanged flirtations smiles with knowing eyes. They spoke too loudly and touched too frequently for polite company. One group in the centre of the parlour was having a lively debate. About what, you weren't sure, but you were quite transfixed at the woman standing on the table and angrily pointing to a man with beady eyes and a shocked expression.
Victor caught up with you, and you walked together towards the parlour in stride. "Have you ever heard of the expression," he said to you in a low voice. "There can be too much of a good thing?"
You turned on your heels to face him. You put your fingertips to his lapels, tugging at them and then smoothing them out. The new information presented to him in this room clearly overwhelmed him.
You spoke soothingly. "Are you feeling overcome?"
He nodded and looked at his feet. "I am ashamed. I cannot even handle a party," he muttered.
You tutted. "None of that, now. I do not quite know what it is like for you, having been so accustomed to this lifestyle for years now. Yet, I do understand and sympathize. This is all new, no?"
Victor kept his head hung low and did not respond.
You brought one of your hands up from his lapel to his chin. Raising his head, you looked him dead in the eyes and spoke sternly, "There is no shame here."
He gave you a tight-lipped smile and repeated, "There is no shame here."
You raised your hand to his curls. The storm had wreaked the most delightful havoc on them. You twined his locks between your fingers and smoothed out the most cowlicked parts.
"Very good," you affirmed him. You reached down to grasp one of his hands in yours. Victor gave you a surprised, almost fearful, look. His eyes roved over the crowd, as if worried this public display would ruin your reputations entirely. He was so transparent with his emotions, whether or not he knew it.
"Be not worried," you spoke under your breath. "No one will care, truly. Touch is not a sin here, not in the eyes of the church nor in the eyes of society. Now, let us find some privacy."
As you walked together out of the parlour and into an adjoining corridor, you ran your thumb comfortingly over the back of his hand. Several times throughout your journey to a quieter room, friends and acquaintances greeted you and Victor. They waved their hands or approached for conversation. You acknowledged them by name, and you both smiled kindly. However, you made it clear that you were unable to stop. Indeed, you had a mission to fulfill. Once this truth became known to the other guests, a few raised their eyebrows in admiration and whistled.
You reached the corridor and turned to face Victor. His face was as red as a beet. You reached for his arm to lay a calming hand. Though, to your dismay, he was still dripping wet from the rain. You flicked your hand toward the wall. "My God, Victor, you will catch your death. Let us find a fire to rest before and dry you off."
"That is a myth," he shrugged. "Perpetuated by the convergence of cold, wet weather in the winter and early spring and the increase of illness among the people. To think mere water could cause disease is, frankly, incorrect. Now, consider one is outside in unpleasant and inhospitable weather for several hours or days without access to a heat source, then, yes."
You began trying doorhandles, most of which were locked from the prying eyes (and, sometimes, hands) of party guests. At last, a door gave way. "This is promising," you muttered under your breath. "Now you shall have your opportunity to not die from the rain, eh?"
Victor groaned in response.
You peered in the open room, expecting to find a couple, or more, of people disrobed and bringing pleasure to one another. You sighed in relief. The room was completely empty, despite a roaring fireplace. Perfect.
You motioned for Victor to follow you. The room was small, but cheerful and cosy. Books, old and new, lined the wooden shelves that stretch across the length of the walls. Where there was, though little, available space for decorations, Lady Killigrew had hung painted portraits of her ancestors. Even from a distance, you could see their resemblance in their whimsical, crooked smile and mischievous, daring eyes.
Victor stood in the centre of the room and took it in. "This must be one of the libraries. A converted sitting room of sorts, I imagine, to entertain a small, familiar crowd. You build a room such as this for comfortable conversation, not to impress."
You marveled at Victor's astute, and correct, estimation. You then remembered what he had shared with you about his upbringing the last time you saw one another. Victor had come from some branch of nobility in Geneva. You wondered what his family's estate had contained--the books and sitting rooms, as well as the stories and secrets.
You made yourself comfortable on the plush, velvet settee before the fireplace. You stretched out your limbs and sighed in relaxation. Victor ran his fingertips over the leather spines of the books. "Incredible," he said to himself.
You patted the settee to get his attention before he became entirely enveloped in the library and lost all commitment to company and the evening's event. "Choose a book and come sit," you commanded. "And, you shall read it to me as we bathe in the firelight."
"Which book?" he asked over his shoulder. "There are too many to pick, and I know not what genre you prefer."
"Poetry, over there. Anything there, pray."
Victor paused. He was deciding whether to continue browsing the anatomy and medical sciences section or follow through with your preference. You heard him sigh as he reluctantly crossed the room in search of poetry. You could not help but smirk to yourself behind his back.
Finding the expansive poetry collection, Victor cocked his head to examine his options before choosing a small, blue volume. He padded over to the settee, taking off his overcoat and unbuttoning his waistcoat for comfort. He sat, cleared his throat and looked toward you for further instruction.
You plopped on the settee closer to him and grabbed the book from his hand. "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Lord Byron."
He leaned into you, as if to wrestle the book from your grasp, he laughed. "Be gentle, Madame!"
You smiled smugly and guarded the volume against your chest. At last, he relented. You thumbed through text. Unable to choose a certain selection, you resigned to choosing at random. You tilted your head onto Victor's shoulder and closed your eyes as you flipped rapidly through the pages. His long curls tickled your forehead. "Tell me when I should stop."
Victor was quiet for a while. The only sound you heard from him was his ever-increasing breath. You were nearly prepared to ask him if he had heard you when he spoke. "Stop!"
You opened your eyes. Your index finger hovered over a passage from Canto III as you passed the volume back to Victor, which he held in his right hand.
He cleared his throat once more and flexed his open left palm. You slid your hand into his and squeezed it. As he began to read, you settled in and closed your eyes again. His voice was melodic and rhythmic, one that could carry you to sleep.
They mourn, but smile at length; and smiling, mourn:
The tree will wither long before it fall;
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
The bars survive the captive they enthrall;
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.
Victor started shaking. Your eyes flew open to check on him. He set the book on a small side table, his eyes wide and unfocused. You reached toward him, laying a hand on the softness of his linen shirt.
"What is it, Victor?" you asked soothingly, as if speaking to a smaller, younger version of the strange man you had chosen to accompany you tonight.
He swallowed thickly, yet could not speak. He merely shook his head.
Knock, knock. A hand rapped at the door that served as a barrier between the quiet mystery of the cosy library and the humming din of the party.
The door opened, revealing Maurice at the threshold.
"Ah!," he sighed, vindicated. "I have only been looking for you two for ages now. Bloody good use of my time, isn't it? What are you doing, even, reading books? Come on, then, Lady Killigrew is prepared to begin." Maurice stood at the door until you both rose and marched toward him wordlessly. The three of you walked the length of the corridor and returned to the parlour.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Lady Killigrew's guests had transformed from unruly, showy peacocks to a quiet, attentive audience. How eerie, you thought of the tonal and visual change of the parlour. Around half of the dozens of candles had been snuffed out. The warm glow around the room seemed to be a whisper of what it had been earlier.
A candelabra drew the attention the table at the centre of the parlour. It was the very same table upon which the woman once stood as she argued with the beady-eyed man. There were seven chairs: Lady Killigrew occupied the head of the table, while two couples sat with expectant, anxious energy. Two empty chairs sat across from Lady Killigrew, sandwiched between the two couples. You sighed to yourself, knowingly. She had saved those for us, hadn't she?
The remaining guests, who had not been invited to the table, circled them. They peered over their glasses and each other's shoulders to get the best view. Some murmured to their companions and acquaintances in low voices as they awaited the spectacle promised to them.
Lady Killigrew was a confident, minxy woman. She held herself as if she knew a secret. She commanded the room like a seasoned actress, a cunning lover and a merciless assassin.
The Lady snapped her head toward you, Victor, and Maurice. Her eyes locked firmly onto yours as she watched your little crowd approach her table. She lowered her gaze to the two empty seats, indicating they were reserved just for you. You felt Victor's hand touch the back of your waist. You glanced back and noticed fear in his eyes. She intimidates him, you thought. You shook your head reassuringly at Victor, smiled and pulled out his chair. He settled in stiffly, uncomfortably. Lady Killigrew ripped her gaze away from you two and silently thanked Maurice with a nod of her head
As you propped your elbows on the table, you drank in Lady Killigrew. An old friend, you had known her since you had come out to society. Raven hair, intense eyes, angular nose like a bird's beak, thin lips painted in an iridescent gold tonight. She wore her hair mounted upon her head. This, of course, was contrary to the fashion of the day, which encouraged a strong middle part and low chignon. This, of course, was entirely the point: Lady Killigrew thrived in differentiation and distinction. Small jewels had been braided in her tresses. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires, peridots and amethysts dripped from her head to her ears, neck and chest. She wore a high-necked, forest green evening dress. You wondered if her collar was where she kept the ectoplasm she enjoyed spitting up during her performances.
Like Maurice, she had decorated her eyelids with thick streaks of charcoal, adding to the mystery, intensity and undeniable mischief of her being. Twenty years your senior, Lady Killigrew accented her crow's feet and frown lines with shimmery shadow and beauty marks. Your age difference, however, had not prevented you two from engaging in a casual dalliance a few summers ago. Purely a physical relationship with the undergirding of deep friendship, you had stopped pursuing anything further before romance could complicate your connection. One could have drawn a diagram of the pattern of similar dalliances you had shared with your friends and acquaintances. You never came close enough to a veritable romantic relationship. But, you thought, I shall save that examination for another day.
Lady Killigrew looked into the eyes of each of the guests seated around her table. Then, she addressed them by their first names, eschewing all titles and formality of polite society.
She looked to the couple on her left.
"Alexia. Connell."
Then, to the couple on her right, she spoke.
"Vanessa. Dorian."
And, finally, she faced you and your guest, who gulped audibly, and called upon you.
She breathed in deeply and exhaled. The entire room held its breath, as she raised her head to engage the crowd hanging on her every move.
"Tonight, friends and guests, we shall embark on a journey of soul and spirit unlike any you have before experienced and unlike any you shall ever experience again."
She then shifted her eyes to meet the individual gazes of each of you around the table.
"You, at this table, have the immeasurable honor of partaking in the transcendence of life and death, present and past, under my mystical expertise. You see, at every communion I hold, the spirits guide me to choose three of my dear friends and their guests to sit at my table."
You and Victor exchanged glances. You gave him an apologetic shrug.
Lady Killigrew laughed dryly, mirthlessly. "If you were not aware, you, guests, have been invited to a séance." The crowd watching the table tittered and laughed as the three guests wiggled in their chairs.
You shot a glance at Victor. We can leave at any point, you silently communicated. He shook his head no and frowned in concentration, as if to say quiet, I'm listening to the medium.
"I am Lady Killigrew," your host continued. "I have been called upon the spirits to tell their stories. Tonight, we shall doubtless encounter spectacles that shock us and leave us questioning our own religious teachings, nay, even our own realities. What we shall experience together can only happen here and now. Know, too, there is no magic nor deception. All brought to you this evening comes from the spirits who desire to make their voices heard."
She pursed her lips and allowed the gravity of her words to fill the air between her enraptured guests.
"To begin, I shall ask all gathered at my table to place their hands upon the surface, like so." Lady Killigrew demonstrated by resting her hands, palm-down, and forearms on the whiny, dark oak. A circle of limbs emerged upon the table. This forced proximity allowed you to reach out your pinky to Victor's very own. He stretched out his fingers slightly, so your pinkies would touch as the séance progressed.
"I endeavour to keep all souls, both of the present and the departed nature, safe tonight. Therefore, I shall guide us in the routine of the evening, beginning with an ancient incantation."
Lady Killigrew closed her eyes and tilted her head backward. "Holy divine forces, protect our friends and guests tonight from all rogue, malevolent and fiendish foes who may seek to disrupt, or worse, destroy the very essence of our beings."
You felt Victor's fingers shake slightly. You brought your pinky over his.
Her eyes popped open, and she sighed contentedly. "That is settled. This room is, henceforth, a sanctuary of spiritual awareness and communication. We reject and rebuke all else. Now, we turn to you, great spirits of the beyond. Enter the séance room!"
Was it your imagination, or did you feel a cold breeze upon the nape of your neck? A buzzing in your chest? These terrible nerves. I must remain calm.
Lady Killigrew shut her eyes once more. Underneath her lids, you saw her eyes darting back and forth. She furrowed her brow. She was searching for a spirit to bring forth into the séance room.
"Red, red, all red, blood red."
You heard muttering across the table. You knew Lady Killigrew's speaking voice intimately. Over the years you had attended her séances, you, too, knew the voice she put upon as a medium. Yet, this voice was different: lower, more gravelly, more distant.
"Red, red, all red, blood red."
Victor's pinky started twitching underneath yours. You looked at him through the corner of your eyes. His cheeks were fiery red.
Lady Killigrew gasped and flailed, as if rising for breath from the turbulent waves of the sea. She opened her eyes and rolled them to the back of her head. Then, in her medium voice, she spoke. "Spirit! I hear you, yes, I do. 'Red, red, all red, blood red,' you say. Stay with us, spirit! We wish to hear you, we do. All rest, leave this space at once!"
The table started shaking and bouncing upon the laps seated at the table. You felt the floor beneath your shoes. It was still.
Lady Killigrew raised her voice and pounded the table with open palms. "Speak, spirit! Speak! I command you! I am your medium, your vessel!"
