#that praises violence as strength

[survivalove]

one thing that annoys me is people reading yangchen’s books and acting like she should be this bloodthirsty assassin.

the point of yangchen’s character isn’t that she revels in violence. it’s that she would forsake her cultural beliefs for the sake of the world if she saw it necessary. and she did.

and the air nomads punished her for it.

because they were still a living and thriving culture that could hold their own accountable.

while the rest of the world held her in high regard for her efforts, even in death, there were those from her culture that wouldn’t let her deeds go unpunished on the permanent record.

aang doesn’t have that.

he can do whatever he wants and the rest of the world wouldn’t care. no one will ever hold him accountable for his cultural missteps so he has to. that’s why it’s important to aang to hold himself to his beliefs. to keep his people and culture alive.

do you ever watch celebrities talk about being famous? how they know they have legions of fans that will praise them no matter what? and how terrifying that is to them? how important family is to them? because those are the people that keep them grounded. do you line what that feels like? to be inherently famous and have no one left in your family to keep you grounded? to be a human that’s only ever seen as a god?

no, you don’t. i don’t. but that is the life aang lives.

it’s why people who complain about the finale are annoying. it’s why people using yangchen to downplay his choice is also annoying. and it’s why people acting like yangchen had nothing to lose are extremely annoying. because her choices cost her a lot. and it hurt her. because she loved her people too.

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

ROOM FOR RENT

PAIRING: logan howlett x female reader

RATING: explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 5.3k

SUMMARY: logan finds a new roommate.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i have logan howlett brain rot and i’m not sorry. big smooch to everyone who let me yell about this to them including @eupheme @pedgito @wannab-urs @chaotic-mystery @kedsandtubesocks @undrthelights and @murder-wife 💕

WARNINGS: post deadpool & wolverine, variant!logan howlett, able bodied reader, reader being picked up (enhanced strength babyyyy), roommates to lovers trope, meddlesome pet cat, a splash of canon typical violence - mentions of blood and knife wounds, wade wilson/deadpool appearances, mild angst, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact) - dirty talk, pain kink, biting, pet names, praise kink, oral sex - m & f receiving, a little dacryphilia during a blowjob, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, begging, size kink. if i’ve missed any, please let me know!

LINKS: masterlists | support for palestine

If Logan has to wake up to Wade's constant yapping for the rest of his life, he's going to go insane. Every morning he's jolted awake by Wade singing in the kitchen. When he notices Logan is awake, the singing stops and the one-sided conversation begins and doesn't end until Logan finally gets up from the couch and leaves the apartment with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Today, with some money in his pocket from a few odd jobs he's picked up, he finds solace in a quiet coffee shop. Sat beside a bulletin board, he scans the postings.

Art show, art show, yard sale, job opening, roommate wanted, art show--

Roommate wanted? Logan tears the paper from the pin.

Room for rent in 2 bedroom/1 bathroom apartment. One cat. Laundry on site.

He folds the ad up and stuffs the paper in the pocket of his jacket before gathering his empty coffee cup and tossing it in the trash on the way out the door, an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Your phone rings with a number you don't recognize. You consider sending it to voicemail, already exhausted from fielding similar calls about your room for rent, but ultimately decide to answer.

"Hello?"

A man clears his throat on the other end of the line before responding with, "This the number for the rental?"

"Yep," you reply. "Were you interested in seeing it or have any questions?"

"How much is it?"

"Your half would be $950.”

"And it's a whole bedroom?"

"As opposed to a half bedroom?" You laugh at your joke but the man remains quiet and you wince. "I mean, yes. It's a whole bedroom."

"I'd like to come see it, if you've got the time."

"Sure, how's this Friday sound?" You suggest. "What's your full name?"

"Why do you need to know that?" The man's tone grows defensive and alarm bells ring in your head.

"Well, I'd like to make sure you're not, like, a wanted criminal or something," you tell him with an awkward laugh. He's quiet and for a moment you think that he may have hung up on you. "Hello?"

"Yeah, 'm still here," he sighs. "Name's Logan Howlett."

"Logan Howlett," you repeat. You give him your name in return, though he doesn't do much but grunt in acknowledgment. "Alright, well, do you have something to write down the address?"

"Just tell me, I'll remember."

After listing off the address, he ends the call with a rough goodbye. You get to work on your personal research, entering his name into a search engine.

No results.

You refresh the page, thinking that must be an error, but the same message appears.

No results.

You try spelling his name differently.

No results.

You set the phone down, anxiety starting to creep up your spine. It's hard to believe that there's absolutely nothing online about this man, who now has your full address, name, and phone number.

A sharp meow shakes you from your thoughts and you find that your cat has taken up residence on your lap, staring at you intently as his tail flicks back and forth. You run your hand over his head, scratching beneath his chin.

"You'll protect me, right?" You ask.

He leaps from your lap and struts away, fluffy tail disappearing down the hall that leads to your bedroom. You sigh.

Hopefully you haven’t just done something stupid.

Logan's attempt to leave the apartment unnoticed does not go as planned. Althea is sitting on the couch, a re-run of a talk show playing loudly, when he tries to make a run for it. He's distracted, watching her too carefully that he doesn't realize Wade has just returned from god-knows-where.

"Whatcha doin', twinkle toes?" Wade asks, startling Logan, who slams into the kitchen table with a curse.

"Fucking hell," Logan curses, rubbing his hip. "When did you get in here?"

Wade shrugs. "Sometime around the start of your 007 impression."

"My what?"

"Nevermind," Wade sighs. "You look snazzy. Got a hot date?"

"No," Logan grunts.

"A cold date, then?"

Logan pinches his nose. "No."

"Well, care to share, sugar plum? What's got you sneaking around like the Black Widow?"

"The who?"

"May she rest in peace," Wade says, tone suddenly somber.

"He's tryin' to move out," Althea chimes in. Wade's mouth drops open in shock.

"You're abandoning us?!" he exclaims. "After all we've been through?"

"Let the man do what he wants," Althea says. "Damn co-dependent freak."

"Harsh," - Wade places a hand over his chest, -"you know I have daddy issues. And mommy issues. And abandonment issues. And--"

"Enough," Logan snaps. "Yes, alright? I'm looking for a new place. I can't sleep on that couch forever."

"Is it because it smells like old people?" Wade whispers, pointing an accusatory finger to Althea, who flips him off.

"Look, this is your universe. Your timeline. Mine is gone and it's time I start making this whole thing less temporary."

Wade tilts his head and places a hand on Logan's shoulder. "My little Wolvie, all grown up," he says, wiping at a fake tear. Logan shoves his hand away, storming past him for the door.

"Remember to smile! Give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle!" Wade shouts as he slams the door behind him.

You pace your small living room and check the stove clock for the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Logan is due to see the apartment and your nerves have gone from a simmer to a full blown boil waiting for the mysterious man with no digital footprint to show up. Your cat is lounging on the windowsill, blissfully unaware of your inner panic.

Three sharp knocks at the door cause your pulse to skyrocket. You take a deep breath before crossing the short distance to the door, pulling it open with a smile.

"Hi! You must be--“

Your greeting dies on your tongue as you take in the man crowding your hallway. He's wearing a leather jacket over a white tank top that stretches tightly across a broad chest and jeans that highlight thick thighs. His dark hair is cut shorter on the sides than on the top of his head, the ends fanning out in a manner that reminds you of a cat's ears and he's sporting an impressively thick beard.

"'m Logan," he says in the same deep voice you heard over the phone, holding a hand out towards you. You slip your palm against his much larger one and you're surprised by how warm his touch is.

"H-hi," you stutter, shaking his hand. You clear your throat. "Sorry, hi. Uh, come on in."

You move aside to let him through the doorway, not missing the fact that his shoulders practically brush the frame as he steps inside. Your apartment opens up directly into the living room and kitchen with a small dining area set in between and you gesture around.

"Well, this is most of it, to be honest. I know it's not much but--"

"It's quiet," Logan interrupts. "Ain't used to quiet."

"Where, uh," -- you twist the hem of your shirt -- "where are you coming from? Exactly?"

"Kind of a long story. Right now I sleep on a couch in a shitty one bedroom apartment shared by an asshole who doesn't shut the fuck up and a blind cocaine addict."

"Oh," you reply, nodding despite your lack of understanding. "Yeah, it's just me here. Well, and Dumpling."

"Dumpling?"

As if summoned by his name, your cat appears, making a swift beeline for the newcomer. He twists around Logan's legs, butting his head against his shins. You bend down, scooping him up in your arms.

"This is Dumpling. He's cute, but he'll knock over any plants so I wouldn't recommend you take up indoor gardening if you decide to live here." Logan eyes Dumpling warily before holding a hand out. Dumpling sniffs his fingers daintily and rubs head against his palm. "I think he likes you."

Logan huffs, the sound close to a laugh, and it makes you smile. He looks up at you and for a moment you forget that you're complete strangers who have just met. He feels inexplicably familiar, his presence comforting, and you're surprised by it.

"Let's look at the bedroom," you finally say, breaking the moment. You turn, heading for the hall and he follows behind you, steps surprisingly light for such a large man. You take him to the last door at the end of the hall and enter the empty room. "This is it. It's kind of small, but all the rooms in New York are pretty much shoe boxes. It's got a closet and access to the fire escape, though.”

"Better than the couch," he says, looking around the room. "You said $950?"

"Plus half of the utilities," you add. He nods.

"Look, I'll be honest. I'm...between jobs right now." He sighs. "And my schedule can be...unpredictable."

"Oh," you mumble. You think about it for a moment. Renting the apartment to Logan would be a risk but...you can't help but notice that exhaustion in his eyes, how it's clear he's trying to get back on his feet in one way or another. "That's okay. We can work something out."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Really? You sure about that?"

Were you?

"Yeah," you reply. "I'm sure."

Having a roommate is...an adjustment.

Logan is great. He does his dishes in a timely manner, doesn't leave any clothes on the bathroom floor, and even cleans Dumpling's litter box from time to time.

But he drives you insane and it has nothing to do with his qualities as a roommate and everything to do with how unbearably attractive he is. He could be doing the most mundane activity and suddenly you're more turned on than a faucet on full blast. On top of it all, he's surprisingly sweet for such a gruff man.

Currently, you're watching him pour himself a glass of whiskey. You know he's probably preparing to take the drink to his room so that he can have a cigar on the fire escape, but you find yourself wanting his company.

"Logan?" you ask. He looks at you over his shoulder.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Would you...want to watch a movie? With me?"

He turns to fully face you, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of his drink, dark eyes on you over the rim of the glass. You swallow nervously, prepared to retract your offer and hide out in your room for the rest of eternity, but he puts you out of your misery.

"Sure." He comes over to the couch, taking a seat that's a respectable distance away. "What are we watching?"

"Have you seen The Greatest Showman?"

A musical. He's sitting through a goddamn musical.

"You kinda look like that guy," you say from beside him. Logan tilts his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's the bone structure."

"I'm bigger than him." You mumble something under your breath that he doesn't quite catch, though he thinks it sounded suspiciously like yeah, you are. "You say somethin'?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, nope. Didn't say anything."

Logan relaxes against the back of the couch, settling in. You're curled up against the armrest, a blanket covering your legs and your arms wrapped around a throw pillow. You look relaxed, at ease, a stark contrast to how you had been when he first moved in. You spent more of your time hidden in your room and he's happy to see you're getting more comfortable around him.

It's also torture. You're like a drug that he can't get enough of, a high that doesn't last long enough. He clings desperately to every smile you grace him with and falls asleep with the sound of your voice echoing in his head. He wakes up looking forward to seeing you, even if it's just in passing before you head out for your very normal job as part of your very normal life.

That's what gives him pause. You're not like him, not built for violence, and he would never drag you into that life. He thinks about Vanessa and Wade and the wedge that was driven between them they're working to repair and he can't bear the thought of having you just to lose you.

Logan's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realize that the movie has ended and you haven't moved. Your head is angled in a way that has to be uncomfortable, your mouth dropped open as you breathe slowly and deeply. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV off, plunging the room into darkness as he stands and quietly approaches you.

He slides one arm beneath your knees and using the other to support your back, lifts you from the couch. You settle your head against his chest but otherwise your sleep remains undisturbed as he carries you down the hall into your room.

It's not the first time he's been in your personal space. One time he woke up to Dumpling clawing at his chest and he marched the animal back to your room for the night, barging in on you while you had been up reading. He remembers the queen sized bed in a wooden frame and a dresser with a drawer that won't shut take up most of the space, the plain white of your walls replaced by a soft blue. You've installed what he first thought were regular shelves but later learned are meant for Dumpling to use for late night acrobatics that he can sometimes hear from his room.

Logan sets you gently on your bed and pulls the quilt up to your shoulders. Before he can think better of it, he reaches a hand toward your face, tracing his thumb over the high point of your cheek. You turn towards the sensation, chasing his touch, and his chest grows tight. He sighs, stepping back and turning for the door.

Dumpling sits in the doorway, flicking his tail. Logan steps around him into the hallway, the cat's gaze following him.

"Shut up," he whispers.

Dumpling meows in return.

You're disoriented when you wake the next morning. The last thing you remember is being on the couch with Logan and watching The Greatest Showman, but somehow you've ended up in your room. You turn over in bed to find Dumpling on your other pillow, curled in a ball.

"Morning, Dumpy," you murmur, scratching his head. "How'd we end up here?"

Dumpling blinks unhelpfully at you before uncurling from his spot and hopping from the bed, leaving through your open door. It's then that you notice that you can hear grunting noises coming from the living room.

You get up to investigate and stop dead in your tracks, mouth dropping open when you find the source of the noise is a shirtless Logan doing push ups on the living room floor. The broad muscles of his back ripple with each movement, each push accompanied by a small grunt that makes your thighs clench together, imagining him making that noise when--

Logan stops, jumping to his feet and you shake your head free of the salacious image it began to create. He turns, giving you an uninhibited view of his thick chest that's covered in dark hair that trails down over defined abs before disappearing beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. You have to say something, anything, but your brain is full of static, unable to operate when he's standing there looking like that.

"Morning," he says.

"Good morning!" you reply, voice pitched higher than usual. You walk past him in a way you hope is casual, heading for the kitchen and prepping the coffee machine. "You got any plans today?"

"Got a friend who needs my help with something. Don't know when I'll be back." His voice is much closer than you expected and you turn from the counter to find him right behind you, a scant few inches of space between your bodies.

"Oh?" you whisper, keeping your gaze firmly on his face. "Is everything okay?"

"It will be."

He drifts impossibly closer, chest nearly brushing yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, a frantic rhythm that's become familiar ever since Logan entered your life. Reaching above your head, he grabs two mugs in one large hand, setting them on the counter behind you before taking a step back and turning to head for his room without another glance in your direction.

You sag against the counter, a wave of lust addled adrenaline crashing over you and leaving you breathless. The last thing you need to be doing is getting involved with your roommate, no matter how tempting he may be.

Dumpling jumps up on the counter beside the coffee pot and stares at you, likely waiting for food, but it feels more like judgment in his green eyes.

"Shut up," you whisper to him.

Dumpling meows, batting you with a paw.

You're sitting on the couch when there's an unexpected knock at your door. Logan is still gone, helping a friend and you're not expecting anyone, so you’re not sure who it could be. You check the peephole before opening the door and see the distorted image of a man in a red suit and mask supporting the weight of your roommate against his side.

"What the fuck?" you ask as you open the door in a panicked rush. The masked man waves his fingers at you.

"Hi there! I've got a very," -- he grunts, adjusting his grip on Logan -- "heavy delivery."

Logan's eyes are closed, head flopped back on the masked man's shoulder. Blood stains his t-shirt in spots that look suspiciously like knife wounds and you gasp.

"What happened to him?!" you shout. "Oh my god, he needs to go to the hospital--"

"He just needs a little power nap," the man says. "I'm Wade, by the way. You mind if I just--"

Wade drags Logan through the apartment, depositing him on your couch with a huff, wiping his hands together. He looks around and you're shocked when the eyes of the mask seem to move, as if mimicking his facial expressions.

"This is a nice place," he says. Dumpling meows and Wade gasps. "You have a cat?! I wish I could pet you, sweet kitty, but Dogpool would put me in the dog house. Ha! Get it?"

"I'm confused," you manage to say. "My roommate is bleeding out on my couch after being dropped off by some wanna-be Avenger--"

"Ouch!"

"And you're saying he doesn't need to go to the emergency room?"

"Nope." Wade lifts Logan's shirt. "See? Good as new."

Despite the blood and tears on his shirt, there's no wounds on Logan's body. He shifts, lifting an arm to smack Wade's hand away as he groans, eyes fluttering open. He glares at the man.

"Get out," he growls.

"Now, now, that's not being a very good host, Logi. What, were you raised by wolves?" Wade replies. Logan roars, a ferocious sound that's more animal than man. His hand curls into a fist and sharp metal blades extend from between his knuckles. "Okay, okay, I'm leaving, no need for the murder mittens." Wade looks at you. "You should come to Sunday dinner!"

"Wilson!" Logan shouts. Wade finally heeds the man's warnings, rushing for the door without another word, shutting it behind him. Logan sags against the couch, blades retracting into his hand. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

You stand there in shock, trying to make sense of everything you just witnessed. Logan should be halfway to dead by now, but he doesn't even have a scratch on him. He has claws. How does he have claws?

"Can hear you thinking," Logan says, eyes still shut. "Just say it."

"Say what?" you ask. He lifts his head.

"Tell me to get out, scream, whatever it is."

You sit down on the couch, facing him. "Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you should be doing."

His hand rests on his thigh and you reach for it, lifting it to eye level for a closer look at his knuckles. You trace your thumb over the smooth skin, up over his strong forearm. He watches you, face almost pained.

"I'm not scared of you," you whisper. "You wouldn't hurt me."

"But I could," he bites back.

"You won't." You're certain of that. You set his hand back on his thigh and stand from the couch, intending to grab him a glass of water from the kitchen, but he stops you with a hand around your wrist. His grip is loose enough that you could break free, but you don't.

Logan looks up at you with an unreadable expression, something close to fear mixed with a conflicting emotion that you think -- or hope -- might be desire. He tugs your wrist, bringing you to stand between his legs.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

You place your hand on his cheek, the coarse hair of his beard scratching at your palm. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a sharp inhale.

"You're a good man, Logan Howlett," you murmur. He closes his eyes tightly and takes a deep breath.

His next movements are quick -- a hand on the back of your thigh, dragging you onto his lap, the other wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you close, his lips capturing yours in a savage kiss. You melt into him, meeting his urgency with your own desperation, tongues tangling together and fighting for dominance.

You pull back to trail kisses across his jaw until you reach his neck, sinking your teeth into the tan skin, just over his hammering pulse. Logan groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass, pulling you tightly against him as his hips buck into yours.

"Fuck," Logan says, voice a deep rumble that you feel to your marrow. "Do that again."

"Do what?" you tease.

"Bite me," he demands. "Make it hurt."

You obey, biting down into his shoulder with greater effort, sinking your teeth in deep until he hisses from the pain of it and you let go, lifting your head to look at the mark you've left behind. It fades quickly, disappearing without a trace.

"Jesus," he says, pulling you in for another kiss, slow and deep, as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "Let me see you."

You allow him to lift your shirt up and over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His touch makes you shiver despite the heat of his hands as he traces the curve of your waist up to your chest, his thumbs finding your nipples and teasing them with slow circles. You drop your head back with a moan and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, your collarbone, moving down until his lips wrap around one taut bud.

"Logan," you whine, digging your fingers into his hair and holding tight. He hums, the sensation making your eyes roll.

"Thought about this," he murmurs, switching to your other breast. "Every time you'd wear those goddamn tight shirts of yours."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna know what I thought about?" You tug his hair, pulling his head away from your chest. "Sucking your cock."

He raises his eyebrow at you and you take the opportunity to slide from his lap, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. You work his belt loose, followed by the fly of his jeans. He reaches past the waistband to free his cock and your mouth waters at the sight. You could tell he was big while you were on his lap, but he's even more glorious than you imagined. Thick, long, with prominent veins and a slight upward curve that you know will hit all the right places.

You take him in your hand, appreciating the weight of him in your palm as you hold him steady. With your eyes locked on his face, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue to lick from the top of your fingers to the flushed head. He groans, his hand curling into a fist that he presses to his forehead.

"Fuck," Logan hisses. You do it again, this time swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, moving down his length slowly. "God, look at you. Mouth stuffed so full you're drooling, huh?"

He's right. Spit gathers at the corners of your lips and runs down your chin as you use your mouth to pleasure him. The sounds he makes above you are downright filthy, deep moans and filthy praise that have you moving faster, taking him deeper, working to get as much of him in your mouth as you manage without gagging. He cups your cheek with one large palm, thumb tracing your stretched lips.

"Keep going, sweetheart. You can take a little more, can't you? That's it," he says. Tears burn your cheeks with the effort to obey, your throat tightening around the head of his cock. "Fuck, that's a good girl."

You breathe deeply through your nose, maintaining a steady pace and using your hand in tandem with your mouth for what you can't easily take. Logan's hips begin to flex beneath you, his words trailing off into guttural growls. His cock twitches in your grasp and he moans your name before his release floods your mouth and you swallow it down.

You pull off of him with a slick pop, gasping for breath. Before you can say anything, Logan is hauling you to your feet as he stands from the couch, lifting you up with one strong arm beneath your ass and urging your legs around his waist.

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Just getting started."

Logan kicks the door open to your room, startling Dumpling from his perch. The cat races out the door, disappearing into the living area as the door clicks shut. He sets you down on your bed and quickly rids himself of his boots and rest of his clothing before returning his attention to you.

You're lying there in your little sleep shorts that drive him nuts. The fabric barely covers your ass and there's been more than one occasion where he's shuffled into the kitchen in the mornings to see you in them, all the blood in his body rushing south at the sight. He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your spread thighs, and extends a single claw. Your eyes widen, but you don't pull away. In fact, you start squirming, hips flexing minutely against the mattress.

"Scared yet?" he asks.

"I wouldn't say that.”

He carefully slips the blade beneath the hem of your shorts, inching it up until it peeks out above the elastic waistband before twisting his wrist and slicing through the fabric like it's nothing. Claw retracted, he removes your ruined shorts and takes a moment to appreciate the vision you make, legs spread wide and your dripping pussy on display.

"You're a mess," he says, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your legs. He lifts one of your knees, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before resting it on his shoulder. "Gonna clean you up."

Logan dips his head to your center, dragging his tongue through your soaked sex, groaning when the taste of you blooms across his tongue. Your fingers curl against his scalp, a sharp point of pleasure-pain as he explores your body. He swirls his tongue over your clit, experimenting with broad circles and sharp flicks until you're writhing beneath him.

"Logan," you cry, hips bucking against his face. He dips his tongue into your cunt, nose brushing your clit as he does, and he hums in satisfaction as your thighs tense around his head.

He looks up at you and drinks in the picture you make, gorgeous skin glistening with sweat and your back arched from the bed, chest heaving with desperate breaths. He wants this exact moment burned into his memory, certain it could chase away the dark shadows that linger there.

Logan presses two fingers to your hole, sliding them in with little resistance. You're so warm and tight, squeezing his fingers beautifully, calling out his name as he curls them when he drags them from your body.

"I'm going to come," you gasp. "Oh, fuck, just like that!"

You pulse around his fingers and he slows his movements to work you through it until you collapse against the mattress with a deep sigh. He carefully removes his hand and sits up on his knees.

"Guess I made more of a mess," Logan says. Your eyes squeeze shut with a breathless giggle.

"I'll forgive you," you reply. You reach your arms up for him and he moves to hover over you to accept your embrace. "God, Logan," you murmur, tilting your chin up to kiss him.

In this position, he's able to drag his cock through the slick mess between your thighs and you shiver beneath him, gasping into his mouth. He does it again, more purposeful this time and it drags a moan from you both.

"Please," you murmur.

"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you want," he replies. "What you need."

"Need you to fuck me."

Logan reaches between your bodies and positions the thick head of his cock at your entrance, pushing forward. The stretch of him is unreal, almost too much even with how wet you are for him.

"Relax," he says, holding himself steady above you. "You can take it."

You nod and he pushes forward another inch, letting you adjust, and repeating the process until the coarse hair at the base of his cock tickles your sensitive skin. You've never been so full, no other experience compares to this. No other man compares to Logan, in any way.

He starts moving slowly, dragging his hips back until you're nearly empty before plunging back inside. Each thrust puts stars in your vision, makes the knot of want and need coil tighter in your lower belly, until you're moaning his name and begging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

Logan obeys, thrusting into you with enough force that your head board collides with the wall. He sits back on heels, dragging you up with him until you're sitting in his lap and he's able to thrust up into you.

"Feel so fucking good," he says, lips against your neck. "Need you to come for me, baby."

You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding him close, meeting each of his thrusts with a rock of your hips that drags your clit against him, your nerves buzzing with the friction and fullness. While the orgasm he wrenched from you with his mouth felt like a wildfire, this one builds and builds, a wave cresting until it finally crashes and you cry out his name.

Logan leans forward to drop you back onto the bed, reaching a hand up to grip your headboard as he continues to roll his hips into yours, chasing his own release. His thrusts begin to grow more desperate until he presses in deep and you're flooded with warmth as he growls, long and low. The sound of splintering wood breaks through your post-orgasmic haze and you tilt your head back to find that his claws have extended through your headboard, splitting the wood and embedding into the drywall.

"I can fix that," Logan says breathlessly, tugging his hand free, claws retracting. You grin at him.

"Later," you reply, pulling him in for a kiss.

You've got better things to do right now.

Thank you so much for reading! For more of my writing, check out my masterlists!

[bi-writes]

a hand for a hand | knight!ghost x f!reader

in the year of our lord 1657, your king wields a weapon that cannot be reproduced. as your queen's lady-in-waiting, you steer clear of it, lest it cut you when it passes by. but duty and desire are rarely met in a man's world.

type: one-shot (6.5k), AO3

cw: dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, mentions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, ghost is obsessed with your tits (18+)

It is not a secret that you are afraid of the king's men. There is a reason that they have a reputation of cruelty. Ravagers, conquerors, unruly and untamed–they train like dogs, and they live like them, too. By accident, you have wandered to where their barracks are, and if it wasn't for the happenstance of your king hearing your screams, they would've taken your virtue that night.

That one belongs to my wife, he had said, gripping you by the scruff of your neck. Spoil it, and I'll have your fuckin' heads. His queen had been much kinder when he returned you back inside, cradling your head in her lap and promising to have something fashioned for you to wear so none of his men would ever touch you again.

And they haven't. They do not bow to you, but they open the doors for you, move out of your way, try to keep their eyes off of the softness of your cleavage and the curve of your skirt. But there is one that does not, there is one that refuses, and this one you avoid the most.

You don't know him by any other name other than Ghost. The right hand of the king, his most trusted advisor and his most brutal of men. There are times when he barges into the throne room, his sword dragging along the stone floor and trailing blood in its path, and he tosses the head of the king's enemy onto the floor. You clutch onto the skirt of your queen's dress, tears welling up in your eyes, and when you look up, he is staring at you, heaving in the metal of his armor, and you look away as his men yell out proudly as they crowd the room.

His eyes are always on you when you are in his presence. They track you as you move behind your queen, follow you as you eat and drink and tend to her majesty's needs. He wanders the halls, and he observes you as if you are his next meal. And maybe you are–if he suddenly decided you would be his next conquest, you don't think a refusal is in order. Maybe that's the mercy he gives you; just the aggressiveness of his stare and his stare only, and not the strength of his hand or the cruelness of his demeanor.

There is always a party. Always a celebration for this brute. He is praised by politicians and priests alike, because he must be the hand of god, delivering whatever the king asks for when it is asked of him. He does not lose, all he comes back with is chests full of gold and new slashes to add to the growing collection on his skin. Sometimes you wonder if he puts them on himself. You wonder if he drags his dagger in a crooked line down the length of his arm, as if he is tallying his win, counting up to a number that already puts the men that came before him to shame.

He seems like the kind of man to do so–like the kind of man to do it even with the blood of his adversary still warm on the sharp edge of the blade, the kind to lick it clean when he's finished just to solidify the unease and the terror of the next man to have the unfortunate fate of ending up at the wrong end of his adrenaline.

He has no face. He has no name. And if he is coming for you, it's already too late; your fate has been sealed, and you should say your last rites. The only mercy he ever gives is that death is always quick. His sword is too sharp, and his hand is too heavy.

It is late in the evening when you hear it. There's screaming in the courtyard, yells and howls and cheers. You put down your hairbrush, getting up and padding to the window to look outside. The king's men are there, hundreds of them milling about and walking around. They share mead and wine, crusty bread in their muddy hands. They are bloody and bruised, but they are happy. They sing and chant, hold each other and crowd around fires. They left weeks ago, and they are back now, and you suspect it must be victory on account of their demeanor.

You are not surprised by this. They aren't kind, but it makes them good soldiers. They aren't afraid to die; it's a common idea in your culture that for a man to die in battle is the only way to true salvation, to actual ascension. You have always hated this idea. Boys become cruel, and men become unforgiving, and it is why you are so grateful to be her majesty's lady-in-waiting because it means she is your only duty and nothing more.

You are surprised by the knock on your door. You think about ignoring it, but then there is another knock, and then a familiar, low voice mutters, "Are you awake, my lady?"

You tie your robe and scurry. When you open up the door, you curtsy low and graceful, your eyes drawn to the floor as you tremble a little in the king's presence. You've never really spoken to him before, not without his queen at your side.

"Y-Yes, your majesty? I'm sorry for my appearance, I–"

"It's quite late," he says gently. "You don't have to apologize. Is it alright if I come in?"

You stand from your curtsy, blinking up at him. You think for a few moments before you nod, widening the door. He settles himself at the seat by the window, looking down into the courtyard. He has a hint of a smirk on his face as he looks down at his men, still singing.

"I have a request of you," he says finally. You take a seat at the edge of your bed, wringing your hands nervously in your lap. Whatever his request is, you don't know why he's putting it this way. You're not exactly allowed to refuse. "It is time for my most decorated men to receive their titles. They deserve it, after what they have done for me these past few years."

You swallow, "Yes, of course. You have such a fine army, your majesty. You must be...V-very proud."

He turns to face you, and he nods.

"These titles come with land. Money. Responsibility. And it comes with other things they might request," he explains. "One of these things can be a bride."

"They are most fortunate," you say softly, trying to smile. He stands, turning back to look down into the courtyard.

"You are to be wed tomorrow," he tells you. "I know you gave up much to accept your role at my wife's side, and for that, I have arranged for a sizable dowry on your behalf. Congratulations, my lady." he turns to smile at you. "By sunset, you are to be a duchess."

You're shaking when he goes. You clutch the sheets, sinking to your knees, and you cry. You cry because you know who asked for your hand. You know who wants you, you know who it is, because every time he comes back from war, he cannot take his eyes off of you. He eats you with his gaze, he violates you and has never even touched you, he takes from you, and you've never spoken to him, but you know it's him, you know it, you know it–

Your queen is ecstatic. She lends you diamonds to wear, and she fusses over the embroidered silk and cotton dress they've sewn for you overnight. She tells you she's so proud, that you will make such a beautiful bride and a beautiful duchess, and it takes all of your strength not to cry, to choke back your sobs. Your innocence will be gone by the next morning, you know this, and yet here she beams about colored fabric and your new, unwanted title and all of the duties you have never, ever wanted for yourself.

Marriage will be your prison, and you will never be free. You'll be hidden behind closed doors and forced to carry loud, chubby babies.

You are not the only bride that afternoon, but you feel like the most important. Your veil is the longest, your dress is the most intricate, and you are wearing the queen's diamonds. Not to mention, you are to become a duchess, and the rest will be lords and ladies, nothing more. You have always hated the hierarchy that society fits themselves into, but you've never despised it more than this moment.

He is waiting for you when you make it to the throne room. He wears his armor, polished and without blood, his face covered and his hood up to shadow his dark eyes. He wears his telltale insignia with pride, the skull motif of his belt gleaming and the paint of his mask fresh. He stands tall and menacing, a reaper in human skin, and you are so close to tears as you make your way to him. Your eyes find his, and he holds out his hand for you to take. You slip a delicate hand into his gloved one, letting the rough fabric warm you as he brings you to stand in front of him. He purrs, you think, a low rumble as his eyes look you up and down.

You are a prize. A trophy. Nothing more. A gift given for cutting the heads off of your king's foes, and that is all.

The ring on your finger is gold, and the ring you slip over his is silver. And then he gives you his first gift as your husband–a tiara, made of emerald and gold, and he slips your veil off to tuck it between the strands of your hair. The intricate pattern on the tiara matches the patterns along the iron of his armor, and you want to think of this as a gesture of good will, but you know it is given with possessive intent, a brand of ownership.

Because that is what this is. Not a ceremony of love, but an exchange, a transaction. You've been bought with blood, and there is nothing you can do about it.

But one day he will grow bored of me, and maybe then, I'll feel myself again.

He narrows his eyes, glares, and your lips part, trembling, you are terrified. His response is to growl with delight, his eyes falling to stare at the laces that hold in your cleavage. You observe this fact–the fact that you have things that other ladies do not. You are not tiny like them, not thin nor delicate. You are warm, soft, and the squeeze of your breasts in your dress draw him in.

You are a prisoner, now. But perhaps, if you play this game correctly, you can be in your ward's good graces. This is the hand you've been dealt; perhaps there is still a way to win if you steel your bluff.

The party is lively. There is music, gold coins tossed haphazardly on tables, so much dancing and enough food to stuff yourself for days. There is endless wine, and there are brides seated in laps, hungry new couples kissing and whispering soft nothings into each other's ears. The king blessed you all, told you to enjoy your new lives, your new titles, to make your country proud and raise pretty, fat babies.

You sit aways from him. You don't speak, just stare at your dinner plate, sipping wine absentmindedly as you think about the rest of your life and how miserable you will be. You think about the control you have never had, the choices you have never been given, and you wish so badly that you were a man.

Men simply ask for, and then they receive. Women simply hope that their eyes don't meet a flame too hot to handle.

His eyes bore into your head. When you catch his gaze every once in a while, all he does is tilt his head to the side and observe you. The beauty that you are, the woman that no one can have, the supple tits that belong to him, and the perfect cunt he knows that you have under the multitude of skirts you hide it under. Your skin glows, your hair is healthy, you will give him everything that he needs, that he craves.

You'll look so beautiful carrying his heir. You'll look so perfect when you begin to wear the dresses he will buy you, when you sleep in the bed in the house that he gives you, when you stand in the kitchen that he builds for you. Although, a woman like you deserves to do nothing but relax, be pampered, to lay down on a bed of furs as he eats your sweetness and fucks you stupid.

When the morning is early, you sneak out. You scurry to your bedroom, closing the door behind you for a moment of peace. You take a seat on your bed, the bed you aren't sure you will have for much longer, and you sit there and stare at your feet until the door opens.

You know who it is right away. Coming in unannounced, because now he is allowed to, because everything in this room now belongs to him, from the thread holding your dress together to the very breaths you take.

You sit up straight, turning your head. Ghost slips through, taking up the space by the door as it shuts behind him. You watch him as he stands poised just like the soldier he is, looking at you illuminated by nothing but candlelight. His gloved hands rest at his sides, but he squeezes them in and out of fists, clicking his tongue. You hear the leather of them move.

You have never spoken to him before. You've never heard him speak. You wonder if he really knows how to; you wonder if he has a voice or if he's been whittled down to nothing but the sounds that a loyal mutt makes. You know why he's here, you know why he's come. You can't tell him no, you don't think, but he doesn't move from his place, so you aren't completely sure of what he wants.

But you have an idea.

"Y'abhor me," he says finally. He speaks. You swallow. At least he isn't stupid. It's rare that you see a brute with brains. Although, with all the battles he has won, you know he doesn't lack intelligence. He is seasoned, worldly, knows how to convince the politicians and to rile up the uneducated men that kill for him. He must have a quick tongue and a strong vocabulary. A leader bred for killing, a man taught to know his audience and how to deliver a persuasive message.

But has he been taught to tame a cat? How to please a woman? How to love her, how to have her?

Love. What a silly dream.

"Not as much as I fear you," you admit. He hums, his eyes crinkling a little, as if he's smiling. You watch him carefully as he finally moves, rounding the bed before he stands in front of you.

"Wot is it y'r afraid of?" he asks. His voice comes low, from the bottom of his chest. You tilt your head up to look at him.

"That you'll hurt me," you whisper. He shrugs, shaking his head.

"A beaten wife is no good t'me," he tells you, very matter-of-fact. "Need strong heirs. Which means I need y'fed and happy."

"I'll never be happy."

He grips your chin, shutting you up. A part of you wishes he would be meaner. That he would be the angry, possessive Ghost that he truly is and show the kingdom that there is no part of him redeemable or salvageable. You want to sport his bruises and tell the queen he is an animal, but his touch is firm and nothing more. If anything, he's gentler than you expected him to be.

"We'll see about tha'."

Your eyes water, and you stiffen at his touch.

"I know who you are," your voice cracks. "I know what you do. You're a pillager. You take women, and you kill men."

