I said I was going to write a story based on how I just got my heart broken and I’m pulling a fanfic move and moving back to my hometown.
Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader
Written on phone at 3AM, while heartbroken.
Might suck but feedback and constructive critism is always welcomed. Just be nice.
Possibly might do a part 2. Possible happy ending, depending on the mood I’m feeling.
Song on blast as I’m writing this is August.
You Were Never Mine
You knew it was going to happen. You felt it deep inside, you just chose to ignore it. You held on to false hope, thinking that maybe you were just overthinking it. He had started being distant. You thought that maybe he was just busy, or had a lot on his mind.
But you knew deep down that wasn’t the case. You just hadn’t expected that it had something to do with her.
You thought he had gotten over it, but you were wrong. He was wrong.
But what could you do? You can’t force him to stay. You can’t force him to love you the way you love him. You let him go easily.
But your heart still yearns for him. You hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. He was sent on a mission by Charles. You had planned to tell him that you loved him when he came back. You had wanted to cook him dinner, make something he had always wanted to try.
But when he came back, he didn’t really talk to you. You felt something was off, you had even told your friends back home about it, but you thought it was just that the mission hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to.
But how wrong you were. He had sat you down and told you the heartbreaking news.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was over her, but I was wrong.”
Your world shattered as you heard those words come out of his mouth. Tears instantly clouded your eyes.
“What?”
He looked down and took a deep breath.
“I’m not over her. And I can’t continue on with you if I’m not over her. It’s not fair to you.”
Tears were falling from your eyes. You took a deep breath and putting your head in your hands.
“I’ve been thinking about her. This. For weeks. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to hear this but I can’t drag you along.” He tried to take ahold of your hand but you pushed him away. You sat up abruptly.
You didn’t want to face him. You couldn’t, lest you breakdown even further.
“I appreciate your honesty Logan. I really do. Thank you for letting me know before this could’ve turned much more serious.”
In reality, you and Logan had been seeing each other for 4 months. Before that you had feelings for him. But he was with Jean.
They had ended badly. He didn’t date anyone for months but he had asked you out.
You foolishly thought that she wasn’t going to affect him and his relationships anymore.
“In reality Logan. I felt this coming. Just didn’t expect it to be because of her.”
He looked down, he looked guilty.
“I hope you can figure it out Logan. I’m glad you told me. Don’t worry about me. I should’ve been prepared for it.” Your voice failed you, but you didn’t turn to look at Logan’s reaction.
“Again. I’m so sorry.” Logan stood, trying to step closer to you, but you didn’t let him.
“I know. But that’s okay. I can’t force you to be in a relationship when you aren’t in it fully.” You move further, wanting to step out of his room.
“I wish things were different. I really like you, but I know that if we kept going, I’ll only break your heart.” Logan said. He sounded conflicted. But he knew he had to be honest with you.
“I know what you mean. I’m glad you were honest with me.” You started to head out.
“I wish you luck.”
You don’t know why, but that shattered whatever remaining hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll come to his senses and realize that everything he could ever want was right in front of him. You shake your head, trying to stop yourself from sobbing.
“You as well.”
With that, you stepped out and closed the door behind you.
You went to your room. You didn’t want anyone to see you.
As you got inside, you headed to your bathroom. You turned the sink on and splashed water on your face.
You looked in the mirror, thinking about everything that’s happened. You couldn’t take it anymore and broke down in heavy sobs, falling to the bathroom floor and hugging your knees to your chest.
You wondered why. Why did it always have to be you? You always had the worst of luck finding someone, someone who treated you with respect and love. Then you found the one, only for him to be ripped from you as well.
You couldn’t take it. You needed air.
You got off the floor, you headed to the balcony attached to your room.
You took deep breaths as you tried to calm your crying.
You needed out.
The only reason you had stayed at the mansion was for Logan. You had wanted to go back home, to your friends. To your family. But Logan was the one thing keeping you here.
Now that that’s done, you didn’t have anymore excuses. You had decided right then and there that you were going back home.
Hi Jen! Congrats on the 1K ❤️ You deserve them all and so much more!
I’m sorry that I’m a little bit late with sending in a request but would it be possible to do “The grumpy one is soft for the sunshine one” with Mr. Bucky 🥺 All the love and hugs to you!
AN: Hanna, my love! I hope you enjoy this!
ANd this brings my celebration fics to a close. You still have plenty of time to write your own Challenge Fic for inclusion on my celebration masterlist.
Beta’d by @lfnr-blog-blog-blog. Dividers by @firefly-graphics, moodboard and banner by me
Main Master list | Challenge Master list
Summary: You’re perpetually chipper and happy. The steely-eyed brunet you run into outside your work is not.
Relationship: Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 2.2k
CW: Grumpy Bucky, Meet Cute, Fluff and flirting.
You’re always happy. Nothing ever seems to get you down. So much so, that even your friends call you ‘Sunny’. Que sera, sera was your motto. No use crying over spilt milk, etc. Life is what you make of it, so you choose to make it joyful. Your best friend thought that your receptionist job would eventually wear you down and turn you into a cynic, like her, but no. It was like being upbeat was your superpower.
It was therefore a normal morning as you walked down the sidewalk, humming along to the music pumping through your earbuds, on your way to work. The subway hadn’t been packed, the sun was shining out from behind the clouds and you knew it would be a wonderful day, especially once you’d picked up your hazelnut latte from old Frankie, the street coffee vendor half a block from your office. He always had your drink waiting for you and you always had just slightly more than the exact change, rushing away without taking the change, no matter how many times he’d tried to either catch up with you, or insist the next one was on the house. Thinking about that first sip of nutty-sweet milky java had you almost salivating. Unfortunately it also distracted you.
You registered the bump, followed by a curse that was loud enough to pierce through the music pulsating straight into your ears. You turned to see a man in a leather jacket, with short brown hair, swiping at the patch of wetness on his jeans with a gloved hand, while an empty paper coffee cup lay on its side on the ground. You pulled out your earbuds and then, without thinking, pulled a handful of paper napkins out of your purse. You dropped to a crouch in front of him and started to pat at the dampness.
“I’m so sorry! I was just distracted by the beauty of the day and the thought of my first coffee, and I just didn’t see you, and I hope you’re okay and…”
Your brain kicked in as two things happened. Firstly, you realised that you were patting very close to the stranger’s crotch. Secondly, the napkins were being pulled out your hand very firmly and you were being pulled to your feet.
Blue.
That’s what you noticed first.
Icy, steely blue.
His eyes were like diamonds and momentarily you couldn’t look away.
“...I said, do you always make a habit of accosting and groping strangers first thing in the morning?”
You snapped back to reality as you realised that ‘blue eyes’ was talking to you. Well, actually, it was more like growling at you. What a sourpuss. You flashed him one of your trademark smiles.
“Not everyday, I’ll admit - the police might have something to say about it.” The man ‘harumphed’ and continued glaring at you. Obviously not a fan of your brand of humour.
“...Anyway, let me get you another coffee, it’s the least I can do to apologise.”
You turned toward old Frankie and his cart, and bless his soul if he didn’t already have your drink, and what you could only assume was a duplicate of Grumpy’s order.
“The refill is on the house, Sunny. And no arguments. Accidents happen.”
You smiled at the old man and bent down to place a kiss on his cheek.
“That they do, Frankie. And, if you’ll excuse the blasphemy, it’s only coffee.”
He shook his head at you with a smile and waved you away so he could deal with his next customer. You turned back to the object of your unanticipated morning interaction, only to find that he’s gone. You turned in a circle, seeing if you could spot which way he’d gone, but nope, he’d completely disappeared. Well, his loss, and now you had a spare coffee. With a small shrug you continued on your way.
Ten am, and you were settled into your day. You loved your job as a receptionist at the VA. You got to help some of your nation’s greatest and bravest citizens transition back to civilian life, which you felt was the least you could do to show your appreciation. When you weren’t greeting those coming to use the various services offered at this centre, you were phoning veterans to organise appointments for physiotherapy, counselling and group support sessions.
“Hey, Sunny!” You looked up from your computer to see Joe, one of the support group leaders smiling at you as he leant on your counter.
“Morning, Joe! It’s a lovely day today, and made even better by you being here!”
“Sunny, you keep flirting like that, I’m gonna have to insist you come out for a drink with me.”
You chuckled. This was your regular banter with him.
“Joe, you know this ain’t flirting, this is just me. And you’re as old as my dad.”
He clutched his hand to his heart, theatrically. “You wound me, Sunny. I may just expire, as I’m apparently that old. Anyhow, you got me the expected attendance list for the meeting?”
You rifled through the papers in the folder on your desk.
“Sure thing. Here it is. I can see you gotta few new names on here, so hopefully it will be an interesting one.”
“You know that’s an old Chinese curse - ‘may you live in interesting times’?” He gave you a wink as he took the paper from your hand and walked off towards the room he used, with only a slight limp giving away the fact that his right leg was a prosthetic.
Half an hour later and the vets for the Joe’s group started to arrive, all of them being amputees of some description, some sporting prosthetics and others not. They all came together though, to talk about the trauma of losing a limb in combat, the long road to recovery and issues associated with having a prosthetic or a missing limb, both physically, mentally and socially.
The regulars came up and used the computer screen on their side of your desk to log their arrival and get a printed photo sticker-badge to wear. The newbies, however, had to go through you for their first time, which is why you always recommended they turn up 15 minutes before the start of the session so you could double check their identity, the information you held and then get them a computer profile set up for all return visits.
You’d just completed all the paperwork with one newcomer, and sent him off with an old-hand to the meeting room when the doors to the building slammed open. You looked up and couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face.
“It’s you! I’m afraid I drank your replacement coffee, cos you disappeared so quickly.”
Grumpy just glared at you. You noticed there was still a slight stain on his jeans. You tried a different tack.
“Can I help you with anything? Are you a vet, or looking to support a vet? We’ve got lots of programmes and support groups.”
Still without saying anything he tugged the glove off his left hand, revealing the metallic sheen of the most advanced prosthetic you’d ever seen. Understanding dawned.
“Ooo! Are you here for the amputee support group?” You looked down at your copy of the attendance list, noting that only one vet, one of the new guys hadn’t yet checked in. “Are you James Barnes?”
“Sergeant.”
A look of puzzlement marred your features.
“Pardon?”
“Sergeant Barnes.” You got it then. Some guys, especially if fresh out and still adjusting, preferred to be referred to by their military rank.
“Okay, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve just gotta get you set up here. What’s your date of birth?” You glanced up from your computer to find he was still staring at you.
“Seriously? You’re asking me that?”
You were confused by his tone; this wasn’t normally an issue.
“Absolutely. Gotta make sure I’ve got it all correct.”
“Like you don’t already know.”
Your almost permanent smile started to falter under his intense gaze.
“I really don’t. And I need it for the records.”
Barnes let out a resigned huff.
“Fine. Play your games. Seventeenth March, 1917.”
“1970? Gotta say, you don’t look like you’re over fifty. Good genes I suppose.”
“No, doll. 1917. One Nine One Seven.”
Now you were really confused.
“How is that possible? That would make you…” You paused while you did the maths in your head…. “One hundred and six. And like I just said, you don’t even look fifty.”
“Look, doll. Either you’re a really good actress, been hiding under a rock, or just dumb.”
Normally you could keep your cool, laugh and brush off negative comments, but something about the grumpy sergeant was rubbing you up the wrong way.
“That’s not very nice, Sergeant. Just because you don’t like the questions and don’t want to answer them properly, doesn’t mean you have to be mean to me.”
He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Are you really telling me that you don’t know who I am? Even with having my name in front of you, seeing my arm and me telling you how old I am? Don’t you ever watch the news?”
“Not really. It’s too depressing and sad.”
Another sigh.
“Okay, okay. My full name is James Buchanen Barnes, 107th. Presumed KIA in February 1945, but in fact taken captive by Hydra. I survived traumatic, unintentional amputation of my left arm via snowy mountainside, and was given a replacement by them when they brain-washed me, turning me into an assassin, and was kept cryogenically frozen between missions, spanning over 70 years. I was known as the Winter Soldier. My conditioning started to break in 2014 when I was commanded to kill Captain America, but as Steve was my childhood best friend, my brain rebelled. I went on the run for two years until I was framed for the assassination of King T’Chaka of Wakanda and captured by Shield, then triggered into my Winter Soldier state by a disgruntled Sokovian Baron, wanting revenge on the Avengers for the death of his family during the Ultron incident. I then spent a further two years in Wakanda, having my programming broken, recovering mentally and physically, and given this new arm, before fighting Thanos and getting dusted with half of everyone else. Came back in the Blip, and now supporting Sam Wilson as the new Captain America. I was pardoned for my past crimes and have to attend court mandated therapy and it’s been suggested that attending a support group could be good for me. Know who I am now?”
It was your turn to stare, eyes wide and mouth open as you absorbed all the information from his monologue.
“Soooo, what I’m getting is that you really are 106 years old and for some reason you have a pardon and court-mandated therapy for things you did while you were brain-washed. Seems hinky to me, but who am I to question it?”
A snort left Barnes’ nose, a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“That’s what you take from my story. No questions about Hydra, no histrionics about the fact that a famed assassin is standing in front of you?”
“Why would I? You’ve told me you’ve been ‘deprogrammed’, you’ve been referred to us for group support, and if you were that dangerous I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived the coffee incident this morning.”
His lips twitched, and his face transformed. The lines in his forehead disappeared and migrated to the corners of his eyes, eyes that were now less steel and more spring sky coloured.
“Nothing phases you, does it?”
“Nope. That’s why everyone calls me Sunny. And is that a smile I see, Sergeant? Don’t tell me that somehow I’ve broken through that stoic facade of yours?”
His smile grew wider.
“I’m sure you’re just imagining it. I’m still really annoyed.”
“Uh-huh?” You smiled back. No, you grinned back.
He leaned his crossed arms on the counter, his stance now far more relaxed.
“What other information do you need for that computer system of yours, Sunny? My telephone number perhaps?”
Oh, wow! He’d gone from grumpy to flirt in less than 60 seconds. Now he was fully smiling you had to admit he was kinda cute. Or rather hella hot. You resisted the urge to pull at the neckline of your top to let the steam out.
“I’ve already got a record of that here already, Sergeant.”
His arm reached over the countertop and he snagged your pen and notepad from next to you.
“Well, just in case you need it again for your records, or for any other purpose, I’ll write it down for you.”
If it was possible, your grin got wider.
“Why, Sergeant Barnes, that’s very… helpful of you.”
“Call me James, doll. Or Bucky, if you want.” The tip of his tongue peaked out from between his lips and you were mesmerised.
“Of course… James.”
You swore you saw him shiver as you said his name.
The clock above your head gave a ‘ding’ as it struck the hour, and you realised that his session was about to start. You gave a little cough and dragged your eyes away from Barnes’ James’ face and back to your computer.
“I’d best get this all finished off, so you can go join in the group. It’s really good - Joe is so lovely and supportive.”
You finished typing, directed him to stand in front of the camera (which he scowled at) and printed off his sticker ID.
“When you finish, just peel off the sticker, place it in the bin and note on the system that you’re leaving. That should be around midday.”
“And when do you get your lunch break, doll?”
Oh! How were you supposed to cope in the face of his megawatt charm? It had been a lot easier when he was grouchy, even though you’d wanted to tease him.
18+ Only | 7.3k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 1. Voice kink (mild). Roleplay. Established Relationship. Masturbation. Dirty Talk. Unprotected sex.
Summary: After much deliberation you finally decide to meet your hero at a meet & greet.
Author’s Note: Sorry if the ending of this feels a little confusing. I did have an idea for a retrospective Part 3 of this that would cover the events in between Part 1 & 2, clearing up the confusion a little bit, let me know if you'd be interested!
The metal detector beeps, finally letting you through after the hassle of emptying your entire bag and getting a full body scan. You quickly collect your scanned belongings and you scuttle along, almost sprinting across the now-empty hallway. You’re breathing heavily, holding onto the bag over your shoulder as you reach the right door. Panicked and out of breath you show your pass to the man working the door and he just about lets you in grumbling something about it being way past the time slot and how you’re the last one in. You ignore all of it, instead you focus on your breathing and move along. You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to mask just how winded that rush got you.
You take your place as the last one in the line. Turning around just in time you see the door guy close off the room, not letting anybody else in. Phew. You just about made it. You smooth out your summer dress, adjusting the bag you had over your shoulder as you look around the hall. God, you’ll be waiting forever!
You knew it would be busy but having usually avoided convention centres it still hits you hard with how overwhelmingly packed the hall is. The ventilation and air conditioning could be state-of-the-art and it would still feel stuffy. Looking around you feel like one of the few people who didn’t bother dressing up like their favourite heroes. You see about thirty Queen Maeves at a quick glance, another twenty Black Noirs, a few of the Seven’s new member Starlight but the most prevalent one is easily a sea of Homelander knock-offs. The sea of cheap red, blue and white assaults your vision, making it actually pretty overwhelming to look around.
For once Homelander is actually drowned out in a sea of look-alikes where normally he stands out like a sore thumb in all his primary-coloured glory. Homelander. Just the thought of seeing him here makes you pick at your nails and bite your lips with anxiety. Sure, you’ve met him before. You’ve talked. You even had sex, really good sex, goddammit. You have history. But still, you’ve never done this. Not the in-public meet & greets that you decided to put yourself through today. But still, you’re doing this for him.
The longer you’re standing at the end of the line the longer being surrounded by fans dressed in Spirit Halloween versions of the Seven’s costumes is becoming less comical and more uncanny valley. You only wonder what it feels like to them.
You slowly move through the line. Sighing impatiently, your nerves are slowly being replaced by irritation as you watch the interactions play out in front of you. You’re now close enough to see and overhear. Thankfully with each step you take forward the people in front of you get what they came here for and they leave, making the hall a little more breathable.
You’re now watching Homelander as he tends to each fan, all puffed up and high energy to replicate the vision they all have of him but you see how much he wishes to be anywhere but here. Most of the Seven do. Vought plucks them from what most expected to be their duties, like saving the world, and instead they drop them in front of cameras and paying fans. You watch as Homelander signs each piece of merchandise his fans bring him, one after another with a smile on his face.
Having seen part of his real self, or the extension of himself he doesn’t show the media you see the smile for what it is. Placating, empty, downright forced. Were you none the wiser you wouldn’t have thought to look past the showmanship but now you knew better. It was easy to notice his tells, his jaw ticks anytime he’s irritated, his eye twitches anytime he has to hold a smile for too long or anytime he’s forced to compliment someone. You overhear his booming stage-voice going, ‘you look great buddy, wear it better than I do!’ for about the twentieth time. The crowd eats it up, again, and somehow they’re blind to his tortured expression. Sure, he hides it very well but if any of them cared to look underneath the surface it would be glaringly obvious. Instead they look at him like the hero they want him to be. Flawless, perfect, serving their needs. The more you’re privy to this viewpoint the more it grates on you. He’s so much more than that! And you don’t understand how they don’t see it. More than that, you're angry that they willfully don’t want to see it. Why would they ruin the image of a perfect hero they look up to when they don’t care to know the person behind the suit in the first place.
You shake your thoughts away, focusing on keeping up with the queue. Thankfully the hall has now almost emptied, few residual fans loiter around taking pictures of themselves in their costumes with the Seven members right behind them. As it’s almost your turn, and with that the end of the event, you clumsily pull out a postcard out of your bag clutching it in your hands getting it ready to be signed.
With each step you hear him clearer and clearer. Your heartbeat picks up and by the time the Homelander female cosplayer in front of you gets her very own, ‘you might as well take my spot, you pull it off better than me’, your heart is pounding so hard that you think it must grate on Homelander’s nerves. You rub the glossy paper of the postcard in between your fingers trying to distract yourself from the impending doom that’s bound to be caused by whatever comes out of your mouth. Even after all that’s happened between you two, all that history, you cannot stop yourself from feeling flustered in a situation like this.
You’re so stuck in your head that you don’t realise that the lady in front of you already left and all who’s left is…well, you.
You’re broken out of your trance by a familiar voice.
“Looky, looky, who's here? I can't believe you actually showed up at one of these.” There he goes, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he quickly looks you up and down. Already his eyes are glittering with excitement. Your heart skips a beat at his smile. It's more genuine. You see the annoyance seep out of him, his posture a little more relaxed.
“Yeah…about that. I thought I couldn't really call myself a fan otherwise right?” You rattle off some lines and your anxious mess of a gut is slowly unravelling to make room for the coil of excitement replacing it. Sure, you’re nervous. How couldn't you be. But the place is nearly empty and there isn't much he could say that would get you as flustered as he did the first time.
“Here for an autograph? The one I gave you before wasn't good enough?” Right. Scratch that. You blush a bright red as the images flood back into your mind. And he's grinning so widely, clearly pleased with how he can so easily make you into a blubbering mess. Even if someone overheard, there’s technically nothing dirty about his words but the shiver they send down your spine along with the vivid imagery is enough to make you feel indecent in a public space.