She dropped her head suddenly, prompting a cry from among the crowd. The two other couples at the table stared at her with open mouths and wide eyes. You heard Victor swallow thickly beside you.
As she raised her head, she began groaning and growling, like an angry, threatened dog. Her visage had changed completely. The mischief and boldness of a seasoned séance socialite dissipated. This face, this new face, was stoic, determined and statuesque. You felt a shiver course through your body. This is not her! This is not her!
The low, gravelly, distant voice returned, heightened now. "Red! Red! All red! Blood red! I am the angel to whom you pray! I am the angel who guides and guards you! Fear me not, lest you fear your maker! For maker and you are one and shall be once more! Rise and receive your call!"
You could scarcely believe it when you felt Victor's hand clench and claw at the table beneath you. It was as if an animal had possessed his body. You tore your eyes away from Lady Killigrew. As if summoned, as if beyond his total control and free will, Victor stood and faced the voice emanating from the medium's twisted mouth.
At once, the parlour candles extinguished. All was utter darkness.
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Author's note: It took me a while to plan out and write this installation of Figure Study because I wasn't sure if it would best fit as a one-shot or the first chapter of an entirely new series. Yet, as I wrote it, I realised the Reader's voice is so undeniably the same as in Figure Study! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If it felt out of place or if you have any suggestions/feedback, I certainly encourage your thoughts!
If you are a fan of the written-for-a-modern-audience spooky Victorian genre, you may recognize the names of the four other séance guests around the table: Alexia (Tarabotti) Maccon and Connal Maccon from Gail Carriger's "The Parasol Protectorate" series and Vanessa Ives and Dorian Gray from Penny Dreadful (and, you know, Oscar Wilde). I love the crossover of spookiness and sensuality. This period lends itself to an exploration of this intersection, and I hope it came through the words.
Last author's note: I had initially planned for things to get smutty between Victor and Reader in the library, but the pacing didn't work for this round. Fear not, there will be more smut to come. Just a little delayed gratification for my frankenbabes.
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Historical note (feel free to skip if you're not a Victorian nerd): Speaking of Penny Dreadful, the character of Lady Killigrew and the design of the séance room came from an ICONIC scene from the show! In terms of the incantation steps and some of the language that Lady Killigrew uses, I used The Seven Stages of a Seance from Sarah Penner's The London Seance Society (which takes place ~20 years after the timing of GDT's Frankenstein). If you are interested in learning more about séances, I recommend Jamie Loftus' podcast "Ghost Church" and Genevieve Manion's podcast "My Victorian Nightmare." I have also heard that Alex Owen's The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Victorian England is good, but I haven't read it yet.
Lady Killigrew was a real person, though totally unconnected from the Victorian era and spiritualism.
This dress from the Met collection inspired Reader's outfit. (Yes, the dress is American and a little before GDT's timing, but still).
Pick Me Up | Marc Spector x you | Moon Knight One-Shot
Synopsis: Marc picks you up from the airport. When you come back to your shared apartment, Marc makes it clear how happy he is to have you home.
Fandom: Moon Knight (2022)
Who’s here: dom!Marc Spector x sub!brat!afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥 (explicit)
Content (warnings): one shot, no use of y/n, not beta read, Marc Spector smut, Steven Grant mention, Jake Lockley mention, Khonshu mention, ADHD Steven Grant, antidepressant mention, Gus the goldfish is still alive in this universe, Porn With Plot, bathroom sex, teasing, dirty talk, dom/sub, bathing kink, bratty reader, temperature play, orgasm denial, birth control mention, p in v, creampie, praise kink, slightly possessive Marc, loving and cute Marc
Word count: 6k
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
You: Hey, I’ve just landed. Thanks for waiting for me xx. <3 Wya?
Within seconds, Marc responded to your text.
Marc: Arrivals. Bt halfway down. Glad ur home. <3
When you had texted that your cross-country flight had been delayed that morning, Marc had responded that he would pick you up. You had to admit–to yourself, of course, but not to the other boys–that you were relieved Marc would be driving you back home. Frankly, Marc was the clear winner behind the wheel.
Steven, highly defensive on the road, was terrified of cars. For him, going ten under the speed limit was dangerously close to speeding. He regularly slammed on the breaks with little warning and missed exits out of fear of merging.
“Scenic route’s just as good, innit?” Steven would mumble quietly to himself. You would groan and roll your eyes in equal parts affection and annoyance as the GPS recalculated.
And, Jake, well…Jake was terrifying behind the wheel. Even a trip to the pharmacy was a mission for him. He expertly, but aggressively, darted in between cars at top speed without flinching.
“All these fuckin’ people don’t know how to fuckin’ drive, and I gotta get my girl’s fluoxetine,” Jake would sneer at the sheer incompetence, as he called it, of everyone else on the road. You would cling to the passenger seat’s grab handle for dear life in equal parts admiration and horror.
Marc, though, was perfectly competent and content in the driver’s seat. He calmly managed traffic and tricky situations on the road. His eagle eyes and his confident decisiveness made him one of the best drivers you knew, full stop–and certainly the best driver for you out of the three boys.
You reacted to Marc’s latest message with a heart and slid your phone in your pocket. A warm, tingly tightness had spread over your chest. You peered over the headrests in front of you as fellow passengers rose from their seats and collected their bags. Impatient to move, you shook your leg as the line shuffled at a snail’s pace toward the jet bridge.
At last, it was your turn. You gathered your belongings and bounded out of the plane. You hastened your pace, weaving between other travellers and their suitcases. Catching up with passengers who had been rows and rows ahead of you on the aircraft, you pressed on through the moving walkways and escalators. The need to find Marc drove your every step.
After navigating the labyrinthine layout of the airport, you reached arrivals. Stepping through the automatic glass doors, a rush of brisk wind whipped at your face and neck. You rested for a moment and welcomed the biting, stinging air upon your skin. You closed your eyes and breathed in its sharpness for a moment. The cold morning reinvigorated and enlivened you. It broke you out of the thoughtless mundanity of the airport and your earlier travels. Now, as the fresh wind danced on your face and traveled through your throat and lungs, you felt more awake, alive, and one with your body.
You opened your eyes once more and scanned your surroundings. Arrivals were packed today. Cars occupied every lane. Their bright, flickering turn signals and brake lights created an eerie, disjointed glow against the asphalt and concrete overhand. Some drivers honked at each other, and some came close to running into pedestrians in their hurry to exit the airport. Tires squealed as they braked abruptly and luggage wheels rattled on the austere, grey walkways. The sweet voices of reuniting loved ones carried across the mechanical racket of travel.
Willing yourself to block out the overstimulating colors and sounds, you rose on your tip-toes and squinted into the distance to find Mark’s car.
You first recognized the make and model of the car. Then, his familiar curls. Then, the cut of his jaw and his high cheekbones. The moment you reached his eyes, though, was the moment you were sure it was him, despite the distance and the tint of the window. Marc attentively watched the traffic. Outwardly, to someone who didn’t know him well, he would appear calm. He might have seemed pensive, perhaps, but nothing more than that. You, however, could read the deep concentration on his face and the searching vigilance in his eyes. Something was occupying his mind. Was he mentally planning his next mission? When was the last time Khonshu visited him? Or, was he simply, restlessly, awaiting you?
As if sensing your presence, Marc turned his head in your direction. His stoic visage transformed into a familiar softness when he saw you. Marc’s shoulders dropped, and his whole body seemed to relax into the leather driver’s seat. His eyes, once focused and analytic, grew warm. Sunshine and carlights cast moving shadows over his face, bringing out the different characteristics that you loved. When he smiled, a rare but genuine smile, the corners of his lips lifted only slightly. The crinkles of his eyes became more creased and prominent. A rosiness blushed on the apples of his cheeks. You waved to each other from a distance. You felt a lightness in your body, as if you were floating. It occurred to you that Marc almost resembled Steven when he looked at you this way.
Marc flicked on his hazards and stepped out of the car and crossed to the passenger’s side. Evidently, he had decided against wearing his coat. Marc was wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt. He leaned against the car, arms crossed, and cocked his head and watched you as you navigated the flow of rushing vehicles and foot traffic. With anyone else, you would have felt uneasy with this prolonged stare. Yet, you were accustomed to Marc’s intense eyes. All at once, you saw in him eagerness, playfulness, and—if you weren’t mistaken, and you never were—hunger.
As you approached the car, Marc leaned over and opened the backseat.
“You’re late,” he said, greeting you with a raised eyebrow and mock sincerity.
You threw your bags through the open door onto the seats and leaned in to give him a brief kiss on the cheek.
“What are you gonna do about it? Make me sit in the back?”
You opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. Marc peered inside.
“Don’t tempt me.” He shut the door carefully and returned to the driver’s seat.
You pulled out of arrivals and followed the signs to the highway. No talking, no radio. You only heard the constant, low hum of the car’s hearing system and the whoosh of the other vehicles on the road. You looked out the window and allowed your mind to wander as you soaked in the safety and companionable silence of this moment.
The highway stretched on and on in a long line of monotony and predictability. You could tell Marc was at ease. He was so familiar with the route, in fact, that he loosed his right hand off the wheel and reached over to caress your thigh with his fingertips.
This certainly got your attention.
You moved your attention from the world outside to this little world you and Marc had created together. You leaned toward him and interlaced your hand with his. His hand was strong and muscular but soft and warm. You ran your thumb over the top of his hand before flipping it over palm-up. With the tip of your index finger, you traced the lines, ridges, and calluses.
After a few minutes of playing with his hand, you glanced up. Marc was smiling.
***
You pulled up to the apartment you, Marc, and the boys shared together. Marc expertly parallel-parked on the street. He came around to meet you on the passenger side as you unbuckled and stepped out onto the pavement. You leaned against the car and looked up at him. He wore the same hungry expression from earlier that morning. He bridged the space between you and rested a hand against the car door, only a few inches away from your face.
He wasn’t one for public affection, so Marc’s proximity surprised you. Surprised, but not disappointed. At this angle, you saw the strength of the muscles in his forearm and bicep. The sunshine cast a glowy halo around him, defining his curls and the sharp cut of his jaw.
You reached out a hand to his face. “May I?”
Marc nodded in agreement, eager for your touch.
You cupped your hand behind his head and delicately caressed his cheeks with your thumb. You counted the tiny freckles on his forehead and above the bridge of his nose. He leaned toward you, playfully nuzzling his nose against yours. You giggled and heard him hum to himself contentedly.
The kiss was only awkward at first because Marc couldn’t stop smiling. You batted his face away and laughed.
“Lips! I want your lips, not your teeth!”
Marc straightened his face to look very serious. He had to purse his mouth to keep from cracking.
After some of the silliness subsided, you tried again. Marc’s lips were pillowy-soft and full, gentle and warm. He smelled clean and slightly musky and tasted of coffee. He loosened his hand from its resting place on the side of the car. He reached around to your neck and massaged it delicately before trailing his fingers down to your shoulder. His other hand snaked around your waist.
You were wrapped up in each other, intertwining the curves and heat of your bodies and breathing in each other’s scents. You ran your hands along Marc’s bare arms, feeling goosepimples under your fingertips. He moved a hand to the one of the buttons of your jacket, popped it open, and tugged you even closer.
“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured.
***
The apartment was practical but well-lived-in and cozy. Each boy had their own method of organization, so you could tell who last cleaned.
Marc was extremely efficient and neat, thanks to his military training. He couldn’t help but clear plates minutes after you finished a meal, line up shoes, and restock kitchen and bathroom supplies. He kept his clothes folded in his dresser and arranged by color in his closet. Before you, he had never heard of the concept of a “clothes chair,” and he regretted finding out as soon as you had told him.
Steven was naturally more disheveled and unconcerned with order. Always on a new hyperfixated side quest, he scattered himself around the apartment: books, video game consoles, printed-out articles, photographs, letters, sweaters and shirts, his nametag from work. He would leave his fidgets around the house and then go searching for them with a bewildered expression on his face days later.
“I last had my Rubik’s Cube on the couch, hadn’t I?” (No, he hadn’t.)
Steven tidied in bursts of energy. As if it suddenly occurred to him, he would stand up from whatever he was doing, cross the room, announce he was going to clean, and go at it for a few hours. His tidying method reflected how he approached life, really. He wandered until something grabbed his attention. Once it did, it took hold of him–intensely.
Jake hated cleaning, but he had found a workaround. Whenever the house was sparkling and smelling of astringent, pine-scented cleaner, you suspected that Jake had hired someone to deep-clean the apartment. You would later receive confirmation of when Marc checked his bank statement and groaned.
“The bastard stole my credit card to pay for the cleaning service. Again.”
***
The shoes were nearly organized in a line in the short hallway that led to the kitchen. The coatrack was neat. There were no errant scarves or hats, as everything had been carefully and nicely draped along the hooks before your arrival. You unbuttoned your jacket and hung it up as Marc unlaced his shoes.
He padded across the kitchen floor over to the coffee machine and poured himself a small mug. You watched him lean against the counter and exhale happily. He seemed relaxed and relieved to be back in your home, his safe place.
You kicked off your shoes and set them carefully beside Marc’s pair. You realized, now in the comfort of your apartment, how sore your body felt. You had woken up early to be shuffled from cramped place to cramped place. You felt like a crumpled piece of paper. Sighing audibly, you stepped on your tip-toes and stretched out your limbs. Marc took notice and watched you curiously.