He tilts his head to the side, smoothing his thumb along your bottom lip. You aren't wrong. Since he was small, most of what he has known has been the smell of blood in the air and the sound of screams when he shows up at their doors. He's never been particularly gentle when he ravages. He takes, takes, takes–it tastes good and strengthens his bones. It puts medals on his chest and pretty, thick women in his bed.

But you are no village in an unfortunate land. You are the gift that his king has given him. The forbidden treasure that he had his eye on since he saw you standing there beside his queen. Poised, elegant, graceful, timid, untouched, perfectly soft. Ghost has never known this kind of thing, and if you had been any other lady, he would have married you long ago, but he had to wait. He had to be patient, win and kill enough that his king could not refuse his request–no, his demand–to have you.

He did not do the king's bidding for the glory or for the honor. He did it so he could bite into you, so that even if you screamed, you belonged, and no one would care.

"Just a matter of war, dear wife. They matter little," Ghost mutters. "Let me look at ya..." he tilts your head side to side, observing you. He guides his hand down your throat, arching you back so he could trace his fingers along the swell of your breasts. He hums with approval, reaching lower and squeezing the fat of one breast with one big hand. His eyes flash, and he fondles the other.

You are surprised by the sensation. No one has ever touched you this way before. It feels...good. His hands are warm, even under all of that leather, and you find yourself feeling rather sensitive. You lean back a little on the palms of your hands, looking down. You watch as he traces a finger around your nipple, and you bite your lip when it pebbles under his touch. He uses both hands now, cupping both of them, growling. Ohhh–it feels so nice.

"Gonna be so nice when they're full," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "All for our babe."

You don't know what comes over you. You don't know why you do it, but you do. You lift your hand, gripping the edge of the laces that tie the front of your dress closed, and you pull. The weight of your breasts unravel the ribbons, and Ghost groans audibly when they spill out of your corset. There is a tickle that you feel, some sort of sick satisfaction, knowing that you've pleased him in some way.

"Tha'sit...My beautiful bride..." he smacks his lips together under his mask, as if he's hungry, "Tits of a fuckin' angel."

You squeeze your legs together. You know what it is to feel aroused, but this is different. You feel wet, so wet, as if it's wetting the skirt of your dress. You've never felt it this strong. You whimper a little, and he chuckles, so mean.

"Y'like tha', my bride?" he asks. He reaches up and cups your cheek, bringing your soft eyes to his. The praise, it itches you nicely. "Y'r m'prize, swee'eart. I killed over a thousand men, and y'are what m'reward is, did y'know tha'?" he hisses. "Cut the heart out of a man's chest, like a fuckin' pig, just to 'ave this cunt."

Why does it feel so good? Why are you getting wetter and wetter, why are you whining, why are you giving into it? Why do you want it so bad, why do you ache?

It hurts, it hurts–

"'s olright," he coos, so condescending. "Shhhh..." he puts a palm on your chest and pushes, making you lay back. You swallow, letting him put a finger between the laces of your corset and tug. It barely budges, fastened so carefully, and you gasp sharply when he uses two big hands and grunts, ripping your corset apart. You hear the crack of the whale bone give away under the strength of him, and it's a reminder of just how dangerous he is, how strong, and you know when he looks between your thighs, he'll find you wet and needy and captivated.

The corset comes loose, and he tugs, taking your skirts with it until you're naked underneath him. You want to feel shame, but you can't. You're so desperate, for whatever he will give you, and instead of covering yourself, you let your knees fall open. The groan he lets out makes you leak even more, and he watches with awe as your puffy hole pulses. He moves to shove his trousers down, but you stop him, putting a hand on the chest of his leather armor.

"Wait–" you meet his eyes. Your eyes flutter. "B-but...But I want..."

He eyes you curiously, narrowing them.

"Want wot?"

You swallow.

"I-I..." you reach down and slip your fingers gently through your folds. The squelch makes his eyes widen, and he's mesmerized by what he sees. "I want...Your mouth..."

He snickers, "Y'think a man will eat it so easy?" he raises a brow. "Doesn't work tha' way. Besides..." he shrugs. "I don't reveal m'face."

You sit up, blinking, smoothing your hands down his chest and tracing them along the hem of his trousers. His dark eyes follow you, and you realize he doesn't really say no. You need to remind him that you are not one of his men. You need to be kept happy, and he needs to give in, even if it hurts his fucking ego.

"Please?" you whisper, taking his hand and putting it back on your face, kissing the palm of his glove. Killed a thousand men to have me, so show me–show me, show me, show me. You nuzzle into it, giving him those eyes, and he stares for a long few moments. "Please..."

He sinks to his knees almost immediately. His armor stretches a little, the leather and metal moving rigidly with him. Your eyes widen a little at the position–the thing that he is knelt down in front of his wife, an act of submission.

"Turn around," he snaps. "On y'r knees."

You do as he says. You turn on the bed, your face squished against the cushions, and he yanks you back by your hips. You fist the sheets, sucking in a shaky breath, and your eyes squeeze shut when he puts two hands on your ass and spreads you wide. He plants a kiss on your folds from over the mask, and then you hear the shuffle of fabric before his warm tongue prods at your entrance.

He eats slow at first. Just drags his tongue through the slick there. He's exploring you, learning you. But then he is all-consuming. He hisses, gripping you by the thighs and suckling at your clit before tracing his name into the folds of your cunt. You can't help how wet you are–drooling, wetting his mask, crying so soft as he bobs his head and eats you, starving. He did not expect you to be so sweet, so soft. Every part of you is soft, and he associates the taste of you with the sound of your pleasure, and it's like a trigger. His brain ticks just the right way when he hears you moan for the first time. Not even battle quiets the tinnitus, but the ringing is nearly gone now.

He wonders if you're sent from heaven, even though he doesn't believe in it. But something had to have sent you, something had to have given you to him, because it's too much, it's too good, it's too real.

What he wants is in his hands, cumming on his tongue, crying because of his touch. Too real, too real, too real.

He pulls away. He smacks his lips gently, smirking, and then he pulls his mask back down. He stands up straight, watching you, still on your knees, squirming. He tuts, turning you onto your back easily. You're languid and a little breathless, and you giggle a little when you realize how easy it is for him to manhandle you, for him to move you. You've never felt very small, but he doesn't even strain, not even a little.

He's so scary, it makes you sick, but you can make this your own–you could make him love you, couldn't you? Someone this twisted, someone this insane, you could make him obsessed, you could drive him crazy, you could have the loyal dog you have always been yourself.

Killed a thousand men to have me, so I'll put you on your fucking knees.

It's what you're owed. For all the years of serving, for all the years of submission and pain and kneeling and curtsying, you're allowed to have something, you can have something, even if it's this monster of a man. He may have paid for you, but you won't let a thousand men die for nothing.

You will make him love you. You will make him love you. You will make him love you.

You sit up, a bit dazed. You're swimming in your own head, a little insane from the orgasm. You know what a man like him wants. You have doted on men like him all your life. You know what it is that arrogant people crave, what it is they desire, the things that keep them up at night, you know because you've soothed those fears all your life.

You just need to know how to make him purr. You need to know what clears the thoughts in his head.

"My husband," you whisper, meeting his eyes, and there's a little twitch in his eyes. He likes that title. "I–"

"Did y'like that, my bride?" he murmurs. "Your husband's mouth on y'r cunt, 'n now y'r singin' for me, eh?"

You bat your lashes, sliding your hands up his forearms. You drag your fingers over the sleeves of his armor, whimpering. The smell of leather is overwhelming, but you suppose you must get used to it. You have a feeling you'll be polishing it for the rest of your life.

"I've always been...Terrified of you," you whisper. "The way you come into court...The way you fight...Seeing you in all those places, you have always scared me..." he hums, his eyes intrigued. He smooths his hands up your thighs, gripping onto your waist as he tugs you closer to him. "But, I..." you reach for his shoulders, pulling on him until he bends, leans over you, crowds your space and shadows you like the eclipse he truly is. "I-I want more..."

He chuckles, "I know y'do," he echos. "Could see it in y'r eyes, darling girl," he sighs. "A pretty face like this one...Wasted on her majesty."

"I don't think we're allowed to say that."

"I deliver entire countries at john's feet, I'll say wot I bloody please," he snaps. You just blink up at him, before smiling a little.

This disgusting, murderous, possessive, immoral, treacherous piece of shit that is your husband is really the most beautiful man you've ever set your eyes on. Strong, resilient, unable to be killed, adored by his king and his men alike. He is everything a man is supposed to be, but nothing like how a gentleman should behave. He is built for war, built to take, so how can you get this nasty thing to love you?

Ghost does not seem the kind of man to bend to the desires of ordinary men. He may want to fuck you, but he has self-control. He may enjoy the praise of his men, but he doesn't require it. He may ache for the soft press of a woman, but he is self-sufficient and easily deterred.

So you do what servant women do best. You appease, because at the end of the day, Ghost is still a man, and men are all the same.

"A baby..." you whisper, holding onto the backs of his hands firmly. You dig your nails into the skin there, arching your back to get closer to him. He growls under the mask, metal biting into your soft skin as he grips you even tighter. "Want a baby..."

He cackles, so mean, and he leans down to kiss along your ear, down your throat, biting at the supple skin through the mask. He's still got all of his armor on, he hasn't shed one lick of his gear, but you cling to it like a parasite. He is one with it, and you realize this now, his second skin made of durable steel and patent animal skin, singed at the edges. He's such a fine soldier, too strong for his own good, too rough around all his edges to be anything but a masochist, but he's yours. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him, and it isn't until he slides the warmth of his length through your folds that you realize this, too.

You reach up with trembling hands, high enough to cup his masked face. He flinches, nearly throwing you off, but you shush him gently, cooing softly as you nuzzle your nose against his.

"I'm sorry," you whisper there. It's so intimate, this position, and you know that he has never let anyone touch him this way by the feeling of his body under your hands, stiff and unable to move. You roll your hips gently, up against his, and you let out a soft keen at the squelch of your slick against his cock. "It's...It's everything I didn't know I wanted..."

He grunts, metal creaking as his nostrils flare.

"I don't understand," he murmurs. Affection, it's so unfamiliar that it startles him. That someone can be kind to him, something other than a hard hand and an impossible order, it's not something he knows, and he's not sure how he feels about it. His instinct tells him to distance himself, but his cock guides him closer.

"You," you whine. "So big–" you reach down between your bodies, pumping his cock gently. Your fingers barely meet around his girth, a true testament to his size, he lacks this largeness nowhere. "–there's nothing to be afraid of, is there?"

Ghost snarls a little, gripping your thighs tight and securing them around his waist. You lock your ankles around his hips, pulling, and he hums as the head of his cock sinks into you easily.

"Naughty lil' girl," he laughs, standing straight as his thighs meet your ass. You whine, your back bowing like a taut string, and he slides his tongue over his teeth with a menacing click. "Not a virgin, are ya?"

"I-I am," you gasp, clawing at his forearms, and he hisses when you clench.

"Mm. Not a stranger t'this feelin' then, aye?"

You shake your head, and he nods, hoisting your legs up and over his shoulders as he gives you a firm thrust.

"Good," he mutters. "Don't much feel like pettin' ya."

And he doesn't. He's a menace. He snarls like a beast under his armor, his gloves squeezing your plush thighs as he pounds into you with no words to soften the blow. He isn't gentle by any means–he gives, and he expects you to take, and your legs shake as you try and crawl away from him. He doesn't let you–his fingers spread around your waist and he tugs, spearing you back onto his cock before he leans over you and starts putting his back into it.

Despite the roughness, he looks down at you, eyes focused on yours, and he doesn't look away. Your arms flail a little until you reach up and wrap them around his neck for stability, but it only draws his face close to yours. Your hand falls to grip his jaw, and he leans into it just enough that you know you have him.

"You'll make such a good little babe," he grunts, groaning when you tighten just that much. He's securing his place, making room inside of you so you can take even more. "Cunt was made to bear m'children, m'lady..."

"That so?" you squeak, and he smiles under the mask���you're falling apart on his cock, a good girl, just for him, just like you always are. "Have to finish what you started for that to happen, don't you?"

"Fuckin' brat–" Ghost snaps, but he presses his face to yours, needing to be closer, needing to have you, needing to make you his from the inside-out. A ring is not enough, no, he has to bind you to him forever by making you bear his kin. He will give you many, he's going to keep you fat and beautiful and pregnant, and his children will know that their father hungered for their mother so much that he destroyed a generation of men to covet one of his own.

Ghost has known since the first moment he laid his eyes on you that you would be it. You had to be his wife, no one else would suffice, because no one else could bear the weight of his name the way you would be able to. No one else would be able to carry his babies without dying, no one else could make the sun fall and the moon rise and the fire wane just long enough for him to feel human again, no one.

You start to think the same. You've never felt this way, so out of your body and so aware of it all at once. You're floating–you're somewhere else, you think. There's a pleasure so searing, that you can barely breathe. His cock is deep, touching places inside of you your fingers could never dream to reach, and there's a place that he touches sometimes that makes your eyes blur and your mouth make the most pathetic whining sound. You're crying, begging, asking him for more, please–! Nnghh–please!

He's never had a woman so wet. He has always had them for his own pleasure. He has never paid attention to what they feel or tried to make it nice for anyone but himself, but he knows he will never want it the same ever again. There's something so satisfying about the heavy plat, plat, plat that his cock makes every time his hips meet yours. He can feel his trousers sticking to his thick thighs, knows that there must be some thick, creamy slick coating his length and sticking to your skin that he suddenly wants to scoop up with his tongue and savor the tang of his bride, his wife, his pretty, pretty girl–tha's it, just right, like tha'–

"I...I-I–!" it's more intense than you've ever felt it. A crescendo of pleasure that is starting to grow in your belly, an unwavering warmth that he keeps flooding you with, so good that you can't stop crying for it. You're sputtering, drooling, clawing at the hood around his back because it's so fucking close, it's right there, it's mine, you're mine, mine, mine–

"Fuckin' hell–" Ghost groans, cradling your head against his chest as he stills his hips against yours and fills you nice and warm. You go cross-eyed, you think, shaking as you latch your mouth onto his masked jaw and suck. You need to put your mouth around something, need to fill it with the taste of him. He doesn't move, body heavy and suffocating over you, but you don't tell him to move and make no effort to push him off.

You think you want this. You think you want him to keep you here, just like this, underneath him, full of him, drooling from more than just your mouth from a fucking too good and the promise of something more.

He moves to take a seat on the bed, and you chase after him. You keep your arms around his neck, shuffle into his lap, and he chuckles under his breath as he wraps one big arm around you and tugs you close to him.

Maybe it isn't so bad to be bound to someone like this. Maybe it isn't so bad to belong, maybe it isn't so bad to be wanted this way, maybe it isn't the most unfortunate thing to not have the autonomy of yourself anymore in favor of being this thing's wife.

You slide your hand down his chest before smoothing it over one masked cheek. His eyes close for a moment, and he leans into it for just long enough that you recognize the gesture as one of need. Ghost aches, too–maybe not for the same thing you ache for, but he aches, and maybe it's for this.

Something gentle. Something soft. Something to bury himself into because the flames have burnt too hot for too long, and the voices in his head give him no reprieve. His hands are too dirty, too unclean, and you think maybe that's why he doesn't take his gloves off anymore–there is no cleaning agent enough for the blood caked under his fingernails.

He's more human this way. Less beast, more man, but you see that flicker of humanity disappear entirely when he sees the trickle of his cum slipping onto the fine sheets of your bed.

What a waste. What a loss. He has to fuck you again.

He will never be bored of me, I don't think. Ghost will want me forever–even when we are dead, because he cannot die, because he's already rotting inside.

You don't seem to mind your new position. No kneeling, no curtsying–your duty is on your back and on your side and on your stomach, presented for your husband, just for his pleasure, just for your own.

In all your life, you have never wanted this. You endured the burden of serving because you were at least needed this way. Marriage to you looked akin to death; when the veils fell over girl's faces, you never saw them again. They would be confined to their houses, made to spread their legs, forced to carry children they didn't want and die the slow death of giving their husbands everything they wanted while their dreams were buried alongside them.

Your dream is freedom. It always has been. Your dream is to do as you please, to go where you want to go, to say the things you want to say. There is an understanding here that you have, an opportunity that you could not see before. Before you had Ghost, you saw him as the thing in your way. He was the quicksand that would pull you under, the tide that sunk the earth, the dog that guarded his bone. But you know now, you understand, that Ghost doesn't have to be the wall in your way.

He is more animal than man, and in that fact alone, you feel power in your toes and something hungry knocking at the bone of your ribs, just waiting to come out.

Ghost will hold the sword. And you will hold the leash.

NEXT

[noirscript]

in the lion's keep

WARNING/S: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere. Noncon. Dubcon. Power Imbalance. Forced Pregnancy. Captivity. Manipulation. Psychological and Physical Control. Violence. Emotional Distress. Character/s: King Callixto x Servant!Reader Note/s: A commission for @violetvase. I hope you enjoy this one!

From this series: Silent Servitude [pt. 1] | The Lion's Shadow [pt. 3]

Tip Jar | Commissions

Your mother has always been your biggest supporter.

She never once stifled your dreams, no matter how small or ambitious they were. When you insisted on selling flowers in the town square on behalf of the old florist to earn your own keep, she worried, but she did not stop you. Your parents feared for your safety, but your older siblings watched over you, making sure no harm would come your way.

It lasted for months—until children your age began disappearing, vanishing one after another without a trace.

Your siblings stopped letting you leave the house after that. The warm sun, the scent of fresh bread in the marketplace, the laughter of the townsfolk—it all became distant, mere memories behind locked doors. You were forced to watch the world from behind wooden shutters, longing for the life you had barely begun to taste.

Years passed before they finally deemed it safe enough for you to step outside again. And when you did, you threw yourself into rebuilding.

With what little savings you had, you opened a food stall in the marketplace, selling treats that made both children and adults smile. Your business thrived. Customers returned with praises, telling you how much they enjoyed your cooking. It gave you a sense of purpose, a taste of the independence you had long craved.

Then, one night, your stall was stolen

Not just stolen—destroyed. Burned to ashes near the town's tavern.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one even smelled the smoke.

The loss devastated you, snuffing out the fragile hope you had so desperately clung to. When you fell deeper into despair, your mother was the one who lifted you back up. She taught you the skills she had learned from years of working in the palace—how to clean, how to serve, how to navigate the world of nobility without drawing attention to yourself. You listened. You learned. And when she deemed you ready, you followed in her footsteps.

You had thought you were stepping toward a new beginning.

Instead, you walked straight into a gilded cage.

A warm calloused hand rubs slow circles over your bare stomach. Your body is sore, ruined, yet the touch is deceptively gentle—reverent even.

Callixto.

The King.

The man who had stolen you, body and soul, and refused to let go.

His breath is hot against your neck as he presses his lips there, inhaling you like a man intoxicated. He traces his fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast with possessive ease. You squeeze your eyes shut, bile rising in your throat as last night's memories resurface—the way he held you down, the way he filled you over and over until you were too weak to fight him.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against your back. “You'll be a wonderful mother to our children. The mother of my heirs… My queen.”

No.

Your breath shudders as you push weakly at his arm, but you might as well be trying to move stone. Your body betrays you—limp exhausted, drained of all strength.

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks?

You can't tell. The chamber windows are tinted, making it impossible to see the sun or the moon. And Callixto… Callixto never leaves your side for long. He lingers, watching you, touching you, whispering sweet, poisonous words into your ear.

The chambermaid is no help, either.

She either glares at you with thinly veiled disdain or ignores you completely, doing only what is required of her. You don't know why she hates you, but it doesn't matter. She's your warden all the same.

There's no one here for you. No mother, no siblings. No bustling marketplace or warm, flickering hearth waiting for you at home.

There's only this prison.

And him.

“Your Majesty,” the chambermaid's voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Lord Soleil awaits you at the gates.”

Callixto tenses, as if irritated by the reminder that the outside world still exists beyond these walls. His fingers dig into your hip as he thrusts forward once more, a sharp, punishing movement that sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

He finishes deep inside you, groaning against your skin. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling. Then, with agonizing care, he pulls out—only to press his fingers back inside, pushing his seed deeper.

A shiver wracks your body.

“I suppose I've stolen enough time for myself,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You force yourself not to flinch.

Callixto cups your chin, tilting your face towards his. His golden eyes burn with something twisted, something sickeningly sweet. Then, he kisses you. A deep, lingering kiss that suffocates you more than any chain ever could.

“Stay here and be good,” he orders, his lips still brushing yours. “Let the chambermaid take care of you until I return.”

As if you have a choice.

As if you ever had a choice.

And when the doors finally close behind him, your body sags into the mattress, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. 

Not just for yourself.

But for the family you may never see again.

For the freedom that may never return.

And for the life that is no longer your own.

The towering walls of the chateau couldn't keep the rumors from reaching you. They were the only thing that kept you sane while you waited for him to return.

You heard whispers about a grand ball the Prime Minister held a few nights ago. It should've been a night of celebration, but instead, it ended in scandal. His wife, a noble woman and the daughter of a count, was caught in bed with a mere footman—nothing more than a commoner.

Lord Soleil, the Prime Minister, himself had walked in on them. The punishment was swift.

The footman was cast out with nothing, and the Prime Minister cut all ties with his wife and her family, erasing them from his life as if they had never existed.

A cruel fate. 

And yet you wondered…

Was it any crueler than yours?

“Perhaps this is why Lord Soleil was so determined to keep His Majesty away from the chateau—away from me. Not just to protect the royal bloodline, but to stop him from making the same mistake his wife did.” You sighed, your breath barely disturbing the still air.

“I can't even blame him. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want a common-born woman anywhere near the throne either. And yet, here I am—trapped in these gilded walls, reduced to nothing more than a vessel, waiting for the day my body finally serves its purpose.”

You leaned against the cool stone wall near the tinted windows, listening to the little birds outside as they carried rumors flitting between the flower beds. Their chatter was a fleeting distraction, a fragile moment of stolen peace—until it was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing through the halls.

The doors flew open, and there he stood. The King. Furious.

He called out your name—sharp, urgent, unrelenting—his voice slicing through the chateau hollow corridors like a blade. You didn't move. You barely even breathed. Instead, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your fingers curling into your dress as his footsteps thundered across the marble floors.

He ran upstairs, frantic, taking the steps two at a time. He hadn't even noticed you standing near the windows, so close yet unseen. But you knew it wouldn't last. He always found you in the end.

Outside, the world had fallen eerily silent. The chattering birds had already fled the vicinity, as if sensing the storm brewing within these walls—taking their half-spun whispers with them. The rumor of the king's impending nuptials to a high-ranking noble still lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

And soon, he would come back down. And this time, he would see you.

Your name tore from his lips again—a furious, desperate plea. Before you could react, his hands found you, his grip ironclad around your arms.

“Where have you been?” His voice was raw, unsteady. His fingers dug in. “Didn't you hear me calling for you?”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He shook his head. “No—my name.”

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes bore into you. Something was wrong. His gaze sent a slow, creeping dread up your spine.

“Say it.”

“C-Callixto…”

A slow nod. Then, his arms crushed you against him. “You're mine,” he murmured against your hair, his breath searing against your skin. “Forever mine. And I will be forever yours.”

The walls seemed to shrink around you.

“Callixto… Your Majesty… I can't breathe—” you rasped, struggling against his suffocating embrace. 

He didn't let go.

“Please…”

A beat of silence. Then, at last, he loosened his grip—but only slightly.

“Apologies, my queen,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had to calm him. You had to survive this.

You recalled your mother's old ways—how she soothed your father's anger, how she tamed your brothers’ tempers. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his cheek, brushing your fingers against his skin.

“Tell me your worries…”

“The royal court has been trying to push this woman onto me for as long as I can remember—something about securing the heir to the throne’s bloodline. The nerve of those fools,” he muttered, absently running his fingers through your hair as you lay atop him.

“If I wanted to, I could trace your family's lineage—alter it if necessary— and keep them out of our way.”

Listening to his monologue as you drift in and out of consciousness feels more exhausting than it should. You know you should try to persuade him to accept the will of his people, to yield to their demands—but deep down, you wonder if it would be easier if someone else had his full attention instead. If only he'd let you go.

“Perhaps we should secure an heir to the throne first… then we can look into your lineage…” he whispered, thrusting into you once more. His seed spilled from you as his movements grew more intense with every passing second.

Since then, it had become his ritual to fill you to the brim, keeping you in place—stuffed, trembling, and utterly his— until he was satisfied. Only then would he leave to rule his kingdom, but never without ensuring you remained exactly as he left you, his claim unmistakable. He controlled everything—the meals you ate, the tonics you drank—all carefully chosen to prepare your body for the sole purpose of carrying his heir.

You were his, and soon, you would bear proof of it.

It didn't take long for the signs to show.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight in your lower belly that told you something had taken root inside you.

And yet, luck has not abandoned you entirely.

Your chambermaid—a woman whose disdain for you was only rivaled by her loyalty to the royal court—had noticed. She must have. But instead of betraying your condition, she pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and muttered, “A commoner’s flu. Nothing more.”

A lie. A calculated one.

The King believed her.

But belief was fragile in a mind like his. It splintered easily.

His golden eyes flicked between the chambermaid and the royal physician, narrowed and gleaming, hungry for an answer that neither of them dared to give.

“Her color is pale,” Callixto murmured, pacing your chambers. His fingers twitched—fidgeting, trembling, curling into claws before stretching straight again. “She barely eats, barely moves. And yet you say it is nothing?”

The physician bowed his head. “It is a seasonal illness, Your Majesty. A touch of fever, some exhaustion—nothing that cannot be cured with rest.”

Callixto laughed—a dry, humorless sound. His nails dug into his palms, leaving little crescent moons of pain.

“Rest,” he echoed. His voice was a whisper of rage, of something darker crawling beneath his skin. “You think I have not noticed? She wilts before my very eyes, and you tell me to wait?”

The chambermaid stepped forward then, expression schooled into reluctant sympathy. “Your Majesty, she is weak. He kind does not fare well in the colder months. It is not surprising.”

Callixto stilled. His breathing slowed, deliberate, controlled—but his eyes never left her face.

“Weak?” The word came soft, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you believed?”

The chambermaid hesitated.

Something in the air shifted.

A warning.

Callixto's lips twitched—not in a smile, no. In something sharper. Something that showed his teeth.

“Fine,” he murmured. “If she must rest, then she will do so under your watchful eye. I want no one else near her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But as the King turned away, the chambermaid gaze flicked down—her fingers twitching at the pouch hidden beneath her apron. The weight of the promised coin.

The chateau felt emptier than ever one evening. The halls echoed with the distant clatter of preparations from the palace—the banquet, the foreign dignitaries, the noble guests.

A distraction.

And when the chambermaid entered your chambers, her usual sneer was absent. Instead, she carried a bundle of clothing.

“You need to leave tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because I tire of wiping your sweat.” She threw the bundle onto your bed. “Because I want you gone.”

You swallowed hard. “And that's all?”

The chambermaid exhaled sharply. Something in her posture—something tired and worn—hinted at an answer she would never give.

“The palace gates will be open for the banquet. No one will be watching the chateau. Take the back corridors, follow the outer gardens. You are not important enough to be noticed.”

“What do you gain from this?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “What I was promised.”

You should've asked by whom. But you didn't.

The scream shattered the night.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The chambermaid barely had time to compose herself before the doors to your chambers slammed open, cracking wood against stone.

Callixto stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, leaving only thin rings of amber around black pits. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his own skin, but he did not seem to notice the blood welling beneath them.

His gaze snapped to the bed. Empty.

Something inside him snapped with it.

“Where is she?” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice no longer a demand but a plea.

The chambermaid bowed, but her voice was steady. “Resting, Your Majesty. The fever worsened—”

“Liar.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. The chambermaid flinched.

Callixto's hands trembled. “She would not leave her bed unless someone forced her to,” he whispered. His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. “Unless someone… took her from me.”

He turned, suddenly—too suddenly—and grabbed the chambermaid’s wrist.

“You would not betray me, would you?”

The chambermaid swallowed.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

His grip tightened. Bones creaked.

“No, of course not,” he echoed, smiling now—serpentine, sharp. His head tilted. “Because if you had…” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I would tear this palace apart. Brick by brick. And when I found her—oh, when I found her—”

He released her.

“Find her,” he murmured. “Or I will find you instead.”

The chambermaid bowed, stepping backward toward the door. “As you command.”

But she didn't turn fast enough to see his lips curl into something… inhuman.

He turned back to the empty bed, trailing a hand over the sheets as if he could still feel you there. His fingers ghosted over where your head had once rested, then curled into the pillow, dragging it close. He inhaled—deeply, desperately—like a starving man before a feast.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered to no one. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

The night air was crip—freezing against your cheeks, but blissfully free.

You ran. Through the outer gardens, past the dim lanterns, past the drunken guards too enamored with wine and revelry to notice a shadow slipping past them.

You ran until the scent of the palace faded into the trees. 

Home. You had to go home.

But when you reached the village outskirts, you stopped.

Guards. Stationed outside your family's home.

You shrank into the shadows, heart hammering against your ribs. From where you hid, you could see the single candle in the window—dim, unmoving.

Not flickering.

Not alive.

A silent warning: Do not return.

Tears burned your eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away.

Not toward another village. Not toward a stranger's mercy.

But deeper into the forest.

Through the twisting paths only you knew, past the moss-covered stones and the brook where you once dipped your toes in summer. Past the memories. Past the ghosts.

And there, hidden beneath the tangle of overgrown branches, the shack still stood.

You and your siblings built it once—when you were small, when the world was gentler. A childish hideaway, pieced together from stolen nails and planks too weathered to be missed. A place of whispered secrets and stolen sweets, of giggling beneath a roof that bare kept the rain out.

It was nothing.

But it was enough.

You pushed the warped door open and stepped inside, the scent of damp wood wrapping around you like an old embrace. The cold bit at your skin, but you knew how to survive here. You always had.

With shaking hands, you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Outside, the trees whispered.

Somewhere beyond them, the King was hunting.

But you would not be an easy prey.

Not here. Not yet.

—

tbc.

noirscript © 2025

All rights reserved.

—

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[cowboysandcigarettes]

JUNO

summary; watching dean work with some kids on a case leads you to an interesting realization.

warnings! established relationship, canon-typical violence, talk of pregnancy, smut!, praise kink, breeding kink (oops), soft sex, but it kinda unintentionally turned nasty, unprotected p in v (stay safe!)

CASES WITH KIDS WERE ALWAYS HARD. you had a soft spot for kids, especially little ones, even with their sticky fingers and clingy hands.

you had always thought about having kids, but once you became a hunter, you threw that idea out the window. hunting was no life to raise a kid in, god knows you only barely survived in your late teens.

when you met dean, you fell fast and you fell hard. it was difficult to resist his charms and good looks, but your case of lovesickness only grew as you and the elder winchester grew closer. he slowly opened up to you, allowing you to peel back the layers of toughness and defense that he had built up over the years, letting you see the real him.

that only made you fall more in love.

luckily, the feeling was mutual, for as soon as dean had set eyes on you, he was gone. he instantly knew you were the most beautiful thing he had ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on, and as soon as you opened your pink lips to greet him─cussing him out for hijacking your hunt actually─he was completely done for.

neither of you had said anything for a long time, letting the feelings and tension build up over the years until it all came to a boiling point after a hunt almost gone wrong. you had barely had time to take a breath after almost dying before dean's roughened hands were on your face, grabbing you and crashing your lips to his.

you had been together ever since, and although the thought of having kids occasionally popped in your head, you figured dean would never want that. he was a hunter through and through, he could never leave the life, and if you were to have a kid, you could never raise them the way you and him had been raised.

so you pushed those dreams deep down, happy to live your chaotic life with dean, content with just the two of you.

but then you ended up in oregon.

♡ ♡ ♡

the case was a pain in the ass, a couple of rogue vampires taking kids, 'training' them to become a part of their nest.

finding the bloodsuckers was easy enough, they had been holing up in some old farmhouse off the highway, posing as new townsfolk and greeting the neighbors to scout their next victims. it only took the boys and you a day to find the farmhouse and pile into the impala, rumbling off to save the day once again.

the three of you had charged in after a quick surveillance, machetes in hand and dead man's blood at the ready as you crept in, trying not to wake the vamps. unfortunately, they were still up and at 'em, and suddenly ambushed the three of you before you could even process it.

there was only two of them and three of you, but with their enhanced strength and skills, it was pretty much a fair fight. sam and you had been fighting off one of them, dean grappling with the other, when the situation had grown more complicated.

the fight managed to be pushed into one of the other backrooms of the farmhouse, which just happened to be where the vamps were holding the kids. you noticed first, telling sam and calling out to dean before swiftly turning back to your own fight.

"i got 'em!" he calls back, kicking his vamp straight in the chest and sprinting over to where the three kids were tied up, tears streaking down their dirt covered faces.

you manage to get the jump on your own opponent, knocking the monster down. movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you look up to see the vamp dean had been fighting pushing himself up from the ground, fangs bared and snarling at dean, whose back was turned as he untied the kids.

"hey, ugly!" you call, a quick nod from sam assuring you that he had the other creature handled. the one snarling at dean turned in your direction, pausing for a moment before his lips curled again, baring his rows of sharp, deadly teeth at you. you just gripped your machete tighter, bracing yourself in a fighting position. "come and get it."

the creature hissed and charged at you, but you were one step ahead. you noted the flimsy floorboard in front of you and you waited until he was a few steps away before raising your machete over your head, bringing it down hard on the shaky board.

the impact of the blade further destabilized the wood, and as you stepped back, the vamp stepped on that floorboard, his leg crashing through, leaving him stuck. he cried out and growled, hissing and flailing his hands around, trying to reach for you, but before he could even call out to his buddy, you raised your machete again, swinging it around and cutting the bloodsucker's head clean off.

the creature's skull thudded against the wood as it fell, and you stood there for a moment, catching your breath before you lifted your head, trying to find sam. a proud grin spreads across your face as you see him standing at the foot of the other vamp, it's head cut off just like the other one. he meets your gaze, and you both turn to head towards the exit, cleaning off your machetes on some nearby hay bales.

you walk behind sam to the impala, pleased to have come out of the farmhouse with minimal blood staining your skin and clothes. you hear dean's voice before you see him, and as you round the car to greet him, you cut yourself off as you take in the scene in front of you.

the three children are leaning against the door of the imapala, their heads barely reaching the bottom of the window, faces dirt stained and tear streaked. the sight would break your heart if you weren't so distracted by dean, who was crouching in front of them, an easy, comforting smile on his lips as he spoke to them softly.

"see? i told you we'd get 'em for you," he tells them, and the gentle tone of his voice makes you melt a little. "you guys were so brave, doin' exactly as i said and helping each other get out. you guys are real superheroes."

the little boy in the middle, the youngest of the three, looks at dean with wide eyes, still glistening with tears, but there's no more trace of sadness other than the tear tracks on his dusty cheeks. "like batman?" he asks, his small voice slightly wobbly.

dean grins wider at that, and you can practically see the sparks in his eyes as he nods at the little boy. "hell yeah, exactly like batman," he assured the boy. "he'd be so proud of how brave you were, all of you. i mean seriously, i was so scared, but you guys were totally badass."

all three of the children's faces lit up at that, the two girls on either side of the little boy looking at each other and giggling softly before looking back at dean.

he pretended to be confused, cocking his head and looking between the two girls. "what's so funny?" he asks, his lips twitching as he fights off a smile.

"you said a bad word," the girl on the left says, giggling at dean's face.

dean pretends to be offended, quipping something back at the girl to make all three of them laugh again, but you don't hear what, because suddenly you're picturing doing that with another kid.

your kid.

images flash through your head of dean, a little girl in his arms, a sweet smile on his lips as he rocks her gently. dean and a boy with his eyes and your hair standing side by side as he teaches him how to fix up the impala. you and dean side by side as you watch the milestones of your child's life, the look in dean's eyes as he holds them for the first time.

you bite your lip as you watch him with the kids, your heart warming in your chest. but the heat doesn't stop there, it travels through your chest, pooling quickly in your core as you suddenly picture yourself pregnant, dean's hands on your stomach, your sensitive breasts, hips and all over as he takes care of you.

the movement of dean standing up snaps you out of your fantasy, and with a soft smile, you help him and sam load the kids into the impala, offering to sit with them in the back, dean driving and sam in the passenger seat.

the drive back into town wasn't short, but you honestly were content to sit in the car for a couple hours as the kids eagerly conversed with you. they were smart, and you were surprised at their range of vocabulary as they told you about themselves.

you learned that the two girls were sisters, maia and ruby, that they were six and eight, and had a cat named max that they loved to death. the little boy's name was logan, and he didn't talk as much, oddly staying quiet as the girls chatted away at you, but once they turned into talking amongst themselves, he started telling you about all of his favorite superheroes.

eventually, exhaustion dragged the poor kids under, maia and ruby curling into each other, your heart warming when you felt the weight of logan's body leaning into yours. you let him lean against you, gently lifting your arm and resting it over his shoulder, holding him to you.

not so long into his slumber however, logan began to squirm against you, catching your attention as a small, heartbreaking cry left his lips. the poor boy was having a nightmare.

gently, you gripped his shoulders, squeezing lightly as you tried to wake him up. "hey, shh, hey, logan it's okay," you whisper, your heart clenching as another soft cry leaves his lips.

dean's eyes snap to you in the rear view mirror, the cry breaking his concentration on the road. "he okay?"