“No—no! It was, um, great. I just—uh—wanted something a little more permanent.” You quickly look around seeing if anyone caught that interaction as if they could read your mind. Well, you are in a room full of superheroes, who knows what they can or can’t do. Thankfully, it doesn’t appear like anyone is interested in Homelander signing a photo for yet another fan. The rest of the Seven is slowly filtering out of the room, finally relieved of their duty.
“Alrighty-doo, let me sign that for you.” He takes his hand out prompting you to put the postcard in his palm. You do so, giving him a little timid smile. Your hands shake a little as you retreat them back by your sides. Catching the way his eyes linger on the movement you cover your shakiness by clasping your hands together in front of you.
“Is this all you want me to sign? Did you really wait the entire line for that?” He says his eyes squinting incredulously as he waves the postcard with his likeness in front of you. Without waiting for your answers he still places it in front of him reaching for his marker pen.
“What was I meant to bring?” You scrunch your eyebrows with confusion. Sure, you weren’t used to going to these events but you still brought something he could sign, that’s good enough, is it not?
“For starters, something that my signature won’t cover entirely.”
“It’s fine if it covers it.” You brush off his concerns. Really you didn’t care about the signature as much as you cared about seeing him. So placement be damned.
You look as he uncaps the pen, turning the card around. It’s a photo of him in his hero pose standing against a very patriotic background. Originally it came in a pack of seven postcards, one for each member of the Seven. You don’t want to admit that you were so anxious over deciding whether you would even turn up or not that when it came to the day you forgot to bring an item to sign. Hence the pack of generic postcards you bought on the way when you realised that you forgot just about the most important item. This also turned out to be the reason for your tardiness, you spent way too long in the shop just angsting over the small selection of items you could even pick from.
“You know it's a real shame you of all people didn't come dressed up. I'd like to see you as Mrs Homelander.” He says all cheeky and amused at the image in his head, while he’s fiddling with his marker pen, trying to start his signature for the third time but the ink has run out.
“Oh no no no, I couldn't. I don't think it would be a good look on me. I mean nobody can rock the uniform like you do!” The idea of dressing up as him was ridiculous, you couldn’t just take that away from him. He’s more than a circus animal to you.
“You think I rock it?” He gives you a look, clearly fishing for compliments while he lets his voice rumble. He might not be in your ear but you still feel a shiver dance down your spine. You don’t think you’ll ever get over the effect his voice has on you. He just knows how to pull your strings. And what’s a puppet to do if not follow.
“It looks very good on you. The colour brings out your eyes.” You make an awkward gesture, pointing at your dress and then your eyes, as if it wasn’t obvious that those two had the same colour on him. You cringe internally but he always seems endeared by your awkwardness. You think it probably feeds his ego. You’re always such a mess in front of him and he slurps it up.
“Wowie, heavy on the flattery today are we?” He’s fiddling with his marker pen, trying to start his signature for the third time but the ink has run out. “Oh for fucks sakes.” He tries another two times, the leather of his glove creaking with pressure around the pen. You expect him to snap it in half at this point but he just sighs and recaps the used marker, placing it down. He looks around, his jaw ticking as he mumbles, “where the fuck is Ashley…” He rolls his eyes, muttering something about being surrounded by incompetent idiots as he stands up.
“Just, come with me, I think there are some spares in my dressing room.” He waves his hand, still holding the postcard in the other one.
“Are you sure? It’s really no big deal!” You feel guilty at the way his suggestion sends a shiver up your spine. You’re not entitled to it but the fantasy of him fucking you in his dressing room still plays out in your mind.
“Nope, you waited your turn. You know I’m not one to leave my biggest fans empty handed.” He winks at you before he beckons you to follow him. You give a short nod and you scurry behind him like a little duckling, mesmerized by the sway of his cape swishing with each purposeful step. You feel your heart rate rise with every step, just being in his presence is overwhelming and the closer you get to his dressing room the more vivid your fantasy gets.
“Righty-ho,” Homelander says as he opens the door to his dressing room, fiddling around to pick up a spare marker. He presses the postcard against the wall signing it for you with a silver sharpie. You stand in the half open door a little awkwardly. Rather than focusing on him, you’re looking around making sure nobody sees you standing in Homelander’s dressing room. He tears you away from your paranoid thoughts as he hands the card back to you with a sing-songy, “there you go!”
Your eyes widen and you gingerly take the postcard with a “oh, thank you,” and you gently put it back into your bag, not wanting to smear the ink. Part of you was disappointed that he genuinely took you here for innocent reasons.
Like the open book you’ve always been to him he reads your facial expressions for what they are barking a laugh at the dumb-struck look you were sporting. “What? Did you think I brought you here to fuck you?” He leans against the doorframe, his tone a little condescending and mean.
You really do your best to recover but your embarrassed blush and the spike in your heart-rate is such a blatant giveaway of your true thoughts. “N-no! I wouldn’t, of course not.” It doesn’t matter what you say in the moment, it’s not wiping the all-knowing smirk off his face.
“Jesus, you’re so easy, you know that?” His gaze is predatory as he looks you up and down again, this time slowly, reaaally taking you in. Before you know what’s happening he yanks you into the room, closing the door behind you. For all his strength he controls it well as you don’t end up with a dislocated shoulder after a move like that.
He cages you in against the door, leaning close to your ear so he can get his voice nice and low and he whispers, “For that kind of slutty behaviour I definitely need to fuck you.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. You love how easily he reads you, there’s nothing you can hide from and you know that these days, you’re his favourite book. In a way it’s liberating, it removes the thoughts behind actions, it removes the second-guessing. You know that he knows what you want. So you don’t have to make propositions and embarrass yourself further, he’s either gonna take you as he pleases or tell you to get lost. So far it’s always been the former.
His gloved hand grabs the side of your jaw as he leans back and the woodsy, natural scent of leather whiffs past your nose. His other hand is less stationary, he brazenly glides his hand down your dress, generously palming your tits before he slides down further down your waist and back, settling on your ass. “Gotta teach you a lesson that you shouldn't be spreading your legs for men you don't really know that well.” He growls out tilting your head so he’s directly staring into your eyes with his impossibly piercing blues.
“You’re not just a man.”
“Mhm you got that right.” He purrs all pleased at the obvious stroke to his ego. You’re all flustered, breathy and eager for him and he loves it. The pure adoration and love you give him so easily just flows through him, feeding that black hole starved for affection inside him.
He didn’t wait a second longer to kiss you, one gloved hand still on your jaw, the other quickly moving up to the back of your head pressing you into him. With a moan he kisses you, already acting like you’ve been starving him this entire time. His kisses are feverish, already hot hot hot as his lips ply yours open. You feel his shaky breath hot against your lips while the plush pillows of his lips are pressing against yours in a frenzy.
You wrap your hands around his neck for support more than anything. You know how he gets. Your heart rate has skyrocketed by now, beating hard and loud in his ears as he presses his tongue in between your lips, already wanting to be in you one way or another.
You part your lips for him just like you’d part your legs and you let him kiss you, heavy, hot and wet as he holds you with almost shaky hands trying to get as much as he can out of you.
His ravenous kisses don’t relax you, they make your body feel tight, wound up, always expecting and wanting more. At this moment you need him as much as he needs you. You grind your body against him with each more pressing and needy kiss. You know he can feel you through his suit, even though it’s handily hiding his hard-on. He still moans when you rub against him, clearly just as wound up as you are.
He pulls away, his eyes no longer that bright piercing blue but now his pupils are blown, his gaze lustful and heavy. His breathing is rough and stuttered. Even though he can’t get winded or tired his body is so strained that he pants for you like a thirsty dog.
Homelander takes his time to calm down, wanting to take control of the situation, he wants you to look up at him with those unsuspecting sweet wide doe eyes while he defiles you. And you do, you look up at him, panting out of actual lack of breath and you stare in reverence.
There he goes, grinning like a shark again and you’re already waiting for the foul words that he’s undoubtedly going to thoroughly wet your panties with.
“Tell me,” he purrs out, seducing you with his dulcet tones. “How many times did you make yourself cum to my voice, huh?” He’s now leaning into your ear again, knowing this is where the occasional brush of his lips makes your body burn bright and hot. “Or to the memory of my cock inside you?”
You expect him to be filthy and talk with no filter, it’s his specialty behind closed doors, but it still catches you off-guard. It especially does anytime you’re reminded of the time he utterly ruined you for any other man in your home, in your safe space, in your bed.
“I don’t know—many times. I, um, I lost count.” You don’t know exactly what answer he wants from you but you know that he will turn each and every one against you. His hair tickles the side of your face as he nuzzles into you with a small whimper before continuing.
“Yeah? Maybe you should show me, do it for me. A little performance as a reward for all that I've done for you.” You hear the restraint in his voice. You know he wants nothing more than to just fuck you, have you fall apart on him. For him. But you also know Homelander loves to play. And he doesn’t want the game to be over yet. “You can do that for me, can’t you?” He goads you with that. Homelander knows just as much as he swallows up all your love and affection; you thrive on being reminded of how much you adore and worship him. How much you’d do anything for him. Anything.
Homelander pulls back from you, his hands now firmly on your waist as if you were a flight risk.
“What do you mean?” You regain some sense of self after he gives your hot and flushed body a little break.
“I mean you’re gonna sit your pretty ass in that chair, make yourself cum for me, while I watch.” He guides your body towards the further end of the dressing room where he points at a chair in front of a lit vanity table that’s still littered with make-up and brushes from when his team got him ready for today’s event.
Your body is buzzing with excitement but part of you is still a little embarrassed by such a blatantly open display. He wants you to sit in that chair, spread your legs and give him a perfectly lit view of the way you get yourself off? Yeah, that’s not the easiest thing you’ve ever done. But again, for him, you’ll do anything.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” He pulls the chair out a bit tilting his head towards it. He looks at you, blatantly undressing you with his eyes. Literally, undressing. You may not physically feel his x-ray vision but the look in his eyes and the way he stops at your tits with a leery smile on his face is very telling. He doesn’t bother to hide how much he ogles, he knows how much it turns you on anyway. “Come on, panties off and hop on.” He clicks his tongue impatiently.
You sneak your hands under your dress and pull the hem of your panties down. You slide them down your legs until they pool at your ankles where you step out of them with your shoes still on.
Homelander chuckles to himself as he picks up the undergarment inspecting the damage. “You’re like a faucet, always fucking dripping wet.” He brings them closer to his face, inspecting the pair of Homelander-themed panties. He inhales the scent of your pussy now that it’s long seeped into the fabric. “I didn’t think these would be salvageable after last time.” He speaks as if he was talking about the weather and not pure debauchery while he indulges in the scent of your cunt.
“I got more pairs.” You said with a shrug as you got into the chair. You had to jump up a little as it was set on the highest setting for Homelander’s viewing pleasure.
You watch as he tosses the panties on the vanity table in front of you. “You’re gonna have to spread those legs some more.” He tuts with his tongue. You spread your legs as wide as you can in the chair and he shakes his head. “No, nope that won’t do either. Legs up on the arm rests.” He commands and as much as you want to comply, even you have your limits.
“I’m not that flexible!” You yelp out in amusement. “Wait!” You exclaim again except this time he easily manoeuvres you around in that chair with his stupid strength and you feel like a pretzel as you’re being pushed into the right position.
He ends up hooking just one of your legs over the armrest letting you rest it against the vanity table and giving you a comfortable enough position but more importantly, giving him a great view. “See, there you go. Flexible enough.” He pulls off his gloves one by one, throwing them on the table, out of view. “Come on, show off for me,” He coos in your ear, his bare hands, hot and smooth, sliding up your legs picking up the hem of your dress on the way as he pulls it up.
You gasp at the view in front of yourself. In the lit mirror in front of you you see yourself spread wide, your pussy easily visible and glistening in the bright light. This might as well be a porn shoot with how well lit and visible all your parts are. As you instinctively start closing your legs Homelander presses your thighs down, barely putting any power into it yet you feel the unyielding strength thrumming through his fingertips.
“Don’t be shy, you know I’ve seen it all.” He tucks the skirt of your dress above your waist and behind your back. Your hand slowly slinks down to rest on the bunched up fabric of your dress.
He straightens up properly standing behind you, his hands land on your shoulders, close to your neck, squeezing softly. He watches you in the mirror. He extends his pointer finger pushing your jaw up so you look up and meet his gaze. “Keep going, spread that pretty pussy for me.” He growls in your ear as his eyes are locked on the way your fingers slide down your slit, your pointer and middle finger spreading your pussy open for him to see. “Just as I said, like a fucking faucet.” He chuckles at the sight of you drenched and dripping.
You blush at the way he’s staring so intently at your reflection. Your fingers tentatively run up and down, gathering the wetness on your fingers, bringing it up to your clit where you rub small, shy circles around it. You’re taut as a bow and struggling to relax.
“Stop thinking and start feeling.” Homelander purrs in your ear. “I know you can do this for me, can’t you?” His voice sends a hot flush down your body, and you feel your clit throb under your fingers.
“Yeah… I can.” You breathe you, closing your eyes for a second to take a deep breath. The tension slowly leaves your body as Homelander presses soft kisses down the side of your face as he leans over to your other side. You let your hand go on auto-pilot trusting it to know what to do. You suck in a sharp breath as he sucks on your jaw, giving it a little nip while you still circle your clit with a soft squelch of your slick.
“There’s my girl.” He watches as you breathe deeply, your eyes finally opening to watch as he descends more kisses down your neck. You shiver at the sensation, pressing in your fingers a little harder, at the right pressure in the right spot. You’re just about to dip lower, push a finger inside your wet, needy hole but Homelander speaks up. “Uh uh, nothing but my cock is going inside that pussy today so keep your fingers on your clit.” Your entire body prickles with heat all over at his words. He’s so brazen and upfront and no matter how many times you hear it it always makes your head spin and pussy throb.
You nod a simple ‘okay’ and only ever slide your fingers down to collect more of your own slick. Homelander is whimpering with you as if just the sight of your pussy was enough to get him off. For him, it’s intoxicating. His senses enhance the way your slick squelches loud to his ears and the scent of your pussy just makes him want to stop this little game and rail you already. Yet, he’s a patient man when he wants to be. And more so, indulging in his own desperate urge isn’t as fun as watching you submit to him first.
“Eyes open.” Homelander interrupts the thoughts and visuals in your head. Your eyes snap open and you meet his sharp gaze in the mirror. You didn’t even realise you had them closed. “What were you thinking about?” He asks, almost testing you. As if saying, you better not be straying too far from the path he wants you on.
“‘M thinking about you fucking me.” You say meekly, your fingers rubbing at a particular rhythm now that you know will get you off. Your clit is already throbbing, aching under your fingers.
“Getting a bit ahead of yourself missy, first you’ll have to cum for me.” He says nonchalantly while he pushes the strap of your dress and bra down your free arm. As much as you’ve gotten more used to functioning around him, his voice still makes you dizzy, especially when he’s a master at saying the most depraved shit.
You pause to help him get out of the other set of straps and when your arm goes up to slip out of the strap he gives your slicked fingers a little suck, tasting you with a pleased grin making you flush hot.
While you go back to rubbing your clit Homelander unclasps your bra from behind your back dropping it on the floor and he pushes your dress down, already groaning at the sight of your tits free for his eyes to feast on. He presses his hands against your tits from either side, groaning at the sensation of the plush pillows underneath his hands.
“That's a good girl, keep rubbing that clit.” He growls out an order, yet somehow he looks more frazzled than you while he's not even the one performing. “Open up,” he whispers, his voice frayed at the edges as he presses two fingers against your lips. Obediently, you open up giving them a suck and laving them with your saliva while you keep eye contact with his reflection. He moans at the raunchy display, his eyes glazing over as he pulls his fingers out. With both his hands back on your tits he pinches your nipples, overwhelming you with the different sensation of one being rubbed wet and the other dry. You whine at the sensation, your pussy throbbing with each hot breath you feel against your neck as he tucks his head against it.
He listens to your heart beat like a drum in his ear, while he gives your nipples all his love and attention. He whispers and moans sweet nothings into your ear whilst watching you rub harder and faster finding the perfect rhythm that has cascading heat climb up your spine. “Thaaat’s it, come on—fuuck—come on, you can cum for me. I know you can.” Homelander watches as your muscles tense, seeing your body just ready to snap. What really does you in is the way he’s whimpering like he’s the one getting off. It’s like he’s sharing all the pleasure you're feeling with you.
You cum with Homelander’s lips whispering against your ear as you hold your breath, your body tense until it finally gives in and you feel the wave of heat and tingling pleasure wash over you from your core to your limbs. “Ohhh god.” You finally release your breath, your chest heaving with the release.
Homelander is less impressed. Clicking his tongue again against the roof of his mouth.
“Mhm that won’t do, you can do better than that. I’ve seen you cum better than that.”
You barely have the strength to counteract his claim. This was easily one of your strongest orgasms and he’s trying to say that it was weak? Oh please. You shake your head. You know he’s just playing his little game of ‘I can do whatever the fuck I want’ so you let him.
“Come on, up you go,” He says as he pulls you up on your feet all wobbly and numb from the way you were sitting on the chair. He pushes the chair out of the way with enough force that it topples over with a bang. He bends you over the vanity table where you’re up close and personal with the mirror, watching Homelander’s reflection as he hurriedly unzips his pants pushing them halfway down his thighs.
You can’t see his cock from this angle but you’re sure it’s rock fucking hard and leaking precum with the way he’s panting like a dog in heat. He’s not even in you and he looks about three strokes away from finishing.
“God, fffuck!” He grits out through his teeth before parting his lips letting a long groan out as the tip of his cock parts your folds, immediately finding your soaked hole and pushing inside with one long slide. He huffs and puffs, his head tilted back as he keeps his eyes shut with restraint. His cock is hot and hard inside you, giving your pussy something to quiver around.
You’re overstimulated, your nerves totally fried and your body has still nowhere recovered from your performance of a lifetime but you still take him in. You push your ass towards him, whimpering yourself as you feel his hands land on your hips, holding you there. “Look at how your pussy just opens up for me. Taking me riiiight in.” Homelander’s voice is strangled and raspy as he hisses air through his teeth.
You whimper at the way his words leave you buzzing and mindless with pleasure. You prop your elbows against the table as he starts fucking you, dragging his cock agonisingly slowly at first as if he was so sensitive he was about to bust.
Thankfully that gives you some time to recover and your pussy is no longer screaming at you that it’s too much. He gives you more and more with each thrust, letting out a breathy soft moan each time he hits home. Tip to hilt on every slide.
His boots kick your legs together giving him a tighter, more pronounced feel. That’s where he really starts to pick up speed. He moves his hands up, gripping where the fabric of your dress is still bunched up as he wholeheartedly fucks into you, minding his strength of course, he gives you what you can take and not a drop more.
You’re so deliciously taken in by him that you barely remember where you are and that you reaaally shouldn’t be screaming and moaning at the top of your lungs. Against all odds, your body is still so wired up and wound up that you feel the climbing sensation prickle at your nerves, your legs quivering with each stroke.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Homelander pulls out of you unceremoniously and you whine.
“I was so close!” You pull a displeased face in the mirror, looking at his reflection.
“I know. And so does everyone on the other side of that door.” He mumbles as he picks up the panties he tossed earlier on the table except this time he balls them up stuffing them in your mouth. You protest around them, your eyes widening in shock and your body flushing with indecent heat when you get a remnant of your taste from the soaked fabric.
“I don’t need people barging in to see who’s screaming bloody fucking murder.”
He turns you around, swiftly picking you up and plopping you on top of the vanity table where you’re nicely lit from behind. “Now behave, the door’s not locked. I’d rather not have anyone see you like this. Capiche?” You nod fervently, at this point just doing anything to get him back in you.
“Good girl.” He coos as he pulls your legs up wrapping his forearms underneath your thighs, his hands gripping the sides for easy control. And just like that he slides back into you. You give muffled little sighs into the fabric of your panties as he fucks you hard against the table, making it rattle on its legs. The littered makeup and brushes were now rolling off and in some cases breaking on impact.
“You’re always so fucking worked up. Just need someone to fuck you don’t you. Poor little fangirl, so obsessed with me she doesn’t even have time to date anyone else.” He gives you a sharp grin, his canines sharp like a predator’s would be. You body flushes with embarrassment at the almost degrading comment and with the way you’re gagged and fucked you feel like Homelander’s personal toy.
He fucks you until your legs tremble in his hold and your eyes flutter shut with each press of his cock deep inside you.
He slows down with the literally mind-melting grinds of his pelvis against yours and instead he looks you straight in the eyes getting your attention. “Did you learn? Will you be good?” You nod. He takes the panties out of your mouth, leaving the now even more damp fabric back on the table.