You yawned. “Yes, Marc?”
He paused. “You’re tired?” Though technically a statement, it sounded more like a question when Marc asked it.
You shrugged. “I just need to wake up a little bit, you know? Get energized.” You yawned again, shook your head, and patted your cheeks to bring a little life back into your body.
Marc furrowed his brows and pursed his lips in thought. “Hmm. Okay. You could do some jumping jacks.”
You shot him an annoyed look and walked over to the large fishtank in your living room.
“Hi there, one-finned wonder,” you cooed to Gus, the little goldfish swimming in circles in the massive tank. “Have you been causing any trouble lately?”
As if he had heard you, Gus opened his little fish mouth and swam up to see you.
“Marc! Look! Gus has something he wants to say!”
Marc rolled his eyes and reluctantly put down his coffee mug–making a bit of a show of it, if you were honest–and strode over to the two of you. He held out his hands as if to say “and what?”
You put your hands on his chest and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. You noticed a smudge left from your lip balm and wiped it off with your thumb.
“Really? After all this time, you don’t have any affection for our son?”
Marc spun you around, so you were facing the tank again. He scoffed.
“Our son?” he said. “No, this cold-blooded thing belongs to you and Steven.”
“You’re calling Gus cold-blooded?! Our faithful pet?!” You pointed to the goldfish making bubbles and swimming around aimlessly, blissfully ignorant of Marc’s slander.
You felt him shrug behind you. “Dogs are pets. Fish are food. What do you want me to say?”
He had wrapped his arms around your waist by now. At this, you tried to wiggle away from him, but he only held you tighter to keep you from escaping.
You tried to be outraged, but couldn’t control your laughter. You smacked his arms playfully.
He spun you back around to face him. You continued scolding. After every word you spoke, though, he gave you a kiss to make you laugh even louder and smile even harder.
“You” – kiss – “are” – kiss – “just” – kiss – “terrible!”
With that, he held your face in his hands and kissed you on the mouth. He squeezed you tighter. You hummed under his kiss and wrapped your arms around his neck. You bit his lower lip, and he lowered his hands to cradle your hips. You ran your fingers through his hair and opened your mouth to welcome his tongue. He moaned and began trailing kisses across your jaw and down your neck. You angled your head backwards to give him the best access. He sucked gently on the dip below your jaw, and you rewarded him by scratching and massaging his scalp under your fingertips.
Marc continued kissing down your body and started shedding your clothes. Your sweater fell to the ground, and he kissed your shoulders, the notch of your collarbone, your upper chest. He fell to his knees and lifted your undershirt to sweetly rub his nose along your tummy. You giggled, ticklish under his touch, and felt him smile against your skin. He kissed your stomach as he fumbled with your bra and lifted it over your head.
Marc looked up at you under hooded eyes and long eyelashes. He didn’t break contact as he opened his mouth to take in your nipple. You breathed in sharply and tightened your grip on his head to pull him even closer. Feeling the sensations of his tongue and the vibrations of his mouth as he hummed and sucked, you wanted him to take as much of you as possible. Your eyes rolled back as the throb between your legs became stronger. He delicately took you between his teeth, mixing pleasure and pain all at once.
He soothed the radiating sting of his bites by lapping at your nipple. Then, he moved to the next side, repeating the intoxicating pattern. You whined, and his hands moved to squeeze your ass. He peered up at you again with a cocky, devilish look in his eyes.
“You like that, baby?”
You nodded and bit your lip.
“Tell me you like it when I have you in my mouth,” he encouraged.
“It feels so good when you’re sucking on me, Marc.”
“I bet you’d like me to suck somewhere else, huh? My dirty little girl likes my tongue all over her, doesn’t she?”
You moaned out your agreement.
He released his hold on your ass and brought his hands to your outer thighs.
Marc teased you.
“Do you want me to suck you here?” he said, hands still on your thighs.
You shook your head no.
“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.
“Higher,” you replied. Your face felt hot and red, and your heart raced in your chest.
He raised his hands to his hips, just skirting past the place you most craved his touch. You whined again, this time in frustration.
Marc tsked. “Use your words, or you won’t get what you want.”
“Please, go lower. I want your mouth on my clit.”
Marc unzipped your pants and lowered them. He kept his mouth just inches from the bundle of nerves that was currently causing you a great deal of pulsating distress. He took a finger and traced the slit underneath your underwear. You breathed in sharply. You could have sworn he laughed smugly to himself. Before you had a chance to question him, you felt his finger flicking your clit.
The sensations were powerful, but you wanted more. Marc could tell. He removed his hands and leaned back on his haunches. Your eyes flew open as you gasped.
“You think you deserve more?” he asked, reveling in the power he held over your desire.
“Yes, please, Marc, I need your touch. I need your mouth on me.”
He sat thinking for a moment.
Finally, he said softly, “I want you to follow me to the bathroom. We’re going to get you nice and clean, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t think straight.”
***
Marc drew your bath as you wiggled out of your pants and underwear. Now fully naked, you prepared yourself by brushing out your hair and exfoliating your skin. Marc sat on a towel on the floor and kept a careful watch on the water, testing its temperature frequently and adding enough soap to make it feel sudsy and smell luxurious.
He rose from his spot and nestled himself behind you. You leaned into his strong, capable body as he ran his hands along your torso and thighs.
“So soft,” he murmured as he stroked your skin. “It’s time for your bath, love.”
He gingerly helped you sink down into the bath. The hot water stirred and briefly sloshed over the side of the tub. Neither of you cared. You eased into the caress of the warm water and arched you back to get more comfortable. Marc returned to the floor, leaning an arm on the tub.
He handed you a plush washcloth. “Wash yourself.”
You did as Marc instructed and began to wash up and down your arms. You collected the water in the towel and rung it out, letting droplets fall in rivulets atop your chest. Marc carefully eyed you as you tightened your grip around the cloth.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try to get in?” you asked, your voice drowsy and blissed-out. “I’m sure we could find a way to make you fit.”
“No,” he responded, decisively and assertively. You realized, then, that he had made his mind up long before you had even taken off your clothes. He wanted to play dom and tell you exactly what to do. “I want to watch you.”
Being a bit of the brat you were, you looked directly into his eyes and stopped washing yourself. You taunted him. “What do you want to watch?”
Marc grit his teeth, clearly frustrated by your disobedience. “I think you know,” he said, quickly and gruffly. “Now, do what I said, or I’ll have to punish you.”
You felt a liquidy warmth pool between your legs, a feeling distinct from the water around you, and let him have what he wanted.
You lathered up the washcloth with the bath bubbles and ran it over your skin. Then, you washed your hair with citrus-scented shampoo and conditioner. You closed your eyes as you massaged your scalp and rinsed the products out of your locks. When you opened your eyes, your gaze wandered to Marc. He couldn’t get enough. You listened to his breath, quick and ragged. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. As if completely unaware of his actions, you noticed him running his hands over his thighs. You swallowed thickly and narrowed your focus to the fabric growing tighter between his legs. His jeans were straining to contain the hardness inside. You felt another rush of wetness between your own thighs as you thought of how much he wanted to fuck you.
Almost involuntarily, you spoke for the first time in minutes. Of course, it came out bratty again. You kept your eyes between his legs and said, “Do you need some help with that?”
Marc was snapped out of his reverie. He frowned. Without breaking eye-contact, he reached down into the tub and pulled the plug. Water gushed into the drain. Using your feet, you tried to wrestle the plug away from Marc. He just stared, satisfied, at your feeble attempts.
Cocky and smug, again, he chastised you. “I told you what I wanted you to do. You need to learn to listen.” He replaced the plug, and the water stopped swirling out of the tub.
You narrowed your eyes in annoyance. How dare he try to take this luxurious bath away from you!
You kicked some water in his direction. It splashed mostly on his shirt. Little drops clung to his face, which he wiped off with an unamused look. You giggled, and he glared.
Marc took off his shirt, threw it on the ground, and crept across the bathroom floor to sit face-to-face with you. “What am I going to do with my little brat?”
Marc brought his hand to your face and touched two of his fingers to your lips. You opened your mouth greedily and took them in. You hummed as you sucked on them, anticipating a delicious “punishment” for your transgressions. You felt your walls quiver at the thought of Marc’s fingers inside them.
He pulled out his fingers with a pop and grinned. You returned his smile. He traced his wet fingertips over the water and dipped them towards your middle. You closed your eyes and exhaled deeply, preparing your body for his touch.
Yet, his touch did not come.
Instead, you felt a rush of cold water pooling at your feet. Startled, you yelped, but you tried to remain still.
“Are you going to behave now?” Mark asked, his hand resting on the temperature gauge and a lopsided grin still on his face.
You breathed in as you fought the cold stinging your feet and crawling up your ankles. “Yes, Marc, I want to behave now.” Despite your shock and annoyance, the words still came out breathless. You felt your whole body shaking with desire.
“Very good,” he replied. “I want you to touch yourself.” God, those eyes, you thought to yourself, his voice. “Everywhere. I want you to make yourself feel so good, knowing that I’m right here beside you. I’m going to watch you and tell you when I want you to come.”
You rolled your head back and started from the top of your body, pushing your wet hair out of your face and trailing your fingers down your neck. You held your chest and slowly rubbed it in small circles until you found your nipples. You pinched them, hard, over and over again. Moans and gasps escaped from you, and your hands wandered to your stomach.
At last, you reached your center. You found your slit and spread the wetness across your folds, up and down and up and down. You reached your clit and took a shuddered breath, making tight circles. Down, inside yourself, up your slit, pulsating your clit, over and over again.
Marc stared at you intently. You watched him unzip his jeans, reach into his underwear, and pull out his throbbing, leaking cock. You bit your lip to stifle a moan.
“I want you to beg me to touch myself,” he said. You raised your eyebrows, surprised. He hadn’t asked this request of you before, but you were intrigued.
“Marc,” you said softly. “Touch yourself. I need it.”
“Ask me again,” he responded, undeterred and unrelenting, “Nicely.”
“Please,” you pleaded, your voice breathy. You were already almost over the edge. “Please, touch yourself. I want it so bad. It’s the only thing I want. Please, please give it to me.”
“That’s my girl,” he growled as he wrapped his hand around himself and made deliberate strokes along his hardness. Marc was moving so slowly. You knew he was holding off on making himself come. You arched your back as you thought of what he had in store for you.
Your face and chest became warmer. Your breathing became shallower, your moans deeper and louder and faster. Your stomach started tightening in anticipation, and the throbbing in your clit started to hurt as you touched yourself and watched him do the same. Your whole body begged for release. Marc could tell.
“Not yet,” he commanded in a low voice. “Hold off.”
You groaned in frustration as you willed your body to slow down. You heard yourself pleading with him incoherently, asking him nicely to let you come.
“Will you behave me again, or will you put up a little bratty fight?”
“I’ll do whatever you want of me, I swear.”
Marc nodded. “Then, show me. Come for me. Now.”
You stopped fighting the tightness and the intensity. You surrendered your body to what it most wanted at that moment, shutting your eyes and crying out. Your legs shook, sending ripples and waves over the edge of the tub. You knew some of the water must have overflowed onto Marc, but he was completely unfazed–he remained transfixed on watching your body climax in the bath he had prepared for you, still slowly stroking himself.
When it was over, you slumped back and gave yourself a moment to breathe. Stars sparkled in your vision, and the edges of the world seemed softer. The bubbles had faded in the tub, but you had no idea how long you had been in this complete state of rapture with Marc by your side. Citrus, sweat, desire, and the luxurious scent of the dissipated bath soap mingled in the tub and enveloped your body.
As you sighed contentedly, Marc reached across the bathroom for a plush towel he had kept warm for you in a towel-heater. He helped you as you lifted yourself up in the bath, more careful this time to not make such a mess. Your legs still wobbly, he held your hand as you stepped onto the bathmat. He wrapped the warm towel around your body and pressed his forehead to yours.
“You did such a good job,” he breathed, leaning his body into yours. You could feel his cock hard and twitching against your stomach. “But, we’re not done yet.”
He drained the tub. Once you were stable enough, he decided to pick you up and carry you across the bathroom to the sink. You were limp and warm in his strong arms.
Marc set you down and turned you around, so your ass and upper back flush against the side of the long counter. With another towel in his hand, he began to dry you off, starting with your feet. He kissed every inch of the skin he patted dry. When he got to the spot between your legs, he teasingly, and infuriatingly, kissed your clit. You moaned, wanting so much more than just a kiss.
On his knees, he looked up at you and grinned wolfishly. “Not yet,” he said. “You need to be patient.”
He continues drying, caressing, and kissing your body. When he reached your chest, you gripped the counter. He licked, sucked, and bit at your nipples again until they started to hurt. The overstimulation of his mouth reignited the intense throbbing of your clit.
At last, he dried off your hair and threw the towel to the ground. You looked down, noticing he was still wearing his jeans.
Marc followed your eyeline and laughed. “Is there something you want to ask me?”
“Please,” you begged, remembering his request in the bath. You put your lips close to his ear as you spoke gently. “Please, can I take off your pants?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to.”
You wasted no time. You examined his nakedness and marvelled at his skin soft and his muscles taut and toned under the low light. He’s so hot, you thought to yourself, like you were fucking for the first time and not the hundredth.
“Can I please touch you?” you asked. He nodded.