"he's having a nightmare," you say, meeting dean's eyes for a second, before a pained gasp draws your attention back to the boy next to you. his eyes snap open, brimming with tears as they meet yours, his trembling lips parted like he's trying to say something, but nothing comes out. "hey, hey, buddy, it's okay, you're okay."

you're shocked when he suddenly surges forward, crashing into you with a sniffle. as soon as he does though, your instincts kick in, your arms wrapping tightly around him, one hand cupping the back of his head to you as you shush him softly.

"shh, s'alright honey, you're safe, you're okay," you whisper, tilting your head down to press a kiss to the top of his head, continuing to murmur soft reassurances into his slightly matted hair.

what you didn't see was dean watching you in the rear view mirror. his eyes stayed glued on you and the little boy until he absolutely had to look back at the road, doing so just long enough that he didn't crash, then his gaze returned to you.

something about seeing you with the kids, the way you interacted with and entertained them the whole ride, and especially now, watching you hold and care for this little boy you didn't even know, it did something to him. it started with a pull in his chest, squeezing at his heart, but it moved lower and lower, sparking a heat in his stomach as images flashed in his mind.

you, barefoot and your soft stomach swollen as you grew his child inside of you. you, holding his child in your arms, just like you're doing to little logan right now. a life out of hunting, the life he's always secretly dreamed of, white picket fence and all. dean thinks about how you'd feel, the way your body would change, how he'd be able to mold it with his hands, how sensitive you'd be as he drags his fingers over your skin, up to your chest, making you moan his name.

he's abruptly brought out of his thoughts as a soft melody reaches his ears. he lifts his eyes to the mirror again, and he swears if he was standing up, he would've swooned.

you've got the little boy cradled to your chest, one of your hands cupping the back of his head to hold him to you as you rock gently, your lips pressed to his head, but he can still hear your soft voice.

singing.

dean had never heard you sing before, but he decided then and there that screw his pride, he was gonna ask you to sing for him.

later, after maia and ruby had been dropped off, not going before giving dean a crushing hug, the impala rumbled over to the other side of town to logan's house.

you hoisted the sleeping boy higher in your arms, holding him securely against your chest and covering the back of his head as you step out of the impala, nodding to sam and dean in silent assurance before walking up to the small house.

dean just watched you through the window, his eyes glued to you as you knocked on the door, careful not to wake logan. his anxious tapping of the steering wheel slows to a stop, a contrast to the beat of his heart, which rapidly speeds up as the front door opens, his eyes glued to you as the hysterical parents graciously thank you. his gaze never leaves you, eyes zeroed in on you as you hand over the sleeping boy, his racing heart swelling as you smile at them, leaning down to press one last kiss to the sleeping boy's head before bidding them goodbye.

sam clears his throat next to him, snapping dean out of his daze as you turn to head back to where they wait in the impala. dean tears his eyes from you to glare at sam, who has a knowing smirk on his face.

"what?" dean snaps, a flush crawling up his neck at being caught staring at you.

"nothing," sam replies, shrugging nonchalantly, but the smirk never leaves his face. "just never figured you were the type."

"type?" dean asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. "type to what?"

sam opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn't get the chance to as you open the door of the impala, swiftly sliding into the backseat pausing at the looks on the brothers faces.

"am i interrupting something?" you ask, raising your eyebrows as you look between them.

the brothers share a look, doing their silent telepathy trick that you've never understood, but then dean is clearing his throat and starting the car, eyes focused through the window as he pulls out of the driveway. "nope, just ready to get back to the motel," he responds curtly, and you can sense there's more to it, but you don't pry.

the ride back to the motel is silent except for the soft hum of the radio in the background, but you don't mind. all you can focus on anyways if getting dean alone in your motel room.

when you finally do arrive, you practically drag him out of the car, ignoring sam's roll of his eyes as you hastily unlock the motel room, stumbling in with more force then necessary and closing it behind you.

"what's the rush?" dean questions, the signature winchester smirk on his lips as he shrugs off his jacket and flannel, tossing them onto a nearby chair. "didn't know you got hot and bothered over killin' vamps."

you normally would respond with a roll of your eyes, quipping something back at him, but right now you're too focused the way his plain black t shirt is stretched over his chest, his biceps practically bulging in the sleeves making you almost salivate. you bite your lip as your eyes rake over him, lingering on his arms as the images of him gently cradling your child creep back into your head, making a familiar heat curl in your stomach.

he notices the lack of response, taking a step closer to you, ducking his head slightly to try and meet your gaze. "uh, hello? you gonna tell me what's got you all worked up or are you just gonna keep starin' at me like i'm a fresh piece o' pie?" he asks, snapping you out of your daze, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

your face heats up, a flush painting your cheeks as you avert your gaze sheepishly, slightly embarrassed at the thoughts running through your head.

"s'nothing," you mumble, dropping your eyes to your feet, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

dean tuts at you, stepping closer, close enough that the tips of his boots come into view where your eyes are stuck on the ground. "ain't nothin' if it's got you flustered like this, sweetheart," he drawls, lifting a hand to your chin, cupping it and raising your head to meet his gaze. "so, i'll ask again. what's got my girl all worked up?"

you bite your lip again, your thighs involuntarily clenching together at the low timbre of his voice, the heat in your core starting to outweigh your pride. "i just..." you start, feeling the anxiety bubble up in your chest as you start to ramble. "you were really good with the kids today and i know its stupid, and i know you don't want kids but i saw you with them and it just really got me goin' for some reason and-"

"woah, woah," dean cuts you off, both of his hands moving to cup your cheeks, keeping your eyes focused on his, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently like he could slow your rapid heartbeat through your skin. "slow down, baby, take a breath."

he just stares at you for a moment and you get the hint, taking in a slow breath, exhaling and letting some of the tension flow from your body. "good girl," he murmurs, tucking some of your hair behind your ear gently. "so, from what i heard, you are all worked up, thighs clenchin' and everything because of watchin' me with the kids?"

you don't answer with words, anxiety too tight in your throat as heat creeps up your neck, so you just nod your head in his hands.

"use your words, pretty girl," dean corrects, but there's something deeper in his voice, and you swear you can see his eyes darken as his grip on your face tightens just slightly.

"yes," you breathe out, swiping your tongue over your dry lips before pulling the bottom one between your teeth.

"oh, that's it, huh?" he asks, his voice lowering to a rumble that sends a shiver up your spine. "you wanna make me a daddy? let me fill you up and make you a mama?"

your eyes widen in surprise at his reaction, and you feel a flood of arousal drench your panties, making you clench your thighs together harder. the shock of his words wears off as he squeezes your cheeks a little tighter, urging you to answer him.

a strangled whine leaves your throat at the images his words create in your lust-hazed brain, and when you nod in his grip, a groan leaves his lips, his pupils dilating so much there's only a ring of shining evergreen around them.

"shit, babygirl, you have no idea what that does to me.." he growls, one of his hands slipping from your cheek to grip your hip tightly. he pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the heat of his body, along with the hardness that is pressed into your stomach, making your knees weak. "i was thinkin' the same about you all damn night long."

"you were?" you ask, your voice turning into more of a squeak when he dips his head down to nip at your neck.

"uh huh," dean mumbles into your skin, sucking on your pulse point so hard you swear stars flash behind your eyes. "just the way you interacted with the kids, when logan had that nightmare...all the sudden i just pictured you, all barefoot 'n round with my kid."

you whimper at the image, your eyes slipping shut as his hands drag down to the hem of your shirt, tugging on it lightly before pulling back enough to tear it over your head, tossing it who knows where before diving back down to btie at your neck.

"dean..." you moan breathlessly, back arching to give him more access as he trails his hands up to deftly unclip your bra, sliding the straps down your shoulders.

"that what you want?" he growls your name, the heat in his voice so intense you suddenly feel dizzy. "you want me to fill you up? fuck you so deep it sticks, then you can go around tellin' everyone it was me who knocked you up?"

you nod desperately, grinding your hips into him, groaning in frustration when you get no friction. "yes, god yes," you pant, gripping his shoulders to push him back from you enough to look him in the eyes. "please-"

that was all it took for the last of his resolve to break.

the next few moments were a blur of belt buckles and buttons as you both tugged at each others clothes, ripping them off and tossing them onto the floor of the now disheveled motel room. eventually, you both landed on the bed, now bare to each other, dean falling on top of you and immediately crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.

you moan into his mouth, arching your back and wrapping your arms around his shoulders to dig your nails into his skin, bucking your hips up into him. the what between your thighs was too much now, an almost painful ache that only worsened when his hands slipped down to grab your grinding hips, pinning them firmly to the mattress.

"dean-" you start to whine when he pulls away from ravaging your mouth, but he cuts you off with another fierce kiss, stealing your breath away before he pulls back again, his eyes burning as they took you in.

"jesus christ," dean murmurs your name, his gaze raking down your flushed skin, lingering on your heaving chest before landing on the now sticky mess between your legs. "you've got no idea what you do to me, pretty girl."

"please dean," you whine, hips wiggling under his grip. when he doesn't acknowledge your plea, your hands drag up his shoulders to tightly tangle in the short strands of his hair, tugging until his eyes are on yours. "fuck me, please."

if possible, dean's eyes darken further, the jade that you love so much almost completely consumed by lust blown black, the sight making your thighs tighten around his hips.

"can't refuse my girl, now can i?" he pants, one of his hands leaving your hip to pump himself a few times before he lines himself up with your sopping entrance. your breath hitches as his leaking head notches at your hole, fingers digging into his scalp. it only seems to spur him on, a deep groan reverberating in his chest before he pushes into you, low moans leaving you both at the feeling. "fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin' good."

your jaw goes slack, your eyes going hooded as he fills you to the brim, your body hyper aware of every ridge and vein as his cock settles in your clenching walls. you both stay still for a moment, getting used to the feel of each other, before the ache in your core starts to build again.

"move, dean, move, please," you whimper, opening your heavy eyes to meet his, wriggling your hips under him.

he groans, nodding before dropping his forehead to yours, his breath fanning over your lips. he's still not moving, and you open your mouth to beg him again, but before you can say a word, he pulls out almost all the way, gripping your hips tightly, then slams back into you, hard.

you cry out, your back arching as your hands move to grip his shoulders for dear life, your nails leaving red crescent shapes in their wake. he doesn't give you time to recover before he's doing it again, then again, and again, until he's building a steady pace that has your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, your toes curling in the air.

"oh fuck- dean-" you choke, words cut off as a particularly harsh thrust has his tip ramming into your cervix with so much force that your vision goes black for a second.

"shit, yeah..yeah that's it, pretty girl," dean grunts in response, the force of his thrusts causing his nose to bump yours, your foreheads still pressed together. "let me feel ya, squeeze this pretty pussy 'round me till she gushes all over my cock."

his filthy words only push you closer to the edge, your nails dragging down his back, making him groan. "fuck, fuck," you gasp as he rubs against that sweet, gummy spot inside you, your back arching as the coil in your stomach tightens.

"mhm, right there, baby?" he growls, his words almost a coo as he angles his hips to hit that sensitive spot with each thrust. "yeah, that's it right there. c'mon, you're so close, aren't ya, pretty girl?"

you nod, clenching your eyes shut as his thrusts punch broken whines and whimpers from you, leaving you breathless. a sharp slap to your thigh has your eyes flying open, a small yelp leaving you at the stinging contact.

"eyes on me, baby," he demands, and you oblige, your mouth hanging open as you continue to fly towards the edge. "atta girl, there you go. such a naughty fuckin' girl, gettin' wet 'cause all you wanted was my cock in you, fillin' you with my cum 'til it sticks. that's what you want, isn't it, baby? to be full of my cum, waiting 'til it sticks, then being full 'n round with my kid?"

all you can do is moan, the harsh movements of his hips and the way his tip his hitting the tip of your cervix perfectly succeeding in fucking you dumb.

"yeah, that's what i thought," dean mumbles, tilting his head to nip at your bottom lip, slipping one hand between your sweat slicked bodies to rub tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. "cum for me, baby, squeeze my cock 'til there's nothing left, ya know you want it. c'mon mama, give it to me."

the nickname is what pushes you over the edge with a scream that you think is his name, but you're too far gone to really know. your mind goes blank as your orgasm crashes over you in white hot pleasure, back arching and legs shaking.

somewhere in the back of your hazy mind, you hear dean groan your name, and you can feel his sticky release painting your insides, the warmth making your toes curl and legs shake as you come down.

when you start to regain some of your senses, dean's head is buried in your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin as he brings himself back down to earth. his rough hands run soothingly up and down your sides, sliding down to your trembling thighs.

after a moment, the room silent except for the both of yours heavy pants, dean speaks up, his voice slightly hoarse.

"goddamn, babygirl, 'f i knew me knockin' you up got you so turned on i would've brought it up a long time ago," he mutters into your neck, pulling a tired laugh from your lungs.

you sigh softly, head falling back against the bed as you try to bring your heartbeat down, his words ringing in your head. "thought you didn't want kids," you mumble in response, your hands stroking gently along his back, soothing the marks you made.

"i-" dean starts, but cuts himself off, pausing for a moment before he lifts his head from your sweaty skin to look down at you. one of his hands comes up, brushing some of your damp hair away from your eyes, his thumb lingering as he brushes the digit gently over your brow. "i didn't, not really. not until you."

the words steal the breath from your lungs again, your eyes widening slightly as you stare up at him. you search his expression for any sort of insincerity, but all you find is a look of love so intense you feel like he's tearing your heart straight from your chest. "not until me?" you ask, your voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

"not until you," he repeats, his words soft. he stares at you for a moment before sighing, tilting his head as he continue to admire you. "i never thought i would get a chance at the apple pie life, hell i didn't even really want to think about it, but then i met you, and everything changed."

his words, so heartfelt and so real, leave you speechless, your heart still pounding in your chest as you stared up at him in awe.

"you make me want all of those things, make me think i actually might deserve them," he continues, his thumb still brushing softly at your skin. "and i know we haven't...officially talked about it, but i love you, and if it really is somethin' you want, there's no one else i'd rather start a family with. if-if that's what you want, 'f course."

you don't even hesitate before you answer, a smile pulling at your lips. "yes," you breathe out, feeling your heart flutter in your chest. "there's no one i'd rather do it with."

a grin lights up dean's face, a look of boyish joy highlighting his features. without responding first, he grabs your face in his hands, cupping your cheeks and peppering kisses all over your heated face, making you giggle.

"you have no idea how damn happy that makes me," he mumbles between kisses, pressing on last, lingering kiss to your lips before dipping his head again, burrowing into your neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you. "you're gonna be the best mama."

you laugh softly, a warm feeling spreading in your chest as you wrap your arms around him in return. "we gotta get cleaned up first, then we'll continue this conversation," you mutter into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, but he just grumbles, burying his face further in your neck.

"later," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your pulse point, content with just holding you in his arms. "just wanna stay here."

"okay," you whisper into his hair, relaxing into his hold. "we can stay here."

dean hums into your neck, and you can feel him smile against your skin, making your heart skip a beat in your chest. you knew it wasn't going to be easy, getting out of the life never was, hell just living as hunters wasn't easy, and raising a kid was gonna be harder. but you knew that you had dean, and in the end, that's all that mattered.

he was all that mattered.

bri's thoughts! bri write a position that isn't missionary challenge: fail. (i'm sorry i'm basic i crave intimacy) okay so here it is! finally actually finished something (the 50 unfinished works in my drafts are screaming at me rn) and now i'm gonna go to bed and dream about being on snl because it is my current obsession, especially after the 50th anniversary episode, which i recommend everybody watch! so i won't shut up about that but anyways, here this finally!

tags! @ultravi0lence14 @bluemerakis @titsout4jackles @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @flormpus @star-yawnznn @Jaredpadonlyyyy @grangerously @dclover27 @chronic-fangirl-222 @stevesxwhore @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakingdom

[kaira-diaries]

Backstabber

warning: Smut || Violence || death || description of blood || life threatening illness

wc: 15k …

pairing: fem!reader x In-ho

a/n: so the length is…something. This loosely follows the games of season two. LOOSELY !!

I hope you all enjoy, happy reading!!

summary: A young woman finds herself desperate when her family falls into crushing medical debt. Seeking a way out, she enters the deadly Squid Games. Unbeknownst to her, the enigmatic Frontman—her boyfriend of three years, disguising himself as Player 001 and in deep debt, enters the game to protect her, navigating the brutal competition while concealing his true identity from her.

-> Masterlist <-

Aware of every breath and movement, you were pinned down as In-ho finally peeled away your warm sweater, a contrast to the frigid temperature in his bedroom, completely naked before him and he before you.

However all you could feel was his soft lips against your chest, leaving you breathless as he pushed in and out of you with blinding pleasure and strength. His kisses were anything but gentle as you locked your legs around his muscled back, pulling him closer, and he groaned in delight at such a position, dragging his perfect teeth up your neck and eventually reconnecting with your mouth.

You'd been holding onto the weight of a conversation you needed to have with him, the one about your father's medical illness and the mounting medical debt that was dragging your parents under like a relentless tide. You've kept it from him for a while. Was it out of shame? You didn't quite know, but it didn't seem like the kind of conversation to strike up while his tongue worked between your legs, making a mess on the edge of the dining room table. He was on you the moment you got home and after the long day you had, you needed it. 

Freeing him from your grip, you pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, aching for control, something you've had to fight for with him the moment you began seeing each other. A look of disapproval shined in his eyes, but you pressed your palms against his warm chest, earning a scowl of impatience. You innocently smile, beginning to rock your hips. He held you, his grip like iron, as he watched you use him to reach your peak. With your head thrown back, his hands explored every inch of your chest; squeezing and grabbing at everything he possibly could. His grip on you was as tight as he could make it without hurting you, something he worries so much about. 

Mumbling sweet praises up at you, you whined, picking up the pace. 

"Fuck you're so beautiful riding my cock." He praised, almost making you shatter, and you would have right then and there until your phone began to buzz on the wooden nightstand next to his head. Your movements came to a sudden stop, making In-ho groan, "ignore it," he pleaded, but it was your mother's icon. 

With the weight of your father's illness in mind, you pulled off him. 

"It'll just take a second." You promised, answering the phone, trying to ignore the slow touch of In-ho's hand caressing your back and his lips sucking the skin of your neck. You slapped him. 

"Hi, everything okay? it's late."

Your mother's panicked voice crackled through the phone, her voice trembling with raw fear. "Y/n, you need to come to the hospital now. I-I don't-"

"Ma, I'll be there," you interrupted, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Just stay calm." You hung up without waiting for more, already throwing the blanket aside as you scrambled out of bed. 

"What’s going on? What's wrong?" In-ho's voice cut through the chaos, his concern evident as he sat up, his brows furrowed. 

Your mind raced, and the first excuse that came to you spilled out in a rush. "Something's wrong with the cat." You blurted, the lie feeling ridiculous even as you said it. Your shaky hands pulled on a sweater, jeans, and some boots, the urgency in your movements selling the story better than the words ever could. 

"What? the fucking cat? What happened?" In-ho looked confused but didn't question further as you fumbled to explain. "Their car's in the shop, and they can't get to the emergency vet. I have to go."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets pooling around his waist. "I'll take you." 

"No!" you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. The tension in the room palpable as his eyes searched your face for an explanation. 

One thing about In-ho: he never questioned you, and right now, you were grateful for that. "Okay." He said. "Just be careful." 

You nodded quickly, not trusting yourself to say more. Grabbing your keys and bag, you bolted for the door, your thoughts racing faster than your feet. The hallway felt suffocating as you sprinted to your car, your breath coming in shallow bursts. 

Sliding into the driver's seat, your hands trembled as you turned the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life but didn't drown out the panic in your mind. What could have happened? Was it worse than you feared? 

The rain from earlier had left the streets slick, and your headlights reflected off the wet pavement as you sped toward the hospital. You tried to steady your breathing, gripping the wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white. Every red light felt like a personal attack, each second dragging on like an eternity. 

Finally, you pulled into the hospital parking lot, barely bothering to park straight as you threw the car into park and leaped out. The fluorescent lights of the emergency entrance cast an unnatural glow over the scene, and the antiseptic smell hit you as soon as you stepped inside. 

Your eyes darted around the waiting room until they landed on your mother. She was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, her face pale, her hands squeezing a tissue. 

"Mom!" you called out, rushing to her. She looked up, her eyes red and puffy, and the sight of her broke something inside. 

"Y/n..." she began, her voice trembling as fresh tears spilled over. "Its your father. They-they said he's in critical condition. The doctors are with him now, but-" Her voice cracked, and she covered her mouth, unable to finish. 

You crouched down in front of her, taking in her hands in yours. “Ma, I'm here. I'm here, okay? We'll get through through this." Your voice was firm, but your stomach churned with dread. 

As you comforted her, a nurse approached, asking if you were your father's family. You stood up, your thudding in your chest. "Yes, I'm his daughter. What's going on?" The nurse hesitated, her expression grave. "The doctor would like to speak with you. Please follow me."

Your mother let out a soft sob as you squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'll be right back, Ma," you whispered before following the nurse down the cold, sterile hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last as you approached the room where your father's fate would be revealed. 

The nurse led you to a small consultation room, where a doctor in scrubs was waiting, his face lined with exhaustion. He stood as you entered, his expression grim but composed.

"It's good to meet you, I'm Dr. Patel," he said, gesturing for you to sit. You barely registered the gesture, standing frozen as your pulse thundered in your ears.

"What's wrong with my father?" you demanded, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep steady.

Dr. Patel exhaled softly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he was about to say. "Your father's condition has taken a critical turn. His heart is failing rapidly, and the medications we've been using to manage his symptoms are no longer enough. He's in cardiogenic shock."

You blinked, the words slow to register. "What does that mean? Can you fix it?"

The doctor's lips pressed into a thin line. "The only long-term solution is a heart transplant. Without it, I'm afraid he doesn't have much time—maybe days, a week at most."

The air seemed to vanish from the room. You shook your head, trying to process. "A transplant? How... how soon could he get one?"

Dr. Patel hesitated, his gaze softening. "It's complicated. He'll need to be placed on the transplant list, and even then, matching him with a donor can take time. There's also the matter of cost. Even with insurance, the out-of-pocket expenses can be significant."

Your stomach twisted into knots. "How significant?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Typically, upwards of $150,000 for surgery, post-op care, and medications," he replied gently.

Your heart sank. You felt like the floor had dropped out from under you. "I can't… we can't afford that. Even with insurance, we're already drowning in medical debt. How am I supposed to…" Your voice cracked, and tears spilled over despite your effort to hold them back.

Dr. Patel leaned forward, his voice kind but firm. "I know it's overwhelming, but there are programs and organizations that can help. I can connect you with our financial counselor to explore options. Right now, focus on being here for your father."

You nodded numbly, standing on unsteady legs. "Can I see him?"

"Of course. He's sedated, but you can sit with him."

The walk to your father's room felt surreal, the hospital corridors stretching endlessly. When you stepped inside, the sight of him hit you like a punch to the chest. He lay still, pale and fragile, tubes and monitors surrounding him. The steady beeping of the machines was the only sound in the room.

You moved to his bedside, taking his hand in yours. His skin was cold, and the weight of his hand in yours felt too light, too fragile.

"Hey, Dad," you said softly, your voice breaking. "It's me."

Your thumb traced over the back of his hand as you blinked away fresh tears. "They said you need a new heart," you whispered, choking on the words. "And I know you probably don't want me worrying about it, but I'm going to fix this. I swear I'll find the money, no matter what. I'll get you what you need."

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You just hang on, okay? Just hang on."

The room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors, but your resolve solidified with every passing second. No matter how impossible it seemed, you would find a way to save him. 

Whatever it took.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Your hands were frigid, the cold from last night's visit at the hospital still clinging to you as you sat in the dimly lit coffee shop. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee and winter rain, but none of it brought comfort. Across the small table, In-ho sat rigid, his shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. His expression was a mask of unreadable calm, but his eyes—those lifeless, glassy eyes—made your stomach churn. There was no warmth in them, no spark of humanity like normal. Just emptiness. You swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to shiver under his gaze.

It happened every year around this time, right before his business trip. Yet somehow, it never got easier. That hollow, dead look in his eyes unsettled you more than you wanted to admit, leaving a weight on your chest like a stone sinking in water. He always returned, but the man who sat before you now was different—a stranger wearing the face of someone you loved.

Cupping your warm mug of coffee, you took a tentative sip, hoping the heat would chase away the chill that wasn't from the weather.

"How long will you be gone this time?" you asked, keeping your voice steady despite the unease bubbling under your skin.

"A week or so," he replied plainly, his tone deeper than usual and flat, devoid of emotion.

You nodded, forcing yourself not to press him further. He never shared much about these trips, and you'd learned to stop asking. But this—this lifeless version of him he always snaps into—terrified you in a way you could never quite explain.

He was scheduled to leave today after your coffee date, which explained the gel in his hair and the matching grey outfit he wore, fit for the cold weather. He looked good, but you adored his messy hair. You loved running your fingers through it during sex or washing it while in the shower. It was one of your favorite things about him, the second being his age. You were always into older guys. Despite being 25, men your age still had some maturing to do, so you decided never to dabble with them altogether. Time was precious. 

You traced the edge of your coffee cup with your finger, trying to fill the silence. It stretched thin between you, like a thread about to snap. 

"She's been calling me a lot lately." you said, attempting to steer the conversation toward something lighter. "Mina, I mean. She's gotten into some trouble again." 

In-ho's gaze shifted slightly, though his expression remained impassive. "Drinking?"

"And gambling, she's been asking for money," you added with a faint, humorless chuckle.

"Apparently, she lost a month’s rent at that underground poker game she swore she'd never go back to."

His jaw tightened, just for a second quick. You almost missed it. "The one near the station, right? The one run by that man who drives the black sedan."

Your brow furrowed as you stared at him. "How did you know that?" In-ho's expression didn't waver. "You said she was into underground games," he replied, shrugging. "I've seen people like that around. They're dangerous."

The explanation was reasonable, and you opened your mouth to change the subject, but he checked his watch and stood. 

"I should get going," he said, his voice flat. 

You stood as well, the knot in your stomach tightening. "Be safe," you said softly. 

He nodded, leaning in to press a cool, detached kiss to your lips. It was brief, almost mechanical, and it left you feeling colder than before, but it was the same around this time every year. "I'll see you when I get back," he said, his hand briefly brushing your arm before he turned to leave. 

As you watched him walk out into the gray morning, your thoughts lingered on his odd familiarity with Mina's troubles. Something didn't add up, but the question lingered unspoken on your tongue, lost in the wake of his retreating figure.

The bitter dregs of your now-cold coffee lingered on your tongue as you forced down the last bites of a stale croissant, its once-flaky layers now reduced to a dense, chewy mass.

The contrast between this hurried breakfast and the elegant comfort of In-ho's apartment wasn't lost on you—each step toward the train platform felt like moving further from a dream back into your harsh reality.

The morning crowd jostled around you as you weaved between commuters, scanning for an empty seat while waiting. The number "150,000" pulsed in your mind like a neon sign, growing larger and more oppressive with each passing moment. It was a sum so vast it seemed almost abstract—like counting stars in the sky—yet the weight of its importance pressed down on your chest with very real pressure.

Finding an empty bench away from the crowd, you hugged yourself tightly, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket. The fluorescent station lights cast shallow shadows under your eyes, and you barely recognized the exhausted person staring back.

Your father's time was running out like sand in an hourglass, and here you sat, drowning in the knowledge that your family's existing debts were already a noose around your neck. Each potential solution you considered crumbled before it could fully form—loan sharks were out of the question, banks would laugh at your application, and friends... well, who among them could even spare a fraction of such an amount? Mina sure as hell couldn't.

It's then a well-groomed man sits beside you. His hair gelled back, similar to In-ho's. You felt his gaze on you, but you tried to ignore it until it became extremely uncomfortable.

Snapping your chin in his direction, you broke.

"What?"

"Hello ma'am, can I talk to you?"

You sighed as he continued.

"Listen, I want to let you in on a great opportunity." You stared down at your hands, not saying a word, when he opened a suitcase beside you.

Looking down at it, you find the game Ddakji next to three stacks of neatly piled money. You perked up a bit at that. The money wasn't enough to pay for the transplant, but it was a cushioned start.

"I'm sure you've played Ddakji before, right?" You nodded.

In-ho appreciated the game.

He held up the two squares, one red and one blue. "Play a few rounds with me. And each time you win, I'll pay you a 1,000. Each time I win you, you pay me the same amount." You bit your lip, feeling how stupid this was. In-ho would tell you to turn and walk away, and you wondered if this man was from that underground poker place Mina indulged in. But, stupid or not, you needed that money for your father.

Exhaling sharply, you agreed but warned the man.

"I don't have any money to spare." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't true either. You had a decent income, but all of your money either went to paying off your parent's medical debt or to your father's treatments when you were able to pay out of pocket.

He held that same creepy grin, "How about you use your body to pay." You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as the words hit you like a slap. What did that entail? A chill ran down your spine, the blood draining from your face as you felt your breath catch in your throat. For a moment, you felt yourself sliding toward the edge of the bench, your limbs numb with terror.

The man, noticing your reaction, quickly shook his hands. "Not like that, no. I'll take 100 off per each slap to the face."

If a slap was the price to pay for losing, then you would endure it. For your father. You clenched your fists tightly, the memory of his quiet suffering and his desperate need for help fueling the burning determination inside you. You would do anything to protect him, even if it meant bearing humiliation, pain, or worse.

Anything.

You stood from the bench with a sense of purpose, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The salesman rose with you, his smile still wide, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—something darker, more guarded—as you reached for your red ddakji. Without hesitation, you slammed it down onto the floor, the force of your movement sending it crashing against his, the paper flipping with a satisfying snap. You didn't just win; you dominated, the sound echoing in the still air.

A small wad of cash landed in your palm, the crisp bills a reminder of the stakes, the desperation that had brought you here. Your pulse quickened, the fear dissipating with each flip of the ddakji, each round stacking your winnings higher. The salesman's smile faltered, but you didn't care. You were in control now. The game was simple, but the stakes—your father's fate were anything but.

Round after round, you flipped his every time, effortlessly outplaying him, earning more money than you'd ever imagined in such a short span. The cash piled up between you like a small mountain, but you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. Each win felt like a victory but also like a countdown to something darker, something you weren't sure you were ready for.

Finally, you sat back down, your breathing steady as you finished the game. The salesman handed you a card, its front emblazoned with three distinct shapes, each one sharp and clean, almost menacing. You flipped it over, the number on the back staring up at you—simple, unremarkable, but somehow heavy.

"There are other games like this," he said, his voice dropping slightly as if the offer itself was something that shouldn't be spoken too loudly. "Where you can earn even more."

His gaze held yours for a beat too long. The words lingered, tempting and ominous in their simplicity.

"We don't have many spots left." He added, a subtle edge creeping into his voice as he picked up his briefcase, the leather creaking under his grip. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone with the card, the money, and the quiet hum of uncertainty settling in your chest.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: In-Ho

You sat at your desk, the glass of imported whiskey sloshing as you threw back the fifth pour, barely noticing as the amber liquid burned down your throat. The decanter was nearing empty, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The quiet hum of the room was the only sound, and it settled you in a way nothing else could. Leaving y/n had always been difficult, but that was part of the game, wasn't it? Every year, it was the same—her muted resistance to your sudden change in demeanor, but every year, you also found yourself relieved to return to control, to snap back into that power you craved at your fingertips, to something that mattered all the same. Here, you were just mechanical; any genuine feeling of devotion dwindled until you returned home to her.

You leaned back in your chair, the leather creaking under your weight. The time you spent with y/n—it was never enough. And the more you tried to balance it with the games, the more you realized how impossible it truly was.

It was easy to pawn off the useless responsibilities to an underling, to let someone else handle the messes or orders that were beneath you. You had never cared about choosing the players. It was a waste of time. They were all the same to you: pathetic, greedy souls who saw the world through a selfish lens of self-interest.

Getting a phone call, you grabbed the receiver.

"This is The Frontman speaking. Yes, we are ready to begin."

You set the receiver back down, the soft click of the phone's cradle cutting through the heavy silence of the room. Without a second glance, you reached for the mask resting on the edge of the desk, its cool surface like a familiar presence. Your fingers brushed against the contours, feeling its weight and its unspoken authority. With deliberate ease, you secured it in place, the cold, smooth material pressing against your skin as your identity vanished beneath its form and lifted your hood.

You stood and moved toward the door, your footsteps controlled and purposeful. The air seemed to thicken around you as you passed through the threshold, a shift in atmosphere marking the change. The elevator was waiting—silent, steel, and patient. With a practiced motion, you pressed the central control room button, the elevator's quiet hum responding to your command. The walls around you seemed to close in as you descended. You were going to the heart of it all now, where the control pulse beat steady and unyielding. And there, you would resume your place.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet, effortless motion, revealing the sterile, dimly lit expanse of the control room. Your men, standing at attention, parted like the Red Sea, clearing your path. They were all towering figures, silhouettes in the shadiness of the room, their presence unwavering and mute. As you stepped out onto the cold, polished floor, you felt the shift—the room realigning as though the game had officially begun.

You glanced at each man in turn, your eyes sharp, and you calculated behind the mask, assessing every one of them with practiced ease. They stood frozen, their posture rigid, hands at their sides, waiting for your next command. You could almost feel the anticipation in the air, stout and expectant.

"Let's start," you said, your voice cold, clipped and filtered. The words carved through the silence. Without hesitation, the men moved to their stations, their bodies sliding into their chairs with precise, mechanical ease. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation.

"Wake them up."

The room came alive, the screens flickering to life one by one. The quiet hum of machinery filled the air, a low, steady rhythm as the monitors illuminated, casting a cold glow on the walls. The lights in the player's quarters were activated, brightening the room as a spokesperson illustrated it was time to wake up.

You stalked closer to the screens, trying to get a sense of the new herd. Your gaze exhausts each face as they adjust, blinking groggily, some still lost in the fog of sleep. You monitored the strongest as they rose quicker, as the weakest fought off the remaining effects of the sedative.

Abruptly, it felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs, your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach with a force that left you momentarily paralyzed. Your gaze locked onto the screen, catching something—someone—that sent a chill racing down your spine. At first, you thought it couldn't be real, that your mind was playing cruel tricks on you. But the unease clawed at you, refusing to be dismissed.

"Focus in on player 150," you ordered sharply, your voice slicing through the tense silence in the room.

The screen obeyed, zooming in on the figure until every detail came into agonizing clarity. And then you saw her.

Your breath hitched. Her messy bedhead—the kind you used to tease her about—was unmistakable. She stretched her arms above her head, a familiar routine you'd witnessed countless mornings. Her flawless lips, her face, her eyes. Every inch of her was burned into your memory, and now, there she was.

Standing in the middle of your slaughterhouse.

The woman you've bared your soul to.

"Y/n," you whispered, your voice barely audible, strangled with disbelief and fear. Panic gnawed at your insides, twisting and tightening until it felt like your very core would shatter.

How had she ended up here?

What is she keeping from you?

Of all the people, of all the possibilities—why her?

᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥᪥

POV: Y/N

The first thing you noticed as you stirred was the faint hum of distant sounds. Your sense of hearing returned before anything else, pulling you from the haze of sleep. You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes as the world around you came into focus.

Fragments of memory surfaced, disjointed but vivid—the musty smell of the van, the creak of its rusted doors, the tattered upholstery that looked like it had seen far too many years. You had hesitated, your hand hovering over the handle, your instincts screaming at you to turn around and walk away. The vehicle was a wreck, the kind of thing you'd imagine a junkie—no offense—might live out of.

But then you thought of your father. His face, his struggle, the weight of it all. That single thought was enough to override your doubts. You had climbed into the van despite every instinct telling you to do otherwise.

Sitting up, you took in your unfamiliar surroundings, momentarily distracted by the nagging awareness of your terrible bedhead. In-ho always teased you about it, though deep down, you suspected he secretly liked it.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the cot, you paused as your fingers brushed against the fabric of what you were wearing. A pajama-like tracksuit, simple yet strange. Your gaze dropped to your chest, where a number—150—was neatly sewn over your left breast.

You frowned, your brows knitting together. "What the hell?" you whispered under your breath.

Looking around, the murmur of movement drew your attention. Other people—strangers—were stirring, dressed in identical tracksuits with different numbers stitched onto their chests. They began to gather hesitantly in the center of the vast room, their expressions mirroring your confusion and unease.

The room itself was massive, stark, and cold, resembling a warehouse stripped of purpose. Above you, suspended ominously from the ceiling, hung an enormous glass piggy bank—empty but somehow radiating a strange sense of suspicion.

Your muscles ached, a dull soreness settling into your body as you stretched your arms overhead, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness, and stood to join the pack of people. The air was heavy, thick with tension and the quiet rustle of fabric as the other players moved cautiously, their faces tight with uncertainty.

As you loosened up, your eyes flicked back to the piggy bank, unease pooling in your stomach. Whatever was happening here, it was far from ordinary—and the number stitched onto your chest felt like it was branding you into something you didn't yet understand.