You keep your promise and you keep mainly quiet, biting your lips shut and only letting the occasional whimper out as he strokes a particularly good spot inside you. Instead you let your body do the screaming for you. You shake and tremble around him, all tense and hot and Homelander doesn’t need to hear you scream to know that you’re close.
With your lips free again he captures them, as if he’s been starved this entire time without them. He kisses you deep and wet while he bucks into you, slowly losing his impeccable rhythm as he’s so strung out for an orgasm it’s bound to happen any second.
“Ah—I’m, uh, close…” You nearly whisper out, all strangled and needy. Homelander nods, clearly just as far gone. He lets one of your legs go, instead letting you wrap it around his waist as he places his fingers on your clit, giving you the extra push to the finish line.
He doesn’t wait for you as he cums in the next, one, two, three, strokes. But he pushes through still fucking into you while his cock pumps you full of his load. You cum immediately after, it’s more the thought than the faint feeling of him finishing inside you that just pushes you over the edge. A burst of buzzing fireworks sparks behind your eyelids as you close your eyes shut through the euphoria sinking into your bones.
You’re panting, catching your breath, moaning your residual finish in small whimpers. “Wow, that was—”
There’s a sharp knock on the door.
“Sir, you’re needed on stage in 10 minutes.” Ashley’s panicked shrill can be heard on the other side of the door and your heart stops for a second before realising it’s her. Ashley knows better than to barge into any rooms ever since Homelander’s shown interest in you.
“Oh well, there goes the afterglow.” You mumble with a tired laugh. Homelander nods quietly as he tucks himself back in, finally spent and satisfied—for the time being at least.
Homelander looks at you with fond hunger, leaning in for a soft kiss. “Yeah. Sorry I have to cut it short.” He grumbles, displeased, as he nuzzles his face in the junction of your neck.
He pulls away, reaching for your bra and passing it to you so you could make yourself presentable again.
“Tell me, did you actually leave the door unlocked?” You ask.
“No! I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this. Well. I want you out there with me, just not when you’re freshly fucked. That’s all for me.” He gives you a wide grin, unable to stop himself from peppering you with kisses, capturing your lips again hungry for them as if you’re constantly denying him air.
“Thank you for today.” He breathes hotly against your lips. “You know how to indulge me, I really didn’t think you’d turn up.” He smiles against you, caving in for another kiss.
“What wouldn’t I do for you?” You say with an amused roll to your eyes, but it’s all light-hearted. He knows you really would do anything for him.
“I haven’t found that out yet.” He rumbles all pleased as he helps you make sense of the mess he made of your dress.
“And you never will,” You beam at him, your heart pounding again but this time it’s just from that overwhelming love you have for him, the butterflies that don’t seem to ever calm down in his presence. Even though you’ve been secretly together for a couple of months ever since the fated phone call, the excitement hasn’t even begun waning yet.
“Hey, you know, you’re a really great actress. Had me sold quite a few times. Maybe I should get Vought to cast you in a movie alongside me, huh?” He grins as he picks up his gloves, pulling them over his hands again.
You have to laugh. Sure, you’ve enjoyed role-playing as the obsessed fan that you were a few months ago but it wasn’t all acting.
“I wasn’t acting! Well, obviously I did with the ‘I don’t know what’s gonna happen’ part but beyond that I was really nervous to be with you like that in a public place. You know how I get. It’s not that I don’t want to be with you publically, it’s just a huge adjustment. So… baby steps.” You finally adjust your dress though you still very much look like you just got railed.
“Come ooon, let me make you mine officially. Fuck this sneaking around. The people who need to know, know. The rest is not important.” He presents you with his sweet honeyed voice, and he’s cheating really, he knows how much it affects you.
In a way, he’s right. The people who matter at Vought know about you seeing as you’re up at his place every other day but there was something terrifying about announcing to the entire world that you were Homelander’s girlfriend. That’s nothing easy to get used to. He’s not just a celebrity. He is the celebrity. You will have to say bye-bye to the comforts of a private life. But maybe that’s all worth it for him.
“Okay. How about you go do your job and I go do mine and when you see me for dinner we can talk about it again. Sounds good?” You said as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another sweet kiss.
“Sounds good." He repeats before continuing with a fond, "I love you,” which always comes out a little strained. He’s never been able to say it without letting himself drown in the endless pool of emotions that are just swirling around inside him.
“I love you too. Now go before Ashley has a heart attack. You’re already late.” You kiss him sweetly, adjusting his hair, making it look more purposefully-tousled, less ‘sex-hair’. You let him go, smoothing your hand down his suit.
“Oh please, I’m the Homelander. Does the party really even start without me there?” He blows a raspberry into the air with a scoff.
“Sure doesn’t, babe.” You shake your head, amused as you watch him wave you off and shut the door behind himself.
You took the time to make yourself look more presentable but you couldn’t leave the room in the state you both left it in. So you collected the things that fell, you wiped the surfaces clean and you trashed whatever broke on the way. It’s the least you could do.
You looked into the mirror, almost not recognising the woman you’ve become over the past few months. Being someone who feeds off your endless adoration has done wonders for your confidence. You no longer feel crazy and obsessive. You’ve finally found someone who’s never gonna have enough of you. Someone who inhales your love like the oxygen he needs to breathe.
You revere Homelander less as an icon and more as a person, as a partner, these days. You know so much more of who he is now and strangely, while he scares others, you’ve never felt safer in his presence. Something about you two just clicks. It’s no wonder he wants to show you to the rest of the world. He wants to lock you in, have people forever associate with him.
And soon enough, there will be no way out.
[Part 3]
Taglist (you can add yourself to be notified anytime I publish a new Homelander story): @morishitoshi
18+ Only | 8.5k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Pre-season 1. Voice kink. Oral sex. Unprotected sex.
Summary: You're a huge fan of Homelander but you always feel too awkward to ever meet your hero at a meet & greet or similar events. Your friends enter you into a Vought competition, where you've got a chance to win a phone call from Homelander himself.
Author’s Note: My first Homelander fic! Also, this is the first time I’m publishing my work. Obligatory English isn’t my first language so apologies if there are any strange turns of phrase but I happily take on criticism so feel free to correct me. I want to get better! I’m also not very good with sticking to the right tense. This is very self-indulgent so read with caution.
You can’t decide whether to hug or strangle your friends. They’re trying to be nice, you get that. But this goes against everything you’d ever do! Lovely as they are, they’ve entered you into a competition to meet your hero. To meet Homelander. The thought alone makes your head spin, your heart pound and stomach twist on itself.
‘It was just 20 bucks, what’s the worst that can happen? You win?’ Reads your friend’s message. You roll your eyes, hearing the teasing tone in your head. They know about your not-so-hidden obsession and at the end of the day they just wanted to brighten their friends day.
And sure, you are a fan. Okay, fine. You’re a big fan. Obsessed even. Every-wall-of-your-bedroom adorned-with-posters-and-promotional-materials obsessed. But you don’t want to appear like that. Last thing you’d want to come across as to your idol, you hero, is an annoying screeching fan begging for his attention.
You don’t want to be part of the crowds pawing at him, inching as close as they can just to graze his uniform with their fingertips. You don’t want to look like a feral fan. You have manners. You don’t want to be just another face, just another adoring fan begging for him to look your way. It’s hard to admit to yourself that you’ll never be more than a fan. So you don’t go to meet & greets. You don’t go to premieres. You don’t pay exorbitant fees just to meet your hero.
You’re a romantic at heart. You always imagine the first meeting to be one for the books. Maybe he saves you from a burning building flying you down, his stars and stripes billowing in the wind as he looks at you with concern etched into his handsome face, his piercing blue eyes scanning you for injuries as he talks to you with a soothing rumbling tone that sends shivers down your spine. You can clearly imagine him going, Are you okay miss?, as he descends to the ground. Or you just happen to bump into each other but he catches you with his strong arms and fast reflexes and just like that it’s love at first sight. Scenarios after scenarios. All varieties of ‘meet-cute’s play in your head on a daily basis. You spend your time getting lost in your head, dreaming of the day when it will be your turn to be the protagonist of the story. When will you be the damsel in distress? But you sigh and move on with life, because this isn’t a romance novel.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself (and others) when people ask you why you haven't tried to meet your hero.
Oh I just don’t want to be a weird obsessive fan. Plus it’s expensive!
Meeting heroes is technically easy. Vought gives people many opportunities to see their heroes for a pretty penny. They parade their heroes around like exotic animals in a zoo on a daily basis.
For you the reality is that you simply can’t handle seeing your hero up close and personal, let alone talk to him. How are you not meant to get flustered in front of what you considered to be perfection? How are you meant to find your words or even come up with words worthy of being uttered in his presence? You’re meant to look into his eyes, tell him how much of a fan you are and not fluster and burst into tears from the anxiety coiling in your gut as you wait your turn?
You don’t want that. You don’t want to be just another babbling fan. You want to stand out. You want him to remember you. You want him to think about you. But you’re also a realist and you know that at most he’ll think you just another annoying fangirl if he even grants you a passing thought. So you spare yourself those hurt feelings and you avoid meet & greets, you avoid all the fan-targeted conventions, events, promotional campaigns or competitions.
Or you always have. Until now it seems. You again scroll up in the group chat where your friends surprised you with an entry to the newest competition Vought advertised. It was presented as a fundraiser. All proceeds are planned to be donated to Samaritan’s Embrace. A simple $20 entry that would grant you a chance to be one of five lucky winners to get a personal phone call from Homelander.
A fat chance of that, you thought when you first saw the competition announced on both Vought’s and Homelander’s twitter accounts. With a competition that invites Homelander's country-wide fanbase, there really is no chance of you winning. You half-comfort yourself with that thought. You don’t know where you’d even start should you win. Part of you thinks that maybe ‘meeting’ him over the phone could be bearable as he wouldn’t be able to witness just how badly you’re holding it together.
But then you think back to all the videos you’ve watched. The reels and the tiktoks you’ve saved. The podcasts and interviews that at this point you play almost religiously. He's perfect in every way but you're particularly fond of his voice just rumbling in your ear when it gets nice and low as he talks in lengths about the upcoming movie or his most recent save. A while back you bought yourself a decent set of noise-cancelling headphones with great audio quality and suddenly it felt like he was right behind you just purring into your ears. Very few interviews record with good enough microphones to capture how mesmerising his voice is but those that do get saved and played on repeat sending shivers down your spine, following you to bed and invading your dreams. So no, maybe a phone call wouldn’t make the experience any easier on your poor heart.
You calm down after the initial panic reaffirming yourself with the reality where there’s no chance that you’ll get picked anyway. You text your friends again, kindly thanking them for thinking of you as you shook your head with an amused smile. That’s that done and forgotten about.
Or so you think. Few weeks down the line the mental discourse has long left your mind. The conversation moves on and your friends don’t mention anything since. That’s why it’s no surprise when you pick up the unknown call after the third ring with ease, casually answering with, “Hello, Y/N speaking.”
Homelander looks through the list of winners Ashley brought to his desk with a scowl on his face. He’s grumpy, having to jump through everyone’s hoops is grating on him, slowly chipping away at his showmanship armour. This is just another nail in the coffin. Now he has to make private phone calls?
He wants to be revered, loved. With people bending over backwards just to get his attention. Sure, that’s right up his alley. Get the crowds to scream his name, be grateful for his divine presence. What he isn’t a fan of is making others think they’re special. He’s the special one. Where does Vought get off thinking that he’s got the time to call and visit his fans one-on-one.
He rolls his eyes looking through the unimpressive line-up that Vought carefully curated. One of each demographic, trying to hit all the targets Vought wants him to improve his numbers with.
Each candidate has a sheet of talking points assigned to them, things to highlight, mention or even promote to each one of the fans. Normally Homelander would throw Vought’s carefully crafted response straight back to their faces but right now he’s not in the slightest interested in being clever or the fans' idea of ‘authentic’ so he’d rather rattle off a few lines from a curated list of party lines. At the end of the day he doesn’t care for this. Talking to five individual fans doesn’t help him in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t happening in public, there’s no one here to witness his generosity. Nobody to witness a god, looking down and gracing his followers with his benevolence.
Vought believes the individual approach will be worth it in the long run. That apparently fans will come running to any future events and competitions seeing as real people they might know have won in the past. All Homelander sees is at most five twitter mentions from a few nobodys.
He’s got about an hour in the calendar to get through all of these. Though he's banking on this taking a lot less time. There are many more important things he could be doing instead.
He flips through the files again, each profile is filled out with a name, number and a photo, deciding on the least painful order. A young boy, an elderly woman, a middle aged comic enthusiast, some punk teenager and you. Homelander looks at your profile with mild interest. You’re the only one who Vought didn’t manage to find a good quality recent photo of. Clearly you don’t do social media. Yet the quality doesn’t take away from the intrigue your profile inspired. You’re easily the most interesting in the list but that’s not that hard to do. Still, Homelander puts yours at the end of the list. Saving the best for last.
“Hellooo and congratulations! This is Homelander and you’re one of the few lucky cookies who get to have a little chit chat with me.” All air gets sucked out of your lungs and the ease with which you picked up the phone is gone. Your eyes widen, breath caught in your throat only coming out in confused little stutters. This isn’t real. It can’t be!
Whether it’s a particularly vivid dream or your world is actually turning upside down you’re glad this happened at home. Your knees buckle, your ass landing straight on your bed, your legs trembling with nervous energy as you sit down.
“W-what?” You manage to blurt out, more breathy than not. Your heart is pounding like never before. You wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it over the phone, it feels loud to your ears.
“The competition? You entered, right?” His voice. His fucking voice was right in your ear and you felt like melting into a puddle of goo. Anything to spare you the embarrassing words that are surely about to come out of your mouth one way or another.
“Oh… um…” You are blowing it. There’s no other word for it. Totally embarrassing yourself. Not able to say a word, still trying to calm your heart down.
“Are you not a fan? Have I got the wrong number–?”
“N-no no! No…I mean yes. I mean sorry…fuck.” You are totally losing it. The hand holding your phone is shaking with nervous energy.
“Hey hey hey…. Come on now. Take it easy. Now take a deep breath aaand relax.” His voice is rich and sweet like honey, just like you’ve heard on TV but here it feels intimate. Just for you. He’s not talking to anybody else. As he hears your stuttered intake of breath and a mildly calmed exhale he coos again. “That’s it. Breathe with me. Now in.” If only he knew that this is making things so much worse for you. “And out.”
“I’m so sorry. I meant to say, I am a fan but I don’t do this.” Your voice still trembles with each word but you’re a little more composed.
“What? Call people?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, he's clearly pleased with his little joke.
“No.” You can’t help yourself but chuckle, your lips spreading in a wide grin. Your heart is still pounding but it’s more excitement than embarrassment. You’re actually talking to Homelander. And you have already embarrassed yourself beyond belief but he’s still here! He’s still talking to you. He doesn’t even sound upset. “I mean I don’t meet you guys. Heroes. I don’t really know how to do this. I mean I pretty much live on your doorstep and I’ve never met either one of you.” Now that he calmed you down, getting you talking, you can’t stop talking.
“Really? Some fan you are.” Were you of a sound mind you’d hear the joke but now all you could think is that you’ve upset him. And you can’t have him think that. Sure you’ve always wanted to stand out but not in a negative way! You take it to heart and you apologize.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to offend. At all! Really! It’s just, you don’t need another person begging for an autograph that they can brag with to their friends or sell online for a quick buck.”
He exhales a little breathy laugh that has your whole body flush hot. “Oh, aren’t you adorable.” The panic that was inflating in you like a hot air balloon finally fizzled out. Instead it’s replaced by a throbbing heat in between your legs and you place your free hand over your heart, almost trying to will your body into behaving normally. “You know if you want I can send you some, would be a shame for such a sweet fan to not have anything personalised. I’ll sign it with your name.” He offers, a nice gesture, really, but you are currently having a whole body meltdown to even appreciate it for what it was.
“O-oh,that isn’t—You don’t have to—”
He continues nonetheless.
“Y/N, is it? Beautiful name.” Your name rolls off his tongue perfectly, all soothing and sweet. And there you go, melting into a puddle just for him.
“You don’t have to be nervous. I don’t bite. At least, not over the phone.” You let your hand trail down your body. He’s just talking. He’s just making jokes. He’s just trying to strike up a conversation to make such a freaked out fan of his a little calmer and there you are getting your rocks off on this.
“Sorry. It’s hard not to be. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long while. I didn’t expect I’d ever get to talk to you. It’s kind of you to do things like this for us fans. I’m sure you’re busy. Thank you for taking the time.” You distract yourself from the throbbing that’s just calling for your hand to settle heavily in between your shaking thighs.
“Oh no problem. Wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for all my loyal fans, right?” You should really stop moving your hand down your body. But you can’t help the effect he has on you, you’re not acting normal!
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the fame that makes you special. It’s you.” You breathe you all dreamy before realising this isn’t just one of your fantasies. No. You really are talking to Homelander. You cough a little, pretending like you had something stuck in your throat.
“It is?”
“I think so. Change into civilian clothing and I’m sure you’ll still be turning heads.” You speak normally now but you bite your lip at the end, your hand now just above your pubic bone.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this plenty.” Oh, of course you have. Your body is screaming at you to take the plunge, to slip your hand down your panties, and make yourself feel like this is more than just a friendly fan call. But your mind is, correctly, telling you that this is beyond inappropriate.
“Ah no! I just mean that you’re perfect at what you do. There’s nobody like you. Noone could take your spot. So it’s more than just fans.” You’re surprised you’re still carrying on. You feel like your brain is turning into mush with each word he’s saying.
“What can I say? I take my job very seriously.” He goes on to talk about being a leader of the Seven, you guess he’s just trying to fill space seeing as you’re such a blubbering mess. Even with all his efforts at making this normal, your brain turns all the innocent words into the filthiest dirty talk.
“Look, I’d love to talk to you some more but I’m afraid I’ll have to end it there. I’m late for a talk show interview.” You retract your hand as if it got burnt and instead you grab onto the comforter you’re sitting on, stopping yourself from doing anything impulsive.
“O-of course.” Your heart rate is elevated again, something about the thought of him leaving and you never getting the chance to speak to him again makes you want to scream.
“Tell you what, I don’t want to be unfair to you. You hardly got your prize. I’ll call you later. You free in the evening?”
“Y-yes.”
“Perfect.”
Perfect. You’re fucking perfect. Homelander can’t stop the way his lips stretch into a predatory grin. You are exactly what a fan should be like. Swooning over him. Grateful that he’s even bothering to grace you with his presence. You were practically kneeling, bent over before him on the floor, kissing his feet as he gave you a taste of his divine presence. He has half a mind to take care of the uncomfortable hard-on pressing into his rigid suit. He couldn’t help himself when you were being such a sweet little thing. He feels no remorse at having rubbed himself through his suit as you were there on the other side of the phone, undeniably shaking in excitement, all flustered and tense and most certainly aroused. But no, he wants to wait his turn. He needs the real thing. He’s not planning on letting you go that easy.
Originally he was pissed that most of his time on the phone was taken up by the elderly woman who was talking his ear off. Now he’s thinking about sending her a gift basket. He has a real excuse to see you.
When Homelander wants something he’s like a hunter, doing everything he can to lure his prey into his trap. In this case he abuses his powers to get the Crime Analytics team to dig up your address and in the meanwhile he sits through a mind-numbingly boring interview at a low-tier talk show he really shouldn’t need to waste his time on.
The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that you might be watching. You seem like a big fan. You surely wouldn’t dare miss out on his live appearances. The thought alone gives him enough drive to not laser through the talk show host everytime she asks a stupid question and instead he imagines he’s speaking straight to you.
When the show is over he takes off before his team can steer him towards another boring chore. No, he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like any good predator he observes. He waits until it’s the right time to strike. That’s why he’s perched at the top of the building that’s opposite yours. He’s got a clear line of sight to your apartment but he’s careful in making sure you can’t see him.
He watches, his grin reappearing every damn time he sees you reach your phone, checking if your ringer is on for the tenth time. You are an easy target, he can swoop in anytime and sweep you off your feet but he wants it to be perfect. With sick fascination he keeps watching you, your behaviours and patterns as you pace around your room trying to preoccupy your mind with mindless thoughts. He knows that nothing you do can now fill the void that he left behind. What else can replace the purr of his voice in your ear, soothing and exciting you at the same time. Nothing. There’s nobody like him. You said it yourself.
An hour of self-indulgent watching later he decides to end your misery. You just look so upset and disappointed and he knows you’ll just melt in his presence. He needs to be close to you. He got a little sprinkle of what you're like over the phone and now he’s got a craving for the real thing. He needs to feel you, smell you, hear your poor heart trying to keep up with the excitement right in his ear.
So with a quick drop he descends.