You put a hand on his chest and trailed it down his stomach until you reached his hardness. You massaged him, tenderly at first then tighter and faster. He closed his eyes and moaned, biting his lip. Impatiently, he grabbed your ass to bring you closer to him.
He looked so fucking hungry. Shaking, you sat on the counter to stabilize yourself. His eyes widened, and he lifted his eyebrows. Apparently, you had made the right decision.
Putting a hand on each of your inner thighs, he said, “Open wide for me, and put your ass on the edge of the counter.”
You did as you were told. Though you were being submissive, you still felt a delicious surge of power move through you as he lowered to his knees. He kept his gaze up, and you loved seeing him in such a vulnerable and sexy position–one wholly meant to pleasure you. Your fingers curled around the counter, knowing what would come next. It was just a matter of when.
He kissed the inside of your thighs tenderly, but you didn’t want it tender. You wanted him to go hard and fast and make you beg for more. You could feel his grin in his kisses. He knew exactly what you wanted, but he was going to make you wait. When he, at last, ran his tongue along your slit, you almost broke open. It felt so sharp and so good. You cried out and felt his grin again. God, he must be so pleased with himself.
He went faster, burying his face into you. He dug his hands into your hips, a slight pain that kept you grounded in the moment. He changed the pressure and the rhythm, moving from fast to slow and hard to soft and back and forth and back and forth. He teased you, kissing, licking, and sucking on it, but never enough to make you burst. You undulated against his face and tied up your fingers in his hair. You pressed him even closer into you, telling him without words that you wanted more. As he kept working on you, heat spread throughout your core. Your face burned, and your vision was almost hazy. Feeling your stomach tighten and your breath quicken, you knew you were on the edge.
Reluctantly, you released your hands from his gorgeous curls. “Marc,” I breathed and whined. “I’m going to come.”
He looked up, but he kept his tongue on your clit. You bit your lip in desperation–near agony. Then, he tore his tongue away from you. You cried out as he pulled away and stood up. His mouth and jaw were covered in his spit and your wetness. “Turn around. Brace yourself on the counter.”
Legs unstable, you persevered. You scooted your ass off the counter and backed up to him.
With him behind you, he asked, “Are you still on the pill, baby?”
You had been on birth control for years, but Marc still always checked before going inside you without other protection.
You smiled and nodded vigorously.
Marc held onto your hips. You could hear delight in his voice. “I’m going to fill you up so good, baby.”
Your walls fluttered as he stretched open your cunt. You angled yourself down to be in the best position to receive his pleasure.
Marc hissed, “You’re so wet for me, so tight. You feel so good. All ready just for me.”
He buried his length into you and pumped rhythmically. Your bodies slapped against each other as his fingertips pressed roughly into your hips.
“You like it when you take it like this, huh?” he asked roughly, thickly. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”
“Yes, no one fucks me like you do,” you moaned, telling him the words he longed to hear. “No one could make me feel like this. Only you.”
“You won’t want to leave again, knowing how good this cock makes you feel? Say it.”
“I don’t ever want to leave again. I could live off this cock.”
“Mmm, yes, I know you could. I like hearing you say that. You’re so greedy, but I think you deserve a little treat.”
Your eyes fluttered in anticipation of his next command.
He paused, choosing his words. Then, he spoke. “Touch your clit as I fuck you.”
You used your left hand to steady yourself against the counter as your right hand reached down your body. Already, the sensations became too much to bear. You moaned louder, impatient to come again.
Marc knew you were close. He huffed and picked up speed in his hips. Your vision started to blur. You felt so in tune with him and with your body, as if everything else in the world melted away. In your gasps and moans, your skin and sweat, you couldn’t tell where he ended and where you began. The tightness in your stomach returned, and you knew you only had seconds before you came. This time, you couldn’t hold back.
“I’m gonna come, Marc,” you said.
He worked you harder, giving you everything you wanted. You bucked your hips and felt your shudder. You cried out, legs shaking uncontrollably. You had come, but he was still going inside of you. He worked on you deliciously and rhythmically until the point of his release.
When he was finished, he slumped his head on your shoulder. You spun around to face him and giggled at how cute and sleepy he looked all of a sudden–so contrary to the dominant persona he loved to take on when you had sex.
You ran your fingers through his hair lovingly and helped lower him to the floor for a bit of rest. You snuggled on his chest and ran your fingers tenderly along his collarbones and shoulder. He clung to you, completely spent.
You enjoyed a few minutes of silence together as you caught your breath and rested drowsily. Then, suddenly, Marc looked up at you and chuckled.
“What?” you asked beneath a grin.
He squeezed you tight and nuzzled your neck. “Nothing. I’m just really glad you’re home.”
Pairing: Victor Frankenstein x fem!reader
Summary: Victor Frankenstein senses an impending ruin, as his rivalry grows into interest with a woman, a pious physician, of similar academic brilliance.
Word count: 4.1k
Content warnings: dark romance / gothic romance, doctor!reader, slight NSFW (minors do not interact pleaaseeee), obsessive behaviour, period-typical sexism, catholic imagery, sexual shame/guilt, religion used as erotica (dw I'm catholic), no use of y/n.
A/N: Victor is an awful human being, so let's torment him a lil (mentally). Honestly, I'm kinda scared to share this one, but this is something that I think is beautiful in its own twisted way. I'm so so sosososo sorry for my tragic grammar and all, this is going to be painful to those who hate lyrical work... Also, this is a bit of a rewrite of the movie's canon (yes, I haven't read the book yet, yes, I know it's very different), so... hihi. I might end up deleting this, because I’m very shy. To those who will find some kind of beauty in this story, thank you, enjoy your day. <3
New chapter
“Whenever a mighty deed is in question,
Michael is assigned, so that by his actions
and name, which means “Who is like God?”
it may be made known
that no-one can do what God can do.”
— St. Gregory the Great
Fog surrounded not only the grim Edinburg, but also the brilliant mind of Victor Frankenstein, the genius surgeon of the century, as his dreams were utterly crushed.
Funding for his lifelong endeavour has come to an end and his “Creature” lingered unfinished in his home, and the castle with an excellent laboratory, once given by Henrich Harlander, was now abandoned. The niece of his funder, Elizabeth Harlander—the subject of Victor’s possession, had recently married his younger brother. Heartburn ached him, and jealousy flourished. On top of it all, he was scandalously ejected from the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburg, and it made his current attempts of finding a wealthy investor for his project difficult.
Even then, his ambition remained undeniably strong, yet his will withered in the face of cruel reality.
Each day seemed dreadful, as the broken fantasies could have easily come to life. He eased himself with overwhelming amounts of work, often feeling deprived of sleep and nutrition, and earnest attempts for salvation were met with anxiety. This lifestyle frightened him, alas, some things should change in order to succeed.
In desperation of newer ideas on how to improve his “Creature”, Victor would often consume recent research in the current tidings of medicine. It gave him not only prosperous realisations, but also inspiration to be better than any other man. He would gather the latest journals in the comfort of his crimson bed by the fireplace, with a cool glass of milk in one hand, while the mornings were still misty, and people—lacking astir.
One peculiar finding piqued his interest. Among many names, one stood out: the researcher’s name was oddly feminine, regardless, he must be a male, as females were not allowed to interfere with science. The researcher wrote excellent records of niche topics, such as psychiatry, especially regarding the health of female patients, and provided newfangled insight into different approaches of conditioning their psyche, in pursuit of dismantling the overuse of lobotomy. In other fields he was generally loud on a singular term—prevention. Prevention. Prevention. Prevention, he repeated as a chant, as he expressed that a physician is able to conquer death not only by erasing the disease, but also by preventing it. According to the researcher, diseases may be caused not only by the pollution of the air, but also from other sources, such as the ground, water, blood and feces—the germ theory took part in many of his papers. Hygiene before surgical procedures proved to prevent complications, and lessened the deaths of the mother and her newborn after labor. Anesthesia is tackled quite well in his work with pristine case reports of general desensitization not only by drugging patients with potent substances, but also with unseen intraoral instruments. There were also presentations and descriptions of local anesthetics, their usages and much more, but Victor struggled to comprehend the vague mechanisms of anesthesia.
However, Victor was fascinated by the researcher’s findings, coherent explanations of provocative subjects that were risque in the medical society. Envy consumed him because of it, as he mistook the researcher’s pure intent of improving the current medicine for personally challenging the great Victor Frankenstein. He felt as if he grew irrelevant, forgotten by the community in the light of the pious researcher.
Often he would rise from his crimson slumber whilst throwing those papers in annoyance onto the overcrowded wooden floor. Then he would walk back and forth with harsh pulls of his dark curls, and a running hand over his exhausted face. He fantasised, in some part, of exchanging civilities with this man, just to see if he was an elderly as he envisioned, or a rather young gentleman like himself. He hoped it to be the initial version, as it would make him feel better.
With these thoughts, Victor would return to his corpses that he desperately sought to preserve from decomposing. Then he would mold their bits and pieces, as the imaginary competition would only fuel his aspiration to be better than any other man.
In the evenings he would walk in one of the many streets surrounding his home for a breath of “fresh air”, when he would impersonate an admirable member of the high society. One of those strolls was different; a poster of an upcoming event caught his eyes: it promised a presentation of an unseen device. An instrument used for anesthesia. He checked the date and, alas, the presenter. His breath hitched slightly and hands snatched the paper as quickly: it was the researcher, the one! A faint grin now kindled his passion, and he hurried back home to continue his own project. Without a doubt, he will attend the lecture and finally witness the man with an odd name and challenging notions.
Chaos stirred inside the wide surgical amphitheater, even if there was a small crowd seated. The voices of posh men overlapped one another, as they awaited for the appearance of a sight worthy of gossip. Their gloved hands clenched the invitations to the oration. The unbelievable audacity to declare war against the time-tested truths of medicine was not the main intrigue, rather the one who dared to preach against them. Their agitated puffs of cigars filled the air and made the shadowy area even darker.
Before them, in the front row sat the mute council, consisting of three old men, with ridiculous white wigs: they were the ones who defined the fates of many scientists. In the middle sat the judge and on both of his sides—his hounds.
And amidst it all sat Victor Frankenstein, with earnest attempts to shelter his face from the judgement of very few men; silent and observant of the surroundings. He recalled his own scandalous presentation in the exact amphitheater and remembered most of the wealthy men that sat in the same seats.
A lot has changed from that time. And now, he sat, hoping to find inspiration in this imaginary competition.
As Victor dwelled within his inner self, the atmosphere had shifted entirely: the men no longer spat as venously as they did before and it became silent; they hushed each other, saving their lungs for moments of laughter and unnerving whispering that would follow after.
The scandal took form: in the middle of the amphitheater walked a woman with a handful of posters; she wore an indigo blue dress, modest, yet comfortable and fashionable. She was clearly a noble lady by status.
Victor’s eyes fluttered in confusion, but then again—it might be the physician’s assistant.
Another man entered the scene in its final moments; a rather intelligent elderly gentleman with a polite smile on his face, costumed in wealthy blue clothing, but everyone recognised him almost immediately for he was one of the gentliest physicians to exist. And while Victor thought him to be a speaker, the elderly gentleman sat down in the first row, gazing upon the woman with anticipation.
The woman dropped the papers on the wooden surface of the surgical table that had remaining dried droplets of blood. Then she plastered posters onto the board, showcasing drawn bottles with complex names of substances, descriptions of their properties. Only a few coughs disturbed the preparation, but the show had begun already.
When all was set and done, the woman clapped her hands with confidence on her face and said something along the lines of:
“I am most grateful to see your faces on this very day. I do wish to present to you an instrument of my and my colleague’s making…”
Victor frowned.
Anesthesia is the greatest invention of the century, she spoke, the saviour of many lives, the modern antidote of death. Her ideas soon filled the amphitheater, and her delicate hands guided the attention towards the board: she began presenting the previous attempts of anesthesia using opium, carbon dioxide, diethyl ether and chloroform, yet acknowledged the weaknesses of these substances and the precision of the duration. Instead of paying heed to those substances, she presented a tube of some kind, seemingly a rather uncomfortable device that had made everyone shrink in their seats. It ought to be used for “tracheotomy”, she said, and it made some stroke their throats unnervingly in consideration. She praised its design and the efficiency of the administered general anesthesia, which had proved its efficiency while enduring longer and more complex procedures. She grasped a few papers from the filthy surgical table and reported trails that were recorded with a surgeon named Trendelenburg. Then she defined the indications and contraindications, disadvantages and advantages of the device, especially highlighting the benefits, but remaining mindful of its incomplete design and the caused complications.
The word “death” triggered the council out of their boredom.
The ongoing speech was cut off by a cruel hand of the judge. He slammed his hammer upon the hard surface; displaying fright by the mention of death. Facial expressions exposed his thoughts: the disbelief of the audacity the woman in front of him held at that very moment.
“Thank you, my dear, for presenting us such… Device. The council is most grateful for your very pious notion and involvement in the field, yet we grieve to tell you so publicly that this design shall not be approved for further research in the facility.”
“Sir, I believe you are refraining me from my work not for the notion itself,” she replied, though her voice remained firm and unwary of the injustice on her part, “it has potential and you can also see it. Doctor Trendelenburg and I have been constructing it carefully, all experiments were precise and polished to perfection until tested. We wish to receive proper attention by other members of the field and perhaps a funding to—”
“And where is your colleague?” asked the judge, leaning forward with a raised brow.