“Y/n!”

The sound of your name rang out, cutting through the murmurs around you. Your head snapped up, scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces until your eyes locked onto someone you knew—a lifeline in the chaos.

"Oh my God, Y/n!"

It was Mina. Your Mina. Her face lit up with that unmistakable grin, even as the bold 067 stitched across her chest seemed wildly out of place. Relief flooded you, and without thinking, you bolted toward your best friend, your heart leaping in your chest.

"Mina!" you shouted, skidding to a stop just before throwing your arms around her neck. She caught you with a squeal, pulling you into a tight hug as you both burst into a flurry of half-laughs, half-cries.

"What the hell are you doing here, you bitch?" she blurted, pulling back just enough to hold your shoulders, her grin a mix of disbelief and sheer joy.

You laughed, shaking your head. "I could ask you the same thing!"

For a moment, the strangeness of the situation melted away. The towering walls, the eerie piggy bank above, the sea of strangers—all of it faded into the background. Because right now, in this surreal hell, you weren't alone.

Mina shrugged nonchalantly, her lips twitching into a crooked grin. "What can I say? It seems like my hobbies have gotten me into trouble again. Only this time..." She gestured vaguely to the massive, ominous piggy bank hanging above, her tone dripping with mock cheerfulness. "...the stakes are just a little higher."

Your brows furrowed, a sinking feeling settling in your chest. "Oh god, Mina. What did you do?"

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, biting her lip in that telltale way that meant she was about to drop a bombshell. "Well," she started, drawing out the word like she was recounting a funny anecdote, "I kind of... might've signed my physical rights away."

Your stomach flipped. "Excuse me?"

"Yup." She nodded, her voice light, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "If I don't cough up what I owe by next month, I can kiss a kidney goodbye." She gave you a sly grin, trying to downplay the gravity of her words. "On the bright side, I've always wanted to know what it feels like to live with just one."

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, your heart pounding in disbelief. "Mina...surely you're joking?"

She shook her head, the grin never entirely leaving her face. "Afraid not, babe. But hey, at least this mess has good storytelling potential, right?"

"Mina!" you exclaimed, punching her shoulder. She laughed, though it came out slightly strained. "What? It's not like I can do anything about it now. Besides, kidneys are overrated anyway."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Mina, could you please stop giving me reasons to worry?"

She gave you a sheepish grin, her shoulder bumping yours playfully. "I'll try, but no promises." Then, her expression shifted, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "What about you?" she asked, folding her arms. "Why are you here? And where's that delicious boyfriend of yours?"

Your cheeks warmed slightly, and before you could stop yourself, you swatted her arm, a soft snicker escaping. "He's on a business trip," you said, trying to sound casual. "Probably miles away from this place."

You turned your head toward her, but the knowing look in her eyes stopped you short. She tilted her chin, her gaze sharpening. "Uh-huh. But you didn't answer my other question."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the humor between you flickered, replaced by something heavier. Her gaze stayed steady, probing, as if she could see right through you.

A sharp, jarring buzz suddenly filled the air, slashing through the low murmurs in the room. You flinched at the sound, your heart skipping a beat as all heads turned toward the massive double doors at the far end of the room.

With a mechanical hiss, the doors slid open in perfect synchronization, revealing a line of figures that marched in with unnerving precision. They wore identical uniforms—a stark, unnatural shade of pink that contrasted sharply against the cold gray of the warehouse walls.

Their faces were entirely hidden behind black, featureless masks adorned with bold, white shapes: circles, triangles, and squares, just like the strange card you'd been handed by that man.

The sight sent a shiver racing down your spine. The guards moved with eerie coordination, their presence suffocating and cold, as if they were more machine than human. The room seemed to shrink under their gaze—or what you assumed was their gaze, though the masks gave away nothing.

"I'd like to extend my warmest welcome to you all."

"Everyone here will participate in six different games over the next six days. Those who win all six games will recieve a handsome cash prize." One of the guards stepped forward, his voice sharp and authoritative as it rang out, though it was muffled slightly by the mask. You strained to make out the words, but before you could process them, a man standing near the front of the group raised his voice, cutting through the tension.

"Why the hell should we trust you?" he shouted, his tone laced with anger and desperation. His words hit a chord, murmurs of agreement rippling through the players around you. It wasn't an unreasonable question—after all, you'd been drugged and dragged here against your will.

Your chest tightened as you remembered the van, the haze, the disorientation of waking up in this strange, sterile place. Beside you, Mina suddenly grabbed your hand, her fingers lacing tightly with yours. Her grip was firm, almost crushing, and when you glanced at her, her wide eyes told you she was just as terrified as you were.

The guard's reply came swift and clinical, delivered without an ounce of emotion. He mentioned something about a consent form, the words rolling off his tongue with practiced ease as though this wasn't the first time he'd said them. His tone made it clear there was no room for negotiation.

Your stomach churned as the players began to shuffle forward hesitantly, forming a disjointed line. Each person who stepped up was handed a pen and a sheet of paper, the details too far away to make out. The tension in the room was noticeable, every movement slow and deliberate, as if everyone knew they were crossing a threshold they could never return from.

When your turn came, you stepped forward on shaky legs, Mina's hand slipping from yours as she stayed rooted in place. You barely noticed her whispered "Y/n…" as you reached for the pen.

The words on the page blurred before your eyes. You couldn't bring yourself to read the fine print—it didn't matter. You already knew why you were here.

Your hand trembled slightly as you signed your name, the black ink cutting starkly against the crisp white paper. Whatever this was, whatever it demanded of you, your mind was made up. You'd get that money no matter what it took.

As you turned away, clutching the pen tightly, your heart felt like a drum pounding in your chest. Behind you, Mina's gaze burned into your back, her silence louder than any words she could've spoken.

As the last of the players signed their names, the guards gestured for everyone to move, their silent presence ushering the group out of the dorms and into a large, clean hall. The air was cool and clinical, the kind of atmosphere that sent a shiver up your spine despite the lack of overt threat.

One by one, each player stood in front of a sleek screen where their photo was taken. Mina, of course, couldn't resist making a ridiculous face, puffing out her cheeks and crossing her eyes as the camera clicked.

You doubled over, a genuine belly laugh escaping your lips, the sound echoing faintly in the vast hall. For a fleeting moment, it felt like old times, like the world wasn't crumbling around you.

As the line moved, you and Mina ended up side by side, trailing behind the group as you ascended a winding staircase. The metal stairs clanged beneath your feet, the sound rhythmic and oddly calming despite the tension in the air.

"So," Mina drawled, nudging your shoulder with hers, her grin mischievous. "Fill me in. How's it been going with In-ho?"

A warmth spread through you at the mention of his name, and you couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. "He's been… amazing," you admitted, your voice almost wistful.

Mina hummed knowingly, her grin widening. "I see. And the sex?" she asked, her tone teasing as her brows waggled suggestively.

You groaned, rolling your eyes. "Ugh, Mina, quit being gross. Let's focus on the game ahead."

She threw her hands up in mock surrender, snickering. "Alright, alright. I'll save it for later," she said, her tone light but her eyes scanning the room ahead, where more guards waited in eerie silence.

As the two of you continued up the staircase, her humor lingered like a comforting presence, a small anchor in the chaos. You couldn't help but feel grateful for her, even if she drove you nuts.

Turning the final corner, you stepped into a vast, open space that made you stop in your tracks. The ground beneath your feet was soft sand, its golden grains warm as they shifted with each step. Overhead, artificial sunlight bore down with an intensity that made you squint, the air thick with the illusion of a desert afternoon.

“Wow,” Mina muttered, her tone a mix of awe and unease. She kicked at the sand lightly, watching it scatter. “This is… interesting.”

You nodded, your eyes scanning the expanse of the room. It felt surreal—like stepping into another world completely removed from the cold, metallic dorms. The space stretched endlessly in all directions, its vastness unsettling.

As you wandered further in, something across the way caught your eye. Narrowing your gaze, you nudged Mina in the arm, breaking her attention away from the boy she had been half-flirting with beside her.

“What?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“What’s that?” you said, pointing toward a shape in the distance.

Her eyes followed your arm, squinting against the glaring light. When she finally spotted it, her expression twisted into a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. “It looks like…” she hesitated, leaning in slightly, “a creepy doll.”

Your stomach churned as you took in the eerie figure. Even from a distance, something about it felt wrong.

Before you could respond, a sharp, mechanical crackle echoed through the air, making you flinch. A smooth, automated female voice spoke over the intercom, its tone disturbingly cheerful.

“Welcome to the game room. For your first game, you will be playing Red Light, Green Light.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Red Light, Green Light?” you muttered, glancing at Mina with an incredulous smile. “You’ve got to be kidding. A children’s game?”

Mina shrugged, her lips quirking into a half-smile. “What? Would you rather play chess?”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “Definitely not.”

The voice on the intercom continued, reciting the rules with an unnerving precision that made the simplicity of the game feel sinister. “When the doll says, ‘Green Light,’ you may move forward. When the doll says, ‘Red Light,’ you must stop immediately. Any players caught moving during ‘Red Light’ will be eliminated.”

The word eliminated lingered in your mind, sending a cold chill down your spine.

When the announcement ended, a sudden, oppressive silence settled over the room. The guards lined the edges of the space, their presence a stark reminder that this was no ordinary game.

Mina reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “We stick together, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, lacing your fingers with hers. Despite your nervousness, her touch grounded you, giving you a flicker of reassurance.

The two of you exchanged a nod, solidifying your pact, before turning your focus toward the looming doll in the distance. The game was about to begin, and there was no turning back now.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: In-Ho

You could hardly bear to watch.

Your heart throbbed in your chest, a suffocating pressure building as your mind screamed with one agonizing question: What if she dies?

The thought hit you like a sucker punch, the weight of it crushing your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. If she died—if she dies—you’d be left with nothing. Nothing but the hollow emptiness of a life that had lost its purpose, your balance between light and dark. There would be no going back. No reason to move forward. You'd be a shell, wandering through a world that suddenly felt unbearable.

The air in your quarters felt thick as if the very walls were closing in on you. You couldn’t stand still, couldn’t think clearly. You paced back and forth, each step fraying your nerves further. Your breath came in ragged gasps, shallow and fast, desperate for relief that never came.

You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t—

The glass in your hand was warm, the drink inside it burning your throat with its bitter sting. And without thinking, you hurled it across the room, the sharp crash of glass against the wall.

For a split second, you stood frozen, staring at the mess. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Your chest tightened painfully, each breath harder to take than the last. You couldn’t control it anymore—the rage, the fear, the overwhelming helplessness. You wanted to roar and tear this facility to shreds, but it was all out of your hands now.

A player could only be removed from the game if they're eliminated.

The glass shards glittered on the floor like the pieces of your shattered resolve as you stared into it, and all you could do was stand there, trembling, fighting against the suffocating tide of emotions threatening to drown you.

"Green Light,"

Your eyes locked onto the screen, your gaze trained on her every move. You circled the couch, your steps restless, like you couldn’t stand still even if you wanted to. Every muscle in your body was tense beneath the grey jacket. Every fiber of your being was focused on her.

You could see Mina beside her, their hands tightly clasped together. It almost felt like an anchor, a momentary reassurance—but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

You silently begged Mina—pleaded with her—to hold it together. To not screw this up.

If Mina stuttered, if she moved a fraction too soon, if she hesitated for even a second—y/n would follow. And that thought made something tighten painfully in your chest.

You could feel your pulse roaring in your ears, a fierce rush of adrenaline as the seconds stretched on like hours. Your hand itched to pry her fingers away from Mina’s, to pull her closer, to shield her from the inescapable bloodbath.  

"Red Light."

You exhaled sharply, your body going rigid as you watched her, your heart skipping a beat. Her number hadn’t been called, but the terror that played across her face as she witnessed the eliminations around her carved a hollow, painful hole in your chest.

She stood there, frozen, her eyes wide with raw fear as bodies dropped one by one, their lives snuffed out in an instant.

The sound of each shot rang out like a death knell, each one making her flinch, the horror of it all consuming her.

The games were necessary, but you never wanted y/n within a mile of them, and she didn't deserve a spot. She didn't deserve this.

You couldn’t bear it as guilt flooded your head, asking yourself how you could let this happen. How you could be so oblivious. How you could be so careless.

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you rubbed your thumb over your lip, trying to steady your breath, but the panic was suffocating. She was scared, and you could see the paralyzing dread in her eyes as the remaining rounds went on.

Your torture had ended as she and Mina made it across safely, allowing your body to release tension.

Your mind raced, every thought swirling with desperation as you considered all the ways you could protect her. Every option seemed dangerous, every move a step closer to exposing yourself to her. Your fingers ran through your gelled hair, the tension in your shoulders mounting. You knew the truth—if she found out... It would destroy her.

And that was far worse than the lie you were living now.

Your gut clenched bitterly as the weight of the situation sank deeper into your chest. She’d never understand. She couldn’t. No matter how you tried to explain it, the truth would damage her. And you weren’t sure if either of you could survive the aftermath.

You sank into the loveseat, your eyes shifting to the mirror ahead of you. The reflection staring back was unrecognizable.

The image in the glass shattered every preconceived idea of who you were supposed to be in this place. The leader. The cold, calculating mastermind who pulled the strings from behind the scenes. The man who kept his emotions in check, who moved through the shadows without hesitation.

But now?

Now, you could feel the walls crumbling, the mask slipping off with each passing moment. The control you had so carefully cultivated was eroding, and it was because of her.

The realization hit you like a wrecking ball.

You were losing yourself to her—losing one of two things that had kept you alive this long. And the only reason you were willing to let it all slip was because of y/n. Because you didn’t want to watch her suffer, you didn’t want to see that terror in her eyes, knowing you're the cause.

A plan developed in your mind, sudden and dangerous. A twisted solution, but one that could save her.

You would have to enter the games.

For her.

And as the weight of that decision settled over you, you had an odd feeling that this was it. 

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

POV: Y/N

Your heart was in your throat, pounding so hard you thought it might burst.

Your legs gave out beneath you, trembling so violently that Mina had to grip your arm just to keep you upright. Her voice cracked as she shouted your name, her panic etching through the fog of your stunned silence. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. You'd never seen someone die like that— so sudden, so violent. A clean shot, some might call it merciful. But there was nothing merciful about the way bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless in an instant.

Now, back in the dorms, you leaned into Mina, your head heavy against her shoulder. Her breathing was ragged, her frame trembling beneath your touch, and for a moment, you felt like you were both about to shatter.

"So," Mina whispered, her voice raw and barely holding together. "If you lose the game….you die. The words hung in the air like a noose tightening around your neck. She tried to laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that made your stomach twist. "Quite the plot twist, huh?"

You jerked back, glaring at her through the blur of your tears. "Are you serious right now?"

"What else am I supposed to say?" She snapped, throwing up her hands. "We signed the damn contract, y/n. It's not like we didn't know there'd be consequences."

"Not like this," you muttered, your voice breaking as you clutched your knees.

Mina sighed, running a shaky hand through her hair. "What do you want me to say? Crying about it won't change anything. It won't bring those people back. It won't get us out of here."

Her words stung, sharp, and cruel, but you knew she was wrong. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from breaking apart completely. Crying wouldn't help. Begging wouldn't help. Whoever these people were, they weren't going to care about tears or fear. This wasn't just a game anymore—it was survival.

You sat silently next to Mina, absently picking at a loose thread on your shirt, your mind spinning in endless circles. The room felt suffocating.

Then you hear it—a voice you hadn't heard in what felt like forever.

"Y/n?"

The whisper of your name cut through the haze. Your head snapped up, and your heart dropped into your stomach. Standing in front of you was In-ho.

For a moment, you thought your eyes were playing cruel tricks on you. He looked exactly as you remembered—same disheveled hair, same piercing eyes. But his expression...it was off. Shock, disbelief, maybe even a glint of betrayal flickered across his face.

Your body moved before you could think. You pulled away from Mina, stumbling to your feet. Your legs felt weak, your breaths shallow, and every nerve in your body screamed that this couldn't be real.

"In-ho?" you choked out, your voice trembling.

Without a word, he closed the distance between you and wrapped his arms around you. The hug was tight, almost desperate, as though he needed to hold you as much as you needed to be held. His scent hit you like a jolt—so familiar, so grounding. It shattered the doubts swirling in your mind.

You froze, your arms hanging limply at your sides as the weight of his embrace pressed into you. Was this real? Could it be him? Tears blurred your vision as you returned the hug, clutching him like he might disappear if you let go. A broken sob tore from your throat.

But even as relief coursed through you, a shadow of doubt lingered, clawing at the edges of your mind. What was he doing here? Why now? And why did it feel like something was wrong?

Pulling back, In-ho's hands gripped your face tightly, his fingers trembling with barely contained fury. His eyes burned into yours, raw and piercing.

"What the hell are you doing here, y/n?" he demanded, his voice low and rough.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The tears you thought had subsided returned in full force, choking you. He guided you to sit, his movements sharp and forceful, like he was holding himself back from shaking you for answers.

You gulped for air, your chest heaving as you forced the words out. "My father… he's sick."

The admission felt small, fragile, and yet it hit him like a hammer. He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with disbelief and frustration. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought he might snap.

Behind you, Mina shifted uncomfortably, her presence a tense reminder of the world around you.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally said, his voice strained, the anger giving way to something else—hurt.

Before you could answer, he swiped a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the tears with surprising tenderness. The contrast was jarring, his touch soft against the intensity of his gaze.

"I didn't want you to worry," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

In-ho scoffed, pulling back as he ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "You didn't want me to worry?" he repeated bitterly. "Do you even realize—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.

But your own questions burned too hot to stay buried. You leaned forward, your voice trembling but steady enough to challenge him. "Why are you here, In-ho? Why did you lie to me?"

His head snapped up at your words, his expression hardening into something unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might not answer, that he'd leave you to drown in your doubts. The silence was deafening, the weight of everything unsaid threatening to crush you both.

"I'm here because I didn't have a choice, y/n," he said, his voice low and strained. "The company…I put everything into it. I thought I could make it work. I thought I could save it."

He swallowed hard, his eyes darting away from yours. "But the debt...it swallowed me whole."

Your stomach twisted, the air suddenly too heavy to breathe. "Debt?" you repeated, your voice shaking.

He nodded, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It got bad—worse than I ever let on. Loans, investors, deadlines. I tried everything to fix it, but nothing worked."

Your eyes filled with sorrow as you reached for his hand, your fingers trembling slightly as they intertwined with his.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of everything.

He huffed softly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "For what? I got myself into this."

You shook your head, gripping his hand a little tighter. "For everything. For keeping secrets, for the company. For getting ourselves into this mess."

In-ho's eyes softened, his resolve cracking just enough to let you see the pain behind it. He scooted, his free hand lifting to cup your cheek. His touch was warm, steadying you in a way words couldn't.

"I swear to you," he said, his voice low but filled with determination, "I'll keep you safe."

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as a tear slipped free, wetting his palm. For a moment, the chaos and fear melted away, leaving only the connection between you.

"Everything I do," he continued, his voice softer now, almost reverent, "will be for you."

Your breath caught in your throat—until Mina's voice cut through the air.

"Okay, lovebirds, hate to interrupt your heartfelt moment," she said, leaning on her elbows, "but we're still stuck in a life-or-death situation. Maybe save the romantic monologues for after we survive?"

In-ho's eyes darted up to Mina, his expression instantly shifting from tender to thoroughly exasperated.

"Mina," he said flatly, his tone carrying the weight of someone barely holding onto their patience.

She flashed a wide, overly fake smile, tilting her head like she was posing for a sitcom. "Been a long time, hasn't it?"

In-ho's jaw tightened as he let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Not long enough," he muttered under his breath.

Mina, unfazed, grinned wider. "Oh, come on, don't act like you're not happy to see me. I bring joy wherever I go."

In-ho shot her a deadpan look. "Joy, or chaos?"

"Tomato, to-mah-to," she quipped, shrugging.

You tried to stifle a laugh, which only made In-ho shoot you a betrayed look. "You're laughing? Really?"

Mina threw her arm around your shoulder, grinning smugly.

"See? I'm a gift."

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

Meal time passed in a blur as you scarfed down a hard-boiled egg and a small cup of water. It wasn't much, but enough to stave off the gnawing hunger. In-ho, without hesitation, handed you his share, sliding the egg and water toward you with a sweet look in his eyes.

"You need it more than I do," he said simply, ignoring your protests. Mina, never one to let a moment pass with commentary, let out an exaggerated scoff, teasing In-ho and making her remark.

You shot her a glare, "Mina," you said with a sharp edge in your tone.

"Relax," she retorted, smirking as she propped her chin on her hand. "I'm just saying it's cute. Like a scene from a bad rom-com."

You placed a hand on In-ho's arm, silently urging him to let it go. Mina was a professional instigator, and her relentless jabs were as much a part of her personality as her quick wit. He huffed but turned his focus back to you, muttering something under his breath about how she'd been insufferable since the moment he met her.

Later, you lay curled up under the thin blanket on your assigned bed, its scratchy fabric doing little to shield you from the cold. The tension in the room felt slightly less suffocating with In-ho nearby. He'd managed to switch beds, though "convince" wasn't exactly the right word. You'd watched in uneasy silence as he cornered another player—a scrawny man with wide, fearful eyes—and murmured something low and dangerous. Whatever he said had sent the man scurrying away without a second thought.

You weren't sure how to feel about it. Grateful, maybe. Uneasy, definitely. But with In-ho so close, his steady breathing just within reach, you felt a rare sense of safety in a place where none should exist.

The stifling silence of the dorm settled over you as you tried to relax, but sleep remained evasive. The thin mattress beneath you felt harder with every passing moment, and a nagging pressure in your bladder made it impossible to find peace.

You sighed, rubbing your sweaty palms over your face before throwing the blanket off and slipping out of bed as quietly as you could. The cold floor sent a shiver through you as you tiptoed toward the heavy steel door.

With a hesitant knock, you waited, and after a moment, the small window slid open, revealing a pair of eyes behind an ominous black mask.

"I need to use the restroom, please," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

The guard's voice was mechanical and unyielding. "No one is permitted to leave during this hour."

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting uncomfortably. "Please, it's an emergency."

The guard remained silent, and you opened your mouth to plead again when a voice from behind you called out.

"Let her out."

The command was sharp, cold, and filled with an authority that made the hairs on your neck stand on end. You froze, turning slightly to see In-ho standing a few steps away, his posture rigid and his eyes dark and unreadable.

The tone of his voice was unlike anything you'd ever heard from him before—calculated, commanding, chilling. It was the kind of voice that left no room for argument, and even the guard seemed to hesitate, the weight of the demand hanging in the air like a threat.

Your breath caught as the guard finally relented, sliding the door open with a reluctant nod towards In-ho. You glanced at him, his face shadowed by the dim light, and felt a strange mix of gratitude and unease settle in your chest.

The guard stepped aside, motioning for you to follow as the heavy steel door groaned open. You glanced back at In-ho, expecting him to stay behind, but he was already moving to fall into step beside you, his expression unreadable.

The cold air of the corridor hit you like a wall, sending a chill through your already tense frame. The guard's imposing presence loomed ahead, his boots echoing ominously against the concrete floor. You hesitated, then turned to In-ho, your voice low.

"You don't have to come with me, you know. I can take care of myself," you murmured your tone a mix of gratitude and concern.

His eyes flicked to yours briefly before scanning the dim hallway around you. The shadows seemed to shift and stretch with every step, making the atmosphere feel even heavier.

"I stay with you," he muttered, his voice quiet but firm, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

You noticed the way his shoulders remained taut, his movements calculated as if expecting danger at every corner. His eyes darted to the guard ahead, then back to you, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of something deeper in his gaze.

He stayed close, his presence a shield against the unsettling stillness of the corridor.

Reaching the bathroom, you pushed the door open, feeling the cool air inside as it contrasted against the heat building in your chest. You stepped forward, but before you could make it inside, In-ho followed, his movements swift and deliberate. With a forceful push, he slammed the door shut behind him, trapping you between him and the wood.

You gasped, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of the situation. "What are you doing?" you started, but the words died in your throat.

In-ho didn't answer. Instead, he moved closer, his breath warm against your skin as he cupped your face with his hands. Before you could protest or fully understand what was happening, his lips crashed against yours, silencing everything around you.

For a moment, everything went still—your heartbeat, the weight of your breath, the tension in the air. Then, slowly, you let yourself sink into him, your body responding to his touch with a deep, aching need you hadn't even realized was there. You kissed him back with all the desperation and longing that had been building since the moment he left that coffee shop, your hands reaching up to pull him closer, craving the connection, the heat.

His lips were soft yet urgent, and the kiss deepened, a powerful force that seemed to push away everything else—the fear, the uncertainty, the danger. All that mattered in that moment was him and the way he made you feel safe. You hear the lock click, then feel the touch of In-ho's hand on your waist. You pull back, In-ho's lips working against your neck.

You chuckled, "We can't fuck in the bathroom," You choked as he bit your neck. "Says who?" he uttered against your skin. You smiled with a gasp, "The people that run this place." He only pulls you closer, scooping you into his arms. You look down at him, legs wrapped around his back, "don't worry about them."

Laying you gently on the nearest sink, you pulled him closer as he slid his hands under your shirt, cupping your breasts while sucking at your neck. You whined at the sensation, yanking his jacket and shirt off. You needed him.

Now.

"This is wrong," you arched into his touch as he squeezed. The thought of fucking in a place of death, a place of violence, chilled your spine.  

"Tell me to stop, then." He orders.

You couldn't find the words, thoughts drowned out by need—by desire, and you felt him smirk against your skin.

Reaching for the edges of your shirt, he lifted the fabric over your head, laying it behind you on the cold granite.

You ran your fingers through his hair, tugging at the silken strands as he groaned at the ache. You smiled, tugging his head back, attaching your lips and dragging your tongue to his jaw, his neck, his chest—anything and everything you could reach.

With one quick motion, he pulled you off the sink, turning you around and pushing you face-first into the sink. His palm held your head to the cool granite, keeping you in place. Your breath hitched as he pulled your pants down, taking your underwear with. His hands squeezed and grabbed at your ass before administering a sharp slap. You cried out as he leaned into your ear.

"You want me to fuck you?" You whined, your eyes closed, taking in the moment with him. "Fuck you so the guard outside knows who you belong to you?"

He tugged at his pants, removed them completely, and aligned himself to you. He pushed into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.  

Your neck was pulled at such an angle that you could see yourself in the mirror—cheeks red, lips puffy, and mouth agape as In-ho was mercilessly fucking you. Your hips ached from the force of hitting the counter, making you shriek. He groaned, "I missed you," he leaned forward again, and you grabbed at his neck behind you, pulling him closer.

You whined, "I-I think—" he grabbed at your jaw, "cum for me," he demanded, forcing your climax to shatter through you. Biting at your shoulder, he fucked you through it, reaching his peak a moment later.

As he slowed, he kept himself right where he was, wrapping his arms around your front and offering a sweet kiss to your cheek.

"That was fun, but I really need to pee." You whispered.

Sitting up slowly, you watched as In-ho moved around the small bathroom, his movements almost automated as he dressed. The sound of fabric rustling filled the silence, but inside, you felt anything but calm. A wave of guilt, heavy and suffocating, crashed over you, the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

What had you just done?

You both had fucked like everything was fine, like you were on some sort of carefree vacation, lost in the moment. But this wasn't a vacation. This wasn't a time for pleasure or escape. People were dying here—people you didn't know, people you'd likely never see again. And yet, you had let yourself indulge in something as fleeting and intimate as this as if nothing mattered. As if you were safe.

The realization hit you with sharp clarity. You were not safe.

You stood quickly, your hands shaking as you hurriedly slipped your shirt and pants back on. The fabric felt tight and foreign against your skin, as if you were suddenly aware of the gravity of every movement, every breath.

You glanced over at In-ho, who had stopped midway through shrugging into his jacket, his eyes narrowing slightly as he caught the change in your demeanor. His gaze softened, but the concern in his eyes only made the guilt in your stomach churn harder.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

The next game arrived faster than you had anticipated, and the tension in your chest only deepened as you prepared yourself for whatever twisted challenge awaited. You instinctively attached yourself to In-ho, walking shoulder to shoulder with him, Mina's hand securely in yours. The three of you were a united front, or at least you tried to be. In-ho, however, refused to acknowledge it, his disdain for Mina simmering just beneath the surface, his gaze sharp and focused as he kept a distance between them.

Entering the game room, your breath caught at the sight before you: a massive merry-go-round, the painted horses eerily still, surrounded by a strange sense of foreboding. You couldn't help but glance around, trying to make sense of it all.

"Any ideas yet?" you asked Mina, but before she could respond, In-ho cut in with an air of certainty.

"Mingle," he said simply.

You turned toward him, a flicker of surprise in your eyes. "How are you so sure?"

Mina's brow furrowed with suspicion, matching your confused look as she eyed him closely. In-ho gave you both a quick glance before answering with a confidence that made your skin crawl.

"The rooms, the platform. It's obvious."

Without another word, he walked ahead, leaving you and Mina in his wake. Mina leaned in closer, her voice low, filled with an edge of concern.

"Don't you think he's guessing a little...too well?"

You pushed her lightly, a knot forming in your stomach as you caught onto the insinuation.

"Don't be silly. We don't even know if he's right."

But Mina wasn't letting it go. She grabbed your shoulders firmly, her eyes crinkling with worry, her voice taking on a more urgent tone.

"I'm saying this as your bestest friend, y/n," she insisted, her gaze locking onto yours, "but something feels off." Her grip tightened, and you felt the weight of her words settle in your chest.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, as she leaned closer.

"I've been watching him. I've caught this look in his eye—this calculated look—and it's just giving me this god-awful feeling. The way he threatened that older man, how quickly he figured things out... doesn't it make you wonder why he just randomly appeared after the first game?"

You could feel your heartbeat quicken, the creeping unease crawling up your spine. Mina wasn't the type to stir the pot without reason, and her concern was palpable, making your own doubts resurface. You hadn't noticed it before, but now—he was different. His reactions, his confidence—it all seemed a little too... precise. Too perfect. Not to mention the guard shrinking from his demand.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the rising fear down. "Mina... you're overthinking it."

But the doubt gnawed at you, and the unease in your gut only grew heavier.

"Maybe I am," Mina said, her voice filled with uncertainty but still holding a note of conviction.

She paused, then added, "Just listen for the announcement. If he's wrong, you can spend the rest of our lives rubbing it in."

She gave a slight, teasing snicker, her smile a little more strained now, as if trying to lighten the growing tension.

"Just don't die on me and ruin the moment," she added, the last part almost playful, but there was an underlying concern in her voice.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound coming out a little too nervous to be genuine, but you couldn't help it. "Oh, don't worry," you said, forcing a grin as you nudged her shoulder. "I'm definitely going to outlive you."

Mina's arm swung around your shoulders, pulling you in tight for a brief, tight hug. Her grip was almost protective, and you could feel her warmth seep through your clothes, an odd comfort in a place like this.

"If you do outlive me," she muttered into your ear, "just promise me you'll still remember who had your back when no one else did."

Her words were light, but you knew she meant them as the two of you stepped on the platform next to In-ho.

The familiar woman's voice echoed, but it felt distant like you were hearing it through a thick fog, muffled and hollow.

"Players, welcome to the second game."

A chill ran down your spine.

"For your next game, you will be playing Mingle.”

Your heart stopped.

No, it couldn't be. Not this. The ground beneath you seemed to tilt, and for a moment, everything went still. Your body felt weightless, detached from the reality around you. The world felt like it was spinning, but you were anchored somewhere far away, watching yourself as if from a distance.

You glanced at Mina, your hand trembling in hers as your gaze locked onto hers, the panic written all over your face mirrored in hers. The sound of the woman's voice faded into static, her words becoming unintelligible as your hearing seemed to dull, the world slipping further from your grasp.

You squeezed Mina's hand with a strength you didn't know you had, but the pressure in your chest only tightened. Her expression softened into something akin to sorrow, the pity in her eyes somehow making everything worse. It was as if she could feel what you were experiencing—the crushing weight of the game's announcement.

Too afraid to look at In-ho, you kept your eyes fixed on Mina, clinging to her as if she could pull you back from the edge as if she could stop everything from falling apart. But the feeling—the sense of drowning in your own mind—was overwhelming, suffocating. The fear clawed at you, and you couldn't stop it, couldn't stop the sense of losing yourself in the chaos of it all.

It was like the world was rushing forward, and you were stuck, frozen in place, unable to breathe.

It was as if everything fell into place in that moment, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together with a sickening clarity. The rush of realization hit you all at once, and it was like a weight was crushing your chest.

You thought back to the things he'd said, the things he'd done—each one a thread leading you to this horrifying truth. The way he'd spoken to you at the coffee shop, so calm and calculated, the same cold detachment in his voice now. That look in his eyes—it wasn't just about the game, wasn't just about survival. It was something darker.

He knew exactly where Mina was losing her money. He knew, and he didn't care. And that violent threat he made to that man—it wasn't a slip of anger, wasn't a moment of desperation. It was deliberate. Purposeful. The guard, too, obeying him without question—it wasn't just chance.

"Don't worry about them," he had said in the bathroom. And now, the words echoed in your mind, twisted with new meaning, the lie hanging heavy between you.

You turned to him slowly in that instant, your heart hammering in your chest. The betrayal was like a sharp knife, cutting deeper with every passing second. His cold countenance met your gaze, and in that moment, it all became painfully clear. His indifference to everything, to everyone around him—it wasn't survival for him.

It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't a fluke. It was him.

You looked down and off in the distance.

The games — It was him.

Mina's grip tightened around your hand, pulling you forward off the platform in a blur. You hadn't even realized the game had started—your mind was still reeling, the weight of the revelation suffocating your thoughts. The number 2 echoed in the air, and the pressure of the game became all too real.

Before you could even process what was happening, a sudden force yanked you back, your arm jerking as a strong hand latched onto you. You were pulled against a hard, familiar chest, and you barely had time to breathe before you recognized the feeling—the cold, unyielding presence of In-ho.

A jolt of panic shot through you, but Mina wasn't letting you go that easily. She struggled to break free, her hand reaching for yours, fighting with everything she had to drag you away from him. But it was no use, as a passerby knocked her down with a strong force.

In-ho was swift, dragging you toward the nearest room without hesitation, his grip firm on your arm. The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall, but before you could even register the danger, a man appeared from the shadows, lunging forward and knocking you to the ground.

Twenty seconds

The urgency of the countdown pulsed in the air. In-ho reacted in an instant, grabbing the man by the shoulders and slamming him back.

"Get in! Go!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

You didn't need to be told twice. Fear surged through your body, and you bolted for the room, throwing yourself inside. But as the door slammed behind you, your heart sank—there was already someone in the room. The man's partner, standing tall, blocking the way.

In-ho was hot on your heels, entering just a moment later. His eyes immediately locked onto the intruder.

"Out," he commanded coldly, his voice carrying authority. But the man stood his ground, refusing to move.

Ten Seconds

In-ho didn't hesitate. He circled around the man with lightning speed, his movements precise. Before the man could react, In-ho had him in a chokehold, his grip unyielding.

The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as your pulse raced in your throat. Terrified, you backed against the wall, eyes wide with panic. You could feel the countdown in your chest, each second more suffocating than the last.

5...4...3...2...1

A sharp, sickening crack split the silence, and the man's body went limp in In-ho's arms, his life snuffed out in an instant. The room seemed to freeze, and for a moment, all you could hear was the ringing in your ears.

You slid down the wall in a daze, your breath shallow as you pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle the shock and nausea threatening to overwhelm you. You couldn’t look away from the lifeless form, the reality of what had just happened sinking in, making your head spin.

Mina.

You jumped to your feet, looking out the small window of the room.

You couldn't find her.

That was a good thing, right?

Remaining in the room, that same woman's voice spoke over the loudspeaker.

"The following players have been eliminated."

"Player 022, 120, 207..."

You tried to block out the sound of the numbers, each one echoing in your mind like a drumbeat, relentless and deafening. But then, the one number you’d been desperately praying would never come—the one you feared more than any other—was announced.

"Player 067, eliminated."

The words felt like a physical blow, crashing into you with an intensity that took your breath away. A cold, sinking feeling spread through your chest as reality shattered. The world blurred around you, the weight of the announcement pressing down on your entire being, suffocating you.

You screamed, the sound raw and desperate, a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul. You screamed until your throat burned, until the pain in your chest was too much to bear, until everything in your vision distorted in the haze of shock and grief.

And then, cold hands gripped your shoulders—too cold, too steady. In-ho pulled you, almost as if he were dragging you into the abyss with them. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think. All that remained was the sound of your own voice breaking, the empty, hollow realization that you’d lost someone you couldn’t afford to lose in this hellish place.

His hands guided you down to the floor, but your legs refused to hold you. You crumpled, your body trembling violently as the weight of the loss crushed you.

There was nothing but the scream in your throat and the terrible, empty silence that followed the words you could never unhear.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

You didn’t remember slipping into unconsciousness, but in that moment, it felt like a mercy—an escape from the crushing weight of reality.

When you awoke, everything felt distant, foreign, like you had been transported to a place where nothing mattered anymore. The world around you was different, but you barely registered it, your mind too numb to care.