The day has gone by torturously slow for you. You spend every minute checking your phone in case your ringer randomly fails you and you won’t catch the second call from Homelander. Just thinking that makes your thighs quiver. The thought of having him purr into your ear any longer wets your panties all over again. But over the coming hours your enthusiasm deflates. It’s getting late and your chances of ever getting a call back are low.
You emerge from the bathroom, fresh and clean, in your pyjamas ready to sleep today’s rollercoaster of emotions away. Or you would be if it wasn’t for a knock at your balcony door interrupting your thoughts and making you flinch in surprise. The flash of red and blue still so vibrant and colourful against the midnight sky has your breath catching in your throat. What the fuck?!
You open the balcony door in shock, and if you had the strength to do so you would have ripped it off its hinges with pure eagerness. There he is in all his patriotic glory. Homelander. A wide grin on his face, posture ramrod straight as he clasps his gloved hands behind his back, puffing his chest out.
“H-Homelander?!” Your voice quivers at the proximity, your heart picks up speed again and you feel your entire body flush both in embarrassment and excitement. Your first thought goes to how you currently look rather than questioning his motives or how he even found where you live in the first place.
Trying to regain your composure you shake your head, blinking as if he was just a figment of your imagination. Maybe your devout obsession with him is finally damaging your mental state, making you hallucinate.
“Good evening, Y/N.” God, how does he do that! The way your name slips off his tongue so easily, with such familiarity makes you clench and part your lips with a gasp. Any sort of composure you’ve regained crumbling to dust. Now you are just awkwardly gawking, in awe at the unreal figure in front of you, in the flesh. Homelander doesn’t wait to be invited in, strutting into your modest apartment like it belongs to him, the confident strides of his red boots loud and heavy against the creaky floor of your apartment. He takes up the living space confidently, somehow making you feel like you don't belong in your own space. His presence took priority, anything else secondary—you included.
“How did you—” Your question of how he found where you live doesn’t even get fully asked, let alone answered. He cuts in, not actually caring about your justified worry over having your address handed out willy-nilly.
“Our call was a bit too short to my liking. You don’t mind a little late-night visit, do you?” You feel disarmed. His voice turns gravelly, lowering with each word. His tone teasing as if he was telling you a secret, so unlike his television persona where he’s all American apple pie values and open arms with clear intentions. Here, he grinned widely—all teeth with his sharp canines bared to you like the predator he is. Like you’re his next meal. “Ohohoo, would you look at this. Maybe you are my biggest fan, huh?”
You are distracted by his voice, his presence, just him that you fail to notice his eyes wandering around your apartment. Your face flushes red in embarrassment as you see him assessing your safe space, or what felt like your safe space before this ambush, all with an amused grin on his face.
“These are all limited edition. Must have cost you a small fortune.” Holding a breath you watch him take his gloves off one by one, placing the leather on your table with a soft thwack. It feels forbidden, not meant for your eyes. The public doesn’t get to see Homelander as anything other than perfect. His image manicured, perfected to the tiniest details. Seeing his surprisingly elegant bare hands, this up close feels intimate yet threatening like he’s unsheathed his sword, revealing one of the many hidden weapons he can use against you.
You watch as he brushes his fingers against limited edition action figurines, box sets, posters and trinkets featuring his likeness or the logo emblem Vought associates with him. If it was anyone else you’d tell them to keep their paws away from your most prized possessions but it's Homelander. Who else gets the right to touch special limited edition merchandise of his own likeness?
You watch as he paces the room with an unreadable expression. The embarrassment you feel transforms into an apology, heavy on your tongue as you force your mouth open, letting your shame out into the world. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.
“I-I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” He turns his head over his shoulder with a curious expression. A swoop of his blonde hair handsomely falling into his face. He puts down one of the figurines he picked up earlier as he scouted the area.
“All this stuff.” You wave your hand around, the grand display of what can only be described as the Church of Homelander, a shrine dedicated to his divine existence. You see how it looks, how it makes you look like a rabid fan. Though you’re anything but. “I know it’s a little strange. I don’t want to make you feel like a museum piece. Or-or-or a circus animal! I just admire you. A lot.”
“You do?”
“I do.” Your breath catches in your throat as he turns around fully, facing you head on, one slow step inching towards you at a time. You gulp, feeling like you’re left in the dark regarding his intentions as you hopelessly struggle to read him. On the opposite spectrum you’re there, an open book, your heart on your sleeve, your every thought written so clearly on your face you may as well give him your diary to flip through. “More than anything.” Breathlessly you add, meeting his eyes as a challenge. You’re devout, as loyal as it gets. You’d do anything for him if he asked.
Homelander rises to your mental challenge with a grin so sharp you feel the metaphorical bite coming before he even opens his mouth as he steps closer. He’s so close now. Any ordinary man could feel the thud of your heartbeat, but to his keen senses it’s a war drum and he’s marching to a battle he’s already won. His bare, elegant hands make their way to your jaw caressing it with a surprising gentleness. You flinch. Even though you watched it happen with wide eyes, you didn’t expect his hands to leave you unmarred. You almost expect your skin to sizzle, unworthy of his divine touch.
Homelander’s grin disappears, his tongue gliding along his teeth as if he’s cleaning them before he devours his next meal. All that leaves you is a little whimper before he pulls you in, his hands thrumming with incomprehensible strength as he kisses you. He kisses the air out of your lungs as if you could survive without it like he can. As if you could meet him in the middle. But dammit you do your best to. He’s a passionate kisser, incapable of sticking to soft kisses. No, he devours. He licks your lips open, his tongue gliding along yours. You brace your hands against his chest, already feeling weak in the knees. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his tongue in your mouth is nothing compared to how hot and wet you feel in your panties.
It doesn’t help that he’s vocal. You kiss him harder anytime he growls or moans into your lips, his voice vibrating against your lips just possessing you more. And soon it turns into a game of who can dish it out harder. Each devoted kiss makes him hum and purr which in turn melts you into a pile of goo, making you kiss him harder. Your lips feel hot, swollen from the ferocious kissing. You’re nearing the limit of what your lungs can manage without resurfacing for air.
Homelander pulls away but he doesn’t give you any time to recover. As if you could. How do you recover from that? Instead he’s adamant about making your heartbeat hit record heights. His hands glide down your body, featherlight touches that make your skin break out into goosebumps as he settles on your hips, trailing the waistband of your pants. His pink wet lips spread into another predatory smile and before you know it he leans closer to your ear, practically purring, “Tell me, if I take these off will I find you wearing Homelander panties too?”
Flustered squeak escapes you as he laughs wholeheartedly at your embarrassment. You know he knows. He’s teasing you for a reason. “They’re comfortable.” You eventually grumble, pouting like a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“I bet they are.” He sinks down to one knee, his hands taking the waistband of your pants with him as he pulls them down over your thighs, letting the fabric pool by your ankles. He pats your ankle, prompting you to step out of them. You comply, kicking the fabric away earning a little word of praise from him. “Attagirl.” You’re visibly trembling as he kneels in front of you, his eyes locked on the sight of your blue panties with his emblem and name right across the middle in gold, all accentuated by a red trim. It would be far from sexy in any other circumstance but he purrs at the sight. All pleased like the cat that got the cream. “Got my name across your pussy all day long?”
Before you could react like any other person would, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. You yelp, losing your balance trying to grab onto his head or shoulders for support but he puts his arm on your back, sliding it right under your top keeping you straight and secure whether you want it or not. You’re not leaving until he says so. “Might as well fucking taste it seeing as it’s already mine, don’t you think?” He gives you a hungry look licking his lips before hoisting your other leg over his shoulder, standing up with ease. He walks you back against a wall as he eagerly inhales the scent of you, his head perfectly in between your warm thighs.
“Woah!” You stabilise yourself, finally having more surface to lean against. The fabric of your top glides along the surface of the glossy posters he has you pressed against. Making you the centerpiece, surrounding you with his likeness. You finally process what the fuck is happening as you feel his nose pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties. “Homelander! Y-you….ohh…” You whimper, your hands automatically finding comfort and safety in between his golden locks.
“Fuck you smell good.” Homelander growls, his hands now on your ass, holding you in place as he sticks his tongue out, pressing it wetly over your soaked panties. The taste of you already coating all his taste buds.
“O-oh fffuuck. OH god…yes…yes please.” You don’t stop yourself from moaning freely, the time for embarrassment long gone as Homelander lifts one hand from your ass, impatiently pulling the fabric of your Homelander panties to the side, his tongue already slipping in for a taste before his hand even makes it back to squeeze your ass. “Taste just as fucking good.” His voice strained, uttering filth in between your thighs.
His thick tongue pushes through the slit of your weeping pussy, lapping up what you’ve so graciously prepared just for him. And as you watch a mop of blonde hair greedily slurp at your wetness like he’s parched, you think back to the fantasies that drove you to orgasm after orgasm as the imaginary Homelander ate your pussy.
Well, for one the real thing is a lot more enthusiastic than you ever imagined him to be. He is sucking on your clit in rhythm that has you throb harder, making your toes curl. “Ohhh, Homelander!” You reward him with a loud moan of his name, like a prayer on your lips. And you repeat it with each masterful lick around your clit that has you squirming in his hold, legs quivering around his head, fingers tugging at his hair.
The second thing you never considered was how much his powers would come into play. Here he is with a deathly strong iron grip around your ass, easily holding you up on his shoulders against the wall while pushing you as close into his face as he can. The thought of not being able to escape his grip exhilarates you as much as it terrifies you. His lack of need for air makes him a perfect devout lover. Because this is pure devotion except it seems he forgot who was meant to worship who.
You’d be embarrassed by the obscene sounds you two are making if it didn’t feel so good. You moan for him prettily as he licks up all the wetness he’s coaxing out of you. You breath hitches as you feel your orgasm building. He's consistent, giving you just the right pressure. Homelander looks up at you, eyes glassy and blown back with lust before he swiftly repositions you, needing just one arm to make you feel weightless yet secure in his hold as he takes his free hand plunging two fingers into you revelling in the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.
“Oh there there there! Ahhh!” You guide him, his fingers pumping into you and with his tongue still working magic on your clit you whimper out, “oh fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna–.” You fall apart in his arms, cumming on Homelander’s tongue like you’ve imagined many times over. With you thrashing around you rip the poster right behind you unaware of the mess you’re leaving behind. He licks you through the waves crashing through you. He’s smug, you can feel the smirk against your pussy as he gives it one more kiss before easily slipping you off his shoulders, preening with satisfaction. “Mhmm you did so good.” His voice purred and even in your post-orgasm haze you flush with fresh heat at the praise.
He gives you time to compose yourself but you don’t want it. You want him. You need him. Your legs feel like jelly so you immediately sink to your knees, nuzzling your face into his crotch. Too eager to wait. Homelander cooed at your enthusiasm, “Look at that. Didn’t even have to tell you.” He chuckles, voice thick with lust, his lips and chin still glistening from the way he feasted on you.
Wobbly and out of your mind, you reach for his belt, unable to figure out how to unclasp it, your dexterity not quite there either to be able to wiggle the hem of his pants underneath it and pull them down.
You look up at him with the face of a kitten that’s not getting what it wants. Pouting and pleading for help.
“Christ, let me help you with that.” Homelander unclasps his belt, letting it hit the floor with a loud and heavy clang and the thought of it denting the cheap flooring doesn’t even graze your mind. He unzips his pants and the hiss alone makes your mouth water. He pushes his pants a little lower and you stare wide eyed at where his thematically red briefs are tented, his cock throbbing and leaking pre-cum into the thin fabric.
Okay, this you can do. Your hands slide up his thighs, getting a little feel of the bare skin of his thighs. Unmarred, smooth and hot. Your hand briefly squeezes around his cock through his briefs, forcing Homelander to hiss through his teeth. You pull down his briefs, bunching them down with the thick fabric of his suit.
You try not to stare and drool but you’ve imagined his cock in your dreams and fantasies so many times that seeing it in real life just kind of blows your fucking mind. It’s perfect. A bit longer than average but especially nice and thick. You lick your lips in anticipation. His hand rests on the back of your head, giving your hair a tug.
“You gonna keep staring or will you put those pretty lips to work?” His gruff tone tears you from the haze.
You blush, being caught staring. Wanting to please your hero you apologize, “sorry, it’s just so perfect. You’re perfect.” You breathe out in pure adoration.
“Come on then, be a good girl and open up for your hero. I want my cock wet before I slide it into that needy pussy.” He looks down at you with a sharp smile, his other hand rests on your jaw before moving up squeezing the hollow of your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Not that he has to, you’re more than willing to deliver. You open wider, making his hand withdraw as you take matter into your own hands. Literally. You grip the base of his cock, feeling how hefty and hot it feels. It hits you in that moment that you’re holding Homelander’s cock. Fuck. You’re gonna be dreaming of this moment for years to come.
You look up, giving him one more doe-eyed look before you stick your tongue out easing the swollen red head in between your lips. The salty, musky taste of his pre-cum on your tongue makes you whimper, your eyebrows furrow with concentration as you focus on banking the memory of his taste in your head. Eagerly you get right into it. Down and dirty. You focus on him, coating him with an ungodly amount of saliva until anytime you pop off him you’re followed by strings of it connecting you two. His grunts and heavy breaths just urge you to do better. So you take him deeper, slurping around the saliva you've made for him, bobbing your head up and down.
You nearly lose your rhythm when he lets out such a needy wanton moan, making your pussy throb.
“Thaaat’s it, come on—fuck!—deeper, yeah yeaahh you got it sweetheart. God fuck that’s fucking it.” He’s nearly whimpering, so lost in the sensation. And you're eating it up. Each whimper and word goes straight to your pussy and at this point you wouldn't be surprised if you were making a puddle on the floor.
His hand forces your head down deeper and you gag, choking around him as for a second your nose bumps the neat thatch of hair above his cock. He's not easily dissuaded and he pushes again, a little softer this time. You almost feel the tremble of his hands, he's so close to unravelling. Just for you. The swell of pride pushes you forward and you take him deeper. He takes the chance to push both hands into your hair as he starts fucking your face.
“Take it. Take it.” He grunts, his voice more and more broken with every thrust. You're just about to push his thighs back, attempting to fight against his unyielding force but his hips stutter and he groans, letting out broken moans as he spills on your tongue.
As if on command you swallow and he pulls out, wiping the residual dribbles of cum on your lips. Now that he’s done you realise just how fucking badly your jaw aches. You whimper at the ache of your jaw and the ache between your legs.
You’re still kneeling on the floor, a picture of pure devotion, with your mouth messy and lips swollen. He grumbles at the picture in front of him. He pulls you up by your hair, kissing the taste of himself out of your lips. You can still taste your pussy on his lips and tongue as he shoves it into your mouth. “Bed?” He's somehow more than ready to continue and mentally you add his extraordinary refractory period to the list of his many talents.
You nod a broken, “y-yeah, this way,” the taste of him still heavy on your tongue as you lead him to your bedroom.
He lets out a little chuckle at the state of your bedroom, just as decorated with his brand as was the rest of your apartment. “Fuck me, you really are my biggest fan.”
You’re about to apologize, again, and he can read you like an open book already shushing you. “Shh, don’t say it. C’mere, take this off instead. Want to see you.” He tugs at your top, wanting you to take it off. Like unwrapping a present. You let out a few breathless ‘okay’s and pull the top over your head baring your entire body to him, save for the panties that were still uncomfortably pushed to the side. He clearly wants you to keep them on and you’re not sure whether that’s his narcissism or possessiveness talking. You don’t dare comment on the fact that he’s still fully dressed. You’re not gonna start demanding things from the Homelander now are you?
With a step closer he purrs, pushing you to the bed intensely watching as your tits bounce when your back hits the comforter. He follows as he lays over the top of you but he doesn't look at you. He picks up the grimacing Homelander plushie he sees on your pillow— the one that's predominantly advertised to kids. He holds it up for you to see with a raised eyebrow, the look almost condescending. “What? They make no other official plushies!” You defend yourself.
“Is there anything you don't have?”
You don't know what possessed you to answer, “yeah, you,” but Homelander eats it right up as he grins at you.
“Cheeky slut. Well you're about to. On your side.” He says sliding off you to rest on his side looking you up and down hungrily. You’re clearly surprised at his choice of position and he grumbles with annoyance as you take forever to move the way he wants you to. His impatience gets the best of him and he effortlessly manipulates you to your side, slotting right behind you. Homelander grips your inner thigh lifting your leg a little higher, as he nestles his cock right against your wet cunt.
You sigh with partial relief, feeling him solid against you feels good. Feeling him inside you would feel even better. “Jesus, you're still so fucking wet.”
“It's all your fault.” You whimper trying to wiggle in his unyielding hold. He just tuts at you gripping you tighter, cusping on pain.
He pulls you close, his cock sliding in between your slit, immediately getting the top of his cock wet. His lips trail up your jaw until he reaches your ear. He growls, low and sexy, nipping at the sensitive skin of your ear. Your heart skips a beat, your pussy throbs as the sound of him just ripples through you.
“Maybe it is. You know, I've been thinking. You're such a nervous little thing.” He grinds his hips into you, dragging his cock back and forth, teasing you. His voice got quiet, dropping a register lower. All slow and drawled out he continues rumbling in your ear clearly aware of what it's doing to you. “You were beside yourself when I called you. So there I am thinking nobody gets that nervous, not unless they’re trying to hide how fucking turned on they are.” He keeps fucking talking and talking, making you shiver to the point where you feel goosebumps rise all over you. Your breath ragged, your eyes fluttering shut.
You're starting to understand why he was particular about this position. After all, he could read you like a book from the get go.
“At first I thought it was just me because you're such a big fan.” He coos in a condescending tone. He licks the outer edge of your ear and you shriek, thrashing in his uncompromising hold. “But no no nooo. It's not that. Because everytime I spoke, your heartbeat sped up. You know, I was worried about you there for a minute. Then there was your pussy. You get so wet the air is thick with it. I can't even fucking breathe without tasting your sweet cunt.” You let out a broken sound, close to a sob, you pussy throbbing so hard he must feel it even without being inside you. You didn't even consider that his senses can easily sniff your secret out.
He’s still rubbing his cock in between your folds, sliding the whole length of it up and down. It’s slick and loud and so good and holy shit your clit is burning from the way his head catches on it with every thrust. You're so close and your body is on fire. You so desperately want to cum with something inside you but he’s cruel. He's not gonna give it to you just yet. “And look at that, you're still getting wetter. They do say it's always the unassuming ones.” He chuckles into your ear, low and vibrating against you.
“Is that it? Do you get off to the sound of my voice? Do you watch videos of me, listening to interviews while you finger your little pussy?” He's going harder, the wet sound of your pussy slicking his way in between your slit is deafening, embarrassingly loud. “Tell me.” The little command growls in your ear and you force your lips open.
“Y-yes! Yes….I-I find your voice sexy.” You admit to your little shameful secret. You admit that one of the reasons you never met him was because you didn't want to get sopping wet in a crowd full of screaming fans. “Don't stop, please.” You moan out, quiet and broken, your embarrassment making way to pure pleasure. Now that it's out in the open, what is there to hide?
“Do you even care what I say? Huh? I could be reading out the fucking phone book and your pussy would still get wet. Greedy little thing. What’s it gonna be? You gonna cum to my voice or are you gonna be difficult?” You're burning hot, your body so so tense, the leg he's hitched up a little trembling against his strong grip. His cock is still hitting your clit in the perfect fucking way and you're so so so close.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop! Oh fuck, Homelander—don’t—ahhh!” The dam bursts, a wave of pleasure sweeping over you as you scream. Homelander pulls back and with one deft stroke he slides his cock inside you. He doesn't move. He growls at the feeling of your cunt just pulsing against him. He's so thick inside you, stretching you wide, filling every crevice.
He whimpers and you feel how tense he is holding off the orgasm threatening to burst inside him.
Just as you think this must be the end of it, your mind just a buzzing noise, he pulls out moving back and he pushes you on your back.
You never expected him to be so active in bed but he's already in between your legs, his hands clamping down on the clammy flesh of the back of your thighs and he spreads you open. He's on his knees, his hands slide and curl from the back of your thighs to the top as he pulls you in, slowly sliding his cock into you in one push.
He doesn't wait for anything. He just fucks you. Hard and fast, really getting himself off more than you. Surrounded by posters and merch all carrying his likeness while he plunges into you again and again. Your hair is plastered to your forehead as you watch your hero utterly ruin you. You're sweaty, absolutely spent and tired while he's pushing into you without breaking a sweat.
This round isn't for you yet it's gonna be a memory you'll frequent the most. The look on his face, pure lust and torture as he's fucking you with as much strength as he allows himself.
With how he's got your hips propped up he's managing to hit all your best spots as your overstimulated nerves light up, giving him one last finish, your pussy’s quivers pushing him over the edge as well.
Then there's a little hot spurt of him inside you but you're surprised when he pulls out shooting most of his load with a few strokes of his fist all over your panties and stomach.