“He had entrusted me with the task, Sir.”
“Then I regret telling you this publicly, for I would do so privately if opportunity was given, but your colleague, a fine gentleman as much as my memory allows, is quite naive to say the least. He should acknowledge that a presentation by a female, regardless of the intellect and the status such as, in instance, of your own, is less trustworthy than a beggar’s.”
The small crowd of men finally laughed, some simply chuckled and nodded their heads in approval. And Victor took part in bashing the woman, enjoying the humiliation, as a woman should never even consider herself equal to a man. How relieved he felt after witnessing such an embarrassing ceremony and such a disappointing object taken as a worthy experiment. He sighed almost joyfully by the fact that the subject of his infatuation was not an elderly man, but a mad woman.
For a mere moment Victor thought of noticing her heavy gaze lingering on his grin, but later on he deemed it as a fruit of serotonin, for she remained unmoved by the common practice of judgement. Her eyes were fixed intently at the judge.
“Condolences, my dear, it is the way of the world, even before the days of yore, and, I am afraid, you must have learnt it by now,” the judge said softly, yet his words were filled with poison. The members of the council bobbed their heads in response.
“I have experienced it wholly, do not fret, Sir. Still, I am eager to bring change to the world. That is why I am here, in front of you, and other men, presenting not only the emerging pursuits of medicine, but of the world also,” the woman spoke calmly, keeping hands behind her back and bringing her chest upward. “If you are not willing to accept the words of a mere woman, such as myself, so be it, but a different understanding of our practice must be taken for consideration. We are not living in the Dark Ages, therefore, we must approach the world accordingly. People die and death comes not only from pathologies we perceive, but also from the matters our eyes are not allowed to witness. Beseech how many patients have died before anesthesia and after its invention. All that surrounds us may bring us death, therefore we must maintain ourselves not only to get rid of the stench, but also death. Even this very table, on which I currently rest my belongings, is dangerous to the wounded. Death is beared all around and we wish to conquer it in various ways, yet one remains to be simple: you may never outrun death, but you may prevent it for the time being. That you must take in mind and I am hopeful that you may do so one day.”
The judge weighed his opponent with a spiteful gaze and refrained himself from spitting in the face of the outrageous woman.
Victor could see clearly that the judge would certainly perform a lobotomy for his own sport, yet something had put a stop from committing the punishment. He noticed the elderly man staring with great intensity at the judge, which, perhaps. did make him haste the verdict of this strange woman.
Another harsh slam on the surface forced the laughing crowd to stand up and leave with humiliating whistling.
“Leave this instant, Miss, your records have granted us better insight indeed, yet we have heard enough of your utterances! We bid you a good day and consider yourself lucky, only currently.”
Instead of waiting for their prey to flee the scene, the beasts themselves soon scattered towards the light of the outer world and chatted loudly of the comedy they had just witnessed.
When Victor stood to leave also, he found the woman staring at him intensively. What her eyes spoke to him at that day, he did not know, but it made him stop for a little while. The moment soon was disturbed by the approach of the elderly gentleman. He caressed the woman’s back gently and pulled her in for a sweet embrace, whispering something into her ear, blocking the woman from the lingering gaze of Victor Frankenstein.
Days have passed since the lecture was held, but Victor could not allow himself to forget it.
Firstly, he would smirk at the memories of the pathetic woman being humiliated whilst animating the limbs of his creation. Then he would bite his lips to mutter a chuckle, as if he was still seated in the amphitheater. The pride overflowed his desperation and provided relief for the time being, making him highly motivated and hopeful for his future.
Day by day he recalled that memory.
Yet he noticed the absence of her work, for some time she did not publish anything fresh. Suits her well, he would think, a female should always be downplayed and she should encourage men to play God. This mindset led him further, until it finally did not.
The late infatuation returned, as Victor secretly anticipated to find new articles written by the woman.
Early mornings were met with earnest re-readings of her research, for he secretly missed the feeling of an imaginary competition. Noting the sex and age of the woman, he now looked at her work with a different perspective. There was a sense of admiration for her accomplishments and the amount of respectable male colleagues with whom she collaborated in various matters. They were the prime researchers in medicine, and she walked among them. The previous mockery soon turned to fascination, as her topics were truly thought-provoking, and only then Victor realised his judgement to be rash. Her existence itself seemed like a dare to the medical society and her ground breaking notions furthered the defiance. It was something he related to. They both wanted to conquer death, but differently. Often Victor would nibble his bottom lip whilst re-reading her work, with a new sense of appreciation approaching him.
Yet, there were no novel articles of her making, and Victor grew impatient of the waiting.
Now his evenings were filled with silent sittings by the fireplace and replays of her sentences in the lecture. He savoured every word, just as he savoured the beloved milk, and weighed their meaning. He saw her orating in front of him, gesturing whilst speaking passionately, speaking to him only, expanding his knowledge only.
Then Victor would stand up and stomp across the overfilled floor, with annoyance of his own state. He could not understand this growing interest in that woman and would frown angrily at himself. He would sketch his own work, yet his mind would wander towards her image: she was not only bright, but attractive also, with fertile hips and breasts of his liking… Then he would shake his head slightly, making those thoughts disappear at least momentarily.
After some time, Victor’s mind would be consumed by that woman right before the slumber. She would manifest herself before his desk, in a thinner dress, as if she would simply write her articles while he slept.
The innocent infatuation forged into mild obsession.
His sleep has worsened only slightly, but he experienced its effect physically.
Victor cursed her before his sleep and as soon as he awakened. The habit of reading articles before the day has been abandoned completely. Hatred now overcame his heart once thinking about her: that woman, that wicked woman, as she would often visit his thoughts without a notice. She interrupted his work frequently. It made him highly unmotivated to continue his pursuit, as he kept dreaming of seeing her again. This obsession made him loathe himself, as it was irrational and pathetic to indulge into. Yet, he recalled her intense gaze with which, he believed, she entranced him, and wished to erase it from his mind. Remembering the emotion of her eyes made him breathe irregularly from time to time and wipe the sweat off his forehead, it made him uncomfortable even today. He kept wondering what she meant to portray, was it irritation or just an accident.
What did she think while looking at him? She must have recognised him. Did she? Did she not? Why did she pay her attention to him at that moment? Was it because he was one of the last to leave?
And so, his loathing mixed with fluster, pride with self-hatred, sympathy with annoyance, interest with shame and guilt, and an unacknowledged desire.
Yet Victor eagerly awaited her research and only hoped, secretly, to be fascinated once more.
One very early morning, Victor entered a nearby church with both shame and hope pulling the strings of his stubborn heart.
That woman has drained him completely, as his mind kept reminiscing the intensity of her deep eyes and the weight of her voice, independent mind. As much as he tried to get rid of her from his imagination, he could not escape her. He lost weight, sleep, making him more distracted from his work—something had to change and he had grown desperate to find a solution for this dread to come to an end.
As he foresaw it, at such an early morning the church was almost empty, with only the older and poorer believers muttering their darkest confessions to the Holy Spirit, with their hands clasped as closely as possible to their chest. Sometimes there were almost audible thuds echoing through the grand building: loathsome beatings to their chests provided relief whilst conversing with God. Their gaze held the body of Christ in captivity, forcing him to listen to their tales and heartaches. The reflections of the mosaic windows lit the faces of the suffering folk, providing a palette of emotions depending on each colour.
Unlike the others, Victor could not face the altar—the sight of the crucified Christ would make him leave instantly, feeling as if the martyr could mock him.
His lungs were filled with the disgusting scent of incense that had begun cleansing him spiritually, causing him to block his nostrils with a clean tissue.
Victor approached one of the many wooden benches and kneeled before the altar. The eyes of angels followed the miracle closely. He crossed himself and hung his head lower in disbelief. Disbelief of being so pitiful to ask for guidance out of a headache. His red gloved hands clasped, pressing the fingers onto the knuckles hardly so the shameful experience could come to an end quicker.
His lips uttered a non-verbal prayer that could be heard only by the ears of curious angels and God:
‘I beg all that is above me, in the name of love for the Lord Almighty, grant me leave from the greatest chaos that has ever stirred inside of me. I cannot focus. I cannot work. I cannot continue my biggest endeavour. Even now, I am having difficulty praying amidst the thoughts of that outrageous woman, for she has consumed me wholly. I ask for Your forgiveness for the deeds I have done, for the damage I have caused upon those that I do not recognise. Perhaps this is Your punishment? Yet I have caused no harm, though, only perchance, You have witnessed something I cannot comprehend. If so, I beg for Your forgiveness. Wholeheartedly. I have a higher purpose than the absurdity of desire, You know that and bore it in my work, so do prohibit that woman from subtracting my pursuit. May she be at peace, far from my mind, and may I forget her, place her in the darkest corner of my mind, if she may never leave her grasp upon me. Bless me with an antidote from the headache that woman has caused me, for I cannot phantom my own being any longer. This feeling dreads me terribly and a path out of my despair I cannot guarantee myself. Show me that path… Provide me relief, oh, I beg of You, the Almighty, the All-bearing… For once, listen to my prayer, answer it only once and I shall thank You for eternity. For I cannot rescue myself. Therefore, I ask for Your guidance. Amen.’
Then Victor stood up, still facing away from Christ, and turned to leave immediately, gluing his cold stare to the stone floor. Yet, an invisible force lifted his chin up and he obeyed.
It was that woman.
The prayer manifested itself before him and then he knew: God laughed at his confession and proved him to be a fool. The she-devil stood with a burgundy dress and saint-like modesty, a faint smile planted on her face, and the sun made an aureola out of her fashionable hat; it seemed that she was an entity of the other world—the Archangel, to whom he prayed for his brilliance.
“Victor Frankenstein,” she called him out of his horror with a soft whisper, bowing her head lightly, “what a pleasant surprise.”
“Miss.” He tipped his hat and, luckily, held his composure. “We have never met before I believe, from where do you recognise me?”
“I have attended your presentation once before and have followed your work, as well you have mine.”
“Oh?” He lifted a brow in surprise, he could not deny the pride swelling within his chest; the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “I am pleased to hear of your interest, as your work has piqued mine.”
The woman only replied with a polite smile. “I must admit, I did not anticipate meeting you here.”
“Did you expect to find me elsewhere?”
“I cannot claim so. I suppose I did expect meeting you somewhere, one way or the other, one day or the next. Please, do not take me for improper, but you are, after all, a physician firstly and with most of the medical society I am acquainted with. However, I did not anticipate a sudden meeting such as the current one.” She laughed at her own utterances and at his confused state, hiding the charm behind a burgundy gloved hand. Then she stepped closer to him, remaining far enough for the gossipers to call it a friendly chit-chat, but intimate enough to dry Victor’s blood. “Though it worries me… You seem pale, has your health treated you kindly?”
“It has, Miss,” he replied, but felt his throat contracting at each spelt word.
“I do pray so,” said the woman. “I wish not to disturb you. Therefore, I bid you a good day, Baron.”
The woman left him without a warning and now kneeled in front of the altar as he had just done only minutes ago.
Dizzy from the unexpected encounter, Victor made his way towards the heavy door of the torturous church, but then curiosity drew him towards her once more. He turned around to see her for the last time.
The lips of the woman were now caressing the rosary; the tiny body of Christ was buried in ecstasy on her lips.
Victor lingered for a moment or so and rushed out, steading his breath for he sensed the ruin of a man’s mind.
“Now his evenings were filled with silent sittings by the fireplace and replays of her sentences in the lecture. He savoured every word, just as he savoured the beloved milk, and weighed their meaning. He saw her orating in front of him, gesturing whilst speaking passionately, speaking to him only, expanding his knowledge only.”
Read the rest of the series here: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Synopsis: You help Victor with his research as his live model, and things get... stimulating (aka Victor invents a vibrator). Plus, yearning, plot and Victor shares some of his backstory.
Who's here: Victor x afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥 (explicit)
Content (warnings): series, masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, longing!, Victor's milk kink intensifies, Victor essentially invents a vibrator for Reader's use/for his "research," nipple play, discussion of Victor's family backstory, rich Victorians ~not like other girls~, no beta reader so please ignore any mistakes or typos
Word count: 4.7k
Note: Reader gets to play around with one of Victor's inventions!* Thanks for reading, & please let me know if you would like to be tagged in any future Victor/Frankenstein work.
*Scroll down to the bottom to read a historical note on 19-century vibrators and the modern mythologies that surround them today. Come for the smut, stay for the history. Enjoy!
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
One rarely could enjoy an unseasonably sunny day in Edinburgh. You thought of the passersby on the street. Quiet in the laboratory, even through the thick stone walls you heard the sounds of vendors and the butchers greeting their patrons and hawking their wares with an increased vigor in their voice, perhaps even a hint of a smile on their face. You imagined ladies in their walking skirts and gentlemen in their bowler hats promenading through the city parks. Warmer air and brighter skies relaxed the body and enlivened the soul. Shy glances may be more readily exchanged, hands may more frequently and brazenly meet, flirtatious words may be more freely shared. Students and scholars would rise from their shadowed seats and secluded academic halls to languorously stretch out their limbs and be in the fullness of their bodies, not only their minds. The earth would, for even a moment, awaken to the sun's delicious touch. Foxes would rise from their burrows, and birds would swoop faster to eagerly catch their prey.
The world was outside. Its warmth, its liveliness, called to you. Yet, you allowed the echoes of the world to remain outside the walls that surrounded and held you.