In-ho stood in front of you, his presence all too much. His eyes bore into yours, but yours were hollow, glassy, stripped of the light they once had.

"Drink this," he murmured, extending an undersized glass of liquor. His voice was steady, yet cold, as if rehearsed. You took the glass with trembling hands but not to drink. With a sharp motion, you hurled it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, fragments raining down like jagged tears.

"You're despicable," you spat, the words seething with venom. His face barely flinched, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something-pain? Regret? It didn't matter.

"You were never meant to be involved, y/n. If you would have just come to me about your troubles this wouldn't have happened."

You scoffed, your lip curling in contempt. "Oh, and everything would have been perfect, wouldn't it? You jetting off on your little 'business trips,' murdering people, while I stayed home like some clueless fool, keeping your bed warm and smiling like an idiot. Is that how you imagined it?" 

Your voice wavered, thick with bitterness, as tears burned your cheeks.

"How....how could you do it?" He circled you, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering prey. He sank into the loveseat behind you with an air of calculated calm, gesturing for you to sit. His hand barely moved, a silent command. You didn't budge.

He sighed, "I'm doing this for us, for you. Don't you see? The people chosen for the game are parasites—leeches consumed by greed and selfishness. They deserve to be eliminated from existence. Whether they're crushed in the process or crawl away with their filthy riches, it doesn't matter. Either way, they're removed from our world."

Your breath caught in your throat, the words slicing through you like a jagged blade. For a moment, you couldn't speak, couldn't even think. His voice, so calm, so calculating, made your skin crawl.

"For us?" you finally choked out, your voice trembling, caught between disbelief and anguish.

 "How can you even say that?"

He didn't flinch, didn't waver, his eyes cold and distant. But you? You were unraveling. Your chest heaved as if trying to contain the storm brewing inside you.

"People. Parasites. Is that what you think they are? Is that what you thought Mina was? Is that why you had her killed?

"Is that what you think I am?" The words came out sharp, but your voice cracked under the weight of your emotions.

That seemed to get to him. He rose from his seat with slow movements, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You?" he said, his voice softer now but no less chilling.

"You're not like them."

He began walking toward you, his steps measured, almost cautious, like he was approaching a cornered animal.

"You're not here for your own gain, not for greed or selfish desires. You're here for your father, fighting to save him. That’s why I-I” He started, but you scoffed cutting him off.

But as he drew closer, you instinctively stepped back, your feet moving before your mind could catch up. A cold rush of fear swept over you. You'd never been afraid of him before, but now? Now, you couldn't trust what he was capable of.

"In-ho... don't," you whispered, your voice shaking.

He froze mid-step, his hand half-raised toward you, his brows knitting together. "Don't do that," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Don't back away from me. Please, don't... don't be afraid of me."

Your heart clenched, but his words didn't bring comfort. They only deepened the chasm between you.

How could this be the same man who once made you laugh until your sides hurt? Who wiped your tears with such tenderness that you thought your heart might burst from the love you felt for him? Memories surged through you—the quiet mornings, the stolen smiles, the promises whispered in the dark. You thought of every moment you had shared, the man you believed in, the man you loved with everything you had.

And now, here he was—a stranger standing before you, cloaked in the shadow of someone you used to know.

"How can I not be afraid?" You whispered, your voice barely audible. You felt the knife twist in your back. Your eyes dropped to the crimson spreading across your clothes, the sheer volume of people's blood making your stomach churn. You trembled uncontrollably, paralyzed by shock and disbelief. Through your haze of agony, you caught In-ho's gaze. His expression was a storm of guilt and regret, but it only deepened your devastation as you crumbled before him.

Finally, your voice cracked again. "I…I need space."

His expression faltered, pain flashing across his face. "Space?"

You nodded, wiping your tear-streaked face with trembling hands. "I can't… I need to think. Please."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly, though his posture screamed reluctance. "You can take the spare bedroom," he said softly. "Down the hall, second door on the left."

Without another word, you turned and walked away, your legs heavy and unsteady beneath you. When you reached the room, you stepped inside and slammed the door shut, locking it before leaning back against it. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your mind racing.

After a moment, you crossed the room, grabbing fresh towels from the small cabinet. You needed to wash it all away—the day, the deaths, the violence. Everything.

The bathroom was dimly lit, the only sound the steady rush of warm water from the shower. You stepped inside, sinking down onto the cold tile floor as the water poured over you, mixing with your tears.

Your mind raced, flashing back to the chaos of the day—the screams, the blood, the merciless decisions. And at the center of it all, the one pulling the strings was him. In-ho.

But then, as much as you wanted to hate him, memories of the past three years flooded your mind. His laughter that lit up even your darkest days. The way he'd hold you, whispering that everything would be okay. The small, thoughtful gestures that made you feel so loved. The way he'd make love.

You buried your face in your hands, the water soaking through your hair and down your bare skin. You still loved him. Even after everything, your heart ached for him.

But how could you reconcile the man who once made your world brighter with the man you'd seen today? The man who was capable of orchestrating so much death and pain?

Your shoulders shook as sobs wracked your body. You didn't know what to do. You didn't know if you could forgive him or if you could ever look at him the same way again.

And yet, even in the depths of your confusion and heartbreak, one thing was painfully clear—you still loved him, but you're not even sure he existed anymore.

𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔𖣔

It had been two weeks, two long weeks of isolation. You barely left your room, only emerging when absolutely necessary —for food or the fleeting desire for a change in scenery. In-ho had tried, time and time again, to draw you out of your silence, but every time he spoke, every time his eyes met yours, you couldn't even bring yourself to acknowledge him. The pain was still too raw.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, brushing your damp hair, you let the motions soothe you for a moment. The simple act of taking care of yourself felt almost comforting. But then a knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You approached cautiously, heart beating faster as you turned the knob, only to find In-ho standing there. He said nothing at first, just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

"I want to show you something," he said, his voice low.

You hesitated, shaking your head, instinctively wanting to retreat back into the safety of your room. But his next words made you pause, the sincerity in his eyes pulling at something deep inside of you.

"Please."

It was a simple plea, but it held something genuine—something that made you want to trust him, just for a moment. You sighed, giving in, and followed him down the hall to his office.

The space was quiet and orderly as always. In-ho circled around his desk and sat down, and you stood, hugging your arms tightly to yourself, feeling the chill of the room. He beckoned you over, and you approached, curiosity and apprehension warring in your chest.

He opened a file on his computer, and as the video began to play, your eyes scanned the screen. You recognized the area instantly—it was right outside the city hospital, a place so familiar to you.

And then, you saw him. Your father, sitting in a wheelchair. Beside him, your mother. And the woman next to them…

Mina.

Your heart leaped in your chest, the tears welling up in your eyes as the weight of the moment crashed down on you.

You blinked, trying to steady yourself as you turned to In-ho, your voice shaky. "How..."

He looked back at you, his tone softer than you expected. "Mina was removed from the games. Her death was faked. And yours." He turned the screen toward you, showing more of the footage. "As for your father, I made sure the necessary funds were sent and lined him up with a donor."

A sense of relief flooded through you like a tidal wave. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but one thing was clear—everything was going to be okay.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you could breathe again. The people you cared about were safe. Your father was getting the help he needed, and Mina—Mina was alive.

Tears streamed down your face, but they were no longer tears of grief. They were tears of release, of a weight finally lifted.

In-ho's gaze met yours, his eyes unwavering as he reached out to take your hands gently in his. His touch was warm, grounding, as if he was trying to reassure you, to remind you that you were no longer alone in this.

"I swore to you," he said, his voice low and steady, "that everything I did, every decision, every action—it would be for you."

You slid into his lap, your knees trembling as you took his face in your hands, wiping away the stray tear that escaped down his cheek. His skin felt warm against your palms, a comfort you had clung to so many times before, but now it only reminded you of how much had changed—how far apart the two of you had drifted.

"All these years," you began, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes, "all I've known is what you've allowed me to know. Half of who you are. And I loved that half—I loved it with everything in me." Your voice faltered, but you forced yourself to continue, your fingers trembling as they traced the curve of his jaw. "But this," you said, gesturing to the cold, sterile facility surrounding you, "this is something I can't forgive. These people… they're not parasites or leeches. They're human beings, In-ho. Human beings who were dealt a bad hand. And you've turned their suffering into a game."

His brows furrowed, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, but he said nothing. You could see it—the war raging in his mind, the guilt and conflict he was too proud to admit. You leaned in closer, your forehead almost touching his as you whispered, your voice trembling, "I'm going to give you a choice."

His hands slid up your waist instinctively, as if trying to anchor himself to you, trying to hold on to the one thing he couldn't bear to lose. You felt his grip tighten, desperate, but you pressed on, your words cutting through the silence.

"Come home with me," you said, your voice cracking with emotion. "Leave this all behind and we can reset. Walk away from this nightmare, because if you don't…" Your breath caught as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. "If you don't, In-ho, you will never see me again."

His eyes widened, a flicker of pain flashing across his face as he processed your words. You saw the gears turning in his mind, the walls he had built around himself crumbling under the weight of your ultimatum. His grip on you faltered, his hands trembling as he clung to you like a lifeline.

"In-ho," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "please. I can't save you from this. You have to save yourself."

For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing, his silence filling the room like a deafening roar. And as you stared into his eyes, searching for the man you had loved for so long, you realized this moment would either be the beginning of something new—or the end of everything.

-> PART TWO <-

[mint-yooxgi]

I See Red - Yandere!Vampire!Mafia!Seonghwa X Tall!Chubby!Reader

Yandere AU, Vampire AU, Mafia AU - Heavily inspired by Ateez's Last Supper performance

Genre: Mature, Smut, Fluff, Slight Angst

Pairing: Seonghwa X Tall!Chubby!Reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Words: 12,044

Summary: When will people learn? You should never touch what's his.

General Warnings: Violence and Murder, Blood (lots of it), Mentions of torture (brief), Fat shaming (not done by hwa), Derogatory comments towards the reader, Kidnapping, Guns, Possessiveness. Hwa calls someone a hag once. (not the reader). Seonghwa is very much the epitome of the simpy 'that's my wife' trope. Reader's just as crazy as him. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

Smut Warnings: Pet names (King/Queen, My Love, My Star, Beloved, Darling, Pretty Girl), Shower sex, Wall sex, Strength kink (he's a vampire, don't @ me), Oral (fem. rec), Light fingering (fem. rec), Desperate and possessive sex, Consensual and mutual possession kink (don't take this lightly), Biting/Marking, Slight Breeding Kink (if you squint), Blood, Multiple Orgasms, Body Worship, Praise, Squirting, Overstimulation. I think that's everything!

A/n: I am so, so, so, so, so, happy with how this turned out! Hwa in the Last Supper performance has me in a chokehold and I'm okay with it. Big bad vampire mafia boss who only has a soft spot for you? Sign me tf up! Huge shout out to @pars-ley for the incredible gif that is accompanying this fic! Thank you so much again for the amazing banner! Also, shout out to @kwanisms for helping me decide on the title hehehe. Also, spot the Silent Hill reference 👀 As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! I hope you enjoy!

Park Seonghwa.

A name hot on the lips of everyone in the underground. Notorious kingpin and ruthless negotiator of his own crime syndicate, Wonderland. His name holds more power, and elicits more reactions than a nuclear bomb. It is not a name you want to hear is chasing after you.

There is nothing he wouldn’t do to get what he wants. If anyone dares to stand in his way, their existence is wiped completely off of the map. Empires have risen and fallen in mere days thanks to his handy work, that staying on good terms with him often depends on his mood.

Cold. Emotionless. Calculating. Brutal in the most volatile of ways. Park Seonghwa is not a man to be reckoned with, nor is he to be taken lightly.

A man with many quirks, who has but one fatal flaw.

You.

Being the wife of such a notorious crime boss is not easy. The constant threat of being targeted by hunters, assassins, kidnappers, or even rival syndicates in attempts to gain an upper edge over your husband gets quite tiring. Not many have ever succeeded in hurting you, let alone killing you. No one ever will.

Not unless they wish to live another day.

Seonghwa has spared no expense in regards to your protection, selecting only the best of the best of his most trusted men to protect you. However, there is the issue in and of itself. They’re men. Humans. They can only offer you so much. He used to have an elite team of vampires guarding you, but they were bought over by a rival gang.

Shame. They were his second strongest team.

Humans, fickle as they are, can be compelled. Once a human is compelled, no other vampire can break that compulsion. Your guards are instructed to offer their lives before accepting a rival syndicates’ offer. 

Each man was hand picked by Seonghwa himself, training them with his own personal guard to defend against any other supernatural being that they might come into contact with. Guns are loaded with indestructible bullets, inscribed with his family’s signature crest. Bullets which can penetrate any raw material, and kill whatever creature they come into contact with.

Every now and then, Seonghwa will add one of his own personal guard to yours. A precaution to make sure the compelled men are doing their job, and that the compulsion hasn’t worn off. Those who cannot abide by the rules are dealt with. Should anyone so much as lay a finger on you, the kingpin himself has no issue chopping off each extremity one knuckle at a time.

Going after you is a fool’s errand. Only the bravest - or rather, stupidest - have ever tried. If even so much as a whisper of an attempt on your life, or your relationship with him, reaches his ears, he is quick to stop it dead in its tracks. Literally.

No one comes in between the two of you. Absolutely no one.

You are the apple of his eye. The only one he can truly be vulnerable with, and let his guard down. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for you. Anything you could ever want or desire, he will provide, no questions asked. Seonghwa worships the very ground you walk on. He worships you.

You are his, and he is yours. Nothing will ever change that fact.

Over the course of many years, the two of you have had many ups and downs. Learning about his true nature had been a bit of a rough patch, especially once you discovered what he is. However, one thing that has always remained strong is your trust in one another. Seonghwa would never hurt you. He would rather carve out his own heart than do anything that would warrant you being afraid of him. A fact which you knew was unquestionably true, especially once you saw just how much of a monster he could be.

A monster whom you love with all your heart, and who has entrusted you with his own.

Perhaps that’s why his organization has lasted so long. Instead of excluding you from his affairs, he revels in the fact that you are always more than ready and willing to help. Your ideas have saved him and his men more times than anyone outside of the organization will ever know. Because of this, you’ve butted heads with his inner circle more times than he can count, but it’s always with good reason.

Nothing makes him prouder than watching you put someone in their place, even if he’s one of those people sometimes.

Your importance spans far more than a simple marriage bond. Since you are one of the only known consistent women in his life, that’s all outsiders seem to focus on. Every nasty name, every type of derogatory comment, has been thrown your way by estranged men and women. Most attempt to push the two of you apart, hoping to drive a wedge between the two of you so they can topple his empire. They seem to mock you for being the ‘outsider’ in the group, not fitting in to the typical ‘escort’ ideal.

What they all seem to get wrong is that you are not a typical ‘escort’. You’re no ‘mistress’, either.

Well… other than the times you’ve brought Seonghwa to his knees, of course.

The other women you’ve occasionally bonded with inside of his syndicate either work undercover to gather intel for his men, or are one of their respective significant others. None of them dare to cross you, all of them treating you with the highest of respect. They all know what would happen should one decide to step out of line. The last, and only women to try was a fine example.

Unlike most of the shallow men that appear in this line of work, Seonghwa is very fond of your curves, and your height. In his eyes, you are the most beautiful, precious, perfect being to have ever walked the earth. Always, he is more than happy to remind you of that fact.

Most of the time, Seonghwa can barely keep his hands to himself. Whenever you’re around, he’s always got a hand placed so delicately against your lower back, or an arm around your waist or shoulders. If he’s feeling particularly frisky, he may pull you into his lap while discussing business plans, or casually cup your ass by sliding his hand into the back pocket of your jeans. That, or he’s making a point that you’re with him.

Seonghwa is a possessive man, and he wants the whole world to know that you’re his. Similarly, there is no being more prideful than him over the fact that he is yours. You belong to each other, and nothing will change that. Everyone should weep in envy at the fact that only he gets to touch you, and only you get to touch him.

The man can’t help it. Showing you off is one of his favourite pastimes. The whole world needs to know what they can never have. It’s become so prominent, you’ve had to start imposing a rule during the extremely important meetings to keep the touching to a minimum.

Of course, he usually toes the line between accidental caresses and handsy, but it’s not like you really mind. Despite his ruthless demeanour, Seonghwa would never truly force you into anything you didn’t want. Your comfort and safety is his top priority, and he would much rather you feel safe in his arms, than believe he could ever do anything to hurt you.

Everyone else, on the other hand…

Park Seonghwa is a man of few faces, but only you get the honour of knowing what he looks like when he’s in love.

“Where is she?” A sigh is breathed out through his nose as he sits at the grand dining table. You were supposed to join him fifteen minutes ago, but you’ve yet to arrive home. “It’s not like her to be late.”

Seonghwa begins to tap the tips of his fingers against the top of the grand mahogany table. The food is going to get colder with every minute you delay your arrival, and he never wants to serve you mediocre food. Besides, he’s supposed to be having a guest for dinner.

Dark eyes flit around the room, noting the silent guards stationed at the side of the room. Their faces are stoic, giving nothing away that would suggest they’re keeping things from him. 

Not that they could hide anything, even if they tried.

Seonghwa would have gotten his own personal guards to attend this meal, but the guest’s conditions upon meeting wouldn’t allow such a thing. Still, the man sitting behind the table is smart. Despite his reputation, many still underestimate how far he will go to maintain the upper hand. No one knows this house like him and his inner circle. Besides you, of course.

Stationed in strategic parts surrounding the dining room, his personal guards wait. Some are on patrol, but the ones that never miss are on immediate standby.

Letting out a sigh, Seonghwa thinks back on the last time he saw you. It had been this morning, he recalls, your conversation echoing through his head. The vampire had been admiring you openly from the comfort of your shared bed, nothing but silk sheets draped over his hips. His head rested against his open palm, elbow supporting himself as he fought off the desire pooling throughout his entire body. 

You were positively glowing beneath the light of the rising sun, his marks practically shining upon your skin. Even after an intense night of lovemaking, Seonghwa was still insatiable. How could he not be? You are everything he’s ever wanted in life; one look and he’s ready to fall apart. It didn’t help that the image of you from last night, fucked out and desperate, with tears of overstimulation in your eyes, kept flitting through his mind.

He nearly missed the fact that you told him all about your plans for today. 

You were going to visit a friend for lunch.

It’s been hours since then, and he hasn’t heard from you once.

“Sir,” A voice from off to his right draws his attention, and the subordinate recoils in fear at the sharp look sent his way. “The guests have arrived.”

Letting out an irritated sigh through his nose, Seonghwa leans back in his seat. A quick glance is spare to the empty high backed chair beside him which matches his own in every way. Two thrones. One for the King, and one for his Queen. Neither are supposed to be empty while the other sits in theirs.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to not having you beside him.

Seonghwa purses his lips, giving the servant a curt nod in response. Looks like he’ll have to start without you.

The large double doors to the dining room are pushed open, a lone figure walking inside. Short, dark blond hair is slicked back, grease practically dripping off of the strands. An air of arrogance surrounds the tall man, every step echoing off of the marble walls. His head is held high, an expression of the utmost confidence painted across his features as his green eyes dance in amusement.

“Seonghwa! My man!” Arms are spread wide in greeting as the man comes to stand directly before the large dining table. His eyes scan the empty seat beside the kingpin, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. “I didn’t think you were one to dine alone.”

The doors fall shut with a definitive slam, the room suddenly appearing much darker beneath the dim lights.

“James.” Seonghwa blinks, a look of disinterest on his features. Reaching out, he takes his wine glass into his hand, swirling the contents lightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Did you forget about out meeting?” The man quirks a brow. “It seems your wife has.”

The wine glass stills in Seonghwa’s hand. The sharpest of glares that would make anyone crumble beneath its gaze is sent James’ way, a few of the guards stationed at the sides of the room straightening from the intensity.

“Watch your mouth.” A warning that is not to be taken lightly. “Unlike you, I don’t need to control every aspect of a woman’s life.”

Seonghwa schools his features back into a look of disinterest, sipping back the rest of his wine. He rests his now empty glass near the edge of the table, fingers delicately holding onto the stem. Two taps, and the server begins to move to refill his master’s glass.

“Such brave words coming from a man who should really be keeping tabs on that which he supposedly cares for most.”

A scowl paints itself onto Seonghwa’s features, grip tightening over his wine glass. The server sure seems to be taking his sweet ass time, and the man at the table is beginning to get impatient.

“Tell me, Park,” James hums, clasping his hands behind his back with an air of relaxed ease. “Do you know where your wife is tonight?”

Seonghwa’s lips purse into a thin line, a vein in his temple throbbing as he clenches his jaw.

“Wherever my wife may or may not be is none of your concern, James.”

The server finally steps up beside Seonghwa with a fresh bottle at the ready. Wordlessly, the kingpin raises his glass into the air, fingers delicately holding onto the base of the bowl. Wine immediately begins filling the crystal, turning what once was pure into a dark red.

“No, perhaps it’s not.” James simpers. The man begins to pace lightly in front of the notorious mobster, his nose lifted pointedly in the air. “But perhaps, it should be yours.”

The doors to the dining room begin to open, a scuffle apparent in the hallway beyond. A few shouts can be heard, loud curses followed by the prominent clicking of heels.

Unrivalled fury paints itself across Seonghwa’s features as he watches your figure, beaten and bloody, being shoved into the room at gunpoint. Your clothes are torn and dirty, clear lines cutting through the smeared blood on your face to make way for your tears.

The glass in his hand shatters into pieces.

Rivulets of red trickle down his skin, his chest rising and falling dramatically. There’s a sudden chill that fills the room, and James’ own wife who is pointing the gun at your head visibly shivers.

Maria may be a powerful witch, but even she knows not to provoke monsters.

“Some security detail you had.” James guffaws, shoulders shaking in laughter. “Military men? Humans at that? You were practically begging for someone to take out the trash.”

Slowly, James begins stalking towards you.

Maria takes a cautious step back as he approaches, uncertainty in her eyes. The gun in her hand feels heavy, and she has to bring the other up to help support it in order to stop herself from shaking.

“You know… I never understood what you saw in her.” He continues, tracing his hand over your shoulders as he circles around your back. “Weak. Pathetic. Ugly.”

James pauses right beside you, grabbing you harshly by the back of the neck. The way his nails dig unforgivingly into you causes a fresh trail of blood to begin dripping down your skin.

Wood begins splintering beneath Seonghwa’s grip as he digs his hands into the arms of his chair. Lips are curled over sharp fangs, but still, the kingpin does not move.

Not yet.

The timing isn’t quite right.

“You and I both know ‘wife’ is just a codename for ‘living blood bag.’” Stepping in behind you, James purposely rests his chin on your shoulder. He forces your head to the side as he inhales your neck, making you shudder in disgust. “I don’t blame you for harvesting one so plump. Fat makes for good insulation. They don’t break as easily, and their blood is still pretty decent if you leave them to marinate for a few days. Besides, a couple days without food could do this one some good.”

The way such a vile creature has the audacity to reach up at pat your plush cheek makes Seonghwa snap. Though, at this point, he is passed the point of dramatic, extreme violence. Right now, he is so furious, a searing sense of calm begins flooding his entire body.

A list is already being compiled within his mind of all the ways Seonghwa is going to torture this vampire for even daring to look at you. Items, even more deadly than the last, are added with each offence such filth bestows upon you. Right now, that list is up to twenty-four. And counting.

“About that territory I wanted… I figured we could celebrate a done deal by draining the fat bitch dry.” James drags a single finger along a fresh trail of blood that drips over your skin.

Your eyes squeeze shut, body trembling in disgust. The feeling of this wretched man’s hands on you makes your skin crawl. All you want is to rip his dick off and shove it so far up his ass his witch of a wife can taste it when she kisses him. Only, the gun pointed firmly at your head by said woman, along with the dangerous vampire quite literally at your throat prevents you from doing just that.

James’ each movement is slow. Precise. He makes sure to drag out this moment, bringing his finger up to his mouth to suck your blood from his skin. His eyes flash with glee as he meets the furious gaze of the kingpin before him, the corner of his lips quirking upwards.

“Mmmh… Not bad…” A smug expression rests over James’ face, seemingly humming to himself. Focussing on the male before him once more, he smirks. “So, what do you say, Park? Do we have a deal?”

Seonghwa takes a deep breath in through his nose, the sharp exhale being heard all the way across the room. A sound which causes each and every one of his subordinates to freeze. A white cloth quickly gets handed to him by the server, the younger man trembling in fear. No one wants to become unfortunate collateral simply by being present during one of the King’s fits of unbridled rage.

In one fluid movement, Seonghwa shakes out the cloth, beginning to dab at the dark red staining his white sleeve. Though he’s managed to control his expression, a hard look settles onto his features. There is no denying the pure, white hot fury blazing within his dark eyes.

“You come into our home,” Seonghwa’s voice is low, dangerous and steady. Slowly, he wipes off the splatter of red that covers the shoulder of his black waist coat. “Disrespect me. Disrespect, insult, and brutalize my wife. Repeatedly mock the way we conduct proper business, and then have the audacity to insist on using underhand methods to get what you want? From me? Me?”

Seonghwa clicks his tongue, halting all movement of his hand. Fingers dig unforgivingly into the cloth as he slowly begins shaking in rage, throwing the now stained fabric harshly on top of the table. The high backed chair he had been sitting in scrapes loudly against the marble as he suddenly stands to his feet.

For the first time in his life, Seonghwa allows his throne to fall to the floor.

“It doesn’t work like that, James.” Seonghwa sneers, his eyes flashings violently as black veins begin to trickle out over the skin of his cheeks. Cracks appear throughout the wood as he leans forward to slam his hands on the top of the table, every soul present jumping at the loud bangthat echoes throughout the room. “You have three seconds to rectify this misdeed before I make minced meat out of both you and that hag who has the unfortunate displeasure of calling you her mate.”

James’ wife glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. Fear is clear on her features, her hand holding the gun to your head faltering as she begins to shake.

Not even Maria’s magic can help them now.

“One.”

“James…” Uncertainty lingers in her tone, eyes darting between the two vampires in the room.

“Don’t listen to him, Doll,” James throws her a brief look before turning to sneer at the man bracing himself against the top of the table. “He’s bluffing.”

“I can assure you that those who thought the very same are more than six feet under by now.” Seonghwa rebuttals. “Two.”

“Maybe we should rethink-“

“Too late.” A malicious grin pulls at Seonghwa’s lips, his eyes crazed. “Three.”

A bullet whizzes through the room, striking James’ wife right between the eyes.

“Maria!” James can only watch in despair as her lifeless body falls to the floor with a loud thud. He rounds on the kingpin whom looks exceptionally pleased with himself, a large smile full of nothing but pure insanity stretched across his cursed lips. “You bastard! You’ll pay for this!”

James manages to pull out his own gun. The barrel barely touches your head before it’s shot right out of his hand. You manage to jump away, another bullet sinking into the man’s upper thigh and pushing him further from your form. The man immediately recoils in pain, grabbing his bleeding hand as his legs shake, barely able to support himself on his own two feet for much longer.

Slowly, Seonghwa walks out from behind the table. Each step is meticulous, echoing off of the cold marble as another bullet sinks into James’ left knee. The pathetic excuse of a vampire immediately goes tumbling to the ground, crying out in agony as his body contorts in response to his new wounds.

Blood spills over the once clean floor as James looks up at the man he attempted to blackmail.

“Oh, James… James, James, James.” Seonghwa tuts, shaking his head in disappointment as he crouches beside the male withering in agony. A harsh grip in his hair forces James to meet the mobsters unforgiving glare. “You should have known better than to try and pull something on me.”

Seonghwa throws James unceremoniously onto the floor before standing back to his full height. Nothing but the utmost disgust rests on his features, glaring down at the trembling vampire in pure malice. Fangs are bared in a silent, mocking snarling, Seonghwa using the tip of his loafer against James’ forehead to harshly push him backwards.

Wiping his hands on his front, the Wonderland leader is quick to straighten out his waistcoat.

“I’m going to enjoy destroying you.” Seonghwa’s voice is nothing but a calm timbre as he looks down upon his prey. That familiar malicious grin tugs at Seonghwa’s features, and James finally understands what it means to make a deal with the devil. “Count yourself lucky that I have much more important matters to attend to right now.”

Without sparing another glance at the vampire slowly bleeding out in his dining room, Seonghwa turns his back towards the dying man. The click of his shoes echo throughout the dining room, each step seeming to mock his enemy. 

Both Yunho and Jongho have appeared by now, each male standing on either side of you. Their eyes are hard, glaring at the man on the floor for even daring to touch Seonghwa’s Queen.

James can only watch on as Seonghwa wraps his arm securely around your waist, leading you through a separate set of doors. Yunho and Jongho, the most notorious for their brutal interrogation and torture tactics, begin stalking towards their newest prey.

The last thing you see of the vampire that kidnapped you is a look of terrified realization painting his features as the two others close in on him.

Once the door to the hallway you now find yourself in is shut, you let out a small breath of relief. Seonghwa’s touch is nothing short of comforting as he keeps his hand placed on the small of your back, guiding you gently towards your private quarters. You can feel the way his fingers tremble against your skin; the only indication of his true emotions throughout this entire situation.

“A bath has already been drawn. Towels, as well as the proper medical supplies have been laid out for you both.” One of the head servants quickly falls into step just behind the two of you. “Mingi and Yeosang have been stationed at the first check point. Wooyoung and Hongjoong have taken the liberty to stand post outside your bed chambers. One in the hall, the other on the balcony. San will remain on watch with both Chris and Minho on the roof.”

A gruff nod is all Seonghwa gives in response, not allowing for even a hint of emotion except for displeased anger to appear on his features.

“I want to know who let that bastard so much as even look at my wife. Get the names of everyone who allowed this to happen immediately. Gouge their eyes out. Cut off their tongues. Then, feed them their severed fingers one by one.” There is no room for argument in Seonghwa’s tone, his gaze fixated on the hallway in front of you. “Do not stop until they are found, and properly disposed of. You all know the consequences. It’s time to deliver them.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant nods once firmly in understanding, swiftly turning on their heel to relay the message to the Hounds.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Seonghwa pauses just before the door to your shared quarters, turning to glance back at the servant from over his shoulder. “Tell San: ‘nice shots.’”

Another verbal confirmation is given before the servant is running off, leaving the two of you alone for the time being. Not even a moment later, Seonghwa is quick to shove through the door of your bedroom. He guides you gently inside before making extra sure all of the locks are all sliding into place. All of the curtains are drawn, the soft glow of the lamps soon flickering to life.

A breath of relief escapes you as you walk a bit further into your private quarters. Finally, you allow yourself to relax, knowing you’re now completely safe. One hand comes up to rub your shoulder, rolling it lightly beneath your touch as a dull ache begins to throb just beneath your skin.

“Well, today has been a day,” You huff, exhaling a low sigh through your nose. “I-“

Turning back to face Seonghwa, the rest of your words catch in your throat.

Never before have you seen your husband like this. Never, in all of the years that you’ve been together, have you seen him look this vulnerable. This scared.

Tears stream silently down his face, his lips parted slightly. He stands frozen to his spot like a statue, none of that familiar warmth he usually holds for you in his dark eyes. Instead, a complete look of devastation pulls at his every feature, his breathing shallow, and broken.

In a few steps, he closes the short distance between your two bodies. Trembling hands come up to cradle your face, fingers pressing lightly into the skin of your cheeks. His gaze flits everywhere over your beaten and bloody features, tracing over the largest cut he can see resting just above your eyebrow.

“I thought I was going to lose you.” Another tear slides down his cheek, his throat working as a plethora of emotions flash across his features. “Darling, I’m so-“

“Don’t do that to yourself, Hwa.” Your hands come up to gently rest on top of his own. “I wasn’t worried. I knew My Star would save me.”

Slowly, thanks to the comfort of your touch, his hands stop trembling.

“How can you be so calm right now?” His gaze searches your face, holding onto you a little tighter. “You could have died! I could have-”

His throat works, the mere idea too unbearable to even conceive.

He didn’t lose you. He can never lose you.

“Because I trust you, My Love.” You offer him a soft smile. “I have faith in my husband, even when he doesn’t have faith in himself. I know he’ll always protect me. A few scrapes and bruises here and there are nothing compared to the scars that line his body just so that he can keep me safe.”

“I will gladly bleed for you if it meant you never getting into harm’s way. Ever.” Tilting his head forward, he rests his forehead against your own.

“I know, Hwa,” A loving smile tugs onto your features. “A mosquito can’t bite me without incurring your wrath.”

“Because nothing deserves to touch you except me.” He lowers his voice, taking on a slight gravelly edge as he stares deeply into your eyes. One hand comes down to slip around your waist, pulling you closer as his touch settles against your lower back. After a moment, he adds a bit more lightheartedly, “And those you approve of. Clothes are walking a thin line, though.” At your quirked brow, he’s quick to remind you, “Don’t worry, My Love. I haven’t forgotten your lecture about respecting your mind and body, along with your autonomy. I will always respect you.”

“There he is.” A giggle escapes you, your eyes crinkling in joy. “There’s the man I always fall deeper in love with. Every. Single. Day.”

Seonghwa leans forward, nudging his nose so tenderly against your own. “I strive to always be the only love in your life, just as you are mine.”

“You are, My Love,” A soft hum escapes you, tilting your head slightly to peck his lips. “You’re my one and only.”

You barely have time to blink before Seonghwa is pressing his lips against yours. Both of his hands slide around your back, digging his fingers into your skin and pulling you flush against himself. His tongue traces your bottom lip, begging for entrance. You eagerly grant it to him, hearing a content hum escape him as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

“My Glorious Queen,” He growls against your lips. “Always, you will be mine.”

“Yours, My King,” A pleased sigh is breathed against him.

“Come,” Seonghwa pulls away from you, guiding you towards the ensuite with an arm wrapped securely around your waist. “Let me wash that vile creature from your skin.”

“Please.”

Eagerly, you both enter the bathroom to see the large tub steaming with fresh water. Bubbles lightly float against the opaque surface, a pink hue to the contents as the scent of cherry blossoms float through the air. Perched on a small podium resides a med-kit. Two large, fluffy towels rest off to the side. One with his personal crest embroidered into the fabric, the other with yours.

Grabbing a small hand towel from the vanity, Seonghwa is quick to wet the material. Turning back to face you, he begins gently washing the dried blood and dirt from your face. It only takes him a few minutes to do so, discarding of the towel and turning you both towards the tub.

A large sigh is breathed through your nose, shoulders drooping ever so slightly.

“Is something wrong, My Love?”  Seonghwa steps in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Soft kisses are placed along the skin of your neck, nuzzling his face into you gently.

“No.” Lightly, you shake your head. “I’d just prefer to shower than to sit in the tub, is all. I feel bad for letting such a luxury go to waste.”

“Nothing is too much for you, Darling,” A tender kiss is placed above your pulse before the sound of the water draining from the tub greets your ears.

You barely even felt him move.

“You spoil me.” An affectionate gleam shines within your eyes, the corners of your lips quirking upwards slightly.

“As I should.” Another gentle nuzzle is given into the side of your neck, Seonghwa gently turning you both to face the mirror. “You deserve nothing but the best. If I can’t spoil you, then what kind of husband am I?”

“Mine.” Your hand comes up to settle gently against his arms still wrapped around your waist.

A pleasant hum sounds from behind you.

“I can accept that.” Seonghwa tightens his grip around you. “What I can’t accept is you smelling like another man, especially while hurt. Here I am, promising to always take care of you, and I haven’t even healed any of your injuries yet.”

“They’re not that bad-“

“Bullshit.” The way his lips curl over his fangs can be seen in the reflection of the mirror before you. “Anything that dares to mar your beautiful skin, other than my own claims, will not live to survive another day.”

His one arm holds you firmly in place as he brings his opposite wrist up to his mouth. With one sharp bite, blood begins to drip from his skin, bringing the fresh wound to your lips.

“Drink.”

Immediately, you do as told.

The smooth liquid slides over your tongue and down your throat, a sweet taste flooding your mouth with every gulp. You’ve drank from him quite a few times before, but that still never prepares you for the sensation of his blood overtaking your every sense. Your vision sharpens, scents and sounds becoming that much clearer the more you drink. It’s addicting, and no one knows this fact more than him.

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter shut. The feeling of you suckling at his wrist causes a thrill of pleasure to surge through his entire being. Every time he feels your lips on his skin, his soul comes alive. The intimacy alone of sharing such an important life source with each other has always meant more to him than he could ever describe. Though, he wishes the circumstances were a bit more pleasant.

Blood is addictive. He should know. Yours is the most fulfilling, deliciously divine taste he’s ever had the pleasure to sample. Other than the nectar that flows from between your legs, of course.

Seonghwa can never get enough of you, not that he’d ever want to. The only thing more satisfying to him than calling you his is the fact that only he gets to touch you. Only he gets to experience every glorious instance with you. Others may look, but they can never have you.

The mere image of that thing having touched you… having hurt you, makes his blood boil. The fact that someone actually got close enough to do so has him already formulating a new plan for your protection.

You are now hardly ever to leave his side, two or more of his own personal guard with you at all times. No exceptions. Seonghwa can never let something like this happen again.