“Ahh fuck. Look at that, finally got your first autograph.” He snorts, amused, admiring the sight in front of him. His cum has already soaked into your panties, the ‘Homelander’ text changing into a darker colour as both his cum and your slick from the previous round drench the fabric.
You flush hot red and you shake your head, amused by his antics. “That's disgusting.” But strangely, you're charmed.
“I should take a picture. You look great like this.”
He notes as he slides off your bed pulling his briefs over his finally softening cock, tucking himself back into his suit.
“Stay?” You say softly, offering him the space for his benefit more than yours. Even though you'd like him to stay for a cuddle you know you'll be out of it in a minute.
“Can't do I'm afraid, duty calls.”
You nod, understanding. “Thank you, I really feel like a winner.” You snorted, thinking back to how the day even started.
He looks at you almost fondly, but your orgasm-hazy brain might just not be working anymore.
“Until next time.” He says as a goodbye and you end up tucking yourself into bed. The last thing you hear is the click of his belt he picked up from the living room, the creak of the leather gloves he slides back on and the sonic boom of him flying away.
And you know that when you wake up if it wasn't for your ruined panties, your throbbing cunt or even the ripped poster in the living room you wouldn't believe any of it was real.
You sure hope there will be a next time.
[Part 2]
Taglist (you can add yourself to be notified anytime I publish a new Homelander story)
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, bucky barnes can be a jerk sometimes. dom/sub dynamics, oral sex (f and m receiving), dirty talk, emotional sabotage, situationship, angst with a happy ending, strong language. english is not my first language so sorry in advance for any spelling/grammar mistake.⋆
word count: 19.7k
── ⋆⋅☆cronological order⋅⋆ ──
prequel one more encore!
summary: When a bachelorette weekend lands you front row at a sold-out show in Austin, you catch the attention of your favorite rockstar: Bucky Barnes—and one reckless night turns into something neither of you planned for.
room for three
summary: two weeks into tour, Bucky suggests to invite Steve to join you in bed—just like they've done with other girls before. It's supposed to prove that you're nothing special. The problem is, Bucky might be lying to himself.
headliner problems
summary: You and Bucky keep keep things casual, until one night, one question, and one wrong answer sends everything spiraling.
+more tbaᯓ★
scared i'll never sleep again
summary: On tour, Bucky Barnes has everything: sold-out shows, screaming fans, the adrenaline of being untouchable… and you, the one who made a cramped tour bus feel like home. He was clear from the start—no relationships. No labels. But somewhere between city lights and hotel nights, those lines begin to blur. You become more than convenient, more than temporary. And he becomes too much of a coward to admit what you are to him.
Your infatuation with one firefighter brings you to the station every day. That is, until you hear him call you a handful.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Firefighter!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader — 3K
▸ WARNINGS: Hurt/comfort, fluff, miscommunication!!!
▸ A/N: i was reading dear @heldbybarnes' delicious firefighter bucky and got hit with inspo to write this in an hour at 2am. just my good ol friends miscommunication and yearning! hope you enjoy, any comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated <3
↤ main masterlist
You meet Bucky by accident. Setting off the fire alarm in your building when you’re reverse searing a steak that billows smoke like it’s nobody’s business until it touches your finicky little thing. The alarm blares loud, waking up the entire building judging by the way your neighbors are complaining through your walls — even the ones above you.
You’re wincing in apology as you open up your windows and your door, standing on one of your rickety dining chairs and attempting to shut the damn thing up.
That’s when he comes in.
Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs.
You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel.
Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.
Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205.
From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.
Ask and you shall receive.
Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.
Every. Single. Day.
The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns.
Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.
“Steak alarm.”
Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you.
He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it.
“Now that’s a meal.”
Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days.
And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you.
You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.
It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way.
Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made.
But the more you see him, the greedier you get.
When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you.
Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation.
It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends.
However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it.
“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement.
Heat floods your cheeks.
“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.
“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle.
“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.
You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice.
Handful. A handful.
All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight.
It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.
From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.
So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.
You had mistaken that kindness for something more.
It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.
You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again.
Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.
Instead, Bucky stands at your door.
He’s still in his fire station t-shirt.
He still looks delicious.
Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”
Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”
He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself.
“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.
“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”
“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.
You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”
Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.”
Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?
“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.
“You don’t look sick though.”
“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.
Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”
“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”
Real smooth.
Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm.
And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp.
“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension.
Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”
“What?” You whip up to face him.
“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”
The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time.
“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.”
“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”
“Then why?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”
His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”
“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”
“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”
You clear your throat and shrug.
“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.”
“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”
“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”
Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”
“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”
“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.
Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”
Your heart skips.
“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet.
You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.
Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.
“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say.
“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.”
“Why?”
Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”
You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm.
Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right?
“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper.
“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”
“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”
The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”
Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.”
“Oh.”
“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”
Your lips part.
He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”
“Bucky—”
“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”
“Bucky!”
“Yes,” he shuts up.
“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.”
His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”
“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”
The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face.
“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”
Homelander’s halo finally slips when his taste of frontier justice goes awry
CW: Graphic gore and intense (but brief) sexual violence
The graphic content begins after the first line break and ends after the second.
Homelander watches from the shadows.
He watches and he waits.
No longer unsettled; he’s pushed all the confusing feelings down so he can replace them with cold calculated righteous fury. This emotion he knows. This emotion he can handle. If he gives himself over to his rage then the ugly prickly feeling crawling up his spine and churning in his gut goes away. The anger is pure. He’s pure.
A God is entitled to punish those who he deems fit.
Tiger Stripe is inside. He’s drinking at the bar; laughing and making crude remarks to the bartender while reeking of the cat piss that has seeped so deep into the fibers of his suit that no amount of cleaning will ever be able to remove it. He must let his “coworkers” use him as a litter box in order for such an accumulation of filth to be possible. Homelander shouldn’t be surprised. After the Deep, his opinions of any supe who can talk to animals is dim. He wouldn’t be surprised if the creep gets his rocks off to it. Homelander even considers killing time by looking it up to see if it’s a mating behavior for tigers but his stomach is feeling sensitive enough. It’s disgusting knowing such freaks are even allowed to exist by Vought. It tarnishes his image by proxy. If it was up to him, such supes would be culled long before being allowed in the public eye.
You better be so grateful to him for doing this for you.
He’s entitled to your gratitude for freeing you from your plight after having the audacity to judge him. He scoffs to himself just thinking about it. You’d better trust him after this. You won’t have the fucking right to doubt him. You won’t dare judge him or assume his intentions. He’s not the kind of man you think he is. He’s your hero. He’d never think that you’d want…
His gut starts to churn again. He sees her lingering in the corner of his vision, eyes still blue but only judgement in her expression. He ignores her, frustrated and confused by what is happening to him. Why is she appearing to him like some judgemental bitch of an angel on his shoulder? Whatever slight she’s accused him of wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong. Was he supposed to be some kind of mind reader? Of course she had wanted him. Of course she would. Of course… He didn’t do anything WRONG.
I was scared you’d think I wanted it.
His eyes begin to feel hot and he screws them shut.
The prickly feeling is back.
He whips around to confront her but he’s met with the same quiet moonlit alley he’d decided to use for spying on his prey. There’s a fat rat sniffing around a leaking trash bag. He lasers it clean in half just so he can punish something for being made to feel this way. There’s no living ghost haunting him. No silent specter to throw accusations with her gaze. There’s just empty stillness.
For the first time since he was very young, he thinks he might throw up.
He doesn’t though. In a miraculous stroke of luck, Tiger Stripe has decided to stop harassing the bartender and be on his way, likely to the next shithole dive that he drunkenly stumbles across. No doubt hoping for an even hotter bartender. Homelander can smell the booze leaking through his pores before he even exits the bar and the acrid stench of it grounds him. It’s time for him to lock in and pounce.
It’s time for God to dole out some justice.
—————————————————————————
“Howdy ho! Look who’s finally out of the cathouse.” Homelander steps out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk, blocking Tiger Stripe’s path. Tiger Stripe startles as his weak brain struggles to process Homelander’s presence with the obscene amount of alcohol in his system. Homelander would normally never deign to even look in his direction. He can’t really blame the supe for being overcome but he does anyway. He wants to burn a hole right through the creep’s gaping mouth.
“Homelander! What an honor! I’m…wow! Homelander is talking to meee.” Tiger Stripe slurs, the reeking stench of his booze breath makes Homelander’s nose burn. He wants to get this over with and rid the world of this shit stain. But he isn’t done playing with his food. He wants the man begging for mercy before he finally finishes his kill. He’s determined to make him piss himself just like the cats he loves so much.
“I was surprised to see your show still airing. Guess there’s nothing like a bunch of fat pussies to make the general public tune in.” He drawls, hands resting imposingly on his hips. Tiger Stripe freezes for a moment before breaking out into a grating laugh.
“Oh that’s a good one Homelander! I didn’t realize you were so naughty. I’m sure you get your fair share without having to watch little ol me.” He reaches out to clap Homelander on the shoulder in a sense of misguided camaraderie. Homelander stiffens and his lips pull into a tense smile that barely manages to hide the rage boiling under his skin. He’s going to have to burn this suit after this. Laundry will never get the scent of piss out of it now. The thought of his disgusting hands coming anywhere near you makes the heat behind his eyes begin to grow out of his control. He squeezes his eyes closed and tries to will it away. His grin sharpens before his eyes reopen, the bright red replaced by a cold icy blue.
“Oh I do. Y’know…there is this little PA I have my eye on. She works for Ashley. She’s the sweet one.” He hints, trying to guide Tiger Stripe into his trap. He doesn’t want to be too obvious. He wants him to admit to his behavior before he goes for the kill. He wants this waste of space to know just what he’s being punished for. Tiger Stripe’s mouth gapes open again while he thinks. It lasts a little too long so Homelander snaps to draw him out of his drunken haze. His eyes light up with dull recognition and his lips curl into a sleazy grin. Homelander adjusts his stance to curl his fists behind his back.
“The one who brings in desserts all the time? Oh you dog. She’s one hot piece of ass. Prissy though. Acts like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I’ve tried my luck a few times but the little prude always brushes me off. No way she’ll refuse you. What slut wouldn’t spread her legs for America’s Sweetheart? You know what they say about the quiet ones.” Homelander’s false smile stays frozen dangerously in place as Tiger Stripe claps him on the shoulder again and gives a laugh that quickly turns into a hacking cough.
“Can you do me a favor? When you’re done with her just give me a call. I don’t mind sloppy seconds.”
Homelander’s ears begin to ring.
Homelander knows that being piss drunk is the only thing making Tiger Stripe bold enough to dare say such things to him. Whether the supe is aware of his true nature or is still under the illusion that his boy scout squeaky clean image isn’t a sham; anyone with a brain would balk at making such a statement about someone Homelander has expressed interest in.
Piece of ass
Prissy
Prude
Sloppy Seconds
This is what this shitstain thinks of you.
In a split second Homelander has Tiger Stripe’s arm in his grasp and without hesitation he squeezes as hard as he can. With an obscene cracking squelch, Tiger Stripe’s arm is crushed into mulch. Blood and viscera pour onto the concrete as the cat supe stares in sheer shock at the mangled remains of his forearm. An agonized scream catches in his throat as Homelander clamps down again, the sheer force of his grip severing the disgusting man’s arm in two. It dangles, still barely attached by strands of skin and muscle.
The scream finally leaves him.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK?!?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?” He grabs at the remains of his mutilated arm with his other hand and he goes pale as it rips right off. He drops it with horror and promptly vomits all over the ground.
Homelander grimaces at the mess and grabs him by the throat, dragging him still choking from the pressure and the rise of bile still burning his esophagus. He tosses him onto the filthy ground of the alley. He looks up and promptly lasers a security camera pointed right at the entrance. There’s no way it didn’t catch his initial attack but who’s going to confront him about it? Disposing of it is merely a formality. He’s in the clear either way.
Tiger Stripe whimpers on the ground. He’s curled up in a ball clutching his bleeding stringy stump. His face is white as a sheet and drenched in blood, snot, and tears. Homelander calmly picks up his arm and waves it at Tiger Stripe in a macabre mockery of a friendly greeting. He only gets a horrified stare in response.
“Is this the arm you tried to touch her with? Hmm? Think fast or I’ll have to take them both.” He grins sharply as he gives another mocking shake of the arm.
“Yes! I touched her with that one! Please, it was that one! Don’t take my other arm!” Tiger Stripe wails in terror. A sharp rancid stench fills the air. He’s succeeded in making the man piss himself. He’s honestly surprised it took this long.
“How did you touch her? Tell me. I want to know what your filthy hands did to my girl.” He tilts his head coldly as he waits for an answer. If Tiger Stripe’s face could have gone any whiter it would have. He leans over to cough and spit more terrified bile all over the alley ground. He can’t take his eyes off of his severed hand.
“I’m sorry.” He rasps, as though a simple apology will make Homelander absolve him of his crimes.
“Ah ah ah! That’s not an answer.” He playfully wags the hand at him.
Shock is beginning to set in as Tiger Stripe shivers. Homelander can see his pulse beating rapidly under his skin. He needs to speed this up before Tiger Stripe isn’t able to function anymore. He kicks him harshly in the stomach and the man spits blood. He must have ruptured something.
Oops
“I just played a little grab ass once or twice. I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to hurt her! I just wanted to know what she felt like! Whatever she told you is an exaggeration of the truth! I never forced her to do anything. You can’t blame a man for his natural instincts” He wheezes out.
“All the fat pussies you work with aren’t good enough for you? Huh?” Homelander pokes him with his hand. Tiger Stripe tries to flinch away but Homelander gives him a whack on the ass with it. He laughs heartily as he sneers down at the panicked supe. “C’mon! You just said you like to play a little grab ass!”
This has evolved past revenge for Homelander. This is pure catharsis. All that discomfort that had been building since your confession is being exorcised. Each drop of blood that drips from Tiger Stripe’s injuries is washing away his guilt and confusion. This is how things are made right, not by crying on a rooftop but taking action. He’s absolved.
He tosses the hand away and crouches on the ground. He rolls Tiger Stripe over and crawls on top of him. Tiger Stripe trembles and Homelander grimaces at the stench of alcohol and blood. He would never dare touch to sully himself with the likes of Tiger Stripe but the dumb fuck doesn’t know that. He grinds against the supe briefly and grins at the terrified and ashamed protests from the man beneath him. He leans forward to whisper sharply in his ear.
“This is what you wanted to do to her, isn’t it? You sick fuck. You disgust me.” He buries his hand in Tiger Stripe’s matted hair and yanks his head up so he can meet his gaze. “I ought to fuck you bloody just for thinking it.”
Tiger Stripe’s lip trembles and he begins to babble incoherent pained apologies that fall on deaf ears as Homelander sneers. He grinds against him again and the supe gives one last weak pathetic attempt to wiggle away and escape.
It’s fruitless.
Homelander doesn’t proceed with his threat. The very thought makes him feel ill. So with a lightened and satisfied heart, he slams Tiger Stripe’s head into the ground where it explodes in two with a resounding wet splat. Brains and gore spill onto the pavement as Homelander’s laugh echoes into the night.
——————————————————————
Homelander bounces on his heels as he stands anxiously on your balcony. His hands shake slightly from the adrenaline of the kill. Normally the thrill wears off fairly quickly for him but this is different. He’s a live wire, sparking dangerously in the chilly night air. He knocks harshly at your window, desperate to prove his devotion to you. He needs to prove to you that he’s nothing like the bug he just squashed. He left you crying and he can’t return to the tower without making things right.
It takes a minute or two and a couple more insistent knocks before he hears you start to stir. He frowns when you’re still weeping and sniffling softly. You have to know it's him. He’s the only one who meets you here. That you aren’t cheered by his arrival isn’t a good sign. You need his good news more than ever.
Your apartment is dark but you don’t turn on a light as you slowly make your way over to the window where he waits. You’re dressed in the oversized sweatshirt that hangs to your knees. There’s something about it that makes you seem so fragile. Your expression is solemn. It doesn’t have any of your usual brightness. He shifts nervously again, a heavy feeling developing in his chest that is an uncomfortable contrast to the lingering fire in his veins.
You open up the window but he doesn’t step in quite yet. He wants you to invite him in. He wants you to want him there with you. He almost expected things to snap right back to normal once the disgusting little barrier between you was gone. But he should have known better. He hasn’t even told you yet.
You stand on the other side of the window awkwardly. An uncomfortable silence fills the air. You won’t meet his eyes. Your gaze is fixed resolutely on his boots.
“Hello sourpuss, aren’t you going to say hello?” Homelander prods with a smile that’s almost painful with how it stretches. If he could see himself he’d be surprised at how terrifying he looks with flecks of blood still staining his cheeks and matting his hair. Not that his appearance matters when you won’t even look at him. He’s unsure what to do with his hands so he rests them on his hips in a show of confidence that he doesn’t feel. His heart beats fast.
“Hello” You reply softly, voice wavery with lingering tears. You fiddle with the sleeve of your sweater. He’s taken about by your lack of enthusiasm but he can’t exactly hold it against you considering how he left you. Maybe he shouldn't have been so rash.
“I have a surprise!” He replies brightly although all he wants to do is shake you till you stop moping. He needs to be patient despite the lingering bloodlust in his veins that won’t quiet until you praise him for what he did for you.
You just hum in resigned reply.
Leather creaks in the quiet as he clenches his fist.
Patience
“That supe you were worried about, that…Tiger fucker. He won’t be bothering you anymore. I made sure of that. You can feel safe to come back to work with me again.” He squares his shoulders with pride. He’s protected you. He’s done his job as your lover. You can’t deny him now that he’s spilled blood for you. Sure, he’s not exactly going to tell you all the details. He doesn’t want to give your pretty little head nightmares.
You finally look at him, a slight hopeful gleam in your eye. For a split second everything feels fine. You smile.
“You got him fired?” You ask sweetly, sounding just like the kind baker he knows. Of course you’d think that was the solution. You’re too naive to understand that sometimes harsher measures need to be taken. But simply firing that creep would never be enough. He needs you to know that.
“Not exactly” He sing-songs. “I made sure he’ll never bother anyone again.”
You pause.
……….
A look of pure horror crosses your face.
“Is that blood?” You ask.
Homelander’s stomach drops.
He looks down at himself for the first time. He uncurls his fists from his hips and holds them up to his face. His hands are drenched in blood and grey matter. He flexes his fingers and a chunk of brain that had been clinging between his pinkie and ring finger falls to the grating with a soft plop. That’s not all. He can see streaks of blood on his boots and the slight itch of his scalp alerts him to the blood crusted in his golden locks.
He didn’t realize things had been so messy. He certainly didn’t think he’d been dirty enough for you to notice.
“Pshsh” He scoffs, waving his hand absently as if he can wave away the tension in the air. He doesn’t answer your question.
“Homelander…is that blood?” You take a half step back, eyes roaming all over him, not missing a single drop of gore. He can hear your heart racing and the air starts to stink with the spike of your adrenaline.
The full weight of what he’s done hits him.
“So what if it is? You feeling bad for the guy, hmm?” He accuses maliciously even if he knows he’s said the wrong words as soon as they leave his lips. Can you really blame him though? You should be fucking grateful! He’s killed for you. Isn’t that the ultimate sign of devotion?
You look at him like he just slapped you. Your eyes open wide in shock and your breath catches in your throat. His chest tightens with an emotion he despises above all else. It lingers in his bones like rot. He can see his future clearly; You’ll turn on him. You’ll leave him.
He’s scared.
He knows he needs to stop. He’s not sure if he can. He no longer feels in control of himself or his actions. He resents you. He wants to hurt you. He wants to scare you into submission and punish you for what you’re making him feel. There is a better way to handle this; He knows deep down. Homelander simply doesn’t have the tools to understand how. That’s supposed to be what you do. You’re the one who fixes things. Why are you doing this to him?
He can’t lose you. You’re the only one who treats him like he’s…
Human?
A familiar mocking voice rings in his ears and he snarls. You flinch, tears welling up in your eyes from confusion and fear. Your heartbeat quickens.
“No! I’m worried.” Your voice cracks as you answer, reaching out to him briefly only to recoil when your fingers touch the tacky blood clinging to his costume. The tips of your fingers are stained red. You clutch your dirtied hand to your chest with white knuckles.
“Maybe you want him back?” He accuses sharply. He climbs in the window as quick as a flash to stand before you. Instead of hurt, your face twists into a grimace of fury and betrayal. He doesn’t realize it in the midst of his mania but he’s done the very thing he set out to prove to you he wouldn’t.