Victor had fallen asleep at your side on the blood-red rug. He loosely held one of your hands over his bare chest. You could feel the gentle, rhythmic beats of his heart.
Sunlight poured in from the large windows of the laboratory. A yellow blanket of warmth covered and caressed the two of you and shifted only with the movement of clouds and across the sky. You and Victor were like lazy cats rolling on their backs and dozing in a sunlit square.
You shifted quietly, gingerly, to lie upon your side while still keeping your hand to Victor's chest. You wished not to disturb him. As you moved, Victor twitched in his sleep. He shook his head for a moment, as if sensing the change in your body beside him. You held your breath as you watched him and kept yourself as still as possible. You did not even blink for what felt like an eternity. At last, he ceased his unconscious movements and settled back into the tender peacefulness of rest. His breathing returned to its deep, long, consistent pace.
Light from the window streamed over his tranquil face and relaxed, nude body. The glow from the world outside gave him an ethereal, almost otherworldly, appearance. He simply shone.
You released the rigidity of your body and sunk once again into the plush rug. With one hand propped up to support your head and the other on Victor's chest, you watched him as he slept.
It was not surprising that Victor would look younger and unburdened as he slept. Most people would, of course. Yet, you could not help but examine the changes made visible by rest and the softness of sunlight. Gone were the furrowed brow, the concentrated frown, the rigid frame, the look of disgust and revulsion. In this state, you could find no shame, no icy distance, no fixation, no pride, no resentment, no hatred of self or other or society. He merely was in his purest and calmest self.
Though, as you examined him, you felt something strange beyond your comprehension. A pang of feeling beat against your ribcage. Hot tears threatened to spill out from behind your eyes. What was this?, you wondered. You recognized this feeling as a deep sadness, or perhaps grief. Is this mine? Or, is this somehow his that I feel without word and without action? Out of the corner of your eyes, a sensation welled up and provoked a short stream of tears down your face.
You felt your fingers encased in Victor's hand involuntarily tremble, and you realized you longed to free yourself. And, with that freedom, you longed not to escape but to choose to remain. Your whole body wished to delve into him. Your fingers wanted to reach outward to stroke his face and interlace themselves in his inky curls. Perhaps, he would not mind if I were to move and awaken him, after all--
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three loud knocks emanated from the entrance to the laboratory, followed by a rattling noise. Ripped out of your revery, you abandoned your romantic foolishness and turned your head sharply to the noise.
Victor groaned softly, and you turned back to face him. Groggily, he half-opened his eyes and asked, "What is that?"
Quickly, you pulled your hand away from his chest while the haze of sleep still held him. You sat up, wiped the streams of tears from your face and looked towards the source of the jarring sounds.
"Post, I believe," you responded, measured and logical. "They must have been putting letters through the slot on the door."
He sighed, tensed his face and screwed his eyes shut. "Ah, yes. But, why must they be so loud?"
He opened his eyes once more and held your gaze. His face softened as comprehension dawned on him: who you were, why you were there and what you had shared earlier that day.
Victor smiled. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," you replied. You supposed you returned his smile.
A strange but sweet silence hung in the air between you. Victor laughed.
"Did you sleep well, Sir?" You could not suppress your own giddy laughter.
His grin widened. "Very well, indeed. Best sleep I've had all week."
With that, he yawned and stretched out his limbs. He ran his fingers through his hair and lowered his hands to look absentmindedly at his palms. Then, without warning he shot up into a seated position. You jumped back a bit in surprise.
He cast his gaze to the large windows, looked back at his palms and then returned to the window. "The sun came out?!" He cried.
"Yes, Victor, precisely, while you slept."
He was quiet for a moment. You had expected a response, given the banter you had shared over the course of the past few minutes. Instead, you watched as he bowed his head to stare, transfixed, at the golden light upon his palms. It was strange, how capricious and mercurial Victor's moods could be. Excited and playful only a moment before, he now turned inward, as if returning to a world of his own. You watched, curious.
"The sun is life," he whispered to himself, lost in a vision only his eyes could see.
You stared at him, perplexed and silent.
"The sun is life," he murmured again, even more quietly.
Now unnerved, you hoped to break him out of his spell. "Victor," you tried.
No response.
"Victor," you spoke up louder, more forcefully.
He turned his face to you. A shadow of misery, of agony and grief and madness, shot across his face before receding into a tight mask of attempted self-composure. His lips formed into a simulacrum of a forced smile, yet no true happiness reached the creases of his eyes.
"It is wonderful, the sun," he said. Though he looked at you, you could tell he did not truly see you then and there. "Is it not? The source of all life, of course.... We so rarely see the sun here in this part of the world. Where I was raised, a large family estate in Geneva, I had so much space to explore. The grounds were well-kept and decorated. They were so vibrant, so green. A verdancy that spread for acres and acres. I would walk through the gardens, kilometers away from civilization, and find humanity in the insects and the trees. All seemed possible under this vast, endless sky when I was warm and free under the sun." He bowed his head again to his palms. "This was before I was old enough to start my medical studies, a passion I both inherited and sought with relentless fervor."
"Is it much brighter and warmer in Geneva?" You asked this not out of genuine interest, but rather to fill the sense of unease coursing through your body. "I confess I have never had the opportunity to visit, though I should very much like to one day."
Your words seemed to provide him some distraction. He looked up at you and squinted, as if the answer would be obvious to absolutely anyone. "Than Edinburgh? Why, yes, certainly. For some of the year, at the very least."
Victor continued to stare at you expectedly. If he thought you would continue the conversation, about his childhood or about European climate, he was sorely mistaken.
He waved his hand as if flicking away a fly. "Well, enough talk of weather, no?"
His face softened as he seemingly came out of the dreams of the past and returned to the present. He then swallowed thickly. Quizzically, he looked back at you.
"Good lord, I am quite parched. Are you not?"
He rose from the rug, revealing the fullness of his taut, naked body. He yawned and stretched once more before heading down the length of the laboratory to the chest full of milk.
He procured a bottle for himself and another for you. Before he had a chance to close the lid, though, you spoke.
"Victor, have you anything else to drink? Wine, perhaps? I do not find myself craving milk, nor does it sound refreshing after being beside this fireplace for so long."
He knitted his brow, looking a bit hurt by your milk rebuff. He placed the two bottles on the laboratory table nearest him and bent down to retrieve the clothing he had left strewn on the floor earlier that day.
As he began dressing himself, he said, "I do not drink wine, beer or any spirits if I can help it. You may think me odd or a laughable contrarian, given its prevalence in our world, but I do not believe it good for the body, and I hold fast to my convictions."
He looked up at you as he buttoned his trousers. "Furthermore, I am completely skint. Despite my lavish upbringing in the Genevan countryside, I have hardly a coin to my name. Fires and revolts in the estate led to a decline in our family fortune. Everything I have now goes to funding my studies and purchasing my necessities." He glanced toward the milk chest. Really? Is this what he considers a necessity?
As he slipped his stained, wrinkled linen shirt over his head, you asked, "That is unfortunate, Victor. I am truly sorry for you and your family." You paused. You did feel for Victor, but you also felt quite queasy at the thought of consuming animal milk right at this exact moment. You cleared your throat. "Haven't you any water? I, too, am quite parched, you understand."
He looked befuddled. "Water? No, of course not. I only keep water suitable for my experiments in the laboratory. The drinking water resides upstairs, in my personal quarters. I only gave you water during our first session together as part of the figure study. I was testing how the ingestion of cold water could affect, or not, the heat of your arousal." He shrugged, again, as if this were a completely average and usual statement to make. He started to make his way back to the crimson rug, both bottles in his hands.
Feeling slightly annoyed, you decided to challenge him. "And, you could not go upstairs and fetch a glass of water for your guest?"
He stopped and considered your request for a moment. "No, really, I would rather not. I promise you will find this drink suitable, delectable, even. I take great pride in sourcing my milk."
You sighed audibly. If he heard you, he did not reveal it. Instead, Victor sat down, cross-legged and now fully clothed, beside you. He smirked, passed you your bottle and tilted his in your direction. "Cheers," he said.
Though loath to admit it, Victor had a point: the milk was surprisingly cool and refreshing in your mouth. Its sweet creaminess felt indulgent, as if you were savoring a rich custard at a dinner party rather than sipping from a bottle whilst sitting on the supposedly-clean floor of a possibly-mad man of science's laboratory. You closed your eyes and took another sip. When you opened them back up, you saw Victor smirking at you devilishly. Without needing to say a word, he knew that you knew he was right.
He set down his bottle and leaned in close to your face. His countenance softened, and he lowered his voice. "You have some milk on your lips. May I?"
May he what?, you wondered. Curious about what this strange man would do next, you nodded your head.
Victor drew even closer. Noses only centimeters away, you shared each other's breath. He gazed intently at your mouth. Reaching up, he wrapped his hand around your jaw and tightened it carefully. You closed your eyes for a moment as you relaxed into the sensation of his touch. Damn him, you thought. How does Victor of all people possibly enchant me so?
Under the sensual thrall of his touch, you involuntarily moved to lick your lips. He tutted his disapproval, and you opened your eyes to find him smirking once more. "No, we will not do that," he said, tersely.
A moan caught in your throat at his command. Damn him!
You heard him exhale an arrogant laugh. Then, he moved his thumb over the ridges of your lips. You parted them slightly, and he lightly dipped his thumb between them for a brief moment before shifting it back out to continue tracing. By the sensation of his thumb, you realized he was collecting the milk off of your mouth.
You watched as he released his hand. His thumb glistened with a pearly white sheen. He then brought it to his own mouth, opened his lips and began to suck off the milk. His eyelids fluttered as he sucked harder on his thumb in an attempt to absorb every drop that had been upon your lips.
You brought one hand to his nearest thigh and rubbed it. With the other, you grasped his hand and brought it back to your mouth. You sucked his thumb first, and then his fingers. He groaned and looked at you with hooded eyes. Instinctively, you both leaned toward each other and brought your lips together. You kissed each other deeply and passionately. He wrapped his hand around the back of your head to bring you closer to him.
When you pulled away from each other in panted breath, he laid his forehead on yours. He whispered, "I have something I would like to try with you. It is for my research, for the figure study, but it is also something I believe you shall find pleasurable. That is my hope, at least. Will you consent to being drawn again?"
A voice from deep inside of you replied. "Yes, Victor."
He trailed kisses down your body as you began undoing your clothing. Layer after layer, Victor became more excited and animated. It was as if each piece of you were a prize or reward.
At last, heavy garments and underthings scattered across the rug, you sat completely naked with Victor's mouth exploring up and down your body. Gooseflesh emerged in tiny pinpricks across your skin. You shuddered under the pleasure he gave you.
"Stay here," he said, breathy. "Touch yourself if you would like, or don't. I shall pull over a comfortable chair for you and bring out the device I should like us to try." He planted one more kiss on your lips before rising to make good on his promises.
Device?
You lied on your back. The sunlight had repositioned itself across the length of the crimson rug. You stretched out your body to soak up the most you could as you awaited Victor's next instructions. Your hands caressed your chest and belly. You felt between your thighs.
Meanwhile, Victor was preparing his easel, papers and drawing utensils. You noticed he had put on an apron, which he had not worn during your last session. Curiously, there was a long, oblong bulge in the apron's front pocket. You felt your eyebrows knit together in confusion. The bulge was too large to be an ink pen, so it could not be one of his drawing utensils. Is this the device of which he spoke?
With a satisfied hum, Victor crossed over the blanket and continued down the length of the laboratory. You turned your head to watch him as he collected a chair, as red and plush as the rug, and carried it. He settled it gingerly in the spot you had stood only a week ago as he drew, and then licked, you... where Victor had stood naked only a few hours ago.
He walked over to where you laid and stood behind your head. Then, he bent down, so you were upside-down looking at each other.
"Please take a seat," he invited you. He kissed your forehead, rose and took his place at the easel.
The chair felt soft and snug under your bare skin. You put your hands on the arms of the chair and realized it was made of velvet. You skimmed the softness with your fingertips, going back and forth and making patterns with your touch.
"I have always loved velvet," you remarked, more to yourself than to Victor. "It is the most sumptuous and sensual of fabrics, is it not?"
Victor was silent. You looked up to see him already drawing your seated form in deep concentration.
You cleared your throat and spoke louder to attempt to engage him in conversation. You had a few questions. "Why seated today, Victor? Surely, you can see less of my body this way. Please share what you have in mind."
He finished the last few curves and lines of his sketch and raised his eyes to you over the easel.
"I wonder if sitting provokes any change in the blood flow of arousal. This, and... Well, I should imagine you all find a seated position more comfortable whilst using the device."
That word again: device. What the devil did he mean?
"Yes, you had mentioned that earlier, of course. What is this device, Victor?"
His eyes widened, and he blushed. He picked up a piece of charcoal, fixed his eyes on the paper before him and busied himself with his work. "It, ehm, well....Let us please focus on preparing you for the moment of arousal. It is an important step, necessary to this study. I shall explain the device afterwards."
You rolled your eyes, hoping His Greatness would capture your annoyance in his all-important sketches.
"What shall you have me do, Victor?"
"You could start by touching your body and imagining a scene or a fantasy that stokes the fires of passion within you...Carnally, of course."
"Are there any fires of passion that are not inherently carnal?"