Time for him to restate his claim.

Slowly, Seonghwa begins stripping you of your clothing. The more he removes, the more eager he becomes, nearly tearing the fabric at the seams to expose more of your naked body to him. The small cuts that litter your skin begin to close, and he watches in smug satisfaction as his blood heals you in real time. His fingers trace over every inch of your bare skin that he can reach, admiring how your scents begin to intermingle the more you drink.

As it should be. He should always be covered in you, and you should always be covered in him.

Finally, you part from him with a gasp, some of his blood clinging to the corners of your lips. Eagerly, your tongue darts out to catch those lingering drops, humming contently at the taste. The way he watches your eyes hood over in the mirror as you stand naked in front of him has another pleased rumble shaking his chest.

“Allow me to replace such abhorrent marks with beautiful ones of my own.”

“I look forward to it, My King.” You coo, tilting your head slightly to nuzzle against his own.

Another pleased hum fills the air, a playful nip being given over your jawline.

Slowly, reluctantly, Seonghwa lets you slip out of his arms. Dark eyes flash, a low growl echoing throughout the room as he watches your naked form slip into the shower. Most, if not all of your previous injuries have already healed, pride swirling within his chest at how well he can care for you.

The sound of running water soon fills his ears, steam beginning to fill the bathroom as he strips himself of his ruined clothes. Your eyes follow his every movement through the glass, drinking in the way his skin slowly reveals itself to you. He knows you’re watching him. You can tell from the way he faces towards you, each movement purposeful as he slides off his waistcoat, loosening his tie in the next second. Once he’s slide the thin material from around his neck, he tosses it to the floor in one fluid movement. 

Slowly, Seonghwa begins unbuttoning his white shirt, red splatters staining the material.

Water flows over your skin, the heat helping to wash away the dried blood and dirt clinging to your body. It helps to relax your tight muscles, letting out a soft sigh in content. Your tongue comes out to wet your lips, watching as your husband pops the button of his slacks, kicking off his shoes and making short work of the rest of his clothing. He takes his time to run his fingers through his long, bleached hair, the strands having come loose from his sleek, slicked back appearance due to your previous ministrations.

A smug look pulls at his features, lips tugging upwards in the corner as he begins stalking towards you. Each movement is slow, stepping inside the large shower and closing the glass door behind him purposefully. Those dark eyes of his drink in every inch of your naked body, shamelessly trailing over every dip and curve that he can see.

The tattoo he can see resting proudly over the side of your ribcage has that familiar sense of pride swirling within his chest. A tattoo which matches his own.

Seonghwa licks his lips.

“Allow me to cleanse you, My Queen,” Lowly, his voice rumbles out, closing the distance between the both of you in a few steps.

Your hands settle onto his shoulders as he slips his one arm around your waist. A soft inhale escapes you as he pulls you flush against his chest, never once breaking eye contact. Gently, he brings the fingers of his free hand up to cradle your chin, leaning in to press his lips against your own.

The kiss is nothing more than a brief, loving display of affection, Seonghwa parting from you after a moment. Only, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he tilts his forehead to rest against your own, his touch disappearing from beneath your chin. 

Without so much as turning his gaze away, he reaches for the fresh washcloth that always hangs just off to the side.

The arm he has wrapped around your waist begins to slide downwards as he wets the cloth, a firm squeeze being given to your ass. The small peep of surprise you let out makes him smirk, beginning to massage your flesh so tenderly in his hand. A pleased growl escapes him as your body jerks forward, pressing yourself even firmer against his own.

Seonghwa is meticulous as he lathers the cloth with his own body wash, soon beginning to drag the material over your skin. Slowly.

Your eyes flutter as nothing but both his scent, and his touch, surrounds you. You’ve always loved his soap, the deep musk making your head spin. 

A fact of which he knows, for he only started wearing it for you.

Anything and everything to make you fall for him. To make you his. Once Park Seonghwa sets his sights on something, he will not stop until he gets exactly what he wants. Seonghwa wanted you, - he needed you - and you are exactly what he got.

Each touch is soft, starting at your shoulders and making his way down your body. Not once does he break eye contact with you, having spent countless of hours mapping out every beautiful dip and curve beneath his fingertips. 

Seonghwa knows your body like the back of his hand. He knows exactly where to touch to elicit certain reactions, and he takes full advantage of such knowledge now.

The cloth is dragged so lovingly over your back, his opposite hand giving your ass another appreciative squeeze before sliding up your spine.

The way you shiver beneath his touch makes him smirk.

Slowly, Seonghwa brings the cloth back upwards, teasing over your shoulders before lifting your one hand with his own. Wordlessly, he intertwines your fingers together, dragging the cloth over your arm. Switching hands, he’s quick to repeat the same actions on the opposite side, letting you feel his love for you, his desire, in every touch.

Still, he does not dare to tear his gaze from yours.

Your breathing deepens, heart fluttering inside of your chest. From the way his eyes shine, you can tell that he can hear every reaction his ministrations cause your body to make. The way your nails dig slightly into the skin of his shoulders once you place your hands back onto him says it all.

Tracing the cloth back up your arm, Seonghwa swipes it gently over your upper chest. His own breathing deepens as he slides his touch down to cup your breast, his free hand coming up to cup the other. A firm, appreciative squeeze is given to both, a low moan falling from his parted lips.

For a brief moment, his gaze flicks downwards. Using his thumb and forefinger on his one hand, he gently tweaks at your nipple. The other brushes over your opposite breast, lathering the soap over your skin while his thumb teases over your opposite nipple through the cloth.

A soft, pleased hum escapes you, lashes fluttering as you revel in his touch. You cannot help but arch into him, his hands burning paths of pleasure across your skin. 

Water continues to softly cascade down your body, washing the soap away shortly after coming into contact with your flesh. No part of you goes untouched, Seonghwa making sure he cleanses your body thoroughly. He doesn’t want there to be any reminders left from what happened earlier in the day. Right now, all that should cover you is him.

Slowly, Seonghwa sinks to his knees.

A halo of kisses are placed over your stomach, soft moans breathed against your skin. Those dark eyes of his glance up at you periodically, lashes fluttering after each press of his lips against you.

Your husband can never get enough of you. Right now, he wants even more.

“I can never get over how euphoric touching you is, My Love,” Another wet, open mouthed kiss is pressed against your stomach. “Fuck- I love your body… So perfect… So soft…” A blissful sigh is breathed over your skin. “Love making you shake in ecstasy, claiming you for the whole world to see…”

Your breath hitches softly as both of his hands come around to cup your ass, squeezing your flesh so delicately.

A pleased hum rumbles from deep within his chest, devolving into a low chuckle.

“See?” Fangs nip lovingly at your skin, Seonghwa dragging the cloth over the curve your ass. Occasionally, he’ll give you another appreciative squeeze, nuzzling almost possessively into your stomach. “How could I ever want to stop touching you? Your body knows who it belongs to… Who you belong to… Isn’t that right, My Love?”

Seonghwa peeks up at you from on his knees. His eyes are dark and dangerous, a predatory look swirling deep within his gaze. There’s no room for argument in his tone, the cloth getting tossed to the side as his touch returns to your skin, gripping at your thighs tightly.

A thrill rushes through your body, clenching lightly around nothing as he stares up at you. You know that look all too well, your hands automatically reaching out to begin combing your fingers through his damp hair.

Only, it seems as if Seonghwa doesn’t appreciate your prolonged silence.

“I asked you a question, My Love,” A low, warning growl builds in his throat. 

Suddenly, you find that he’s turned you so that your back is pressed against the cool tiles of the shower wall. His fingers sink almost unforgivingly into your plush flush, dragging the nails of his one hand down your skin and hoisting your thigh over his shoulder. 

“Tell me who you belong to.” Lips curl over fangs, black veins crackling over the skin of his cheeks. “Come on, Pretty Girl. I need to hear you say it.”

The sight alone causes your heart to flutter, breath hitching slightly as you stare down at him.

“I’m yours, My Star,” You coo, continuing to thread your fingers through his hair. “I belong to you. Everything I am, everything I was or am sure to be, is yours.”

The feral snarl that reverberates against the tiles of the shower sends pleasure flooding through your veins. Dark, ravenous eyes stare up at you, irises bleeding red as white sclera shift into the deepest of voids. Seonghwa’s lips curl upwards, pulling back to expose his fangs as he slides his hands over your sides.

“Good Girl.” A sharp nip is given to your inner thigh, a small trail of blood beginning to drip down your skin. One which he is more than eager to trace with his tongue.

A thrill rushes through you, loving the deep growl that lines his voice. A tone you know all too well, affection lingering beneath every syllable.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, pausing all movements as you yank his head back so he’s forced to look up at you. The same dark look that he wears is reflected on your own features, grinning as you hear a guttural groan part his plush lips.

“And who is it that worships the very ground I walk on? Who belongs to me? Who is it that will only ever belong to me?” 

The intensity in your eyes makes him shiver, his cock twitching against his thigh. Already, precome leaks from the tip, his heart beating alongside your own. He holds onto you tighter, digging his fingers into your soft thighs as a desperate moan escapes him.

“I will only ever belong to you, My Love.” Seonghwa rasps, beginning to trail wet, open mouthed kisses up the skin of your inner thigh. “I’m yours. I always have been, and I always will be.”

“That’s right, My King,” You hum, a sultry grin tugging at your lips. “You’re mine.”

“Forevermore, My Queen,” His eyes flash, nosing closer towards the apex of your thighs. “Fuck- you smell incredible… Need to make sure you always smell like me, so everyone knows who you belong to. No one- No-fucking-one is ever going to take you away from me again.”

With those words, Seonghwa slips his hands back around to your ass, burying his face into your cunt. 

A pleased growl escapes him as his nose slips between your folds, fingers sinking unforgivingly into the plump flesh of your ass. He pulls you even closer, nuzzling against you before teasingly swirling his tongue around your entrance. The tip of his nose bumps against your clit, his lips laving over your cunt before suckling harshly at your folds.

You toss your head back against the wall, fingers immediately tangling in his hair. The way you pull him in closer to you makes him moan against your core, his hot breath making your head spin as he traces his tongue over your slit. Soft pants fall from your lips as he places sloppy, wet kisses all over your cunt, making sure no part of you goes untouched.

Slowly, he dips his tongue between your folds, holding your gaze as he licks a firm strip up from your entrance to your clit. The tip of his tongue immediately begins flicking rapidly over that pert little bud before his lips are wrapping around it, suckling eagerly at that sensitive little bundle of nerves.

The way you keen against him makes him smirk, a pleased hum rumbling from within his chest.

Each movement is messy. For the moment, Seonghwa is more focussed on covering his face in the wetness that drips from your cunt. He wants to smell like you, to bathe himself in your scent as he covers you in his. He needs it. Especially after seeing such a vile creature dare to lay their filthy hands on you.

Another firm squeeze is given to your ass, Seonghwa pulling you even closer against his lips. Those dark, ravenous eyes of his drink in each and every expression you offer him, desperate for more. Eagerly, he traces his tongue over every inch of your pussy, beginning to thrust it as deep as he can within you.

Soft pants and stuttering moans escape your parted lips. Nothing but absolute pleasure floods your veins, skin tingling everywhere he touches. The fingers you have tangled in his hair pull him in even closer, beginning to grind lightly against his lips as he desperately thrusts his tongue into your weeping entrance.

“Oh, fuck- just like that, Hwa- Oh!” Your lashes flutter, beginning to feel that familiar pressure building within your lower abdomen. “Don’t fucking stop!”

A snarl of agreement reverberates against your cunt, Seonghwa pressing himself even firmer into you. The tip of his nose bumps continuously over your clit, jolts of pleasure sending shockwaves throughout your entire body as your moans begin to rise in pitch.

“Fuck- make me come, My Star,” You pant out, staring down at him through hooded eyes. “Make me drip all over your pretty face.”

“With pleasure…” 

The words are growled against your core, Seonghwa immediately shaking his head back and forth. His fingers dig unforgivingly into the skin of your ass, swirling his tongue inside of you as his nose presses firmly against your clit. The tip of his tongue soon focusses on tracing along the top of your inner walls, thrusting desperately as he moans into you.

With one final nudge over your clit, your eyes are fluttering shut. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave upon the shore, body thrumming in ecstasy as you arch from the wall. Lightly, your thighs shake, Seonghwa not relenting for even one second as he prolongs your pleasure for as long as he possibly can.

Though, you know that this is far from over. After all, he’s only just begun.

Just as with every other time when he’s eaten you out, Seonghwa does not stop here. In fact, he only redoubles his efforts over you. Black veins pulse over his cheeks as he laves his tongue over the entirety of your cunt, making sure no drop goes to waste. 

He needs all of you. He craves it, like the very air you need to breathe.

Lips wrap around your sensitive clit, suckling eagerly at that pert bud as he balances you against the wall. One hand slides down from your ass, two fingers spreading you open to give him unrestricted access to your weeping cunt. Not even a moment later, he flattens his tongue, rubbing it in firm circles over your clit.

“Oh- Fuck!” Your eyes roll, heavy pants escaping you as you’ve barely had time to recover from your previous orgasm. Pleasure pools in your core, clenching hard around nothing as Seonghwa focusses all of his attention on your clit. “Hah- Hah- My Love- Oh!”

“More.” The firm command is growled against your throbbing clit. “Give me more.”

The lewd, wet sounds that fill the air make your head spin, Seonghwa shameless as he traces his tongue over every inch of your cunt. Pleased hum and deep moans escape him, bringing the tip back up to circle so tenderly over your clit before suckling that pert bud between his lips.

“Seonghwa…” His name is but a pleasant sigh from your lips, eyes hooding over as you stare down at your husband feasting on your cunt so ravenously. “My Love…”

“Come for me,” Those sharp eyes of his glance up at you, sucking your clit firmly between his lips. “Soak my face, Beloved. Bathe me in your sweet nectar and claim what rightfully belongs to you.”

His words have your eyes rolling to the back of your head, body shaking as with one final flick over your clit, your orgasm crashes into you. Loud moans and high pitched whines escape you, head spinning as he supports you against the wall. Nothing but pure euphoria floods your veins, chest rising and falling dramatically as heavy pants fall from your lips with every breath.

“Mmmh, that’s it, My Queen,” Seonghwa hums, chuckling lowly. Tender kisses are placed over your swollen clit, smirking against your core with every twitch he feels against his lips. “So fucking beautiful…”

This time, he slows his pace.

Soft, wet kisses are trailed over the skin of your inner thigh, his fangs nibbling at your flesh. Occasionally, he grazes you enough to cause blood to swell on the surface, his tongue quick to lap up each drop. The fingers he had been using to keep you spread open trace over the edges of your cunt, dipping down to tease lightly at your entrance.

A soft moan tumbles from your lips as you feel him push the tips of his fingers inside of you, only to remove them in the next second.

“Seonghwa-“

The desperate whine of his name gets caught in your throat, which is simply music to his ears.

“What’s that?” He hums, continuing to tease at your entrance by dipping his fingers into you gently. Only, he never pushes them more than a knuckle deep, pulling them out to trace the tips so lovingly over your folds. “Does My Pretty Girl want to come again?”

Lightly, you squirm in his hold, whimpering as you stare down at him.

“Needy girl,” Seonghwa chuckles, slowly kissing his way back up your thigh.

The one leg you still have supporting yourself on the ground begins to shake. 

“Please-“  Your voice catches, hips jerking forwards in an attempt to push his fingers deeper inside of you.

“Does My Love want me to devour her pretty pussy?” A tender nuzzle is given against the skin of your inner thigh. “Will she not be satiated unless I make her squirt all over my face? Will she not be satisfied until I make her mine?”

“Fuck- Seonghwa-“ Your fingers tighten in his hair, forcing his gaze to yours as you tilt his head upwards. Something within your eyes flash, clenching hard enough around nothing to cause yourself to begin leaking prominently over your thighs. “Make me yours. Right. Fucking. Now. I need you…“

In the blink of an eye, Seonghwa has stood back to his feet. Both of your legs are wrapped around his waist as he pins you against the wall, fingers digging harshly into the skin of your thighs. Not even a moment later, he slides his touch upwards, grabbing handfuls of your ass and squeezing at your flesh.

There is nowhere for you to go. Nowhere to run or hide, for you will forever be trapped in his embrace. Seonghwa has made damn sure of that.

Not that you’d ever want to leave him…

The tip of his hard cock nudges at your dripping entrance, slipping between your folds as he pushes as close to you as possible. Each breath is but a low snarl upon his lips, black veins crackling over his cheeks. The look in his eyes is downright predatory, fangs on full display as he stares you down.

“You’re mine.”

With those words, Seonghwa buries himself deep inside of you. He doesn’t give you any time to adjust, creating a brutal pace as he snaps his hips against your own.

A choked moan parts your lips, eyes rolling slightly as you cling to him. Your nails scratch down his back, each growl he breathes out going straight to your core as you clench tightly around his cock. The familiar stretch of him sinking into your core makes your head spin, pulling him in even closer.

“Fuckin’ perfect, Darling,” Seonghwa breathes, his forehead pressed against your own. Those dark eyes of his stare intensely into yours, fingers digging into your ass as he snaps his hips into you. “Your pretty pussy always sucks me in so well. My Pretty Girl is always ready to bounce on my cock, isn’t she? So wet… So tight.”

“It’s because I was made for you, My Star,” You exhale shakily, lashes fluttering as your tongue darts out over your lips. “You always fill me so well, My Love. Feels incredible having you buried inside of me. I can’t help but feel empty without you.”

“It’s because I was made for you, Darling,” The words are a mere rasp on his lips, slowing his movements only briefly in order to circle his hips so lovingly against your own. The way you keen against him makes him smirk, a pleased rumble shaking his chest. “Feel that? Feel how perfectly your pussy moulds around my cock? I never wish to part from you, My Love. You own my heart, and I never want it back.”

“Seonghwa-“ A soft whine escapes you as a sharp thrust is given into you. The wet squelch you can hear each time he buries himself deep inside of you makes you clench, pleasure thrumming throughout your veins. 

The tip of his cock presses so tenderly against that special spot inside of you, Seonghwa having mapped out every inch of your body multiple times. His only desire right now is to please you. As is his every desire. Your pleasure is his pleasure, and feeling you drip all over his cock while screaming his name is ecstasy of the highest order.

“You can never escape me, Beloved,” A sharp nip is given to your ear as he leans into you, his voice but a low rumble on his lips. “The moment you let me slip that ring on your finger, you became mine. If you ever even attempt to leave me, if anyone so much as dares to take you away again, I will chase you to the very ends of the earth. You’re mine.” Another sharp thrust is given into you, emphasizing his every word. “You belong to me, just as I belong to you. There is no one else. There will never be anyone else. I’m yours, and you’re mine. Until the very end.”

“All yours, Seonghwa,” You sigh, purposely squeezing around his cock. The way he grinds himself so lovingly into you makes you hum. “Always, I am yours, just as you will forever be mine.”

“That’s right, Pretty Girl,” A pleased chuckle rumbles from deep within his chest. “We belong to each other. Forevermore.”

Shifting your hand upwards, your fingers tangle in his hair. In one quick move, you guide his lips to yours, kissing him desperately as he begins rolling his hips so sensually into your own. Each thrust fills your cunt with every inch of his cock, his tongue eagerly exploring your mouth as you part for him.

The change in pace makes your head spin, pleasure pooling within your core as you drip all over his cock.

Soft whines and gentle moans are breathed into each other’s mouths, hands desperately gripping at each other’s bodies. You hook your ankles behind his back, thighs tensing as you pull him in closer.

The way your body presses flush against his own, every glorious curve of yours being felt against his skin, makes him moan. To him, there’s no other feeling quite like it. Your body sets his own on fire, soul coming alight with every touch.

“I fucking love you, My Queen,” Seonghwa mumbles against your lips, nipping lightly at your skin.

A soft moan tumbles from you lips, clenching hard around him as he thrusts sharply into you.

“As I love you, My One and Only King.”

Pleased rumbles fill the air, a deep moan of your name being breathed out by the vampire before you. He holds onto you so tightly, as if you may disappear at any moment. Desperate, deprived, and possessive. Only you can make him this way.

Though his pace has slowed, each tender thrust into you is firm. Seonghwa makes sure to fill you with every inch of his cock, loving how your warmth flutters around him each time. The way you drip over his balls and onto his thighs makes his head spin, swallowing all of your melodic whimpers and whines as he kisses you deeply.

“Seonghwa-“ You gasp into his mouth at one particularly hard thrust. When he immediately grinds his hips into you, the tip of his cock pressing so delicately against that special spot, your eyes roll slightly. “Right fucking there, My King- Oh!“

A pleased hum echoes around you, another sharp thrust given into you. His cock is angled perfectly to hit that spot, pride rumbling within his chest as he listens to the way your breath catches in your throat..

“Oh-“ Your walls clench tightly around him, digging your nails harshly into the skin of his back. “Claim me, My Love. Fucking mark your territory so no one dares to take me away from you again.”

The deepest of snarls you’ve ever heard him emit fills your ears, echoing around the tiles of the bathroom.

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself pinned beneath him on your bed. Water drips from both of your bodies into the sheets, wet strands of his silver blond hair clinging to his skin. Each strand accents his features, serving as nothing more than a bright halo beautifully framing his face.

“With the utmost of pleasure, My Queen.” 

The deep snarl that lines his every word is the most feral you’ve ever heard him get. It goes straight to your core, clenching hard around him as he begins that brutal pace once more. Tingles erupt over your skin, surrendering yourself completely to the pleasure he provides.

“Not gonna fucking stop until you’ve creamed all over this cock, Beloved. Gonna fill you so fuckin’ full of my seed, I’m gonna be dripping out of your precious cunt for weeks.” His hands grip your wrists tightly, pinning your arms above your head as he thrusts relentlessly into you. The way your body shakes, tits bouncing with every snap of his hips into your own makes nothing but love, lust, and pride swell within his chest. “Gonna let the whole world know who you belong to, and who belongs to you. There won’t be a living soul in this universe that will ever touch you again, besides me. They won’t dare. You’re mine. Do you hear me? Mine!”

��Yes, yes, yes!” Tears of pleasure begin flooding your vision as that familiar pressure builds rapidly within you. You can barely keep your eyes open to stare into his captivating gaze, harsh pants and high pitched whines escaping your lips with every desperate thrust he gives into you. “I’m yours, Seonghwa! All yours! Always and forever, My Star! Make me yours so I can make you mine!”

Another feral snarl greets your ears, his lips immediately finding your own. His kiss is nothing but desperate, tongue slipping into your mouth as he moans into the kiss.

In one swift movement, Seonghwa shifts to hold both of your wrists above you with his one hand. The other drags lovingly over your body, tracing over every curve delicately. His fingertips tease at your skin, continuing to slide his touch everywhere over your body. A tender caress is given over your stomach, the soft touch contrasting the animalistic way he fucks into you. 

With one final squeeze to your stomach, he drags his hand further downwards, thumb finding your clit and beginning to rub in small circles.

“Oh!” Your back arches from the bed, eyes fluttering closed as your whole body begins to shake. Your thighs tremble around his waist, squeezing so tightly around his cock as that pressure within you gets close to snapping. You do your best to hold back your impending orgasm for as long as you can, needing to feel him filling you full of his come before you can even think of letting yourself go. “Seonghwa- My King! Please-“

“Come for me, Darling.” There is no room for argument, his words but a command on his lips. Wet, sloppy kisses are placed against the skin of your pulse as he buries his face into the side of your neck. “Fucking flood my cock with your love. I want to hear you scream.”

With one final flick over your clit, your body obeys his every command. What serves to make the feeling all the more intense is when you feel him bite into the side of your neck, his fangs sinking into your soft flesh and drinking his fill of your blood.

A scream of his name tears from your throat, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your squirt all over his cock. You keen from the bed, whole body trembling violently as you feel him pin your hips to the mattress with his own. Spurt after spurt of come escapes him as he fills you to the brim, your walls fluttering around his cock as your combined releases begin to leak out of your core.

Heavy pants escape you, nothing but whines falling from your lips. The intensity of your orgasm washes over you, suspended in a pool of bliss as you feel Seonghwa press himself completely against you. Not an inch of your body goes untouched by him, releasing his hold over your wrists in order to gently begin tracing his hands over your sides.

Soft kisses are trailed over your neck, his tongue coming out to lave over the fresh bite mark that rests proudly against your skin. The pleased hum that rumbles from deep within his chest makes you smile, staring up at him through hooded eyes as he pulls away to admire you beneath him.

Before he even gets a chance to say anything, you beat him to it.

“Turn me.”

To say your words catch him off guard would be an understatement.

This time, it’s Seonghwa’s turn for his breath to hitch. The vampire lord stills above you, staring down at you with wide eyes as he sees the sincerity reflected on your features.

“My Love?” His words are but a breathless whisper as he brings a hand up to cradle the side of your face.

“I want you to turn me.” Slowly, carefully, you bring your own hand up to cup his cheek. Your thumb traces over his skin, admiring the man above you. A soft, tender smile pulls at your lips, eyes flicking between his own. “I know we’ve talked about it before, but it was simply never the right time. I’m ready now. I love you, Park Seonghwa. You are my forever. I’m ready to become yours.”

Tears begin building within his eyes, blinking rapidly as the first drops begin to fall gently against your skin. His throat works, hands fumbling over your body as he presses impossibly closer to you. Tenderly, he cups your face, lips finding yours in a searing kiss. A kiss which he hopes will convey everything he wishes to say to you.

The moment you smile against his lips, he knows that it does.

“I love you.” A choked confession parts his lips, placing intermittent kisses against your own before trailing even more along your cheek and over your pulse. Arms slide around you, hugging you close as he buries his face within the crook of your neck. A lingering kiss is pressed against the fresh bite mark adorning your skin. “I love you so fucking much.”

Without hesitating, you wrap your own back around him, holding him close. The fingers of your one hand come back up to thread through his wet hair softly. You cradle him to your chest, refusing to let him go anytime soon as your heart beats steadily for the man held within your loving arms.

Kisses are soon trailed from your neck and down over your chest, Seonghwa nuzzling affectionately over your heart. He buries his face against you, soon turning to rest his ear directly above that muscle pumping rhythmically beneath your skin.

A tender glance upwards is sent your way.

“Are you sure?”

You expression softens, lips tugging upwards lovingly as your whole body relaxes beneath his touch.

“More than anything, My Love,” The hand you have threading through his hair comes around to cradle the side of his face. “I never want another incident like today to occur. I despise seeing you cry, especially when I’m the cause of it.”

Seonghwa looks about ready to protest, but your finger settling gently over his lips quiets him for the time being.

“You are the love of my life, Seonghwa. I promised you forever, just as you did for me.” Gently, you trace your touch over his cheek, caressing your fingertips along his skin. Openly, you admire the beautiful man before you. “I’ve wanted this for a while now, and today only served to solidify my choice. I want to be able to claim you in the same ways that you claim me. I want to be yours. Now, and until forever.”

Pushing himself upwards with his arms, Seonghwa hovers over you. Nothing but tender love and affection can be seen within his gaze, staring down at you so fondly as he admires every inch of your skin. He takes his time trailing his eyes over your body, finally pulling out of you and sliding his palms up your sides.

He licks his lips, some remnants of your blood still clinging to his skin.

“Nothing would make me happier than spending eternity with you, My Queen.” Dark eyes shine so lovingly down at you, pressing another tender kiss to your lips. The way you smile against his skin makes his heart flutter, warmth surging throughout his entire body. 

Long since has Seonghwa dreamt of this day. Countless hours have been spent fantasizing about this very moment, bonding you to him in such an intimate way. Sure, you’ve shared each other’s blood enough times before, but this is different. Now, you will become like him.

After this, there is truly no turning back.

Soon, you’ll be able to share in even more pleasures this world has to offer, and he’ll be right by your side through it all. He’ll get to guide you through each new experience, showing you things he’s only ever dreamed about. You’ll be able to share meals with him in more intimate and fulfilling ways, teaching you the ways of his kind and revelling in each and every new discovery you make. Together.

You’ve always been quite efficient at biting and feeding from him, that he cannot wait to watch you make your first kill. 

Excitement pours through him, indescribable unconditional love flooding his veins.

Seonghwa knows exactly who that first kill should be.

A loving smile stretches onto his features, staring down at you so fondly. He can smell the way his blood courses through your veins, mixing seamlessly with your own. Softly, his hands caress over the sides of your face, searching your eyes one final time for any uncertainty or hesitance.

He finds none.

Silently, your husband vows to be the last thing you ever see in this life, and the very first thing you see in your next.

With a subtle nod of your head, another soft kiss is being placed upon your lips.

“To the start of our forever.”

With those words, Seonghwa snaps your neck.

[ninisdollie]

Just for the glory - Sim Jake 𓈒ིུ ❤︎ ˖ ݁

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .demigods series

Synopsis: Jake Sim, son of Hermes and captain of cabin 11 at the camp halfblood, is known as the best swordsman of his generation. With his swordsmanship and unshakable confidence, his life seems perfectly under control, until you, challenge him to a sword duel. In front of the entire community, Jake accepts the challenge, confident in his victory. However, he soon discovers that you are not just a beautiful face, but a formidable warrior with skills that surprise him. Amid the fierce competition and growing tension, you two are caught by an unexpected spark. As your hearts begin to intertwine, Jake will have to face a new kind of battle: the duel between pride and love.

Content: +18MDNI fem! reader x jake, pjo au, hermes! son jake x aphrodites! daugther reader, jake is a little cocky i based his character on my man luke castellan ok, violence (sword duel), cursing, sexual tension, oral sex (f recieving), praising, worshipping, dirty talk, explicit sex.

Word count: 10.2k (a bit long but so worth it i swear)

taglist at the end, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

In camp Halfblood, everybody knew who you were.

Or at least, they thought they knew.

You were the ideal Aprhodite's daughter. Sweet, always soft-spoken, smiling with a kind word for everyone. You helped your sibilings braid their hair before every meal, the younger ones seeing you as an older sister who they always could count on, the older having the necessity of taking care of you. You left little handmade gifts in front of every cabin, just because, and remembered the name of even the shyest campers. You were grace in motion, impeccable manners in every movement, the very picture of your mother's legacy.

Didn't raise your voice, didn't loose temper. You didn't need to. People naturally flocked to you, drawn in by your calm presence and genuine warmth. Your reputation was spotless, your charm unmatched. No one had ever seen you in a real fight. You were considered the peace, where every demigod landed when they were feeling tired, struggling with the heavy air of the camp.

You wore vanilla scented perfume, braided your hair in beautiful, creative ways, decorating with flowers and colorful petals, your clothes always placed beautifully over your body, enchancing your figure. Your hands were gentle, soft fingers with perfect manicure as you helped wounded demigods and waved at the little kids that looked up to you as a mother they never had. A soft, wide smile in your lips, always glistening with lip gloss.

And to be honest, you liked it that way.

"Your strength is in your beauty, and your charm" your mother had said to you once, through a dream, when you first got claimed "Make me feel proud."

Nobody expected anything from you, beyond being lovely and helpful, but that was good, because you were free to move in silence. And although you enjoyed the vision people had of you, you took that into advantage, even if you and your siblings weren't taken very seriously, you wanted to feel powerful, to reach glory. It's what every demigod truly desired, and you weren't the exception.

You were hungry for it, ambition became your dna.

So you let them see only what you wanted.

They didn't see the girl that trained secretly until sunrise, even when you hated early mornings, the girl that read and memorised love poetry but dreamt about the battlefield, the girl that watched Ares kids closely to learn about their movements and strategies, the girl that hurt herself a lot of times trying to perfect her skills with the sword, the arch, and every other existing weapon. You had your own powers, the ones your mother had blessed you with (charmspeak, cursing) but you wanted more.

You didn't really had to prove yourself to anyone, everybody already loved you, but you did it because you could, because you wanted to. Because love isn't always soft, it's protective, fierce, and sometimes it required a blade.

In the moonlight, you drew your hidden blade, an elegant shortsword, delicate-looking, but perfectly balanced. You began to move, each step practiced and precise. Your form was fluid, flawless. There was no hesitation in your strikes, no wasted movement. You moved like water, graceful, calm... deadly.

Few knew about this side of you. You didn’t train to impress anyone. You trained for yourself. For the day someone would push too far. For the day someone would need protecting. For the day you’d have to prove that love isn’t weakness.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The morning sunlight spilled across Camp HalfBlood like golden syrup, warm and slow. At the Aphrodite cabin, everything was already in perfect order. Beds were made, mirrors sparkled, and the scent of roses and vanilla drifted lazily through the open windows.

You sat on a velvet couch, humming softly as you helped your youngest sister adjust a flower crown on her beautiful, long hair.

“There.” you said with a gentle smile, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind the little girl’s ear. “You look like a dryad princess.”

Your siblings adored you, and you enjoyed spending time with them like this, quiet, calm, just like you always were. They were like the little family you never had.

Your little sister turned and hugged you “You’re the best, Y/N.”

You kissed the top of her head. “Go get dressed, sweetheart.”

And just like that, the moment of peace shattered.

The cabin doors burst open with a loud bang, doors crashing the walls as your younger brothers came in running and heavy breathing, eyes opened wide.

“Y/N!” Sunoo, one of you brothers shouted breathlessly, his chest heaving, hair wild. “You gotta come see this, the Hermes kids are going at it in the sparring field! Like, full-on duel style! It’s insane!”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes with amusement. Hermes kids, they had the second place as the messiest ones in camp, just under Ares kids, of course. The whole cabin gasped, fluttering around the room with curiosity.

"Wait, like, real swords?" Your sister stared with big, surprised eyes, and you placed a hand on her head, trying to calm her down.

"It's Jake again, i knew someone would challenge him one day"

You blinked slowly, brushing invisible lint off your skirt. Of course, Jake Sim was the main character of today's exciting event.

Jake Sim had the kind of reputation that walked into a room before he did.

The moment someone said his name, you’d hear it all: "Best swordsman at camp," "Captain of Cabin 11," "Hermes' golden boy." He was fast, blindingly so, with reflexes sharper than his blade. Some swore they’d seen him disarm an opponent in under three seconds. Others claimed he could steal your weapon mid-swing and hand it back with a wink.

He wasn’t just skilled. He was annoyingly skilled.

Jake had that effortless swagger, half grin, half smirk, full confidence. He could talk his way out of trouble, into hearts, and across borders. Born to the god of thieves and travelers, Jake carried that legacy like a badge of honor. He never stayed in one place too long, never let anyone too close, but somehow, everyone still wanted to be around him.

Even campers from other cabins, rival cabins, wanted to be his friend, or at the very least, seen near him. He was the kind of demigod others watched on the training field and thought, Yeah, that’s who I want to be when I stop tripping over my own sword.

He was cocky. No, scratch that, he was infuriatingly cocky. But the thing was... he could back it up. Every time.

Jake didn’t take most things seriously, except sword fighting. That was his sanctuary, his art. He trained like he had something to prove, even if no one could figure out what it was. People said he was strong enough to lead a quest on his own. Strong enough to beat a child of Ares in single combat. Strong enough to never lose.

So when someone mentioned a duel with Jake Sim, everyone came running. Because when Jake fought, it wasn’t just a match, it was a show.

"I'm telling you, sister, he's gonna chop that kid's head off"

You rose gracefully, smoothing down your perfectly pressed blouse. Your voice was calm, almost amused. But the sentence made you frown your eyebrows, you were always looking after the kids, so you naturally worried hearing your brother’s words.

"Well, if he's fighting a kid, i must go take a look then"

You quickly put your shoes on, not wasting time before heading out of the cabin.

The air outside was brisk with early morning chill, the kind that made your skin tingle and your senses sharper. You walked calmly across the training grounds, your footsteps light, unhurried. A few of your siblings trailed behind you, excited whispers bouncing between them.

When you reached the edge of the sparring field, the crowd was already thick. Campers from nearly every cabin had gathered in a wide circle, forming a loose ring around the action. You stepped between two taller demigods, murmured a soft “excuse me,” and looked toward the center of the field.

There he was.

Shirt slightly rumpled, curls tousled from the fight, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was enjoying himself just a little too much. His bronze sword flashed in the sunlight, fast and fluid, spinning in perfect arcs. His opponent, a short, golden haired son of Apollo, was panting, wild-eyed, struggling to keep up.

Jake wasn’t even sweating.

He dodged each swing with ease. Not out of necessity, out of amusement. His stance was relaxed, movements smooth, measured. He looked like he was playing. The boy lunged again, desperate, and stumbled.

Jake stepped aside, caught the boy’s wrist mid-swing, and twisted gently, not enough to break anything, but enough to send the sword clattering to the dirt. Then, with a flick of his own blade, he tapped it against the kid’s shoulder.

“Better luck next time, champ,” he said, voice light, teasing. “But maybe wait until you can hold the sword without it shaking, yeah?”

A few campers laughed. A few others didn’t.

Your brows knit as you stepped forward through the crowd. Of course he would find fun in fighting a younger, inexperienced boy, it only fed to his ego. Your heart shattered at the little boy's expression, that protectiveness nature in your eyes.

Your voice was soft, but it carried, clear and unmistakable.

“I expected more from you, Jake Sim.”

The laughter faded like a snapped string. Heads turned. Even the Apollo boy froze, eyes wide.