“Don’t say that!” You shove against his unmoving chest; blood staining your palms. He doesn’t move as you pound on his chest, memories of thunder crash almost as loud as the real thing. Only this isn’t a brief misunderstanding, this is revelation. A bridge has been crossed. You’re seeing the real him and it disgusts you. He should have known. It always ends up this way
He reaches out to grab your shoulders and shake you. His fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to bruise. He’s hurting you. He laughs bitterly at the unfairness of it all but he can’t stop himself. It’s like he’s looking in from the outside; his uneven breaths fog the invisible glass he can’t seem to break through. He sees himself spit in your face as he shakes you. He wants to tell himself to stop. He’s hurting you.
“I’m not like him! Do you understand? I’m not. I’m here to protect you. I’d never hurt you ever.” A lie. It leaves his lips so easily.
“I’d never think badly of you or threaten you. And for fucks sake, of course I’d never think you’d want that creep rubbing his filth all over you. I’m better than that. Do you understand?!?! I’m better.” He stops shaking you to hold your face tightly in his hands. His thumbs stain your cheeks with crimson as you struggle in his grip. You’re so fragile, he thinks. He could crush your skull with barely more than a flex of his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened today. Your hand wraps around his wrist tightly.
“Homelander! Please stop! Just answer the question.” Tears begin to roll down your cheeks, leaving streaks through the smears of blood. He tenderly wipes them away. The scent of you that has been so familiar and comfortable has turned to rust.
He’s fucking up. But he just can’t stop himself. He grins widely, straining his cheeks and you begin to frantically stroke his wrist as if the movement will soothe him. He doesn’t know why you’re so insistent. Are you truly so stupid that you can’t tell the aftermath of a slaughter when you see one?
“Yupperoo! It’s blood. I popped that man's head like a ripe melon and we’re covered in his brains right now. What do you think about that? Am I not a hero anymore just because I made a mess?” He’s halfway between a demand and a plea.
“I’m not accusing you of anything! I just want to know what’s going on. You’re obviously not ok and…” You’re concerned about him. Any other time this realization would be a balm to his fractured soul. But right now it only serves as a reminder of how he’s failed to live up to your impression of him. He’s no longer your handsome prince here to sweep you off your feet with a smile and a gentle kiss. Now he’s a problem for you to take care of.
“I’m a hero. I’m your hero. This is what being a hero really looks like.” He tilts his head, looking down at you with a confidence he doesn’t feel. If he doesn’t keep up with this facade he’ll cry. He can’t bear letting you see that. He’d much rather you be witness to his wrath instead of his sorrow. Gods are wrathful. Sorrow is beneath him. If you deny him, being a God is all he has left.
There is a long silence as the two of you stare each other down. It reminds him of the stand offs in the westerns Vogelbaum used to let him watch in the lab when he’d behaved himself during an especially difficult trial. Almost as if John Wayne was apologizing on Vogelbaum’s behalf for what he was put through. Vogelbaum never deigned to do it himself of course. Not until he realized how much he’d affected others by inflicting pain on Homelander. If Homelander had turned out like the scientists had intended, he wonders if Vogelbaum would have ever felt regret at all.
Homelander is the only one with a weapon in this stand-off. His eyes could pierce through you as easily as a bullet could. But you wield something just as dangerous, your disapproval. With a single rejection you’d be the winner of this battle.
Your expression shifts. There’s a tragic recognition in your eyes, a mix of heartbreak, understanding, compassion, a resigned sort of grace, and some unreadible emotion he recognizes from the night of the storm. It’s as if you can see right through him and the swirling hurricane of his emotions to the very heart of his despair. The hand not resting on his wrist reaches up to softly brush a tear from his cheekbone. He twitches at the sensation. He hadn’t even realized it was there. You gently shush him as you stroke his face and at first he recoils from the sudden tenderness. He’s too raw for something so gentle. But you don’t stop and soon he can’t help but nuzzle into your palm. You speak to him gently, like you might talk to a startled horse.
“Ok…ok. You’re my hero. You’re my hero.” He lets out a whine as he leans into your touch. “Just…I need to grab some towels so you don’t drip blood all over the floor. I’m running you a bath.”
AN: Here is my day 26 offering for #JanuaryJumbleScribbles and a big thanks to @mrs-elsie-barnes for helping me realise that this prompt could go down the silly route.
Unbeta'd. Banner by me and divider by @firefly-graphics
Master list | JJS Master list | Join my tag list
Relationship: Loki x GN! Reader
Word Count: 300
CW: Fluff, bad singing, teasing your partner, reader is GN but has hair.
The wind whipped through your hair as you sped through the landscape that sparkled and shone in the crisp snow. You’d always wanted to do this, so as soon as your boyfriend said he was taking you to Norway it was the first excursion you booked.
“Let’s hear those sleighbells jingling, ring-ting-aling-aling too! Come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh-ride together with you!” Your singing might be off key, but it didn’t diminish your joy. The same could not be said for the man sitting next to you.
“Every sound you make is making this worse.” Loki was doing his best to look stern, but that just made you smile more.
“Oh come on, Lokes. This is fun. All festive etcetera.”
“It is a puerile Midgard tradition that I won’t lower myself too.”
“And yet,” you retorted with a cheeky smile, “here you are. Next to me. In a sleigh, in the snow, with a blanket on your lap.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. “You know that just because I’m a frost giant doesn’t mean I like the cold?”
“And you know that my dig was less about the blanket and more about the participation? The fact that you’re here means that you can’t hate it as much as you’re saying.”
His lips twitched and he reached across to take hold of your gloved hands in his own. “Maybe I’m suffering through this because I want to make you happy, my love.”
“Then I suggest you suffer in silence so that I can enjoy this,” you smirked.”
“Brat,” he muttered under his breath, but you noticed that his lip twitch was now very close to a smile.
“Our cheeks are nice and rosy, and comfy and cozy are we…” you continued.
“Just wait until I get you home.”
Tag list: @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @buttercupcookies-blog, @goldylions, @crayongirl-linz, @nicoline1998enilocin, @king814318, @strawberrylore,
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
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AN: For day 7 of Kinktober we’re going to have a turn with Bucky and a blindfold. I didn’t know which reader to use for my kinktober Bucky fics, so I ran a poll. With 28% of the vote (the results for the four options were fairly evenly spread!) you asked for the sassy reader from ‘What’s Up, Buck?’. I hope you enjoy.
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Summary: Bucky wants to have some fun in the bedroom by introducing something new.
“Does that mouth of yours ever quit?”
“You should know the answer to that by now,” you retorted, waggling your eyebrows, although you weren’t sure if he could see them behind the blindfold.
“Oh, I know it, alright.” You were aware of him leaning over you and then his hands were moving your legs so they were slightly apart and then gently pulling your arms away from your body. “Been tempted to gag you on more than one occasion.”
“You did that with your cock yesterday, but I get that you can’t do that in public. Don’t wanna give Steve a heart attack. But let’s face it, you like my mouth.”
He dropped a kiss to your unsuspecting lips. “Unfortunately I do. Now, lie there and behave.”
Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (Starling)
Word count: 1.4k
CW: Established Relationship, Sassy Reader, Blindfold, Sensation play, Temperature play
“What have you got planned, Mister?” Your tone was one of amused suspicion as Bucky knee walked over the bed toward you, blindfold in hand.
“Where would be the fun in telling you? Isn’t the whole point of one of these,” he shook the scrap of fabric at you, “that you can’t see what’s about to happen? It’s supposed to make everything feel even better.”
You pursed your lips but still angled your neck so that he could place the blindfold over your eyes and tie the ends behind your head.
You were both already naked, having spent the best part of the last fifteen minutes making out and petting at each other. However, before getting to the ‘main event’, Bucky had announced there was something he wanted to try. You’d readily agreed, knowing that if at any point you didn’t like it, you could say stop and he would do so, no questions asked. He might be a grumpy and gruff sonofabitch most of the time, but since he’d come clean about his feelings for you – about how he hadn’t been able to speak to you due to how much he’d wanted you – you’d seen the softer, caring side of him. The side that only wanted to see you safe and happy. Luckily, if making you happy involved railing your through your mattress he was more than happy to be of service.
With the blindfold secured, Bucky pressed a kiss behind your ear, before trailing his lips down your neck and over your left shoulder. You shivered at the sensation and giggled a bit.
“Lie down,” he commanded with a growl in your ear.
“Or what?” you sassed, even as you moved to comply.
You heard him chuckle – it really was odd not being able to see him. “Does that mouth of yours ever quit?”
“You should know the answer to that by now,” you retorted, waggling your eyebrows, although you weren’t sure if he could see them behind the blindfold.
“Oh, I know it, alright.” You were aware of him leaning over you before his hands were moving your legs so they were slightly apart and then gently pulling your arms away from your body. “Been tempted to gag you on more than one occasion.”
“You did that with your cock yesterday, but I get that you can’t do that in public. Don’t wanna give Steve a heart attack. But let’s face it, you like my mouth.”
He dropped a kiss to your unsuspecting lips. “Unfortunately I do. Now, lie there and behave.”
“Spoilsport,” you muttered but lay, unmoving, atop your counterpane, waiting for whatever it was he was going to do next.
You waited.
Then you waited some more.
It had probably been less than a minute, but not being able to see him was definitely building the tension. You were just about to open your mouth to sass him some more when you heard a clinking sound immediately followed by the sensation of cold right against your left nipple.
“Fuck!” you squealed out, arching off the bed and fisting the bedclothes.
“Be good, скворец. Don’t make me tie you down,” Bucky chastened as he circled what you guessed was an ice cube around your peaked nipple.
“Yeah, because you’d hate that!” Your voice went up an octave as the opposing sensation of heat covered the peak of your right breast. The thumb of his left hand, covered in some type of gel – lube? – rubbed over you, and the contrast was creating static inside your brain. All you could do was moan and cry out his name.
How long Bucky teased your breasts for, you didn’t know, but by the time he stopped your cunt was dripping and your clit was throbbing. You felt like you were only one caress away from orgasm. You knew you were panting as he shuffled away, no doubt cleaning the lube from his fingers although he left the tacky liquid on your skin, so that the tingling remained.
“You ready for what I’ve got next, baby?”
“Bring it,” you gasped out, making him chuckle again.
Once more he made you wait, until you were wiggling your toes with impatience and your hands were flexing on the comforter. However, when he touched you this time, he didn’t go straight for an erogenous zone. Instead he gently trailed a feather down the bridge of your nose.
A giggle bubbled up your throat at the light tickling sensation. Bucky trailed it across your lips and then down your chin into the hollow of your throat. He then dragged it across the swell of each breast in turn, taking care not to brush your already stimulated nipples. He drew patterns over your body with it. Gentle, maddening patterns that at first felt ignorable, until they weren’t. Your blood thrummed under your skin and when he finally drew the feather down between your spread legs, tickling your swollen clit you couldn’t help but shout out a litany of curse words.
“Feeling sensitive?” Bucky asked teasingly.
“What do you fucking think!”
He swirled the feather over your clit again, and you just knew he was grinning that shit-eating grin of his – the grin that only you, Steve and, on rare occasions, Nat saw.
“Bucky, please,” you cried out.
“There we go,” he crooned. “I knew you could be polite.”
You bit your tongue so you didn’t cuss him out.
“Now,” he said as he continued to tease your clit with the now wet feather, “do you want hot or cold here?”
Although he couldn’t see it, your eyes went wide behind the blindfold. “W-what?” you stammered.
“Hot or cold? You felt both up here.” He carefully flicked each of your nipples in turn with his left hand, making them sting slightly. God, every sensation was heightened by your lack of sight. “Pick which one you want for your clit.”
For a few seconds you processed his words, debating back and forth in your own mind. Sure you could say no to either and he wouldn’t hold it against you, but you couldn’t say you weren’t intrigued.
“Cold,” you stated confidently and Bucky rewarded your decision with a deep kiss.
Pulling back, he shifted on the bed – you guessed kneeling between your legs that he pushed further apart and bent up at the knees. You heard the clink sound again and then he was trailing the ice cube over your pussy lips and up to press against your clit. You keened, your legs trying to close, but stopped by Bucky’s bulk where he’d placed himself between your knees. He moved in closer and you lifted your hips, eager for him to fuck you and let you come. His cock pressed against you and slid home. It felt so good that you let out a guttural moan, but a few seconds later you realised that something felt different.
Despite the almost nubbing cold from the ice cube on your clit, the inside of your pussy felt warm. It tingled. Realisation hit. He’d slathered his condom-covered cock with the warming lube.
“Oh fuck!” you cried out as he thrust in, your legs lifted up and wrapped around his hips as his hand supported your lower back.
“You like that, скворец?” he asked between punishing thrusts. The cool water from the melting ice cube ran down your slit and pooled around where you were connected. The juxtaposition between the hot and the cold was maddening.
“Bucky. Bucky!” All you could say was his name, in between nonsensical moans and whines. Your hands left the bed to clutch at him, one on left thigh and the other on his right bicep, where he continued to swirl the shrinking ice cube.
“Come for me, baby. Let me hear you sing.”
His hips snapped and he discarded the ice cube to pinch your clit with his fingers. You screamed, your whole body spasming as you came. Your head turned side to side on the bed, dislodging the blindfold, but it didn’t matter, your eyes were closed in pleasure anyway. You heard Bucky shout as his own hips stuttered and he was coming as well, emptying himself into the condom, before collapsing over your body.
You lay, shuddering through your aftershocks, as Bucky pressed kisses to your neck and jaw, and you wrapped your arms across his back, holding him close. As both your breathing evened out, he pulled from your body, discarding the condom in the trash, before lying down and pulling you half across him.
“Are you okay, baby?” he asked in a gruff voice.
“More than okay,” you confirmed. “But I’m already thinking up what I can do when you wear the blindfold…”
AN: We’ve made it! Day 31 of Kinktober 2025. I’ve decided to go with the prompt ‘Writer’s Choice’ - something that I might come to regret, ha! I asked various moots for ideas on what to write for this fill, and while all the ideas were good ones, none of them resonated. And then I had a brain-wave - it’s Halloween, so it would be good to do something dark. Maybe a monster. But what type of monster and who would it be? I couldn’t decide! So in the end I decided to write a variety of different endings with different monster babes! So roll up and choose your ending.
A massive thank you to @gremlin-girly for listening to me witter as I wrote all the segments of this, and thanks to all the folks on the Lil Lad Corner Discord who helped with suggestions about which babe was which monster, and how to list the choices at the end of the intro.
An additional thank you to everyone who liked or reblogged any of my fics this year. It’s been a blast. Now I’m off for a nap….
Un beta’d
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Summary: You really should have stayed with the others…
You should have stayed with the others – All Hallows Eve was no time to be exploring the edge of the village by yourself, even if the other girls were vapid and all the boys were shallow. But no, you had to go and try to get a clear view of the night sky, only to be taken by surprise by a strange shadow – a creature you couldn’t see clearly – who tried to entice you to go with him. He’d grabbed at you in the dark and you’d run, but now he was chasing you.
Relationship: ? Monster x Reader
Intro Word count: 450
General CW (but each chapter will have its own specific warnings that will be available at the bottom of the fic): Non-Con, Angst, Fear, Chasing
All you could hear was the sound of your own laboured breathing. Your heart was pounding in your chest, trying to escape from between your ribs, even as your lungs burned, but you had to keep going. You couldn’t stop, because if you did, then he’d catch you.
You should have stayed with the others – All Hallows Eve was no time to be exploring the edge of the village by yourself, even if the other girls were vapid and all the boys were shallow. But no, you had to go and try to get a clear view of the night sky, only to be taken by surprise by a strange shadow – a creature you couldn’t see clearly – who tried to entice you to go with him. He’d grabbed at you in the dark and you’d run, but now he was chasing you.
You had the fleeting thought that running further into the woods wasn’t the best idea – running in the other direction, back towards where there were other people would surely be more sensible, but your feet had decided on a direction and momentum now carried your forwards.
Then, above the sound of your gasping breath, came another sound, one that almost made your thumping heart freeze. Part roar, part scream, but totally terrifying. He was closer – hot on your heels and you didn’t know how much longer you could keep going – but you didn’t want to think about what would happen if he caught you.
A sob broke unbidden from your throat and you stumbled – a rock, a tree root, whatever it was, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that your momentum was broken. You went down, rolling through the leaf litter as brambles and nettles whipped your skin. Your hand clawed the dirt as you scrabbled to stand and then ducked behind a tree.
You tried to get your breathing under control – you needed to be able to hear something other than the rushing of air being sucked into your lungs. The bark of the tree behind you was rough, scraping your skin through the thin fabric you wore, but it gave you something to feel. To focus on. You closed your eyes and listened.
Nothing.
Not the rustle of a leaf or the snap of a twig. Was it possible that you’d evaded him?
“Found you!”
His voice cut through the silence, so close to your ear that the sound almost came from inside your own head. Your eyes snapped open as the moon, bright and full, came out from behind a cloud. It lit him up, allowing you to see him properly in all his terrifying glory, ready to snatch you up and do whatever his nefarious heart desired.
You let out a blood-curdling scream, but there was no-one else around to hear.
Who has caught you? Pick your babe to find out what happens next!
summary: you’re impulsive, chaotic, and a little bit loud aaron’s composed, private, and impossible to read but the more you push his buttons, the more he lets you in.
word count: 3.9k words
a/n: judgey wins! max and ryan fics coming later this week, don't worry! but i hope you enjoy this one! thank you for reading, i love youuu!
⸻
You’d only come because Ashley Rodón begged you.
“It’s for the Willow Foundation,” she’d said over the phone. “Please. I need a familiar face who won’t talk to me about donor tiers.”
You’d laughed. “Ashley, that’s your event. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
She’d grinned. “Honestly? A little chaos might keep it interesting.”
And that’s how you found yourself in a ballroom dressed in cream and gold, surrounded by people who looked like they’d been born knowing which fork to use. The air smelled faintly of roses and money. A jazz trio played softly in the corner.
Ashley floated beside you, graceful in a long satin gown, one eye on the guests and one ear on her phone. “Come on,” she said, looping her arm through yours. “Let me introduce you to a few people—”
She got through two names before chaos found her first.
“Mom!” one of the her kids yelled across the room, sending Ashley’s posture from gala host to mom mode in half a second.
She groaned. “Oh no. Carlos was supposed to—” Then she spotted her husband deep in conversation with the foundation board chair. “Of course he’s not paying attention. Okay, I need to—”
“Go,” you said, amused. “I’ll survive.”
“You sure?”
You gestured toward the buffet. “There’s bread. I’ll be fine.”
Ashley squeezed your hand in gratitude and disappeared, heels clicking across the marble as she chased after her kids, already half apologizing to a waiter.
You turned toward the table, surveying your options, and promptly pocketed two of the small bread rolls. You weren’t sure why nerves, probably. Or boredom. Either way, it made you feel grounded in a room that sparkled too hard.
“Starting a collection?”
The voice came from just behind you low, a little amused. You turned too quickly and bumped straight into him. The champagne sloshed, but large, steady hands caught the glass before it tipped.
Aaron Judge.
He looked taller up close. Sharper, too. Dark suit, posture straight, face calm in a way that made you instantly aware of every chaotic molecule in your body.
“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I was—uh—rescuing carbs.”
His mouth twitched. “Important work.”
You grinned, emboldened. “You’d be surprised. Some of these people haven’t eaten a real meal since the last gala.”
That earned a faint, honest laugh. You felt a little victorious.
“I didn’t think you were the type to crash charity events,” he said, voice quiet but teasing.
“I’m not,” you said. “I’m here for moral support. And apparently carbs.”
He nodded toward where Ashley was now wrangling a small child away from the chocolate fountain. “I see she left you defenseless.”
“Story of my life.”
There was something magnetic in the stillness that followed. You weren’t sure if it was his calm or the way he looked at you like you were the first unpredictable thing to cross his orbit in years. Before you could come up with a quip, someone called him over for a photo. He gave you a polite nod, almost like a secret, before slipping away.
You stared down at the bread rolls in your hand and exhaled a laugh. Maybe Ashley had been right a little chaos kept things interesting.
⸻
A few weeks later, you saw him again.
Ashley and Carlos were hosting their annual Yankees summer party the “casual” kind that somehow came with catering, music, and a perfectly staged backyard. Kids ran through sprinklers, players lounged near the grill, and the smell of barbecue hung thick in the July air.
You arrived with chips and enough energy to make up for everyone who’d been quiet too long. Within minutes, you were roped into a cornhole game, heckling and laughing like you’d known everyone for years.
“You’re playing with dangerous confidence,” one of the guys joked.
“Confidence builds streaks,” you said right before you missed by a mile.
Someone booed, you bowed dramatically. “Tough crowd.”
From the porch, Aaron watched same calm presence, sleeves rolled, beer in hand. You caught his eye across the yard, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Judge,” you called out, “you any good at this or just intimidating for sport?”
He joined eventually quiet, steady while you chirped through every turn, filling the silence between his measured throws.
By the time the sun dipped behind the fence, you’d declared yourself “unofficial cornhole champion slash menace.” He didn’t disagree, but the amused look on his face said enough.