He snorted, breaking away from his self-imposed seriousness. "No, I suppose not."
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. Your hands found themselves returning to your chest, belly and between your thighs. The images of your time with Victor surfaced in your mind's eye. Your body knew to respond quickly. You gathered the wetness you felt and stroked yourself in rhythm with the memory of Victor's tongue on your slit. It was a familiar, lovely recollection that served you very well on the nights (and, frankly, the mornings and afternoons) that you were alone and in need of tending to a delicious throbbing akin to the one you felt now....
You rocked your hips. Your toes curled into the rug. You felt your mouth grow slack. Your free hand moved up to your chest to pinch and rub your nipples as you worked on yourself below.
"Slower, now," Victor's voice, low and stern, echoed across the laboratory. "I wish to capture every moment as you prepare yourself. Do not rush your climax."
You lowered your hand from your chest to the chair. Frustrated, but pleased by the force of his command, you tightly gripped the armrest to ground yourself and gain control over your body's fiery, impatient lust.
"Very good," he muttered.
Your eyes still closed, you heard Victor lower his charcoal, wipe his hands on his apron and start walking toward you. You continued touching yourself as you opened your eyes to peer up at him.
Excitement and anticipation danced in his eyes as he reached into the front pocket of the apron and procured the unknown oblong bulge. He extended his palm out to you. In it lied the device.
It was a strange, but intriguing, thing. A long, thick base. A round head, slightly bigger than the base. A curved, little waist that connected the two pieces. If you were not mistaken, it almost looked as if it were--
"Is this the semblance of a cock, Victor?"
His blush, once rosy, turned bright red. He did not say a word.
You grabbed the thing from his palm to inspect it further. Miraculously smooth, velvety soft. Easy to hold. Warm, even, from Victor's body heat whilst it sat in his apron. You looked back up at Victor and waved around the device.
"Victor? Speak, please."
"In retrospect, yes, I do understand it closely resembles a cock....But, its intention is to be used externally, not internally. You need not penetrate yourself to enhance your arousal. This is my belief, anyhow, though it does run contrary to my peers' speculations of the pleasure center of the feminine corpus."
He glanced toward the base of the device. "At the bottom of the base, you shall find a switch. Turn it."
You flicked the switch. To your utter amazement, the device came alive in your hands. It started vibrating!
With it still rumbling between your fingers, you stared up at Victor and laughed in bewildered amusement. "Victor.... What?!" You giggled furiously and switched it back off.
Apparently, your laughter was contagious. Victor began to join in. He took a deep breath before explaining, "I have been experimenting with electricity. It is quite costly, quite niche and many parts of it are still unknown. Yet, I am utterly and totally transfixed. I wondered if I could harness energy in an object, essentially giving it life. I suppose I was right" He shrugged, struggling to conceal his haughty pride.
"Incredible," you whispered, truly shocked and intrigued. "Tell me, what does this energy source have to do with my arousal?"
The scientist's arrogance faded into sheepishness. "I was replaying in my mind our first session together. I realized what brought about your climax. In addition to sensations all over your body, you were most pleasured by the repetitive pulses of my tongue, particularly externally."
You touched a fingertip to the head of the vibrating device and watched how it trembled with waves of energy.
Victor continued, "I wondered what a more forceful, more consistent source of pressure and pulsations could yield. How quickly could it provoke climax?" He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, clearly impressed with himself and hoping you, too, were impressed.
"What do you say? Shall we try it?" he asked.
You looked up at him. The pulse between your thighs was still strong. Your interest in this new adventure was high.
You thought back to what contributed to the pleasure of your lovemaking with Victor. It was the pulse of his tongue, of course, but it was also the soft wetness of your own body mingled with his licks. You sat for a moment. Then, you had an idea.
"Victor, have you anything safe and sensitive enough for the skin? I believe I know how to enhance your marvelous device." You grinned. He seemed to understand immediately.
Victor practically ran to his stock cabinet, rooting through bottles and potions and spare parts and throwing the unusable items over his shoulder. Then, at once, his eyes brightened as he settled on a jar of a substance he found suitable and brought it to you.
"It is pure aloe vera," he said, out of breath with excitement. "It comes from a plant native to the Arabian Peninsula. It is quite costly, of course, but I am fascinated by the gel in its leaves."
He handed you the tiny jar and stepped back, leaving you to explore.
You sniffed the contents and dipped in a fingertip. The scent and feel of the gel were pleasurable. It will do.
You scooped three fingers into the jar. You coated the head of the vibrating device until it was gleaming and almost dripping with the gel. You returned your fingers to the jar and transferred its contents to the soft, wet, throbbing space between your thighs. You massaged yourself there, running your fingers slowly up and down your slit and circling your clit.
You moaned under your wet touch. You heard Victor resume his sketching: the scratches of charcoal, the tearing and dropping of pieces of paper. You licked and bit your lip and switched on the vibrating device.
Its rumblings sent energy throughout your hand. Waves jolted outwards to other parts of your body. You realized you felt compelled to feel the vibrations at your chest. You snaked the device up to one of your nipples and held it there. Though far from your most sensitive parts, you felt your walls clamp and spasm as powerful pulses lapped at your tender nipple. You breathed heavily and groaned, throwing your head back as you moved the device to your other nipple and rubbed it.
Feeling satisfied with your chest, you found the aloe vera jar once more and coated the head of the device. Wet and pulsating, you trailed it down your belly and along your thighs. You teased yourself, coming closer and farther away from your center.
You moaned again. Your eyes lifted to Victor working diligently at his easel. Even from a distance, you could make out his hardness in his trousers. This sight excited you even more. You knew how much your self-touch invoked Victor's own arousal. This knowledge only enhanced your desire. You were so eager, so ready and willing.
The jolts delighted and shocked you. The pulses, only mere seconds upon your center, were almost too much to handle. You rubbed the head up and down you, as you would with your fingers. You began moaning louder, whining in frustrated pleasure. Your breathing intensified. You no longer cared to go slowly for Victor's sake. You no longer cared what his sketches would prove or disprove. You were entirely focused on the electric thrumming in your body, dialed up to a pitch you had never before experienced.
Nearing your climax, you grunted and swore as you rocked into the vibrations. You clamped a hand once more around the armrest to steady yourself. Bringing the head up only by centimeters, your pleasure reached its zenith as it powerfully catered to your clit. You panted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. Completely enraptured, you screamed louder than you knew you could as you came all over the device and your fingers.
Limbs shaking, vision blurred, mouth wide, head thrown back, you enjoyed the aftershocks of your climax. Lazily, you switched off the device and dropped it with nonchalance to the rug. You basked in utter delight and deliciousness. Your body felt so limp, so spent, so warm and relaxed.
Legs spread wide apart, shoulders slumped, you allowed Victor to capture you at your most vulnerable. He worked madly at the easel to recreate your blissful likeness.
Once the intoxicating haze of pleasure had mostly dissipated, you brought your attention to Victor.
"In exchange for my services, Sir," you said. "I wish to see your creations. More inventions, more sketches, more of this strange study, please. Pay me no longer in coin, Victor, but in time and in the sharing of the workings of your mind."
He wiped his hands on his apron and strode to your side. Victor kneeled and took your hand in his, kissing it. "Whatever you would like, I shall oblige."
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Historical note on vibrators and hysteria (feel free to skip if you're not a Victorian nerd; CW: period-typical misogyny): The inspiration for this fic originates from the hypothesis that American scholar Rachel Haines proposed in The Technology of Orgasm: "Hysteria," the Vibrator, and Women's Sexual Satisfaction (1998): vibrators were used in the late 19th century to "cure" afab patients of "hysteria." However, there is no substantive evidence in Haines' research or in Victorian British records to actually support her claim. In fact, the first electric-powered vibrator is believed to have been invented in the 1880s to exclusively treat amab patients. The inventor, Joseph Mortimer Granville, actually cautioned against using a vibrator on afab patients! As YouTuber Hannah Witton points out, we should also be skeptical of Haines' claim at large that "hysterical paroxysm," the manual or physical "treatment" for "hysteria," meant bringing an afab person to orgasm in a clinical setting (vibrator or not). Pop culture loves this myth (and, honestly, so did I), but there's no historical proof of a connection between afab sexual pleasure and the misogynistic medical system that misunderstood (at best) and demonized (at worst) afab bodies -- believe it or not! /sarcasm /joke Anyways, I thought I would flip the script on this myth. I'm employing Victor's interest in and knowledge of electricity to bring about an absolutely delightful experience for both of them, but particularly for the Reader. I also give Victor a little credit, given that he does (in my fic) invent the first vibrator decades before it actually happened. I hope you found this a sexy and empowering read.
Read the rest of the series here: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Synopsis: Victor has taken an interest in drawing the human form, and you have become his latest figure study. You finish your first session together and resume your life. Then, another invitation to participate in Victor's study arrives at your door. When you return, you both have a few surprises in store.
Who's here: Victor x afab!reader
What to expect: ❤️🔥
Content (warnings): series, masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeur, dom!afab!reader pleasures sub!Victor, oral sex, hand stuff, some classic romcom misunderstanding and tension, discussion of sexual/emotional shame, Victor is hot and cold and insufferable and dramatic af, brief but chaotic bisexuality, teaser for future fic (Elizabeth x reader), rich Victorians ~not like other girls~, no beta reader so please ignore any mistakes or typos
Word count: 3.8k
Note: Victor gets a little subby! Thanks for reading.
🐦⬛ ✨ I would be honored to tag you! Please just ask. ✨ 🐦⬛
The crimson rug was mussed. It was all your and Victor's doing, naturally. Moving bodies, exchanged heat and intertwined limbs bore their evidence upon the blood-red plushness beneath the two of you.
You lied on your back and stretched out your limbs. Victor sat cross-legged as he sketched your form. The glowy sheen of sweat and lust emanated from your skin. You both held the dazed and giddy countenance of new lovers. You gazed up at Victor and watched him work. The few times he raised his eyes from his paper, he smirked and smiled sweetly. His high cheeks blushed. His eyes widened when you looked at one another, and then crinkled at the corners as he bowed his head to his work.
When he was satisfied, Victor rose from the rug and helped you stand. He held out his hand in mock gallantry. You took it with pleasure, and the two of you walked side-by-side across the laboratory to your makeshift dressing room. Victor kept arm lifted at the elbow and his palm face-up, so you appeared more like dance partners preparing for a waltz than strangers-turned-workers-turned lovers. You imagined the notes, one - two - three, in your head as you glided together.
When you arrived at the folding screen, he stopped and let you lead. You turned to face him and adopted a posture of rigid expectation and haughty masculinity. Victor, of course familiar with the aristocratic niceties and rituals of partnered dance, took your cue. He lowered himself into a curtsy and spread his hands to either side of him as he mimicked lifting a skirt.
You clapped your hands together in approval before ducking behind the screen. You heard Victor's footsteps retreat, pause and then approach once more as he brought forth your many layers of garments. Stockings, chemise, corset, drawers, crinoline-lined petticoat, cotton-lined petticoat, skirt, bodice, sleeves and collar: you wondered how Victor had the balance and wherewithal to transport your entire ensemble in one trip across the laboratory from where he had previously stashed them. He placed them in a heavy huff at your bare feet beside the screen and returned to the shadows of his laboratory.
You busied yourself with dressing. Searching fruitlessly for a mirror to fix your appearance, you realized that, as with the coatrack, Victor had not anticipated such a need. You wondered how Victor could get along in this world without the consideration and prioritization of basic, everyday necessities. Does he wake up and throw his clothes on the floor? Does he rise out of bed and onto the streets without a mere glance at his own appearance? You tutted quietly to yourself. I shall need to address the issue of the mirror with him, as well.
Without the guidance of your reflection, you felt around the back of your head first, knowing it was surely the part that would have been most compromised whilst upon the rug. Upon this memory, passion and delight returned and flamed the innermost parts of you. Smirking to yourself, you straightened the circle of braids above the nape of your neck and smoothed the pieces of hair that covered your ears.
This will have to be sufficient, you thought to yourself, remembering that the hood of your wool cloak would provide protection from the public's view of any errant strands or questionable dishevelment.
You emerged from behind the screen with a certain expectation. You had imagined, anticipated, Victor's playful and warm embrace from only moments ago. Perhaps, he would lean in for another kiss or pull your waist and return you to the floor. Instead, you found him with his back turned to you and his posture rigid. Even as you approached, he did not turn to face you. Your intuition told you: the coldness, the detachment, that had preceded your intimacy had returned. Without needing to see his face, you could feel the icy change in the air.
"Victor," you called out as you straightened your back and puffed out your chest, determined not to shrink under his mood.
He turned on his heels to face you. Once more, he wore the mask of self-protection: a perpetual frown bracketed by the lines of his mouth, a tense jaw, a look of revulsion and clenched fists. One hand held your wool cloak. The other was formed into a tight ball.
Your body prepared itself. As you had always done, ever since you were a child, you approached possible conflict as a thing to be tamed, to get ahead of or to detonate. You decided to be impervious against hurt. You committed yourself to the posture of self-assurance and apathy. If he were to assume the armor of self-protection, you could do the same--and better.
"I am ready to depart. Pray tell, shall you write me when you have found a date that conveniences you for our subsequent engagement?" You laced your words, pray tell in particular, with mocking formality. For, though Victor's distant stare and disgusted air suggested otherwise, your relationship was anything but formal.