He hadn’t realized you were there. And yet, there you stood, poised, polished, and completely unreadable. The very picture of Aphrodite grace in a soft cream blouse, sunlight catching in your hair like a halo.

“Oh?” he said, lifting a brow. “And what exactly did you expect?”

You walked toward the center, graceful as ever. You knelt beside the boy first, murmured something too quiet for the others to hear, and gently helped him to his feet. Jake watched, his eyes following you slowly, and he swallowed, of course the first thing you’d do would be check on the boy. You gave him your handkerchief, embroidered, of course, and sent him off with a smile that was more comforting than any healing spell.

Then you straightened and turned to Jake, your tone polite, serene, and yet somehow sharper than any blade.

“A real swordsman knows the difference between a challenge and an easy win,” you said. “He doesn’t swing his pride at someone half his size just to prove he’s still the strongest.”

The crowd let out a soft ripple of ooooohs, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even raise your voice.

Jake’s jaw tightened, barely. His fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword. She’s calling you out. Not just for the fight. For everything. The showboating. The ego. The fact that you saw right through it, and weren’t afraid to say it.

For the first time all morning, Jake didn’t have a clever comeback ready. He studied you, this sweet, delicate Aphrodite girl with a quiet voice and ribbons in her hair, like he was seeing you for the first time. He knew you, but like every other demigod in camp, only your facade.

And he didn’t know what to make of you.

You tilted your head slightly, that same gentle smile on your lips.

"What could you know about it, princess?" His tone was sarcastic, teasing, his hand now resting on his hip.

Of course he would say that, always underestimating your lineage, you were used to that, but that didn't mean it didn't strike the wrong buttons in you.

You flipped your hair, lifting your shoulders into an almost lazy expression.

"I don't know, hero." an eyebrow lifted in your face "To be called the best swordsman here, i think that was kind of lame. Your evident hunger and overwhelming pride, you make them too obvious when you're fighting" You kept smiling, and you saw how his jaw clenched a bit. "It's going to be your downfall one day."

A fire lit in him, and you almost laughed, cocky men like him were so easy to get.

Then his smirk returned, slow and full of challenge.

“Careful, sweetheart. That sounded dangerously close to a challenge.”

Someone needs to stop him. Someone needs to remind him that strength isn’t just speed or skill. It’s restraint. It's knowing when to put the sword down.

You looked around.

No one moved.

Then, with a deep breath, you spoke.

"Maybe it was."

Challenge, delivered like a bouquet of roses with a blade hidden in the center. Jake felt something twist in his chest, something like adrenaline, but deeper. Like interest. Like curiosity.

He stepped forward, lowering his sword, just slightly. His eyes met yours, and the grin he gave you now was slower. Less cocky. More intrigued.

“Well,” he said, voice rich with anticipation. “Guess I finally found someone worth my time.”

Your hands stayed at your sides, calm as ever. But your eyes were sharper than glass. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Jake chuckled, confident.

“Are you?”

You didn’t answer, just winked at him gracefully before turning around, taking the boy’s hand so you could go and help him get clean, all of your siblings following you, lips parted, still processing what just happened.

Camp’s best swordsman stayed there, watching you as you walked away, eyes lingering to you figure, half smirk still on his lips. Intrigued, curious. A little offended, to be honest.

But it didn’t matter. Revenge would be so sweet.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

“Are you out of your divine mind?!”

The room was a flurry of perfume, silk, and frantic hands as you stood calmly in the center, arms raised slightly as one of your sisters laced your bracers with delicate precision.

“You’re dueling Jake Sim.” Minjeong, your loudest sister, paced dramatically. “Jake. Sim. The golden boy of the entire camp. The guy who once beat two Ares kids in one match without even messing up his hair!”

“I heard he fought a drakon on a solo quest,” another added, wide-eyed. “With a stick.”

Of course they were worried, no other camper had dared to challenge him into a full, real duel, less say an Aprhodite kid, you guys weren't for the fight, it wasn't in your true nature. But you were different, and he was about to see that.

You gave them a soft smile.

“You forgot the part where he’s cocky, overconfident, and clearly underestimates me.”

“Babe, we all underestimate you. That’s the problem.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hair behind your ear. “Good. That’ll make it more satisfying.”

Your siblings paused, blinking.

Then Minjeong narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Who are you and what did you do with Y/N?”

On the other side of the camp, Hermes cabin was buzzing.

“Dude, you are so dead,” one of Jake’s brothers laughed, slapping his shoulder as Jake tightened the straps on his armor.

“Nah,” another chimed in, flopping onto the bunk beside him. “He’s got this. It’s just Y/N.”

Jake didn’t look up. He was focused on adjusting his grip tape, his fingers moving fast. “Exactly. It’s just Y/N.”

But his jaw was clenched.

He wasn't just thinking about the duel itself, he was thinking about you. How you dared to call him out in front of everybody, not even raising your voice, not even making any expression. Just that damn, calm smile in your beautiful face, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. It made him burn, not only with anger, ego already hurt, but with something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

“Yeah, but she called you out in front of everyone,” Jay pointed out with a grin. “Like… burned you alive and smiled while doing it.”

“Did you see her face?” a younger Hermes camper piped up. “She looked like she was about to give him a compliment and then murdered him.”

Jake snorted, finally cracking a grin. “She’s got teeth under all that sugar, huh?”

The others laughed, but Jake’s mind wasn’t entirely on their banter. He kept replaying your voice in his head, calm, soft, but piercing. The way you’d looked at him. Like you already knew exactly how this would end.

It wasn’t just your challenge. It was the fact that you hadn’t been angry. Or scared.

You’d been sure.

Jake had never gone up against someone like that before.

And it was messing with him.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

The field felt different that morning.

Quieter, somehow, like the entire camp was holding its breath.

Campers crowded along the perimeter, perched on rocks, benches, fences. Even a few nymphs had slipped out of the forest to see what the hype was about. Someone had dragged out a banner from last summer’s Capture the Flag game and hastily painted over it in red: JAKE SIM VS. Y/N – BEAUTY VS. THE BEST

Laughter. Shouting. Betting. It was a storm of noise.

Jake was already there, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders. His sword gleamed at his side, and his hair caught the sun in just the right way, it was almost unfair how good he looked in a fight.

He looked up as soon as he felt you enter.

You stepped through the archway into the field like you weren't walking to a duel, more like you were entering a ballroom. Light-footed. Graceful. Composed.

Your armor was pale gold, custom-fit over soft rose-toned leather. Subtle floral engravings decorated the trim, and the sheath on your hip sparkled faintly with celestial bronze. Your sword was delicate and elegant, thinner than his, but no less dangerous.

For a second, the crowd went quiet again.

Jake couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. You looked like a real life goddess, ready for war, but the delicacy, soft aura that sorrounded you still untouched.

It made his brain tickle, his throat dry. But he played it off.

“Didn’t know they made armor with perfume built in.”

You stopped a few feet away, tilting your head. “Didn’t know they made egos that big without divine intervention.”

Oof. That got a few laughs. You came with these type of comebacks so easily, never seemed touched by his comments, never letting anyone get under your skin.

Jake raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair.”

His gaze was locked into yours, heavy, lit up, burning with something more than challenge or anger, it was an intense look, as if he was trying to figure you out, trying to look right through you.

A heartbeat passed.

Chiron stepped between you, tall and regal, his voice booming with authority. “Campers. This is a friendly duel. Training blades only. No fatal blows. First to disarm wins.” He looked between the two. “Understood?”

Jake gave a nod. “Sure.”

You smiled sweetly. “Of course.”

Your swords were exchanged for dulled celestial bronze training versions, enchanted to sting like Hades but not kill.

As Chiron backed away, the air thickened. The noise from the crowd melted into the background.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You just watched each other.

Jake’s smirk faded into something quieter, measured. Curious. You stood with your blade at your side, calm and unmoved, like you were waiting for him to decide when the dance would start. The crowd was roaring behind you two, but Jake barely heard it anymore. You stood across the ring, your sword loose in one hand, eyes locked on his like you were the only two people in the world. Yours shining, sparkling with hunger, he could tell you’d been waiting for this, he just couldn’t understand why exactly.

Then the real game started.

You began to circle. Slowly at first. Measuring. Watching.

Jake’s feet moved in perfect rhythm, fluid, confident. He tilted his head slightly, sizing you up.

“You sure you’re not just here to impress your cabin?” he teased, voice low.

You smiled softly. “You sure you’re not just afraid to lose in front of yours?”

The way you said it, light, airy, like a flower petal on the breeze, made the jab land even harder.

Jake’s smirk twitched. Okay. Cute. You were cool. Calm. Unshaken.

But he knew how to break through that. He always did.

He feinted to the right, quick and sharp.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, your blade rose fast, just enough to parry if he committed. You didn’t overreact. You didn’t fall for it.

Interesting.

Jake took a step in and you mirrored it.

Two more steps.

Then Clash.

Your swords met in a flash of bronze, the sound ringing out like thunder. Your strike was fast. Faster than he expected. Not wild, not emotional, precise. Controlled. You pivoted on your heel, angling your body to minimise target space. Your movements were so clean, so deliberate.

Jake caught the blow, just barely. Your faces were close now, blades pressing, arms trembling with tension.

You were faster than he expected, stronger too. Your swords clashed again, ringing across the field, but Jake barely registered the sound. His focus narrowed, locked on the girl in front of him.

He’d never really looked at you before, not like this. You were always… in the background. The picture of perfection. Helping younger campers with their braids, organizing picnic tables, smiling like nothing in the world could touch you.

But this girl?

This girl moved like a storm pretending to be a breeze.

Every strike you threw was elegant, but lethal. Every step was soft, but deliberate. You were poetry in motion, graceful and deadly. And you weren’t just matching him, you were challenging him.

Jake gritted his teeth and swung again, forcing you to block high, then low. You countered with a fluid pivot that nearly knocked the blade from his hand.

The air was hot, the sun high in the sky, every eye on you two, on the fight. Long minutes passed between swings and hits, where neither of you seemed to be surrendering for now.

He was sweating, like actually sweating.

And you, gods, you still looked serene. Focused, unrattled. It should’ve pissed him off, it did a bit, but instead something in his chest twisted. Tight.

How the hell did he not notice you before?

You could feel his strength in every strike. The way he moved, clean, sharp, confident. There was a reason why they called Jake Sim the best swordsman of his generation.

You spun to the side, narrowly dodging a brutal downswing, and countered with a quick jab towards his side. He blocked it in time, but you saw the flicker in his eyes, surprise.

You weren’t playing anymore.

There was heat in his eyes, not just from the fight. Not from frustration, it was something else. Like curiosity, like awe.

You took a deep breath, and stepped back, reseting your stance. So did he. You were circling again, both breathing harder now, both sweating, neither smiling anymore.

The way you moved, each strike fast and precises, calculated like a chess player five moves ahead. You were good.

But Jake’s eyes kept drifting.

The curve of your shoulders as you pivoted. The way your braid swung behind you, like it was dancing with the wind. The way your perfect skin glistened beneath the sun and the sweat, a few strands sticked to your beautiful face, your makeup still perfectly applied, the way your body seemed to shine. Your armor, subtle, elegant, hugged your body like it has been made by Aphrodite herself. Which, honestly? Wouldn’t been shocking.

And then there were your eyes, focused, glowing, locked on him like a pretador pretending to be a prey.

You stepped into him, swung high. He blocked, but his grip slipped a little, the crowd gasping.

Pull it together, for fucks sake. He thought, tilting his head, chest moving up and down, lips parted as he caught his breath. But for some reason he couldn’t, not when you were this close, not when you smelled like roses and wildfire, sweet and soft. It made his skin shiver even if the day was hot beneath the burning sun. The sweat on his forehead falling along his whole face until it was dripping from his neck.

You spun again, graceful as a dancer, and your leg brushed his as you passed him. His mind scrambled for focus, he tightened his grip and turned, eyes locked on your back for a split second before you twisted around, blade raised. And smiling.

He was so in trouble.

You could feel it, the shift. Jake was still fighting, fast, precise, sharp like always. But there was something different in the way his sword moved now. A half second slower, a little less direct, his eyes weren’t on your blade anymore.

They were on you.

You ducked under his swing, twisted behind him, and let your fingers graze his side, not a hit, just barely a touch. And he froze. Then you stepped back into position, sword up again, and let your gaze flick down his chest, then back up, slow, enough for him to notice, fast enough to pretend it was accidental. This was a different game now, something unspoken.

Jake’s breath hitched.

“You okay there, Sim?” you asked sweetly, voice like honey and silk.

He scowled, but it was weak. His lips twitched like he wanted to smirk.

“Just adjusting.” he muttered, circling again.

You let your shoulders relax, body fluid as you moved. Your braid bounced with each step, catching the sunlight, you could feel his eyes on it. On you.

But you struck again, quick, sharp, letting your body press just a bit too close in the follow-through. He caught your blade, but his footing slipped, just slightly. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, his arm brushing your waist, his breath was right there, hitting your cheek. It was now your skin’s turn to shiver.

You leaned in, whispered just loud enought for only him to hear.

“Still think this is just a friendly spar?”

His eyes met yours, heated, locked. Fire beneath them.

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. There was something floating between you two now, something more than just challenge. It was lust, intrigue, desire.

Jake was losing focus, and he knew it. Everytime he got close, you’d look at him like that, eyes calm, soft, but hiding the fire behind them. Like you knew you were pulling his strings and were enjoying every second of it.

He swung low, fast, but you danced out of range like you could read his thoughts, your movements were too smooth, too deliberate. You were baiting him. Then he circled to the left, feinted, struck high, and you caught it. Your blades locked again, faces inches apart, breath mingling.

Your lips were slightly parted, glistening, cherry lip gloss still perfectly applied.

Jake’s chest rose and fell with each breath, sweat slid down the back of his neck, and still, he couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.

You tilted your head, just slightly, close enough to be a whisper.

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.” He answered quickly, too quickly.

So you smiled. “You are.”

Your swords scraped as you held the lock, muscles trembling.

“Are you gonna try to kiss me, or are you gonna fight me?” you murmured, so low only he could hear.

And he blinked, just once. And in that exact half-second, you dropped your weight, twisted under his blade, and swept his legs out from under him with one clean, beautiful spin.

Thud.

He hit the ground, flat on his back, sword flying from his hand and skidding across the arena floor, eyes wide open as if he couldn’t believe it.

Then, the crowd exploded. Cheers, gasps, laughter. Your siblings jumping, hugging each other, kids from other cabins going crazy.

You looked around, getting an early hint of that glory you so much desired, that moment, where everyone seemed to be worshipping you, admiring you, you felt something you couldn’t describe. This was what demigods were made for, what you were born for. And today, today you proved it. You smiled at the crowd, bowing gracefully like a ballerina who just finished a perfect show, your siblings throwing pink, beautiful flowers at you, a few getting stuck in your hair.

Jake groaned and blinked up at the sky, still trying to catch his breath, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Then you stepped into his field of vision. You stood over him like a goddess in battle armor, your sword pointed gently at his chest, just where his racing heart was, one eyebrow raised in that maddening, perfect smile.

“Disarmed.” you said simply.

He stared up at you, breathless. Not because of his obvious lost, but because of you.

“Remind me never to underestimate Aprhodite’s kids again.”

You tilted your head, same sweet grin in your lips.

“We’re full of surprises.”

And then you offered him a hand, he stared at it for a few seconds, thinking, his head spinning, going circles, not because of the fall, not because he had been defeated, but because your smell was taking over all the air around him, and for some reason, he wanted his lungs full of it.

He finally took it, sweaty, hot palms against each other. Your fingers were warm, strong, and when you pulled him up, you were close, closer than before. Not just physically.

And suddenly, the duel didn’t feel like the end. It felt like the beginning of something much more dangerous.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

It had been three days. Three days since the duel. Since you, sweet, soft-spoken, perfect little Aprhodite’s daughter had knocked him flat on his back in front of half of the camp and walked away like it meant nothing.

Jake placed the edge of the training arena, jaw tight, arms crossed. The sun was setting behind the trees, casting long shadows across the field where he’d lost. Where you had disarmed him, humiliated him, and smiled while doing it.

His fingers twitched like they were still reaching for the sword you’d knocked away.

And fucking gods, it still pissed him off. Not because he lost, okay, a little bit.

But mostly because you hadn’t even looked surprised. Like you knew all along that you could take him down. Like it was easy. It was the way you looked at him while you fought, calm, focused, like you’d seen through every layer of swagger and charm he wore like armor.

And worse, it was the way he had looked at you, every curve of your body, every flick of your wrist, every step, graceful, purposeful, dangerous. How your figure moved, how your face stayed calm all the time, looking beautiful, perfect. His whole body shivered just at the memory. You hadn’t just beat him in duel.

You unraveled him.

Now he didn’t know what the fuck he wanted. Part of him wanted a rematch, part of him wanted to kiss you just to see if you would let him, part of him wanted to grab his sword, drag you back into the arena and lose on purpose just to feel that thrill again.

You’re Jake Sim. Son of Hermes. Captain of cabin 11. Everyone looks up to you.

How could he just walk up to the girl who beat him, who toyed with him, and say “Hey, i haven’t stopped thinking about you. You got under my skin and i don’t know what to do with that.”

It felt like surrender. And he never, never did that.

But what terrified him more than bruised pride, was the thought of never seeing you like that again. The thought of you walking away from whatever the hell this was.

Jake looked down at his hands, strong, calloused, steady. But for the first time, he didn’t know what to do with them.

The Aprhodite cabin was glowing in the afternoon light, sun filtering through silk pink curtains, the scent of jasmine and rosewater drifting in the air as some of your sibilings had a relaxing, spa day.

You sat on the edge of your sister’s bed, weaving ribbons through a braid with steady, practiced hands. Your touch was soft, gentle, perfect, as always. You smiled when your sister thanked you, gave her a quiet “Of course” and rose to help another camper fix the hem of a dress.

Your movements were calm, graceful.

But your thoughts? Nowhere near calm.

They were back in the arena. Back with the weight of Jake’s body hitting the ground, the way the crowd roared, the he’d looked up at you, surprised, winded, and just a little bit wrecked.

A thrill sparked in your chest all over again.

You did that.

For once, your strength hadn’d been hidden behind beauty or kindness or smiles. You’d shown it. Proved it. And not just to the camp, but to him.

And gods, the look on his face.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the grin creeping onto your lips as you adjusted a camper’s hair clip.

He’d looked at you like he couldn’t decide wether to fight you or fall for you. And if you were being honest with yourself, you kind of hoped it was both.

Because as much as you were proud of your win, of the way you’d flipped him on his back in front of everyone, you couldn’t stop thinking about the tension in his jaw. The heat in his eyes, the sweat falling from his neck, his dark hair sticked to his forehead, his plump, perfect lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. The way his voice dropped.

There had been something there. Not just in the way you two moved, but in the pause between your strikes. The almost-touch, the almost-kiss. The hunger for something unspoken that wasn’t just glory.

He hadn’t spoke to you since then, not once. Was it pride? Or was he trying to stay away from you?

The idea of him thinking about you, fighting with the same pull, made your chest tighten in a way that was far too satisfying.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

In the armory, the air was thick with the scent of oiled leather and iron. Faint dust danced in golden rays of afternoon light cutting through the narrow windows. It was quiet. Undisturbed. You decided to go there to pick a few new weapons for this year's Capture the Flag, after all, you were the camp's new favorite warrior.

But then Jake Sim walked in.

His boots echoed slightly against the stone floor. He didn’t speak at first, he just watched you.

You stood with your back to him, delicately running your fingers along the line of dagger belts laid across a wooden table. The soft curve on your neck, the gentle sway of your hair, Jake’s eyes followed every detail like it was dangerous.

Because it was.

His heart was racing and he knew exactly why, it was because of you, because of the thoughts he had been having about you, about what you did to him and what he wanted to do to you. It was driving him crazy.

“You always this graceful picking out weapon straps?” he finally said, voice just low enough to carry.

You turned, slowly, as if you’d known he was watching all along. His raspy voice echoing, you suppressed a smirk. He was wearing the camp shirt, tightened around his chest because of his muscular body, veins popping under the slightly tanned skin of his arms, hair perfectly slicked back, that same, cocky, confident smirk in his lips. It made you want to kill him or jump right onto him an devour him.

“Only when i know someone is staring.” you said with a smile so subtle it felt like a secret.

Jake’s heart kicked hard in his chest again.

You were dressed simply, white tank top and cotton shorts, your usual camp gear. But the way you stood there, confident and completely at ease, made it impossible to look away. Your lips were glossed with something soft and pink. Your eyes sparkled, playful, unreadable. Your beautiful, long eyelashes decorated with perfectly applied mascara, a soft red blush on your cheeks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here”. You said, drifting closer to the display, tracing the edge of a bronze buckle.

Jake leaned against the nearby bench, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered. Trying.

It was the first time you two were talking after the events in the arena, the first time you two were alone, in a room, with those drowning feelings that none of you had put the finger on, it was like a recipe for disaster. And you were about to fall inside of it, deep.

“Didn’t expect you to haunt my thoughts either, but here we are.”

Your eyes lifted. And there it was, that flicker of fire beneath the calm, sweet surface. Made him want to forget all of his pride and kneel down in front of you to worship you.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” A shiver went down your spine when he smirked, cocky out of habit, but inside he was drowning.

“You beat me in front of everyone. It’s hard to forget something like that.”

Was it just that? Or something else? Something heavier, deeper, hotter. You didn't know. Jake was a cocky man, pride showered him like a second skin, you knew it was hard for a demigod like him letting those words leave his mouth, and for some reason, it was satisfying.

“Mmm.” You murmured, stepping a little closer. “I think you liked it.”

Jake didn’t respond, he couldn’t. You were closer now, not enough to touch, but gods, it was close. He could see every detail of you, the way your lips parted as you breathed, the faint blush rising to your cheeks, the slight rinse and fall of your chest, you beautiful, perfect body.

And you were watching him, really watching him. Not just for his words, but for every breath he took. The air filled with tension, desire, something unbereable.

“You’re tense.” You said softly, eyes dropping to his clenched jaw.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You took another step forward, the tips of your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, not enought to count as a touch, but just enough to promise one. His body tensed, his gaze locked with yours, intense, deep.

“You’ve been acting like you’re unaffected. But i see the way you look at me, Jake.”

His throat went dry, he didn’t move. If he moved, he wasn’t sure he’d been able to stop himself. He was a man with ambition, who always followed his desires. And right now, they weren’t innocent desires.

You tilted your head slightly, he fucking loved when you did that, when you acted all innocent and pure, and maybe you were, but now he was seeing right through it, and your lips now were barely a breath from his.

“Say it.” You whispered, challenging him, once again, doing the thing that drove him crazy.

Jake stared at you, jaw clenched, heart hammering. His pride screamed to hold back, to play it off, to make a cocky comment. But the desire? The desire had been clawing at his insides since the second you’d walked into his life.

“You’re driving me insane.” He said finally, low, deep voice as he spoke “And i don’t know if i want to kiss you or throw my sword at your head.”

And you laughed, soft and slow, your whole body twitching a his confession. Because you felt that too, you’d been wanting, all of it, too, to fight him again, to win again, to kiss him, to feel him.

“You want to kiss me.” You said simply.

Then, finally, he moved.

One hand reached up, cupping the side of your face. His strong, calloused thumb brushed along your jawline, slow, reverent, fingertips tickling. His other hand found your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your tank top. He looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight or surrender.

“Tell me to stop.” He whispered, voice rough, shaky, hot breath against yours.

“Don’t you dare.”

And he kissed you.

Not rough, not rushed. But deep, like he’d been starved for you and didn’t know how to go slow. Your hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer. You kissed him like you knew exactly how long he’d been holding back, like you’d been holding back too.

The room spun, the rest of the world fell away.

There was only the heat of his mouth, the press of his body against yours, the way your breaths tangled like you were trying to inhale each other. Your lips were moving above each others at a slow, almost teasing pace, like the one you had in the battlefield, dancing while little sighs left both of your mouths, hot breaths colliding. His lips were soft, plushed, and he tasted sweet, it made you tremble and you had to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer, deeper. Jake whimpered, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue, exploring your mouth with it and tangling it with yours, sending that familiar shiver down your spine.

He slid his hand from your waist to the small of your back, pulling your flush against him, your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. He let out a soft sound in the back of his throat, frustration, relief, desire.

When you bit gently at his lower lip, he growled.

“Gods.” he muttered into your mouth. “You’re going to ruin me.”

And you laughed against him.

In one smooth, desperate morion, he lifted you, hands gripping under your exposed thighs as you gasped, and set you up on the workbench behind you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking him in. The bench creaked beneath you, old wood protesting, but neither of you cared.

Your hands then slipped beneath the edge of his shirt, palms pressed to his warm, tanned skin. You felt the tension in him, tight and coiled like a spring ready to snap. Jake kissed you like he’d been starving, like every second of restraint he’d shown since the duel had been building to this one moment. His hands were everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, memorising you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips swollen, lip gloss ruined, your eyes dark and bright and locked on him like he was something you couldn’t quite resist either.

“I tried not to want this.” He admitted, breath ragged.

You touched his face, gentle, detailing every inch of his gorgeous features. “I didn’t.”

He exhaled a soft laugh, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Of course you didn’t.” He murmured, smiling against your skin. “You’re too damn perfect.”

You slid your fingers through his hair again, dark brown strands between them, nail grazing lightly at his scalp. “Still think i’m just a pretty girl?”

Jake pulled back to meet your eyes again.

“No.” He said, voice low and sure “You’re dangerous, and i want more.”

And then he kissed you again, deep, slow, like he really meant it this time. Like it wasn’t just heat or revenge or rivarly anymore.

Like it was want, it was real.

And you let him, opening your mouth and recieving his wet, warm tongue, sucking it and letting out little sounds that only made him kiss you harder, his rough hands now caressing the skin of your thighs, gripping a little tight like wanting to mark his fingers, his kiss becoming sloppier, needier, he wasn’t holding back anymore. The stubborness in you had faded away, since the moment he put his lips above yours, and right now, you were going to let him do as he pleased, because you wanted that too.

So you slid your delicate, smooth hands beneath his shirt, now touching the bare skin of his abs, tracing the perfectly built lines, thanks to his training, then his chest, then down again, deleiting yourself with that soft skin, that was burning beneath your fingers, and he whimpered again, biting your lip so hard that it stinged a little, but you didn’t care, you just moaned, low, softly, and he lost his mind. Because his hands now traveled to your covered ass cheeks, squeezing them tight above the cotton of your shorts, shamelessly groping as if he’d never touched anyone before, because the sound that left his throat was different this time. And you squirmed, the shiver that once was settled on your spine moving down all the way to your core, ending up in a wetness that you couldn’t ignore.

He broke the kiss, but only to bring his face to the curve of your neck, kissing there, sucking, licking, hot and wet tongue against your skin, and you tilted your head, giving him more space, eyes closed as you sighed.

“Fuck, this damn smell.” He whispered with broken voice, lust being the only tone in it “It’s been driving me crazy.”

You bit your lip when he caught your skin between his teeth, biting, marking, slightly arching your back, your covered breasts making contact with his chest, and he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, practically breathless.

“You want this, right here?” he asked, deep in his heart wishing you’d say yes.

And of course, you nodded, fluttering your eyelashes in that way that made his knees weak.

So he wasted no time, grabbing the hem of your tank top and lifting it over your shoulders, sliding it out of you with desperation, your bare, perfect breasts in front of him, nipples hard the second the air made contact with them. And his face, he looked completely wrecked as he admired you. Dark, lustful but shiny eyes taking in every inch of your body. He was sure that you were Aprhodite herself brought to life.

His face buried in your chest, hand cupping one of your breasts and tongue licking and sucking into the other, and you moaned high pitched, arching your back again and gripping his hair wanting to feel him closer, your whole body shivering, the wetness between your legs now completely impossible to ignore. The sound of his mouth against your skin combining with your whimpers, your legs trembling, no man had ever touched you like that before, like worshipping you.

“J-Jake…” you moaned, biting your lip, eyes sparkling filled with need and desire and hunger.

“You’re a fucking goddess.” He whispered, not letting go of your nipple, hand squeezing. “I’d let you ruin my whole life.”

That was the hottest thing someone had ever said to you, and you whimpered, stretching your hand so you could touch him again, helping him slid out of his shirt, this one ending up on the floor along your tank top. And the sight was breath taking, his glistening, tanned skin, his toned abs, his pumped chest, the veins in his arms. He was a god too, you were sure about that. Your hand ended up sliding beneath his cargo pants, palm making contact with his already hardened member, and he growled again, thrusting his hips needfully to meet with your touch. He was thick, hard, throbbing through his boxers, and you whimpered again when he did the same to you, manly hand finding your clothed pussy, rubbing his fingers against you, your wetness noticeable through the thin, laced fabric of your underwear.

"Do you taste just as sweet as you smell?" He whispered, in your ear, teeth biting your earlobe, you didn't respond, not being able too, your whole body feeling like it was on fire.

Your legs threatened to close, but he kept his other hand on your kneee, forcing you open, thumb rubbing circles against your swollen, clothed clit. Then, in just a second, your back crashed with the wall as he slid down your shorts, and underwear, throwing them on the floor and just taking a second to admire you. Your face was red, you were now naked, there, in the armory, in front of him, and the look in his eyes was completely different. He was broken. His gaze trailed down your body, your breasts, your torso, between your legs, your beautiful, heavenly pussy in front of him, dripping, wet, glistening, needy.

He didn't say anything, he couldn't find the words to even try to describe you. So he knelt down, like a mortal in his favourite goddess altar, hands gripping your thighs, tight, he wet his lips with his tongue, and your hands found his hair again, he closed his eyes as you caressed him. Few seconds passed, and he leaned in, face buried between your legs, looking so gorgeous, but so fucked. And then, a long, soaked, warm lick, his tongue traced a slow line in your folds, and you screamed, throwing your head back. And the sound he let out, was almost unnatural.

Jake kept his eyes closed as he sucked your clit, tongue tracing circles before starting to suck you, tasting you, swallowing you, devouring you. He ate you out like an starved man, spitting and licking and whining against your soaked pussy, nose rubbing with your aching clit, and you could only whimper and moan, rocking your hips into his face, begging him to never stop. And he wouldn't dare, because you were the sweetest thing he'd ever put in his mouth, in that moment, he wanted to die between your legs. His face was a mess, chin soaked in your arousal, cheeks red, eyes still closed. One finger found your entrance, sliding between your walls so good and your pussy clenched around it, the wood beneath your body completely soaked, sticky with your sweat and fluids.

"So sweet." He whispered, his hot breath crashing with the skin of your inner thighs, and then he opened his eyes, dark gaze locked with yours.

His finger thrusted inside and out of you, lips wrapped around your clit, and you whined, your legs shaking, twitching, trembling, sweat starting to fall down your forehead. Second finger slid, curling inside of you, stretching you so good, brushing teasing your g-spot.

“G-Gods.” You whined, pulling strands of his hair.

Jake then stood up again, cleaning his lips with his palm before devouring your mouth again, and you could taste yourself in his hot mouth, your dripping pussy still pulsing, clenching around nothing. But not for too long, because he slid two of his fingers inside of you again, deep, hard, rough, now really fucking you with them, curling them and bumping them into your g-spot over and over again, spreading your walls, soaking them with your fluids.

“Fuck, you’re leaking.” his voice was so weak, so broken. “Can’t wait to feel you. Been wanting this since you called me out with that beautiful face.”

Palm was crashing with your clit, fingers moving in and out fast, the wet sounds and moans being the only ones in the hot, barely illuminated room. Your whole body tensed, showered in pleasure.

Then Jake pulled them out, and you whined, teary eyes looking at him like really full of desire, of want, of need. And he couldn’t hold back anymore, not when you were so perfect, so gorgeous. So made for him.

So he finally, finally took his member out, throbbing, thick, hard, veins popped up, red tip leaking, he was full of need too. And your eyes shined, your mouth watered, the lust taking you over. He didn’t wait much, he couldn’t, so he stroked himself a few times, jaw clenched and hisses through his teeth, he rubbed his tip between your folds, teasing you and himself, one hand gripped to your waist, marking. And then, he slowly slid in, and you grabbed his shoulders for balance, because the feeling crushed your brain and body, his thick length stretching you as good as his fingers, deep, slow, you watched as it disappeared inside of you. And he groaned, low, eyes sticked to yours, thrusting his hips a few times, still at a slow pace, like not wanting the sensation to go away so fast.

“Fucking hell” he bit his lip, moaning. “You’re so tight, this is the most perfect pussy ever.”

You let out a cry once his thrusts became faster, rougher, skins crashing making an obscene sound as his cock disappeared inside of you, his eyes sticked to your face, not wanting to miss any of the expressions you were making, your beautiful, perfect face ruined by the pleasure. But he was no different, his jaw tight, his eyebrows frowned, hisses leaving his parted lips as he moaned and growled like an animal. The once perfectly made braid in your hair was now messy, a few strands sticked to your face, your eyes teary, your forehead full with sweat, your lips sore because of how much you were biting them.

One hand cupped your breast again, squeezing hard, as if he couldn’t keep his hands off of you, of your perfect body. And the other found your aching, swollen clit, messy circles at the pace of his thrusts, he rolled his hips harder into you, going so deep, you could feel him in every inch of your insides, the pleasure showering you, your brain completely shut down. You moaned high pitched, hiding your face in the curve of his neck, eyes closed as you saw stars.

“You like it?” he asked, a smirk in his lips, his cocky nature still in him, breathless, between thrusts “Tell me, please, need to hear you say it, princess.”

The nickname wasn’t sarcastic anymore, it was affection in it, worship, devotion.

And you whined against his skin, filling your lungs with his sweaty, manly smell, nodding, desperate, needy.

“Y-Yes. Please don’t stop.”

So using his incredible strength, he pulled out, but he made you put your feet on the ground, flipping you over so your chest was now against the wood of the counter, and he slid in again, grabbing your hips, bumping deeper thanks to the new position, head of his cock reaching your g-spot immediately, and you cried against the surface as tears rolled down your cheeks, ruining your mascara. His thighs crashed against your asscheeks, his movements now sloppier, erratic, he was really fucking you now.

But to be fair, you fucked him first, just in a different way.

He kissed down your back, everywhere, sucking too, wanting to mark every inch of your soft skin, and you arched your back, thrusting backwards meeting with his hips, nails scratching the wood beneath you.

This wasn’t just fucking. This was him discharging all of his frustration and anger in you, but not in bad way, in a i fucking trust you and worship you as a goddess way. And it was driving you crazy, you had the strongest man in camp moaning your name and mind-fucked and wanting to die inside of you.

Jake’s hand placed your braid over your shoulder, now kissing your neck again, whispering sweet words in your ear, voice wrecked and weak, crushed by his own moans and groans.

“You’re so perfect. I wanna worship you all my life. I want you to see me, to humiliate me again, i don’t care, i’d fight with you all the time just to keep your eyes on me.” He was mumbling, completely pussy drunk. But you were too, because he stretched you so good, because the warmth of his weigth was just too much, you sniffed through your nose, whining.

“J-Jake…” you moaned again, the knot on your lower belly starting to built. And he understood, because his fingers brushed your clit again, fast, rough. Your legs were trembling, your knees weak, the air so hot, you felt like you were about to pass out.

He grabbed your throat, not hard enough to choke, just to hold, to make you raise your head so he could kiss you again, dirty, sloppy, angry. His tongue explored your mouth once again, and his movements were completely erratic, senseless, he was close too. A few drops of his sweat soaked your face, combining with the saliva falling from the corner of your mouths. The way we kissed you, the way he touched you, the way he fucked you. Not only made you whimper because you were an Aprhodite girl, not only because it flattered you, but because it was him.

And you broke, body completely wrecked, back arched as you screamed so high pitched and came all around his cock, the orgasm taking you over, your pussy dripping, clenched tight around him, your heart racing, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He came too, because the look of your climax was just the peak of perfection in his eyes, and he didn’t hold himself back, guttural groan leaving his throat as his orgasm made him leak inside of you, warm, creamy fluids filling you up, thrusts becoming slower, weaker, his pulsing cock discharging all of his pleasure.

Neither of you spoke for a few seconds, he didn’t pull out, didn’t move, part because he couldn’t, part because he didn’t want to. You felt his lips on your cheek, sweet, slow, his breath making your skin jump. But you couldn’t move either, you didn’t feel like yourself, the whole room was spinning, your body felt like floating. You sighed deeply, trying to regain balance.

Then Jake finally pulled out, slow, and his cum dripped between your folds, and down your legs. His eyes sparkled, the view just so perfect for him to handle.

“Are you ok?” He asked softly, grabbing your waist so you’d stood up, his eyes were still lit up.

You cleaned the sweat of your face with your hands, trying but failing to fix your hair. Then you smiled, same sweetness as ever. Even after he literally fucked you.

“I think you broke me.” You joked, voice still weak, but your eyes were sparkling too, something new awakened inside of you, and him. Between you two.

Jake chuckled, still a bit breathless, but he started to pick up your clothes, shaking them because of course, you could never wear something dirty.

“Well, princess. Call that a rematch.”