Later, when the crowd drifted toward the firepit, you found him on the porch again, the last light catching in his eyes.
“Didn’t think I’d see you start trouble twice in one season,” he said.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you teased. “Storms make things grow.”
He looked at you then really looked and smiled, quiet but real. “Guess I don’t mind a little weather.”
The porch went still. Laughter and music faded behind you, replaced by something softer something that hummed between your chaos and his calm.
You leaned on the railing, shoulder brushing his and for the first time, it felt like neither of you was trying to stay composed.
⸻
After the Rodóns’ summer party, you and Aaron kept crossing paths at team dinners, post game hangouts, and the kind of casual gatherings where everyone talked too loudly and nobody wanted the night to end.
He never sought attention, but somehow you always ended up near him at the same end of the table, waiting in the same drink line, walking out into the same night air. You were all quick jokes and messy stories; he was quiet, observant. But when you spoke, he listened like no one else was in the room.
One night at dinner, you caught him smirking mid story. “Don’t look at me like that,” you warned, pointing your fork at him. “You’re judging.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, that calm voice of his teasingly steady. “I’m trying to keep up.”
You leaned in with mock suspicion. “Translation, you think I’m chaos.”
“Not chaos,” he said, eyes flickering with amusement. “Just a lot of information at once.”
You grinned. “That’s rich coming from you, Captain Cardigan.”
He blinked, almost laughing. “Captain what?”
“Cardigan,” you said, gesturing to his usual calm, neutral sweaters. “Every time I see you, you look like you’re about to give a press conference about proper posture.”
The table burst out laughing. Aaron just shook his head, fighting a smile, his ears definitely pink. “You know,” you added sweetly, “it’s kind of your thing.”
He met your eyes then quiet, unshaken, but just amused enough that you caught the smallest curve of a grin. “Careful,” he said. “I might start living up to it.”
And that was how Captain Cardigan was born. You teased him about it constantly, he pretended to be exasperated. But every time you said it, his mouth twitched like he couldn’t quite help himself.
⸻
From there, the rhythm between you just settled in. Not planned. Not forced. Just easy.
He started texting you nothing dramatic, just late night snapshots and quiet humor. One night, you sent him a photo from the grocery store, two types of cookies in your hand. “Crisis. Which one says ‘responsible adult’?”
His reply came almost instantly, “Neither. Get both.”
You grinned, sending back a blurry selfie, mid laugh, crumbs already on your hoodie. He never told you, but he saved that photo.
⸻
It was the little things that got you.
He showed up outside your apartment one morning when your tire went flat hands already dusty from checking the pressure before you could even say thank you. “You can just call a mechanic, you know,” you told him, trying not to smile.
He shrugged. “They’ll overcharge you. Besides, you’d probably try to fix it yourself with duct tape.”
“Rude. Accurate, but rude.”
Another time, he caught you struggling with a pile of bags in the stadium parking lot. Without a word, he took half from your hands.
“You know,” you said, breathless, “some of us are capable.”
“I know,” he said simply, “but I’m here.”
You didn’t know what to do with that the calm assurance, the quiet presence that felt like a safety net you didn’t realize you’d been missing.
⸻
And somewhere in all of it the teasing, the soft glances, the small ways he started showing up something shifted.
You noticed the way he looked at you across the table when everyone else was laughing. He noticed when you started saving him a seat without thinking. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was there building between you like a steady hum neither of you wanted to name.
He wasn’t just tolerating your chaos anymore, he was part of it. Anchoring it and every time he smiled that quiet, careful smile meant only for you, you felt yourself leaning just a little closer to the calm you used to make fun of.
⸻
It started at a charity event one of those early summer community things Ashley roped you into. Outdoor tents, local sponsors, the Yankees showing up in t-shirts instead of suits. It should’ve felt easy, light. But the air between you and Aaron had been different lately thinner, quieter, like something unspoken had settled between the laughter.
You’d barely talked all week. His texts had slowed to oneword replies, then nothing. You told yourself it was just the season, that he was tired, but part of you knew it wasn’t that.
When you arrived, he was already there surrounded by teammates, the picture of calm professionalism. You tried to shake it off, smiling, chatting with volunteers, pretending you weren’t aware of how carefully he was not looking at you.
Then came the moment. Someone from the local paper asked the group a few light questions about the season, about teamwork, about who the “most serious” player was. Someone joked, “Definitely Judge,” and you, trying to fill the silence, piped up without thinking.
“Oh, absolutely. He probably has a five step plan for tying his shoes. The man’s basically Captain Cardigan even without the cardigan.”
Laughter rippled through the group a few teammates snorted, someone elbowed him playfully. But Aaron didn’t laugh. He turned his head, eyes meeting yours across the small crowd. There was no smile this time, no quiet warmth. Just a flat, unreadable calm that felt colder than it should have.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but cut clean through the chatter.
“Not everything needs to be a joke.”
It was quiet, but it landed like a slap. You froze, heat flooding your face as the laughter around you faded. “I was just kidding—”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes steady on yours. “I know.”
Then he turned back toward the group, conversation moving on without him. You stood there, still smiling for show, feeling something in your chest twist tight.
⸻
He didn’t text after that and you didn’t, either.
The silence stretched, long enough to turn awkward into ache. You told yourself you were fine that you’d said worse, that maybe he just needed space. But every time your phone lit up and it wasn’t him, the joke felt less funny.
⸻
Weeks later, Ashley hosted a team watch party nothing fancy, just a backyard setup with a projector, beers, and the smell of grilled food. The kind of night that used to feel easy.
You came because you had to eventually face it, because pretending not to care was exhausting.
Aaron was there, of course. He was always there steady, polite, and now impossibly distant. You caught his eyes once across the yard, but he looked away before you could read them.
So you did what you always did filled the quiet. You laughed too loudly at someone’s joke, told stories with too much animation, let yourself be pulled into conversation with one of the younger players who had a habit of flirting with everyone.
He leaned close to say something about your drink, and you smiled just to be polite but when you glanced up, Aaron was watching from across the patio. His jaw tight, beer forgotten in his hand.
The game ended, people drifted toward the kitchen for more snacks. You slipped inside for a breather half to escape, half to think. He followed a minute later. You felt him before you heard him the faint sound of the door swinging shut, his footsteps soft against tile.
“You’re hard to ignore,” he said, voice low, unreadable.
You kept your back to him. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He sighed, quiet but sharp around the edges. “That night I didn’t mean to”
“Yeah, you did,” you said, turning to face him. “You made it pretty clear I talk too much, joke too much, am too much—”
His gaze softened, even as his voice stayed steady. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He hesitated. The silence between you stretched again, heavy this time, filled with everything you hadn’t said. Finally, he took a step closer, and your breath caught without permission.
“You don’t make things easy,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on yours. “But you’re not easy to forget, either.”
You felt it then the weight of every almost between you. The soft pull that hadn’t disappeared, no matter how hard you’d both tried to ignore it. He moved a fraction closer. The world narrowed just his breath, the sound of your heartbeat, the kitchen light pooling between you. And then someone called his name from the other room, the spell broke. He stepped back first. You crossed your arms like armor, forcing a small, shaky smile.
“You should go,” you said softly.
He looked like he wanted to say something more something real, but didn’t. The door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone with the sound of the game replaying faintly from outside and the ghost of what almost happened.
The silence felt louder than the joke ever had.
⸻
The silence didn’t break all at once, it came back in fragments like sunlight through blinds, shy but steady.
It started with a text.
Aaron: You still allergic to mornings?
You stared at it for a minute before replying.
You: Only the ones without coffee. Why?
Aaron: Brunch. Ashley invited me. I’m bringing fruit salad. Don’t mock it.
You laughed out loud a real, unguarded sound you hadn’t made in weeks.
⸻
Brunch was chaos, as usual your small circle of friends crammed into a booth that wasn’t meant for that many people, plates of pancakes and mimosas and the kind of laughter that made waiters shake their heads. You didn’t expect him to actually show up.
But he did. He slid into the only empty spot beside you, tall frame folded awkwardly into the tight space, setting a bowl of fruit salad in the middle of the table like it was his ticket in.
“Captain Cardigan brought vitamins,” you teased.
He didn’t flinch this time just shot back, “You’re welcome for saving your diet.”
You rolled your eyes, but when he laughed really laughed, head tipping back, dimples deep something in your chest loosened. The old rhythm returned easily, your comments, his quiet timing, the space between you that hummed instead of ached.
After brunch, everyone spilled back to your place for coffee and leftover pastries. Somehow, Aaron ended up on your couch beside you, long legs stretched out, his shoulder brushing yours as the others debated something ridiculous on tv.
“You’re quiet,” you said softly.
He shrugged, half smile tugging at his lips. “Just taking it in. You make it hard not to.”
You turned your head. “Not to what?”
His eyes met yours, steady but warm. “Laugh.”
You froze for half a second not because it was a grand confession, but because it was simple, honest, and somehow meant everything.
⸻
Later, after everyone had gone, the apartment was quiet again. It was nearly midnight when you wandered into the kitchen, still wired from the day. You poured yourself a bowl of cereal, leaning against the counter.
You didn’t hear him come in until his voice broke the silence. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jumped slightly, turning to see him standing in the doorway hoodie on, hair damp from a shower, eyes soft.
“Do you ever knock?” you countered, though your voice lacked any real bite.
He smiled, stepping closer. “You left your door unlocked.”
“Maybe I was hoping someone would bring milk,” you said, holding out the box.
He joined you at the counter, leaning beside you, elbows brushing. For a moment, you just ate in silence, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the space between spoon clinks. Then it came out quiet, unplanned.
“I feel like I’m too much and not enough,” you said, staring down at the cereal like it might explain you better than words could. “Too loud, too impulsive, but still somehow not what people expect.”
He set his spoon down. “Who told you that?”
You shook your head. “No one had to. I can feel it.”
Aaron turned toward you fully then, his voice low and sure. “You’re not too much.” You looked up, but he wasn’t finished. “I just needed time to catch up.”
It hit like something both soft and certain the kind of truth that lands deeper than you expect. You felt the tears before you could stop them, and before you could look away, his hand was already there gentle at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here now.”
The world went still, the kitchen light was low, the air warm, the distance gone. Neither of you moved fast it wasn’t a movie moment. It was quieter, more real. Just the quiet understanding of two people finally reaching the same place at the same time. You leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, his hand settling at your back and for once, it didn’t feel like chaos or calm.
It just felt right.
⸻
The city was half asleep, streetlights humming against the quiet. You didn’t even notice him waiting at the corner until his voice cut through the air.
“Couldn’t sleep?” You turned, surprised. Aaron stood there in a hoodie, hands deep in his pockets, the same tired softness you’d seen in the kitchen last night.
“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” you said.
“Didn’t think I’d stop thinking,” he answered simply.
So you walked, no destination just block after block of quiet pavement and the easy rhythm of two people relearning how to breathe around each other. Every so often, your shoulders brushed. Neither of you pulled away. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore it was charged, alive. The kind that made your pulse quicken for no reason at all. He stopped first, under the wash of a flickering streetlight. His breath came out in a quiet laugh the kind that meant he’d been fighting to say something for a while.
“You drive me crazy,” he said finally, voice low, rough with honesty. “You talk too much. You make messes. You don’t think before you leap. You scare me, sometimes.”
Your throat tightened. “Wow. Keep going, this is really flattering.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “But I still want you anyway.”
It wasn’t loud or dramatic just the truth, dropped between you like a confession that had been waiting too long. You froze, watching him watch you. The space between you felt smaller than it ever had.
“Say that again,” you whispered.
He took a step closer. “I still want you.”
Your heart stuttered then everything inside you settled, like that was the sentence the whole story had been waiting for. You reached for him before you could overthink it. The kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow and certain, a release of every almost, every look, every half smile that had carried weight you’d both pretended not to feel.
His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he deepened the kiss, careful but sure like he wanted to memorize the way this moment felt after so many that almost happened. When you finally broke apart, the night stayed still around you. His forehead rested against yours, breath warm against your lips.
“You know,” you whispered, “you could’ve just said that weeks ago.”
He smiled soft, eyes shining. “Yeah. But then we wouldn’t have ended up here.”
You laughed quietly, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to the only calm that ever felt like chaos and comfort all at once.
The city moved on around you traffic lights changing, wind skimming through leaves, but neither of you did. Because for the first time, you weren’t almost.
You were real.
⸻
The weeks after that night fell into an easy rhythm imperfect, but real. You still talked too fast when you were excited, and he still went quiet when his thoughts got too heavy, but somehow the edges fit. You started showing up at more games. He started showing up for brunch. Some nights you’d stay up late laughing until the words lost shape, and other nights you’d just sit together, no noise, no need. Balance didn’t happen all at once it came in small, ordinary pieces.
It was after a long win when everything shifted. Reporters crowded the postgame room, cameras flashing, the kind of noise that used to swallow him whole. Someone asked about balance how he managed pressure, leadership, and the rest of it. Aaron’s eyes flicked to the corner where you stood, half hidden, pretending you weren’t smiling. For a heartbeat, the whole room seemed to pause.
“She’s the loud one,” he said finally, calm but certain. Then came the smallest grin. “But she’s mine.”
Laughter rippled through the room. You felt it in your chest more than you heard it, the warmth of it, the surety. It wasn’t a performance. It was just the truth, said simply.
Later, when the lights dimmed and the crowd was gone, you found him in the tunnel. He was still in uniform, cap low, shoulders tired but relaxed. You didn’t bother with words just walked straight into him. His arm came around you easily, steady and familiar.
“So,” you murmured against his chest, “that was subtle.”
He laughed quietly. “Wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
“You realize you just told the world I’m the loud one?”
“You always were,” he said, looking down at you. “But that’s my favorite part.”
You smiled soft, content, like you’d finally landed where you were supposed to. When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or careful, it was easy.
The days that followed were filled with little pieces of your new normal. Mornings with spilled coffee and half burned toast that he fixed without complaint. Evenings with takeout and trivia nights where your laughter filled the apartment while he leaned against the counter, quietly watching you. Late nights when you fell asleep mid sentence and he carried you to bed without waking you.
He was still the calm one, you were still the loud one. But together, the rhythm made sense. Balance, you realized, was never about changing who you were. It was about finding someone whose quiet made room for your noise, and whose steadiness made your world feel safe.
After another home game, when the stadium lights dimmed and the noise of the crowd faded into the night, he found you waiting in the tunnel. His hand slipped into yours, easy and certain. You walked out together into the cool evening air, his calm and your chaos moving in step.
AN: We’ve got another Kinktober Wildcard today - I swapped out the suggested prompts for day 23 to use Wall Sex with Bucky and Starling.
Un beta’d
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Summary: This was so inappropriate. Any moment now one of the team was either going to notice that the pair of you had been silent on comms for too long or they’d walk into the dilapidated warehouse where you currently were and get… well, an eye-full. However, your ability to give a rat’s-ass about what anyone would think was seriously depleted at this moment in time. They all had the robot stomping under control anyway and there were no civilians for miles.
Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (Starling)
This was so inappropriate. Any moment now one of the team was either going to notice that the pair of you had been silent on comms for too long or they’d walk into the dilapidated warehouse where you currently were and get… well, an eye-full. However, your ability to give a rat’s-ass about what anyone would think was seriously depleted at this moment in time. They all had the robot stomping under control and there were no civilians for miles.
Your arms were around Bucky’s neck, your fingers tangled in his long hair and your legs were caging his waist. His lips were fixed to yours, capturing all your mewls of pleasure, pleasure caused by the fact that his right hand was jammed down your tac-pants, two fingers curving up inside you. His left hand was scooped under your ass and he was using his bulk to press your back into the wall. You were dizzy, electricity zipping through your body as he rocked his hand, palm pressed into your folds.
“Come on, Cкворец,” he muttered into your mouth. “Come for me. You want me to fuck you? You’ve gotta give me this first.” You shifted your hand to grab at the shoulders of his tac-jacket so you could lever yourself up – could fuck yourself on his fingers – desperate for the sweet release of ecstasy. Bucky growled low in his throat. “There she is, my needy little bird.”
His mouth marked out a path across your jaw and down your throat, pressing sharply into space just above the collar of your own skin-tight tactical top, where he nipped and sucked at your flesh, leaving an obvious sign of his possession.
“Oh god,” you moaned, so close to that crest that you could feel it in your teeth. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.” His name was a litany on your lips, a prayer to a saviour. He twisted his wrist and you were there, exploding like a star in the firmament, biting down onto the leather of his jacket to muffle your cries.
Bucky didn’t allow you any rest though. He placed you down long enough to drag your pants down your legs until they caught around your boots. You leant back against the wall and he stepped into the circle created by your legs and clothes, as close up in your space as he could be without actually being inside you. You reached out, hands still trembling from your orgasm, to undo his fly, withdrawing his cock and stroking it firmly.
“Now. Please,” you demanded as Bucky looked down at you from half-lidded his eyes. His tongue poked out and ran over his bottom lip, before he dipped, grasping your thighs and easily lifting you back up. Your legs hugged his hips once more and as you pulled him in, you tugged your underwear to the side and guided his cock to your core. One snap of his hips and he was fully seated.
“Fuck, скворец.” Bucky’s head dropped forward, his eyes closed for a moment before he gathered himself and started moving at a punishing pace. Your sensitive pussy fluttered around him, as if to urge him on further. Your foreheads were pressed together, your mouths barely separated, breathing each other's air. Bucky grunted with each thrust and you whispered encouragement as you tried to meet him. Your back scraped up the wall, luckily protected by your jacket, and his fingers dug into the meat of your ass cheeks, which would no doubt leave bruises for him to crow over later.
But all of this worked to heighten your shared pleasure, and in moments you were tightening around him, hitting that second high as he swelled inside you, filling you with a guttural moan.
Bucky’s head was buried in your shoulder and you stroked his hair as you willed the world to stop spinning. Slowly you lowered your legs, wrinkling your nose at the feeling of his cock leaving you and his cum trying to inch down your thigh. As he stepped out of the tangle of your pants, you couldn’t help but smirk as he tucked himself away, shook his head as if to reset his brain and then pushed his earpiece back in to ask for an update from the team.
summary: You work at a mental institution filled with some of the most dangerous and deranged people. Your patient Bucky becomes dangerously fixated on you.
word count: 18.7k+
pairing: patient!bucky barnes x fem!psychiatrist!reader
notes: this is for stan-o-ween! i needed a ~spooky~ fic and wanted to try something a bit different. a tad bit inspired by born, madly & born, darkly by trisha wolfe, a dark romance duet! i even fear that this is like... way too dark and just too much but i wrote it and it's going to be put out so i don't cry about wasting hours/days on this fic so i don't even care if no one reads it
this is dub-con/non-con - if you do not like DO NOT READ! i am not responsible for your media consumption. if you send me a message or ask saying it offended you or you were uncomfortable i will tell you that you shouldn't have read this because the warning(s) were made clear.
warnings/tags: dub-con/non-con - 18+ only!!!, dark!bucky, inappropriate psychiatrist and patient relationship (or really just bucky being manipulative), dark sexual fantasies, mentions of violence and trauma, mention of reader blushing (as a manipulation tactic, not necessarily as a physical trait), implied stalking, smut, handcuffs, marking, fingering, oral (f&m!receiving), mention of hand in hair, unprotected piv, overstimulation, thigh fucking, slight cum play, breeding kink, very slight aftercare... well, not really more like vague threats, uhhh i didn't know how to end this fic so yeah here it is
it's-tober! masterlist | stan-o-ween masterlist
The orderly’s keys rattled against his belt as he unlocked the heavy door to the interview room. The hinges groaned like something out of an old horror film, the kind you’d half-watched on a rainy night as a child, before burrowing under the blankets. The smell of the asylum clung to everything—bleach, old stone, rust, and something faintly sour that never really scrubbed away no matter how much disinfectant the janitorial staff poured into the cracks.
You adjusted the file in your hands, more for something to do than because you needed to. The paper inside had already been read through twice, your pen marks underlining words that were almost clinical in their emptiness: violent outbursts, manipulative tendencies, acute paranoia, possible PTSD, resistant to treatment. Each phrase felt sterile compared to the whispered warnings from colleagues who had looked at you with a mixture of pity and unease when they learned you’d drawn this particular assignment.
He was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.
“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.
He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.
You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”
“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”
“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.
That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”
The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.
He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”
You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”
His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”
Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”
His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”
You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”
“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”
Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”
He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”
For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”
The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.
The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.
You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?
Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.
Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.
Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.
You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”
“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.
You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”
His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”
It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”
He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”
Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.
“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”
The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”
His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”
You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”
He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”
“Explain.”
“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”
The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.
He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”
The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.
He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”
You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.
Sweet dreams.
---
The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.
You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.
Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.
You set the file down. “Good morning.”
He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”
“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”
The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”
He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”
You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”
A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”
“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.