Victor flinched. Though he agreed, his tone was flat, quiet. "I shall write to you."
You held his gaze as you walked forward to retrieve your cloak. After you retrieved your outerwear, Victor loosened the tight grip of his other hand. Resting in his palm, he revealed the five shillings he owed you.
You opened your palm in kind. He dropped the shillings into your hand, careful to maintain distance and to not have contact with your skin. Hot tears crept behind your eyes.
This really is transactional for him, you thought. All of it. What a fool I was to ever intimately involve myself with Victor and think of him anything more than an insufferable bastard of a man.
He swallowed thickly and forced a tight, disingenuous smile. "I shall write to you," he repeated.
Hiding your discontent, you spoke clearly and confidently. "I await your post, Sir."
Without his guidance or beckoning, you led yourself to the door to his laboratory, opened the handle and left.
The heels of your black, leather boots rang sharply against the cobblestones lining the path that led from Victor's laboratory. Now later in the day, the streets had become both busier and slower. With the sun dipping in the sky and drawing the afternoon to a close, patrons and visitors and residents thronged and crowded the space. Their voices, laughs and gossip hung in the air and suffocated you. The booming echoes and the way these people clung to and embraced each other proved to be too much.
Impatient to be alone and away from reminders of companionship and intimacy, you pushed your way through the path with force and fury. A few people lost their balance, and their temper, and responded with yells and obscene gestures behind your back.
You walked for over an hour to clear your head. The memories of your day with Victor played unbidden in your mind as you headed northwest in the direction of your family estate. On the rug together. His mouth on you, all over your body. Holding hands. The warmth of his eyes. Then, suddenly, the rigid posture, the icy stare. The distance.
You heard the last words you and Victor exchanged.
I shall write to you.
I await your post, Sir.
Feet aching and mind spinning, you hailed a carriage. The wheels rumbled below you and bounced along uneven streets. At long last, you arrived at the estate and bounded up the steps to your private quarters.
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
Days seemed to pass in a blur between leaving Victor's laboratory and receiving his next invitation for you to meet.
At first, your mind constantly returned to him: your interactions, your connection, the senses of that place and the rug and the feel of his body upon yours. Even Victor's smell lingered in your imagination. You felt as if you were losing your mind, sniffing your wool cloak like a hound picking up scents for a hunt.
Then, as the sun set and rose the following morning and repeated its cycle, your tryst with Victor began to lessen its hold on you. The piercing anger of perceived rejection faded into a dull ache. You wondered why you ever cared at all, verily, as you resumed your routine. During the daylight, you entertained guests of your family, read, practiced the piano forte and promenaded with other ladies of your age and status. You appeared to be the model of your class, baring the stories--all of the perfectly untrue, of course--of gossipmongers about your hedonistic and downright debaucherous delights. Never mind them, you thought to yourself and told your companions. They merely covet that which they cannot have: a clever mind and an interesting personality.
For, were not these characteristics true of you? Even as your daytime persona, elements of your true nature had no choice but to reveal themselves. You attended a lecture at the natural history museum on the smallest of God's design, insects and arachnids. Though you had gone only to show your face and accompany your esteemed great-aunt, you could not help but bring forth that deepest desire within you to explore and consume the depths of connection and existence.
You had deliberately sat beside a bewitching woman of your age. Her name was Elizabeth. After the lecture, the two of you strolled around the new exhibit, interlocking your arms and stepping in stride. As Elizabeth would reveal, she had only just returned home after a long stay in a convent. Her passion, reverence and curiosity for the world stirred your mind and attracted your body. You flirted, touched and made Elizabeth laugh. At the end of your time together, you planted a kiss on her cheek, which turned you both bright red, and promised to see her again.
This encounter, plus your nighttime adventures with artists, painters, writers, free love advocates, spiritualists, rebels and provocateurs, filled you with aliveness and distracted you from the man who had quickly become your central thought...nearly.
Shy of a week after your first session with Victor, you received a letter in the post. Hurriedly, you escaped to your chambers to read in private.
My Dear Lady,
I should like to invite you to resume our pursuit of knowledge and discovery together, if you are willing and amenable to continue.
Will you come to the laboratory for our second session of experimentation and study? The same weekday and time as our last engagement would convenience me.
Pray, worry yourself not to respond over letter. I shall receive your response, yes or no, by your attendance...or lack thereof.
You know the address.
With sincerity, V. F.
And, through no will or judicious discernment of your own, the letter provoked a strange and desirous flame within you once more. Transported by memory stored deep in your mind and body, you became immersed again into Victor's world.
Images swam in your mind of your time together in the laboratory. You traced the words and rubbed your fingers along their curves. You held the letter close and inhaled its scent. The mere contact with an object Victor had touched brought heat to your cheeks and stirring in your body. You sat on your bed, still holding the letter in one hand as your other ran down the length of your bodice and under your skirts and undergarment. You squeezed and rubbed your thighs lovingly before finding your center. As you had expected, you felt the beginnings of wetness coat your fingers. You continued to work at that spot until you gathered more and more pleasure. The vision of Victor's tongue on your most sensitive spot, coaxing your body into the liberation of desire, appeared in your mind's eye. Mimicking his tongue, you traced your fingers up and down and rocked into them over and over again....
ᯓ✦ᯓ✦ᯓ✦
You had only tried the Medusa-shaped knocker on the entrance of Victor's laboratory once before the door flew open. Victor stood before you, and you stared at one another for a few seconds too long.
He looked exhausted and disheveled, as if he had not slept in nights. Dark circles hung below his wide eyes. His curls had become mutinous and unfashionably unkempt. Crimson stains and dirt smudges ran amok on his loose linen shirt.
You swallowed, dumbfounded by his appearance and unsure of how to greet him. Luckily, you did not need to make the first salutation.
"Good morning, my lady," he said, as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "I have not slept."
"Yes," you replied. "Yes, it appears as such."
He lowered his hand to his waist and glowered before stepping aside and beckoning you into the laboratory.
You took in the space. The tables, which had been covered in scientific materials, books and specimens only last week, were all hastily draped in what appeared to be red bedsheets.
You turned in a complete circle to face Victor. He had picked up a half-drunk bottle of milk and then gestured to the crimson chaos before you.
"I did not have time to rearrange my things, to put them in order, so I...I suppose I covered them with my bedsheets." He stopped to think for a moment. "I am not sure why I did that."
What surprised you most was not the mad and disorganized scientist before him, but rather that Victor had...a plethora of red bedsheets?
"Oh, yes, right," was the only reply you could muster.
A moment of silence. Then, Victor cleared his throat. "Would you be kind enough to sit?"
You resumed the positions of your first conversation: he sat in a chair across from you as you settled in on a plush settee. You both were leaning in, bridging the gap between your seating arrangements.
Victor downed the rest of his milk and absentmindedly placed it on the floor.
"I do not often find myself apologising," he began. "It has never been my way, not even as a child." His eyes flicked up to you when he said this last word, child. In them, you saw a spark of anger and betrayal. You found yourself curious about the stories, and resentments, this man harbored.
"I must say, despite my title, I have always preferred defiant individuality over hallow niceties, never mind the social costs. The depth of humanity should be plumbed without recourse or restriction, I have always believed as such. In worshiping at the altar of passion, life's work has completely stripped the gentleman out of me and left me only with the man, the animal, the most primal part, you see...."
He tensed his jaw. You waited on bated breath for him to continue.
"And, so, I find myself here," he laughed bitterly, sardonically. "I find myself here unable to sleep, unable to eat, completely consumed...."
You leaned in even closer.
"....Compelled to," he took a shaky breath. "Apologise."
Then, silence.
You waited as he gazed back at you miserably.
Confused, you opened your mouth and then closed it. "Apologise?”
"My lady, please do not entreat me to push further, for I cannot."
You thought back to his letter: I shall receive your response, yes or no, by your attendance...or lack thereof.
"Are you referring to your manner as I departed the laboratory?"
His brows knit perplexedly. "My manner? What of my manner as you departed?" His tone was both of curiosity and of offense.
"I assure you we are not of the same mind. Pray, of what do you speak? Explain fully."
He looked at you with exasperation and grit his teeth. "I...I lost myself. I forsook everything....my body, my objective principles as a scientist. I compromised my studies and tampered with the natural progression and development of your.... How could you not remember?"
Was he speaking of your lovemaking on the rug?
You barked out a laugh. He looked hurt, near tears.
You reached out a hand to his. "You need not apologise for what we did. Quite the contrary, I should prefer to praise it endlessly."
At that, he stood up, nearly knocking over his chair. He raked a hand through his curls once more.
"Are you... Sir, are you ashamed of the pleasure you gave me?"
He scoffed. "Shame, no, never. I do not believe it in." He could have spit.
You paused, then replied. "You understand, Victor, shame is not something one believes in. Shame is something one experiences, what one feels. It contains no protocol or methodology. It appears as our guest and makes its stay, longer with some than with others."
You rose to match his stance. "Look at me," you said. "I am not ashamed. I would have that afternoon with you a hundred times over. Indeed, I have in my mind."
No response from Victor. More silence hung between the two of you.
Impulsively, you grabbed at his linen shirt. "Take this off," you commanded. "Now."
He stared at you, mouth agape. You tugged at the shirt once more, and he obliged.
Your eyes raked over his muscled and taut shoulders, torso and arms. Your breath hitched. God, even better than I had imagined. You cleared your throat.
"Good. Now, where are your sketch supplies?"
Wordlessly, he pointed to the easel beside the roaring fireplace. Your boots clicked on the floor of the laboratory as you assumed the position of the artist.
You darted your eyes over to Victor. "Well, are you coming?"
As if under a trance, he stumbled to you from across the laboratory, discarding his shoes and garments as he went. He stood in the exact spot you occupied a week prior. Now, he was yours to study.
You were not much of an artist, but that mattered little to you in this moment. Victor stood stark naked, his back straight, his skin glowing from the light and shadows of the fireplace. Sculpted thighs, soft and smooth skin. Your body thrummed with excitement and desire as you reversed your roles and witnessed him in this intimate and vulnerable way.
"Turn around," you ordered. You studied as if to memorize the curves and angles of his back. You felt the urge to kiss and lick down the long center indent where muscle met spine. Though not something you had tried before, you thought of what it would be like bend him over to gently touch and then firmly slap his backside. Where did that come from? you wondered to yourself.
You hastily finished your second sketch of Victor.
"Face me." He did as he was told. Color had risen to his cheeks. He looked more alive than ever.
"Touch yourself, Victor. I wish to study your arousal."
He moaned and closed his eyes as he took his length in his hand and began stroking it. Having no interest in playing the artist anymore, you set down your writing instrument, wiped your hands on your skirt and retreated from the easel. You watched and walked slowly towards Victor with lust in your heart and heat in your body as he touched himself. You felt thrilled, almost drunk, by the power and control you held over him. You knew, given the opportunity, he would obey every command in this moment.
As you approached, he opened his eyes and gazed at you from under hooded lids. He bit his bottom lip in pleasure. You took his free hand in yours and brought it to your mouth. Then, you kissed each of his fingers, his knuckles and then the palm. You kept your eyes fixed on his as you licked his hand. You felt him shudder under your touch. As if instinctively, he released his grip on his length and you brought the hand slick with your spit to it.
"Kiss me," you said, and he leaned in. You opened your mouth to his and allowed yourself to be fully present in this moment, aware of all sensations. The laboratory faded away as a mere blur of color and shapes as the two of you melded your bodies.
"Release your hand, Victor. I wish to taste you instead." He breathed deeply as you lowered yourself to your knees.
As he moved to hold your head in your hands, you slapped him away. "I did not say you could touch me yet." He groaned at your chastisement and put his hands to either side of his body.
You gripped and squeezed his bum and opened your mouth to take him. You licked up and down his shaft and sucked. You internally smiled as you felt him shivering and heard his breath quickening.
Then, without warning, you pulled your mouth away and released your grip. A whine sounded in his throat. You looked up at him and smirked.
"Don't be so greedy."
You backed away. Victor wore a pained expression.
"Lie down. On the rug. Now." Hard and wet, he sunk to his knees and settled on his back.
Still fully clothed, you straddled him and put your hands on his chest.
"Tell me what you want," you said as you rubbed over his smooth skin. "Tell me what you need."
"You to touch me," he choked out.
"Ask nicely, Victor, and tell me where."
"Please, please touch my cock."
You leaned down to his ear and whispered, "Very good."
You felt him twitching and shuddering below you as you rose back up to straddle him.
You licked your hand, grasped it around his length and started pleasuring him with your touch.
He gasped and moaned and rocked in the rhythm of your movement. He closed his eyes and contorted his face into a look of ecstasy.
"That's right," you said. "Keep going. Grab onto my hips as I touch you."
Quickly, he threw his arms forward and curled his fingers into your hips. You could feel his tight grasp even through your many layers of skirts and garments.
You both panted, enjoying the sensation and the exhilaration of this moment until Victor reached the point of release. His body collapsed on the rug, exhausted and completely spent. You lifted yourself off of his legs, sat beside him and watched as his breathing grew more regular and his body softened.
He opened his eyes and reached for your hand, which you gave obligingly. With sweetness, he brought your palm to his face, kissed it and ran it along his jaw and chest.
"Lie with me here for a moment, won't you? If you will have me."
You scooted down and lied on your back. Victor grasped your hand once more and held it to his chest as you breathed together in comfortable, companionable silence.