His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”
The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”
“That’s my job,” you said.
He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”
The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”
His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”
Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”
His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”
“Yes,” you said.
His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”
Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.
He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”
The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”
But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”
The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.
---
The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.
He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.
You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”
His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”
You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.
Your pen stilled. “Control?”
“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”
“Yes,” you said carefully.
He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”
Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”
“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”
You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”
For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”
The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.
He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”
You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”
His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”
Your heart stopped.
“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”
Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.
“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”
The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”
His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”
The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.
The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”
The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.
---
The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.
When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.
“It’s my job,” you replied.
He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”
You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”
You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”
“It is now.”
His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”
He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”
Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.
“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”
“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.
“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”
“Owe you what?”
“A piece of yourself.”
The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”
He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”
You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”
“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “That’s not—”
“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”
Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”
But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”
The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”
He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”
Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.
He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”
The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.
---
The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.
Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.
“Sergeant Barnes.”
“You look tired again.”
You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”
His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”
The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”
He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”
You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”
His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”
“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.
He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”
Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”
“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”
You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”
“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.
“What?” you managed.
“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”
Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”
The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”
He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”
The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.
---
The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.
Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.
“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.
He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”
You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”
“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”
“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.
His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”
“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.
“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”
The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”
His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”
Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”
“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”
“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.
He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”
Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”
He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”
You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.
His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”
Your breath caught. “Enough.”
“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”
He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”
The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.
He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”
You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.
He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.
---
The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”
You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”
He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.
“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”
He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”
“A structured session,” you corrected.
“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.
You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.
“Do you want treatment?”
He smiled faintly. “No.”
“Do you want to get better?”
“No.”
“Do you want to hurt me?”
The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”
Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”
“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”
You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”
“Do you want to control me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think about sex with me?”
His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”
“Describe it,” you said flatly.
For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”
“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.
He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”
You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”
He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”
“I’m not,” you said automatically.
“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”
You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“That’s not an answer,” you said.
“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”
You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”
“Do you imagine me resisting?”
A small pause. “Sometimes.”
“What’s the difference?”
He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”
Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”
“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”
You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”
He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”
“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”
His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”
You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”
“No.”
“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”
Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”
He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”
The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”
He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.
---
The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.
You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.
Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.
You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” he said softly.
You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”
“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”
“Yes.”
His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”
You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”
For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”
Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”
He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”
“I like you human,” you said simply.
He chuckled low. “You’re good.”
You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”
That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.
“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”
The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.
Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”
“Treatment?” you managed.
“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”
You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”
The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”
The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”
Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.
The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.
You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.
Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”
“I haven’t—” you started.
He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”
You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”
“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”
He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.
You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.
The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.
You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.
And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.
You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.
The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.
In your head, you heard him again.
They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number:
Sweet dreams, Doctor.
Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.
You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.
Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.
You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.
---
The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.
You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.
He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.
“Sergeant Barnes.”
“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”
“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.
“Not you.”
You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”
“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the session ends.”
He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”
You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”
He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”
“I want to help you.”
His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.
“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.
He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”
“That’s not healthy,” you countered.
He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”
Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”
His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”
“Stop,” you said sharply.
“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”
“That’s a violation.”
“That’s a confession,” he said.
Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.
His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”
“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.
He smiled faintly. “It already is.”
You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”
“No.”
“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”
“That’s not reality.”
“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.
You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”
For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”
The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.
You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”
He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”
The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.
---
It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.
Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.
You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.
Nothing.
You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.
You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.
The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.
Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.
He laughed softly. “Is it?”
You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.
The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.
You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”
“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.
He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”
You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”
He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”
You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”
He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”
“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.
He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”
“Stop,” you whispered.
“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”
Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.
“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”
He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.
You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.
On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.
---
The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.
You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.
By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.
And froze.
There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.
You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters:
You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.
Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.
When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.
The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.
You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”
By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.
Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”
You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”
“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”
“I don’t know,” you said quickly.
He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”
You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”
Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.
That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”
When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers.
Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.
---
The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.
But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”
You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”
He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.
At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.
It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before:
You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.
By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”
Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”
Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.
“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”
That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters:
I like the way you look when you read in bed.
Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.
Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”
In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note.
You’re almost ready.
By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”
You swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”
You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”
You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit:
You were already his case.
---
The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.
The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.
The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.
You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.
Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.
Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.
That was when you felt it.
A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.
Too late.
An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.
“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.
You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.
You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”
You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.
Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”
“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.
He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”
You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.
He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.
Your heart thundered. “No—”
“Yes.”
He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.
When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”
He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.
You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.
For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”
The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.
Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.
“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”
You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”
He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”
You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”
“No—”
His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”
He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.
You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.
Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.
He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”
You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.
“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”
You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”
You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.
His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.
He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.
“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.
One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.
He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.
His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.
You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”
His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.
You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.
He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.
“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”
His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”
He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.
His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.
He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.
Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.
You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.
He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.
“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.
“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.
He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”
He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”
And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.
He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.
He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.
“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”
You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.
You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”
He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.
His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”
The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.
You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.
He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.
You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.
He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.
And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.
When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.
He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”
Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.
You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”
He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.
You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”
While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”
You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.
“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”
You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.
The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.
He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”
He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.
His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.
He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.
The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”
His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.
Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.
The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”
He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.
Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.
He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”
Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.
You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”
He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”
You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”
His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.
You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”
He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.
You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”
You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.
“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”
He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”
His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”
He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.
“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”
You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”
His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.
“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”
He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”
You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”
He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”
His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.
He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”
He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.
Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”
Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.
He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.
With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.
He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.
His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”
He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.
When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.
“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”
Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”
He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.
Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.
“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”
You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.
“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”
But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.
His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”
Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.
And you knew, as you drifted on the edge of exhaustion, that this was both the promise and the threat: he could be so gentle, so soft, until the next time he wanted to break you open all over again.
IN WHICH aaron judge’s physical therapist touches more than just his oblique strain.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.:･･:.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°
the first time you walk into the training room, aaron forgets what he was supposed to say.
you’re holding a clipboard with both hands, fingers tight around it, the edge digging into your palms. your smile is small but brave—nervous, polite—and your voice, when you finally speak, is soft but sure enough to carry.
“hi,” you say, “i’m your new pt.”
aaron sits on the padded table, towel over his shoulder, and just stares for a second too long.
you’re younger than he expected. too young to look that put-together, that warm, that effortlessly pretty in a pink scrubs and sneakers. there’s a faint flush on your cheeks, and your lashes flicker when you realize he’s not answering right away.
you laugh, short and awkward, a little puff of sound that’s real enough to knock something loose in his chest.
that laugh—God, it’s sweet. too sweet for this sterile, fluorescent-lit room.
“uh,” you say quickly, glancing down at your notes, “sorry. i talk when i’m nervous.”
he finds his voice, low and rough: “don’t be nervous.”
“easier said than done,” you mutter, smiling at your clipboard like it’s safer than looking at him.
he watches as you walk closer, sneakers squeaking softly against the tile. there’s a light, clean scent that follows you—something like antiseptic and vanilla—and when you stop in front of him, his pulse jumps.
“so,” you begin, eyes scanning the page, “you’ve been rehabbing an oblique strain?”
“yeah,” he says. “been tight since last week.”
“okay,” you murmur, “i just need to assess the tenderness and rotation.”
your hand hovers near his side for a beat—and then you touch him.
he flinches, barely, the muscle twitching under your palm. it’s not from the pain, not entirely. your touch is gentle, tentative, but the strain is still sore, and he can feel every ounce of pressure, every inch of your skin against his.
“does that hurt?” you ask quietly.
“a little,” he says. his voice sounds strange to his own ears—rough, thick.
“sorry,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”
and you are. your fingertips trail slow over the edge of the tape, careful and warm, the heel of your hand pressing lightly into muscle. he can feel the heat radiating off you, smell the faint trace of your perfume every time you move closer.
you shift to reach his ribs, your thigh brushing his knee. he swears his heartbeat jumps so hard it shakes the table. her hands are noticeably shaky.
“sorry, i just—this is my first time working with, um, someone like—”
“it’s okay,” he says, and he means it.
“no, i mean—you’re—you’re tall.”
he lets out a low chuckle. “yeah, i get that a lot.”
you grin—really grin—and it’s like something inside him short-circuits.
you relax, shoulders softening, and start explaining the way the muscle connects, how the tension can affect his swing. but he doesn’t hear a single word. he just watches your lips move, feels the ghost of your hand still resting on his side.
the room hums quietly—the air vent, the faint buzz of the overhead light—but the only thing he can focus on is you. the warmth of your touch, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the way your voice drops when you concentrate.
and for a second, he forgets that this is supposed to be therapy.
he just knows that he’s sitting here, pulse unsteady, watching the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen trace light across his skin like she doesn’t even know what she’s doing to him.
the next few sessions blur together.
you’re more confident now, walking into the room like you belong there, voice a little stronger, smile a little looser. you talk more too, about how he shouldn’t practice his swing until he heals more, about the team, about how weird new york bagels are compared to california’s, about the cold mornings that sting your nose. he listens to every word. really listens.
aaron likes when you ramble—when you fill the space that used to feel too white, too sterile. when you laugh softly at something he says, it’s like the air shifts. warmer. human. dangerous, maybe.
today, you’re correcting his posture again, both of you standing too close near the training table. he’s in a sleeveless shirt, his oblique finally loosening, though every time your hand finds its place on his side, it burns.
“you’re still compensating,” you say gently. “try to relax your shoulder—yeah, just like that. good.”
your hand slips under his arm to guide him. your fingers brush skin. it’s the lightest touch, but he tenses immediately.
“you need to loosen up,” you say, half teasing, half focused.
“trying to.” his throat feels dry. he clears it. “you’re… kind of close.”
you freeze for a second, heat crawling up your neck. “oh—sorry.”
he shakes his head a little. “no, it’s fine.”and it is. more than fine.
you step back half a step, but your fingers still hover near his ribs, steadying him as he breathes. his chest rises and falls—once, twice—and he swears he can feel the shape of your pulse through the air.
every time you touch him, his mind spirals.
not with what he wants to do, but with how much he wants to deserve it. the sweetness of your voice, the way you look at him like you actually see him—not the ballplayer, not the captain—just him.
“how old are you?” he asks suddenly, more curious than he means to sound.
you blink. “me? uh—twenty-four.”
“twenty-four,” he repeats, quiet. like he’s tasting it. like it means something he shouldn’t let it mean.
you smile, oblivious to the shift in his chest. “why, how old did you think?”
he exhales, small laugh under his breath. “i don’t know. not that young.”
“wow,” you tease, “should i take that as an insult?”
“not even close,” he says, but his voice is softer than it should be.
when you leave that afternoon, he watches you go. the door shuts behind you with a quiet click, and for a long moment, he just sits there, staring at the empty space you left behind.
later, at home, he tries not to think about it. about you.
but he does.
he thinks about how you stand too close, how your voice tilts upward when you’re concentrating. he thinks about your hands—careful, steady—and the way you said twenty-four like it wasn’t supposed to matter.
he’s too old for this, too smart for this. you’re twenty-four, he tells himself. twenty-four.
he scrubs a hand over his face, jaw tight.
how wrong is it to want something so good?
because when you look at him—really look—you don’t see the mess of expectations, the strain, the weight. you just see him.
and that might be the worst part.
because you don’t look at him like a patient.
you look at him like you believe he’s gonna be okay.
and that, somehow, hurts more than anything else.
the training room is nearly silent—the hum of the fluorescent lights, the low whir of the AC, the sound of your pen tapping against the clipboard as you finish your notes. the rest of the staff left an hour ago, but you stayed behind.
aaron tells himself he just forgot his bag. that’s the only reason he’s walking back in. not because he wanted to see you once more. not because he’s been sitting in his car for ten minutes, debating if that would make him pathetic.
“you’re still here,” he says, voice a little too casual.
you glance up, smile soft and tired. “yeah. finishing up a few reports.”
“thought everyone was gone.”
“everyone is gone,” you say, looking back down at your clipboard. “except you.”
“yeah, forgot my bag.” he gestures vaguely toward the bench, but you both know he didn’t. the bag’s been over his shoulder since practice ended.
you narrow your eyes, playful. “uh-huh. forgot it, huh?”
he chuckles under his breath, scratching the back of his neck. “guess i didn’t want to head out just yet.”
you pause at that. something flickers in your eyes, something he’s too aware of. and maybe that’s why you say, “well… since you’re here, want to do one last round of stretching? make sure your oblique’s not tightening up again?”
he agrees too quickly. “yeah. sure.”
the room hums with quiet as you roll your sleeves up. your hair’s tied back, a few loose strands brushing the curve of your neck. your face is focused—that little crease between your brows he’s noticed before. it kills him, how pretty you look when you’re concentrating.
he lies back on the mat, arm bent behind his head as you move beside him, your fingers pressing carefully into the side of his torso. your hands are warm. steady. too steady.
“you’ve been icing?” you ask, all business.
“most nights,” he lies.
your gaze sharpens instantly. “most?”
he sighs. “sometimes i forget.”
you frown, hands firming just slightly. “aaron.”
he swallows. something about the way you say his name makes his pulse spike. “what?”
“you’re supposed to be recovering, not pushing yourself. and didn’t i specifically tell you not to swing yet?”
he hesitates. the silence gives him away.
your eyes widen. “you didn’t.”
“it was just a few warmups,” he mutters.
“aaron.” your tone shifts—soft, scolding, affectionate all at once. “you could’ve made it worse.”
“i’m sorry,” he says, “it’s the middle of the season and i need to—“
“shh.”
you fuss over him then, fingertips ghosting over the tender spot on his side as you check for tension, muttering under your breath. you don’t realize what it’s doing to him—how his chest tightens every time your palm presses to his skin, how much he likes you caring for him like that.
he bites down on a laugh, murmuring, “you always this bossy?”
you look up, exasperated but smiling. “only when you don’t listen.” you hover over him, humming some song he doesn’t recognize. “lift your arm for me,” you say quietly. you step behind him, close enough that your chest grazes his back for the briefest second. it’s nothing—nothing—but it’s everything.
his pulse spikes. he knows you feel it, because your hands pause. linger. then settle again.
you ask, barely above a whisper, “does this hurt?”
he exhales, voice low. “yeah. just… not where you mean.”
you freeze. neither of you move.
a long, aching pause.
finally, you whisper, “you shouldn’t say things like that.”
he turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of your reflection in the mirror. your eyes are on him, wide and uncertain.
“you shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmurs back.
the air between you goes still again—electric, suspended.
you both stay like that, your hands on him, his breath uneven, the quiet buzzing around you. too close. too charged.
and still, neither of you move.
you clear your throat first, pulling your hands back just slightly—enough to make space, enough to pretend like nothing just happened.
“okay,” you say, voice softer than before, breath catching a little. “let’s, um… let’s keep going. slow rotations.”
he nods, wordless. watches the way you avoid his eyes, the way your lashes flutter when you try to focus. your hands find him again—careful, professional, trembling just enough that he feels it.
you guide him through each stretch like muscle memory—lift, hold, release—but your voice gives you away. every instruction lands shaky at the edges.
“that’s good,” you murmur. “just… breathe through it.”
he does. but his breathing isn’t steady, not really. he’s aware of everything — the faint scent of your perfume, the brush of your sleeve when you lean in, the way your fingers skim over his side and linger too long before pulling away.
you fluster easily now, all warmth and nerves. and he’s trying—really trying—to keep it together, to focus on the stretch and not the way you keep swallowing like your mouth’s gone dry.
when it’s finally over, you step back, wiping your palms against your thighs like you need to shake off whatever that was.
“all right,” you say quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.“that’s… that’s it for tonight.”
he sits up slowly, watching as you gather your notes, pen tapping against the clipboard again.
“you okay?” he asks, tone low.
“yeah,” you answer too fast. “yeah, of course. i just—um—i have a few more things to finish before i head out.”
you’re already backing toward the door, that nervous laugh slipping out again—the one that first hooked him.
“see you next week,” you add, almost under your breath.
and before he can say anything, you’re gone—the door clicking softly shut behind you.
he stays seated for a while after, staring at the empty space where you’d just been, pulse still uneven, muscles taut for a completely different reason.
he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.
but the ghost of your hands on his skin lingers—warm, careful, impossible to forget.
he spent the next few days overthinking—every word, every touch, every quiet breath you took near him.
he’d lie awake at night, hand pressed to the same spot where your fingers had been, replaying the sound of your voice, the way you’d laughed once—too quick, too nervous.
he knew it was wrong to want you like this. you were young, careful, still a little shy when you smiled. untouched by the kind of noise he carried around.
but when you smile at him at their next session—soft, shy, sunlight breaking through—he’s gone again.
“you’re almost cleared to play again,” you say, flipping through your notes. your tone was bright, professional, but there was something gentle underneath.
something in his chest sank. you won’t have to see him anymore.
he tried to cover it. “so you’re done with me already?”
you look up, half-smiling. “you’re healing, that’s a good thing.”
he tilts his head, voice low. “depends who you ask.”
the corners of your mouth curve— and then color rushed into your cheeks. that was all it took. his pulse kicked hard against his ribs, air thinning in his chest.
you step closer to test his range of motion. your hand slide over his oblique, tracing the firm line of healed muscle, fingers dangerously close to the waistband of his shorts. he could feel your warmth—a pulse, a static that burned under his skin.
when you pull back to grab your clipboard, he caught your movement out of the corner of his eye—the way your hand trembled slightly, the way you didn’t quite meet his gaze.
“don’t go yet,” he says quietly.
you freeze. your fingers still against the paper.
“aaron—”
“just…” his voice softened, rough around the edges. “stay a minute.”
you hesitate—long enough for him to think you might run—then slowly set the clipboard down.
he stands up, careful, slow, every inch of movement deliberate. he didn’t want to scare you, didn’t want to cross a line you didn’t want crossed.
his hand brushes your arm— light, tentative, the barest whisper of touch, like he was asking a question without words.
you don’t move away.
he leans in just enough that you could feel his breath, just enough that the air goes electric.
“tell me not to,” he whispers.
her breath caught. your lips part, eyes wide—soft and unsure and wanting.
“i can’t,” you reply, “do it.”
and that was all it took.
his resolve broke.
he kisses you—slow at first, reverent, the kind of kiss that asked for permission even as it happened. your fingers curl against his chest, and he felt you exhale—a shudder, a surrender—as the room falls away, leaving only the sound of two hearts beating far too fast.
his mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting forever. the air between you snaps—all that careful distance, all that restraint, gone in an instant.
his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kisses you, slow at first, testing. but then you make a sound—soft, breathy, almost a whimper—and it undoes him. his grip tightens just a little, drawing you closer until you can feel the heat rolling off him.
you melt into him without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. he tastes like spearmint and something dark, something warm and dizzying that makes you forget every reason you shouldn’t be doing this. his lips part, inviting, and you follow instinct—sighing against him, kissing him deeper.
his breath stutters when your hand drifts lower, brushing his stomach, dangerously close to where he’s still sore. the muscle jumps beneath your palm, and he exhales sharply through his nose. you start to pull back, but he doesn’t let you—not right away. he kisses you again, harder, slower, as if he’s trying to memorize how you taste.
it’s too much and not enough all at once. your hands tremble when you slide them up, fingertips tracing the lines of his chest, the solid weight of him. his skin is hot beneath your touch, his heart beating fast—and when you whisper his name, it sounds like a prayer.
“aaron…”
he groans softly against your mouth, his restraint fraying. one more kiss, and he’s lost—one more brush of your lips, and he’s already imagining everything he shouldn’t. you shift closer, your chest against his, breath tangled with his.
but then he pulls back, panting, “we can’t,” he says, voice rough, torn. “anyone could walk in.”
you shake your head faintly, still dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide and pleading. “please… just a little longer.”
he closes his eyes, jaw tight, as if the sound of your voice physically hurts him. “don’t make me stop wanting to do the right thing. anyone could catch us here,” he murmurs, and the words are almost a whisper.
the silence hums, heavy and alive. your pulse won’t settle. neither will his.
he brushes a stray hair from your face, his hand shaking slightly. “meet me after your shift.”
you blink, breath catching. “where?”
“my car,” he says, low, decisive. “back lot. no one will see.”
your heart pounds. you nod slowly, your voice barely there. “okay.”
he looks at you one last time—the soft curve of your mouth, the flush on your neck, the tremor in your breath—like he’s trying to memorize you.
then he steps away. it takes everything in him to do it.
you stand there, chest rising and falling fast, the taste of him still on your lips, the ghost of his touch still buzzing under your skin.
and even as you turn away, you already know you’ll go.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.:･･:.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°
ᴋᴇɴ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ—ᵎᵎ ✦
part 2?
someone sedate me.
that hr in the alds brought back my obsession sue me
he is so sijdjdjdjdjdjje i need him so badly
i have a few judgey drafts so lmk if you wanna see them
anyways i hope you enjoyed! please comment your thoughts and reblog!