And you rolled your eyes, pushing his chest surprisingly strong, he almost tripped. Then you both laughed.

He kissed you again. Sweet, soft, and you didn’t want him to stop. Ever again.

✧˚⋆ ˖ ࣪ .

“How long are they gonna keep going with this?” Sunoo groaned, rolling his eyes and resting his head on your little sister’s shoulder, her smiling, amused by the scene in front of them.

The sun hung lazily over camp Halfblood’s training field, glints of sunlight off polished bronze blades. A few kids crowded at the edge of the ring, sitting on logs and leaning over the rails, whispering at each other.

“They’re still going.”

“Twenty minutes.” A Hermes camper confirmed, eyes locked on the fight. “And they haven’t stopped once.”

You stood across from Jake, your sword poised gracefully, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face, your stance was perfect, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted, eyes sharp.

Jake… was smiling.

“Tired, princess?” He asked, circling you slowly.

“You wish, hero.” you shot back, shifting your grip. “I could do this all day.”

“Yeah?” Jake twirled his sword lazily “You gonna keep staring at me or actually fight?”

“Hard to fight someone when they’re too busy admiring themselves”

Your sisters went oooh. And Jake smirked.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile tugged at the corner of your lips. Your blades met with a clash, steel, sparkling, footwork fluid and fast. But it wasn’t just training. You had a rythym now, a dance you both knew by heart. Teasing swipes, parried blows, a spin that brought you two almost chest to chest.

“You’re holding back.” Jake whispered low enough for only you to hear, breath brushing your cheek.

“So are you.” you whispered back, voice like silk. “What are you afraid of?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he lunged, and you spun. Your blades locked high, too high. One step, a slip. Your foot caught the edge of the sand pit, Jake reached out instinctively, grabbing your waist.

You fell.

Right onto the training mat, you landing on top of him with a surprised gasp, tangled up in his limbs and laughter.

Neither of you moved.

You hovered over him, bracing your hands on his chest, his heart pounding beneath your palms.

“You ok?” You asked softly.

“Perfect.” Jake breathed, but his eyes were fixated on your lips.

There was a beat, a long, electric pause. No teasing, no taunts. Just tension, want. Something warm and stupid and real blooming in his chest.

And then he leaned up, meeting you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, just a brush of lips, like a secret shared in plain sight. But then it deepened, slow and certain.

Until you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Jake rested his forehead against yours.

“Still think we’re just sparring?” you murmured, teasing smile in your voice.

Jake grinned. “Definitely not.”

From the sidelines, Jay, one of his brothers shouted.

“Get a cabin!”

But Jake reached up, brushed a strand from your face, and smirked. Eyes sparkly, lost, completely in love.

“I told you i’d win.”

“I let you fall.” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get cocky.”

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thank you so much for reading!! hope you enjoyed <3 it would help me a lot if you liked/repost but i’m happy knowing that someone even read this !!

heeseung’s drabble next !!

[gutsby]

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

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[viperify]

oneshots | ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⚔︎ You Promised.

Short Summary: he is ruthless when he kills, doesn’t show an ounce of mercy. Cold and quick with it—if you are lucky. Because for most captured Order members, he likes to drag it out. Not because they are the only remaining resistance against his father. He’s stopped caring about that a long time ago. No. They took something from him. The only person he has ever truly cared about. You.

Warnings: 18+ only! angst, mentions of death, violence, murder. Tom is Voldemort’s son. dub con if you squint? brief rough sex, praise, unprotected piv, creampie

A/N: I think I bent the meaning of assassin a tiny bit. Anyway, this is my participation for week three of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs!

wordcount: 3,1k

You were aware going out to hunt that one rare potion ingredient that night was a mistake. Yes, it was only available during full moon and then only for two to three hours—but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be the only one looking for it. And running into Snatchers really wasn’t something you wanted to risk.

But when Harry himself came asking whether you could look for them that night, you knew how urgent it was. The Order was so close to running out of healing potions, and if you denied—

You sighed and agreed.

Later that night, you and three others made your way to the Forbidden Forest, the only place nearby where you could find the rare flowers you were looking for. Not too deep into the forest, you find what you were looking for—blooming in bright purple, surrounded by fireflies.

The forest was eerily quiet at that time, except for the crunch of branches each time you took a step and the occasional screeches of birds nearby. Though, when you heard the distinctive sound of apparition somewhere not too far away, you stilled, froze. You tried to convince the others to leave, as you’d surely have enough for the month to come—yet nobody wanted to listen, there were more—just a few more—just a little further into the forest—

Until you were surrounded by the very people you warned them about before you left.

Outnumbered by at least five.

There was nothing you could do—your wand was taken faster than you could react. And without a wand—you were helpless.

—

Hours later, and you all find yourselves lined up in a basement—knees scraping against the cold, rough ground beneath you. Hands tied behind your back, scratchy cotton material secured over your head, blocking your vision.

This is it. You are going to die today.

Back when rumours spread that most killings are done by one single person, you didn’t believe them. Surely no human could muster up the strength to kill day in, day out.

Right?

Except—

No.

Tom wouldn’t.

Couldn’t have—

However, the longer you are left waiting, the more time you have to think about it all—you haven’t seen him since you left Hogwarts, since the war started. It’s been more than a year, and a lot has happened since. A lot has changed. He might have changed.

Then, your thoughts slip to just Tom.

How people, including yourself, would be afraid to even look at him—Voldemort’s son.

How he’d always be top of the class—except for that one time you were.

And the next time too.

How it would turn into a rivalry, a bitter fight over who would score higher on the next exam.

How most of your nights were spent in the library from that point on.

Tom would be there too. Never leave before you did.

How he would steal glances at you from the other side of the library.

How glances would turn into stares, stares that you noticed, that made your cheeks grow hot, that made you question whether you actually hated him as much as you told yourself you did.

And how that hatred turned into something completely different when you outscored him on a Defence Against the Dark Arts paper. His subject. The one nobody had ever even come close to him. When you smirked at him as soon as you realised, and he had this unreadable expression etched on his face.

How, as soon as that class ended and everyone had left, he pushed you against the cold stone wall of the corridor. Accused you of cheating. Accused you of Merlin knows what.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and then, just a second later—his lips crashed on yours. And it was even better than what you had imagined all these nights in the library—how your lips moved in sync with his, how eager he was to feel more of you, hands slipping under your blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake. How you leaned into his touch as though this wasn’t the son of the most feared wizard of Great Britain, probably the entire world.

Fuck, you wanted this more than anything else.

And when you broke apart—both of you gasping for air—he would breathe a soft “Merlin, I hate you so much.”

“I hate you too.” You replied, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

And you’d kiss again.

How from that point on, you’d study together. You were just trying to help each other—that’s what you told anyone asking. Tom would always tell you how nobody could know.

Students started giving you strange looks. Because how could you possibly spend time with someone who seemed to care about no one and nothing except himself and his studies?

They didn’t know. It was better that way, you told yourself.

How, in free periods, he’d always come to find you. Push you into the nearest classroom, lock the door behind you. Lips on yours before you could even complain. Ripping your blouse open because he was too damn impatient to unbutton it—and you’d scold him for it every single time—and he would just do it again next time.

“There is a simple spell to repair it. There is no spell to spend more time making you feel good, sweetheart.”

And with his lips trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, right at the spot he knew would have your knees grow weak—any rational thought left your brain in an instant.

He’d kiss down the valley between your breasts, fingers slowly making their way underneath the lace of your panties, preparing you for him.

He treated you like you were made of glass—which even surprised you sometimes. The quiet, nerdy boy who’d have witty answers to all questions. Who’d only have to look in the direction of students nearby to silence them, make them leave.

Tom was always careful with you.

Except if you outscored him on an exam. Then, he wasn’t as careful.

You didn’t mind that, though.

It all had to stay a secret, he liked to remind you of it. That nobody could know, not even your best friend, who would pester you with questions if you came back past curfew from one of your “study sessions”. You couldn’t tell her. Nobody. Not even your parents, who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world. You wondered if it was because of that. Judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched whenever you mentioned your muggle parents, you had your answer.

Your love was forbidden—but so, so delicious.

—

You hear the door to the basement creak open, and what you guess to be five Death Eaters approach you with heavy footsteps.

You don’t know if you are lucky or unlucky when they pass you, instead start on the other side of the line.

Make you witness the death of some of your closest friends.

Their blood-curdling screams and unheard pleas as they are left bleeding to death on the cold, wet stone floor.

Because—whoever does the killings—and you are pretty certain it is only one of them—doesn’t use their wand, but a knife.

Too many killing curses are known to have long-term effects, after all.

But with each victim more—you feel as though they do it with pleasure.

And Merlin, you weren’t ready to die that way.

You don’t have much time left to think about it before a firm hand tugs at the material over your head, tilting your head backwards.

“Last one.” An unfamiliar voice remarks somewhere to the left of you, and not even a second later, you feel the cold, unyielding metal of a knife press against your throat.

You don’t want to give whoever it is the satisfaction of any reaction—but when the sharp blade scrapes against your skin, drawing the first drops of blood—you can’t help the soft, pained whimper escaping your lips.

As if stunned, the hand holding the knife stills, and they let go of your head.

Instead, the material covering your face is cut, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the different lighting—and when they focus, your heart skips a beat.

You are met with a pair of dark brown eyes you would recognize under thousands of others—his.

Tom’s.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath and doesn’t waste another second thinking. He draws his wand and turns around. Spells fly in all directions, and you duck—the room lighting up in green, red, buzzing with electricity.

Then—silence.

For just a moment.

He takes your hand in his, and the next second you apparate away, finding yourself in a small, cozy place hidden somewhere in the woods. The wound on your skin burns, but he doesn’t let you touch it.

“Let me do this.” He insists, and with just two or three spells muttered, it stops bleeding and the pain fades.

You study him for a moment. It’s really him.

“Tom.” You whisper. Silent, careful.

He finally looks at you. Not like he did back at Hogwarts. He looks different now. Sharper features, older, more mature, with a scar right above his left eyebrow. You want to ask what happened, want to trace it with your finger, want to kiss it.

Kiss him.

His eyes are cloudy now, and he’s lost the spark he used to have whenever it was just you two. And—he has become what he promised you he wouldn’t.

Just like his father.

Maybe they were right, after all.

His grip on your shoulder tightens, and you wince softly as the rough wood bites into your back.

“You told me you wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. That you would be careful.” He raises his voice, and it almost breaks. “Merlin, you fucking promised me.”

He sounds more disappointed than angry when he says it.

He’s right. You did promise him. Right before the war, you promised each other two things. One, you’d be careful, wouldn’t take any risky tasks, would do anything to stay alive. Two, he would come back for you. Would find you after the war. Although he was aware that the chance of both of you surviving was rather slim.

You shake your head softly.

“It was always supposed to be like this, Tom. Us. Enemies. We fight for two very different things.”

He scoffs softly at that.

“You think I still care about any of this? He’s ill. He’s dying. Barely gets up nowadays.” Tom takes a step back, and you swallow. “He has been using me for— this for months. And if you think—“ his hands clench into fists as the muscles in his fingers twitch at the mere thought, and he pauses briefly. “If you think I get any better treatment than others when they don’t act according to his instructions, you are mistaken.”

You sob.

“You killed them. All of them.”

He takes your face into his hands.

“They took you from me. They let you get these ingredients when they knew how dangerous it was. You almost died at my hands. Because of them. You left me for them. I offered you a safe house, far away from here. Yet, they convinced you to stay. If you believe even for a second that I would shy away from killing them— think again.”

Tears are streaming down your face by the time he is done.

“I chose this, Tom. Nobody forced me.” You hiccup. “This was my choice, and my choice alone.”

One of his hands slips to your neck. They are cold. Not warm like they used to be when they roamed over your bare skin. You miss the warmth.

He pulls you closer again, eyes narrowing at your words.

“And fuck— a part of me wants to hurt you for this. Punish you. But I— I can’t.”

His gaze drops for a second, and his voice softens.

“I missed you. I thought of you every day, wondered whether you were doing alright. Wondered whether you were thinking of me too.”

You exhale a shaky breath, trying to find the right words. Of course you did too.

“Tom, I—“

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You have moved on, haven’t you? Found someone else.”

Your heart aches at his words.

“No!” You gasp, shaking your head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—“

Then, without letting you finish your sentence, he pulls you closer to kiss you. Soft at first—giving you space to draw back—but when you don’t, he holds you close, kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.

When you separate, there is this all-too-familiar fire behind his eyes—the one he used to have. And as much as you wanted to—

“We have a lot to talk about.” You try, but he merely shakes his head.

“That can wait. Let us have this.”

Before you get to object, his lips are on yours once more, and he guides you towards the bed in the centre of the room without once breaking the kiss.

Shirt torn open, button of your pants clinking as it drops to the floor.

Old habits.

“I hate you,” you murmur against his lips, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I hate you so much.”

It all happens quickly after that. Moments later, you are on the bed and he’s on top of you, trailing kisses down your neck—just like he used to do.

Then, you feel him pressing against you—already hard, tip swollen and leaking. You gasp when he swipes through your folds and instinctively squirm at the contact—but Tom is quick to reposition you, pinning your hands above your head with ease.

“No. You don’t get to run from me anymore. You’ll stay right here and take it. Take it like the good girl I know you are.”

He doesn’t wait much longer. He’s been waiting too long for this, and now that he’s finally got you back—he is going to utilize every single second he would get to spend with you before he’d have to leave again.

He pushes inside with one singular thrust. Doesn’t give you time to adjust.

And God—it’s been a while. You forgot how big he is—the burn of the stretch so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back and your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t feel you tensing beneath him. Doesn’t spot the strained look on your face. Instead, he has already set a rhythm. Hips slamming against yours so harshly, the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

You don’t want him to stop. You really don’t. But when he shifts his angle to reach even deeper—a strained whimper slips from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

The moment Tom hears the soft sound spilling over your lips, he lifts his head and stills inside of you.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, concern visible in his eyes as they search yours. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have— I will stop.”

You hold onto his arm when he begins to pull away, shaking your head no.

“No. Please don’t. Please don’t stop.” You plead as his eyes scan your face. “Just don’t— I haven’t— you know.”

Tom gives you a tight nod, taking it slower with you after that. Carefully giving you inch after inch, kissing along your jaw. Praising you for how well you are doing for him.

“Forgot how amazing you feel wrapped around me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hips stay flush against yours for a second—before he continues his slow and steady thrusts.

His hand slips between the both of you when he feels your walls flutter around him, rubbing your clit in tight circles—just how he knows you like it.

“Tom— Tom, please—“ you moan against his lips, and he rests your legs on his shoulders, allowing him deeper, brushing against that one sweet spot that has you see stars with every single thrust of his hips.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Let it all out.” He tells you, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You whimper-moan as the knot in your lower abdomen snaps, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls pulse, clamping down tight, drawing a low groan from him.

He helps you through it, prolongs your pleasure for as long as possible—then, gently, shifts your legs to either side of him, allowing him to lean in close once more. And when he’s close, cock twitching inside of you—

“Where— where can I—“ he rasps, hot breath against your neck, and your legs lock around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.

“Inside. Inside, please.”

“Fuck— so long— been waiting so long for this— “ he drawls, and with one more rough thrust, he spills inside of you—deep, painting your walls white with his release.

His body rests on top of yours after, catching his breath. None of you talk, not until he rolls off to lie beside you, and he takes your hand in his.

You look at him when you feel the muscles in his fingers spasm.

“Cruciatus Curse? Have treated many people with the same symptoms.” You say softly, thumb easing along his index finger.

“I told you. It doesn’t matter to him.” He retorts, voice calm as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, Tom. I am so sorry.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. You rest your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath you—eyelids slowly fluttering closed as his fingers brush through your hair.

It’s not long until he wakes you, though.

“I am being called,” he tells you, sitting up after placing your head on the pillow next to you, and your gaze drops to the mark on his arm. “Means they found the bodies.”

You too sit up, taking his wrist in your hand as you look up at him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”

“If I don’t, they’ll be here within the next five minutes. Neither you nor I would want that. You will stay here.”

Your hand grips his tighter.

“You’ll be back?”

He gives you a nod. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I promise.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[grayandthyme]

southbound ;

tommy miller x f!reader

masterlist

synopsis: After a small joy trip goes wrong, you're captured by a group planning to invade Jackson. Hours of torture follow—until Tommy finds you. Fueled by rage and something deeper he hasn’t said out loud, Tommy cuts through anyone in his way to bring you back. But getting home doesn’t mean things go back to normal. Not after what was done. Not after what he did. Now you’re both left with the weight of living, unspoken feelings, and the question of what comes next. warnings: Extreme mentions of violence, torture, blood, death, and gore. Reader gets mildly tortured, mention of sexual assault (doesn't happen), Tommy's a lil psycho ngl, Seattle!tommy vibes, 18+, Smut, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, spitting, hair pulling, praise kink, body worshipping (f receiving). SoftDom!Tommy, Reader follows his orders.. (who wouldn't w him??)

The sky hung heavy, darker than usual—like the storm had been waiting, bidding for its time. Most of the town was in a rush, hammering and hauling, shouting over the wind that hadn't yet arrived but already threatened everything. Tommy was elbow-deep in the fields, swinging a hammer into wooden posts with practiced effort, lining the ground for crops for post-storm.

You had slipped away from the noise, announcing your scouting shift, “Just gonna check the generator by the creek,” you said. “Be right back.”

God forbid you just wanted to walk around for a lil'. Nothing has ever happened on your patrols. Not a single thing.

You’d smiled as you said it, pressing a hand to his chest—his white t-shirt soft with wear, pulled tight over his worn-down strength.

“Don’t wait too long for me, cowboy.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. That look—equal parts tired and fond.

The kind of look that said I know you’re full of shit but I’m gonna let you go anyway.

There was always something unsaid between you. Something warm and infuriating and inevitable.

Eyes lingering too long, fingers brushing like accidents, shared smirks in the middle of chaos.

That dance at the bar—your hands in his, laughter spilling into the space where words usually failed.

You were supposed to come right back. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what he expected.

But the rain came fast, heavy. You had to pull off the trail, guiding your horse toward a half-collapsed garage just off the road. The door creaked open under your weight, metal screeching like a warning. Shelter, at least. But when you pressed your hand down on the walkie, all it gave you was static.

Useless. Just like the signal out here.

Just like promises made in passing touches and stupid jokes.

Just like saying I’ll be right back.

“Stupid fuckin’ thing,” you muttered, voice low and bitter as you twisted the dial on the walkie.

Click. Static. Click again. Nothing. Not even a whisper from Jackson.

You fiddled with the receiver like it might suddenly change its mind. Like Tommy’s voice might cut through the fuzz and tell you to hurry back. But it didn’t. Just more silence.

With a sigh, you gave up, yanking a cracked plastic beer crate from the corner of the garage and flopping down onto it.

It groaned beneath your weight.

Just you and your horse now. She snorted gently from the shadows where she was tied, content and half-asleep, like she trusted the walls to hold. It wasn’t all bad, right? The quiet? The kind that only exists after the world ends. You could pretend it was just a road trip. Just a night alone in someone else’s mess.

Fingers drumming across your thighs in an offbeat rhythm—boredom or nerves, hard to say. Eventually, you stood with a grunt, your knees clicking like the old garage door had, slow, rusted, and reluctant.

You wandered. For funsies. Why the hell not?

The place smelled like rust and oil, maybe a little mildew. Tools lay abandoned on dusty benches, a couple of long-dead flies stuck to the surfaces like they’d been swatted mid-thought. Sticky. You trailed your fingers along the edge of a workbench, smearing clean streaks through the grime.

A magazine rack caught your eye—crooked and clinging to the wall like it had survived something it shouldn't have. You raised a brow when you spotted the stack of Playboy issues, their covers yellowed but still grinning like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

A soft laugh escaped you, the first real sound in what felt like hours. You let out a low whistle, nodding at the magazines like they were an inside joke you weren’t sure you should be laughing at.

"Classy," you muttered, then turned toward the photos taped to the wall beside them—family snapshots, curling at the edges.

A man and a woman. A kid in a Halloween costume. A golden retriever with a tennis ball in its mouth.

You smiled, faintly. This place wasn’t just a garage—it had been someone’s sanctuary. A father, probably. Someone who fixed things with his hands.

Okay, maybe exploring wasn't that bad.

Standing there for a while, just breathing, listening to the storm rattle faintly against the roof.

A low rumble in the distance made your horse stir, but she settled when she heard your voice.

“Yeah, I know,”

“Be mad at me all you want,” you said quietly, eyes still on the faded snapshots. “Wasn’t supposed to take this long.”

The words lingered in the stillness like dust in the air—settling into your chest heavier than you'd like to admit.

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, already imagining the guilt in your horse’s eyes. You’d owe her a carrot. Maybe two. Call it bonding. Or maybe a peace offering for dragging her into yet another mess that smelled like wet drywall and regret.

With a tired breath, you crossed the concrete floor, boots scuffing against the ground. You crouched at the edge of the garage, fingers curling beneath the threshold of the door. It was stuck, of course. Everything in this world resisted being moved. You gave it a tug—metal scraping, shrieking.

“Shit,” you muttered, cringing at the noise.

Subtlety was out the window.

From the crack in the garage door, the rain still poured—worse now than it had been when you ducked in. Sheets of water smacked the gravel and turned the air sticky and thick. A good old-fashioned Wyoming storm, like the kind you’d watch from midwestern porches when the world still made sense.

You glanced sideways toward your horse, her ears twitching beneath the wind. “Up for a little waterpark action?” you asked, lips twitching into something like a smile. She gave you a slow blink, unimpressed. As if she could even respond.

You didn’t have a choice, really.

Stay here, and you risk a lot more than getting wet.

Death. You were talking about death.

Out there, at least, you’re moving. And moving meant you had a shot—at getting back, at being useful, at not letting anyone down.

You pressed your palm flat against the metal and shoved the door the rest of the way up. It rattled into place with a reluctant clunk. The rain greeted you like a slap. Humid.

Beyond the garage, the storm swallowed everything—the trees, the trail, the space between you and the people waiting back in Jackson. But you stepped forward anyway, arm shielding your face, shoulders squared.

Your eyes flicked to the walkie as it crackled to life, static humming low like a warning.

Then came the click—brief, sharp—followed by the voice on the other end, strained and no-nonsense.

“Radio Two, copy. Make your way back to Jackson. Main trail’s gonna flood any hour now, and Tommy’s pissed. Over.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft nod to no one. Yeah. You figured he’d be pissed. Probably pacing the front gate with that jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes scanning sorta look. y’know, the one.

You pressed the button. “Copy. Making it back now. Holed up in the tan house—garage, ‘bout a mile or so out from the generator. Should be headin’ back any minute. Over.”

Slipping the radio inside your jacket, the static dulled, but not the unease humming beneath your ribs.

You turned toward your horse, patting her flank gently as you moved to mount up.

That’s when you heard it.

A crisp snap—the unmistakable sound of breaking branches. Not wind. Not rain. Something closer. Slower.

You froze mid-step, hand halfway to the saddle horn. Heart catching. Breath tightening. The kind of silence that followed wasn’t natural—it was listening.

Your hand instinctively brushed the grip of your pistol at your side. You didn’t draw. Not yet. You turned your head slowly, eyes scanning the tree line just past the edge of the open garage.

There—movement. A shape, or the idea of one. Just far enough to make your skin crawl. Not close. But not far enough either.

The rain pounded on, relentless. Somewhere behind it, the storm kept whispering secrets to the trees.

You stepped back, slow and quiet. The kind of quiet you didn’t breathe through. Your horse shifted beside you, sensing it too.

“Okay,” you murmured, barely a breath. “Time to go.”

Your horse reacted before you did—ears pinning back, a sharp snort ripping from her throat as her hooves scraped backward, skittering against the slick garage floor. That sound alone would've been enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

Crash.

The shattering of glass behind you came too fast to register. The world turned sideways, violently, as something—a bottle—cracked against the side of your skull. A burst of light exploded behind your eyes. Pain bloomed sharp and instant.

The concrete met you before you knew you were falling—your shoulder taking the brunt, your head bouncing once, twice.

Dazed.

Move.

Your instincts screamed louder than your head injury. You twisted onto your back, body slick with rain and blood—now panic, hand scrabbling across the ground—fingers numb, and desperate for your weapon.

A breathless grunt tore from your chest as you half-crawled, half-flung yourself into the open storm. The cold rain hit you like needles, soaking instantly through your jacket, but you didn’t have time to feel it.

Your horse screamed. That awful, gut-wrenching kind of scream that told you everything you needed to know.

A gunshot rang out. Crack. She dropped mid-kick, legs folding beneath her as she collapsed hard onto the wet gravel.

“No—!” you choked, but the word was lost in the thunder, in the horror.

Another shape surged from the garage behind you. You spun, but not fast enough.

The man was on you—his weight slamming into your torso like a freight train, sending you skidding across the mud. His hands clawed for your gun, your grip barely holding as the two of you wrestled for control.

Rain poured, turning your grip into a losing battle. Your desert eagle slipped between your palms, the cold metal slick with water and blood.

“Get off me, fuckin’ get—” You kneed him, hard, catching somewhere soft. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

You caught a glimpse—two women moving behind a rusted pickup in the lot. One was reloading. The other, already raising a rifle. Seven total. Maybe more. You’d lost count in the blur.

This wasn’t a robbery. This was an ambush.

The man atop you growled through his teeth, pressing his forearm against your throat as he tried to pin you. The barrel of your own gun now half out of your grip, half in his.

Your hand slipped—he nearly had it.

So you bit him.

You sank your teeth into his arm with everything you had, jaw clamping through soaked fabric and skin. He screamed, and you took the second he gave you.

Twisting your hips and threw him off-balance—enough to jam your knee upward and roll. Mud caked your palms, your fingers finally curling fully around your weapon.

You fired.

Point-blank. Right into his gut.

He didn’t scream this time—just choked. A wet, sputtering sound that would haunt you later if you made it out.

But you didn’t wait. You scrambled to your feet, backpedaling as more shouts rang out. You ducked behind a burnt-out car shell, breath ragged, blood dripping down your temple.

They were circling now. Organized. Too clean to be amateurs.

You checked your clip.

Half-full. Not enough.

Your horse was gone.

Escape, gone.

This wasn’t a fight. This was survival. They weren't shooting directly at you.

That means they wanted you alive. And, that's even more dangerous than dying.

You gritted your teeth, steeling yourself.

"Come on then," you muttered to the storm.

You barely had time to reload. Your fingers moved by muscle memory, slamming the mag home and cocking the slide just as another figure emerged from your right—low to the ground, fast, deliberate.

You turned, too slow.

He tackled you mid-pivot, dragging you into the gravel with a force that knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. You hit the ground hard, your spine lighting up with pain as rocks scraped skin and dug into your ribs.

Your gun skitteded from your hand, bouncing-tumbling somewhere out of reach into the dark of rain.

“Shit—” you gasped, but his knee was already pinning your chest, weight pressing down like a goddamn boulder.

You punched him—once, twice, knuckles splitting against the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Blood smeared, but he only flinched with a grimace, teeth knotted together tightly.

He grabbed your wrist mid-swing, twisted.

Snap.

White-hot pain screamed up your arm. You cried out, elbow buckling. He used the opening to slam his fist into your face.

Everything blinked white.

Then pain. Nausea. Another hit.

You tried to roll, but he caught you again—hands like vices, one in your hair, yanking your head back so your neck arched unnaturally.

“Shoulda stayed in that garage,” he rasped. His breath was sour and too close.

A deep purse of your lips, spitting blood into his eye. It bought you half a second—enough to scramble, wild and uneven, onto your knees.

He kicked you in the ribs. Then again.

You collapsed onto your side, arms wrapped around your middle as the air wheezed out of your lungs. Something cracked inside. Definitely cracked.

Still—you reached for your knife. One more chance.

But he saw it. His boot came down on your hand.

A sickening crunch.

You screamed.

Your fingers didn’t move after that. The knife stayed in the dirt, untouched, as he grabbed you by your jacket collar and hauled you up. You thrashed, but it was all desperation now—unfocused, sloppy, weak.

He punched you again. And again.

Until your knees gave out.

Until the rain became a blur behind your lashes.

Until you couldn’t tell what was thunder and what was your heartbeat.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was one of the women walking toward you, her rifle slung across her back and zip ties in her hand.

“Still alive?” she asked.

“Barely,” the man muttered, wiping his mouth.

“Good. They’re gonna want to talk to her.”

Your head lulled to the side as they pulled your arms behind your back. You couldn’t stop the cry that left your mouth—raw, broken. You tasted blood. Dirt.

Somewhere far off, the rain kept falling.

And Jackson felt very, very far away.

Though someone else’s mind was running fucking circles.

“I’m gettin’ on that damn horse, and I’m checkin’ that house.” Tommy’s voice rang out through the barn—sharp, low, barely controlled. His hands moved fast, looping the reins tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked under his stubble.

Rain was leaking through the old roof in steady drips, pattering off saddles and crates.

It didn’t faze him.

Nothing did right since the silence hanging on the radio.

Joel leaned against the stall door, arms crossed like the world was one big inconvenience. His brows were furrowed, deep lines carved between his eyes as he shook his head with that same goddamn annoyed look he always wore when he knew something was about to go sideways.

“You won’t be able to see five fuckin’ feet in front of you, Tommy.”

Tommy ignored him, yanking the saddle tight. “Then I’ll feel it out.”

“You’ll feel yourself off a damn cliff,” Joel muttered, pushing off the doors trim and stepping closer. His voice dropped, but it was no less sharp. “Storm’s not lettin’ up, trail’s already washed out. I told you she’d come back. She’s not stupid.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched tighter. “She’s not late unless somethin’ happened, Joel.”

“Or she got stuck somewhere and waited it out like we trained her to do,” Joel shot back, voice rising slightly, arms now gesturing with that same old exasperated flair. “Jesus, Tommy, it’s been two hours. You’re actin’ like we already dug the grave.”

Tommy whipped around, eyes sharp, voice low but laced with steel. “She ain’t just some fuckin’ scout, Joel.”

Joel paused. Just for a breath.

And that was all Tommy needed.

“She’s smart, yeah, but she’s kind, too. You know that,” he said, pointing a gloved finger toward him.

“She'd stop to help a family of strays if they looked at her sideways. If someone laid a trap, she’d be the one who tried talkin’ her way through it before pullin’ the trigger.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What, you think she got jumped?”

“I know somethin’ ain’t right.” Tommy’s voice cracked there—just barely, like something was fraying at the edge of his usually steady tone. “And if she’s hurt out there somewhere while we’re standin’ around arguin’, I won’t be able to live with that.”

Joel looked at him for a long second, silent now. Studying. Judging.

Then, “You in love with her or somethin’?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Joel huffed. “Jesus, Tommy," Hand raising up to clasp a pinch on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Tommy finally looked up, eyes hard, rain already starting to streak down his face as he pulled the barn doors open. “Then I guess I’ll die on the road she shoulda come back on.”

Joel didn’t stop him. “God damn, idiot."

The road there was half a river by now—nothing but slick mud and pooling floodwater, and Tommy’s horse fought every inch of it. He gripped the reins high, the leather soaked and sliding between his gloves, his thighs aching from the pressure it took just to stay on.

Rain didn’t fall—it hammered. Each drop sharp as glass, pelting his skin like it had a vendetta.

Branches whipped his face. Water bled down the inside of his collar. His boots were long past soaked, sloshing heavy with every rise and fall in the saddle.

Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but what he might find up ahead. He knew the route—every damn tree root and deer trail. But tonight, it felt unfamiliar. Wrong. The kind of silence that made your gut twist before your mind could catch up.

Then he saw it.

The house.

There she was.

Not You.

Your horse.

Laid out in the dirt like a forgotten carcass. Blood mixing with the rain, thick red ribbons vanishing into the brown runoff. Prints everywhere—boots, dragging marks, something heavy gouging through the dirt. Blood. So much blood.

And your pack. Just lying there by the edge of the garage, torn open. Tommy stood slowly. Chest heaving, lungs burning.

“Fuck,” he breathed. It came out like a growl.

His hand went to his holster. Fingers curled around the grip of his rifle like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Then he started walking. The slow, agonizing piecing together of the scene.

Boots sinking ankle-deep in water, body soaked to the bone—but none of it touched him anymore. That dull ache in his ribs, the sting of open skin on his face, the whip of wind and thunder—they were just noise now.

Because he knew what this was.

This wasn’t someone gone off-course.

This was a snatch.

A deliberate, grimey thing.

A warning, maybe. A message. To who? He didn’t care.

You hadn’t gone down easy. That much was clear.

He imagined you, scrambling through this same mud, blood on her mouth, teeth gritted and wild-eyed. He practically picture your fingers fighting for a weapon, boots kicking through puddles, the sound of your voice in a scream.

He could hear it. And something inside him snapped. The last bit of patience. Of diplomacy.

Gone.

You came to with the taste of rust in your mouth and something cold pressed to your cheek.

Concrete.

Your eyes fluttered open, one already swelling shut from the hit previous. The room was dim, yellowed light flickering above like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay on or give up.

Everything fucking hurt—your ribs, your shoulders, your wrists strung tight behind your back with rough cord.

Knees raw from dragging.

Jaw tight from where they'd backhanded you hard enough to make your ears ring.

Voices echoed. Low. Male. Calm in that cold, practiced way that made your stomach twist.

“She’s awake,” one of them said.

Boots scraped across the floor. The sound had weight to it—intended, deliberate.

You blinked again, trying to focus, only for a hand to twist in your hair and yank your head back.

“There she is,” another voice cooed. A woman, this time. Syrupy-sweet in the worst way. “Was startin’ to think we cracked your skull too hard.”

You spat at her feet. Or tried to.

It landed short. Too dry.

She laughed anyway, crouching beside you. Fingers trailing along your cheek like a warning.

“We’re gonna play a game, sweetheart. Real simple.”

You didn’t respond.

Not at first.

The man beside her stepped forward—tall, broad, a scar carved deep into his forehead. The same one who’d pulled your gun from your grip. You remembered the weight of him. The fury.

He crouched too, grabbing your jaw tight between calloused fingers.

“Tell us how many people Jackson’s holdin’.”

You didn’t blink. Just stared. Your breath shallow.

“Fuck off.”

A pause.

Then the fist came. Swift. Precise.

You saw stars.

Your body twisted sideways, head spinning. Ears ringing again.

He didn’t even grunt. Just straightened and looked back to the woman.

“She’ll talk.”

“Eventually,” the woman said, turning now, pacing. “We’ve got time.”

Your vision blurred. The pain bloomed like fire through your jaw, but your heart? Still steady. Still stubborn.

Because you knew what this was.

They wanted Jackson. Something in Jackson, at least. Weapons? Food? Fuck, an army?

“They won’t come for you, you know,” the woman called, her voice lighter now, taunting. “People like you? Disposable. Another cog in the little machine. Bet they’ll write you off by morning.”

Your mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a snarl.

“You don’t know shit about them.”

You don't know him.

She stopped.

“Oh? That a crack in the wall I hear?”

You just stared.

But your silence—stubborn as it was—would cost you.

The man grabbed you again. This time pulling you up to your knees. The cords at your wrists pulled harder, slicing skin.

“You wanna do it the easy way, or you want me to start takin’ pieces?”

You looked up at him, rainwater still drying in your hair, blood in the corner of your mouth, teeth bared—

“Start with my fuckin' di—"

He snarled.

And this time, the hit sent you fully into the dark.

Time became slippery.

It bled between moments—blinks and screams, boots and leather, the sound of dripping water somewhere above, and the sharp, sharp sting of electricity licking across your ribs.

You weren’t sure how long it had been.

Hours. Maybe more.

You’d slumped forward now, barely able to hold yourself upright. Blood had dried tacky against your cheek, cut along your temple still leaking slow and steady. Your wrists were numb, rope biting deeper with every twitch.

You couldn't feel your fingers. Couldn't feel your entire fucking body.

But you still hadn’t said a word.

“Un-fuckin-believable,” one of the men muttered, pacing now, wiping sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. “She’s gotta be military trained or some shit. No way she’s just a scout.”

“She’s fuckin' stupid, that’s what she is,” the woman hissed. “They’re all like this. Built on fantasy and fucking self-righteous bullshit. She’ll crack. Just needs the right lever.”

Your head lulled to the side. You breathed—shallow, wet.

The scarred man knelt again. He’d been the worst of them. The ringleader. Always the one who came back in with something new in his hands.

A blade. A cigarette. The end of a belt.

This time? Nothing. Just his hands.

“I’ve broken tougher,” he said quietly. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

You met his eyes through the haze. One barely open, the other nearly swollen shut.

Your voice scraped low, dry, near-gone.

“Then you’re gettin’ fuckin’ slow.”

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. And then stood.

"One more round,” he said. “Then we take a finger. One at a time. She’ll tell us how many rifles Jackson’s stockpiling. Where the weak points in their walls are. How many patrols per shift.”

He looked back down at you. Smiled a little.

“And if she doesn’t? Well. We’ve still got use for warm bodies.”

Your face twists, an actual pang of horror driving straight into your bones.

It wasn't like the fear previous, no—this was nauseating.

The others started shuffling again—tools clanking, boots scuffing against concrete.

But even with your head pounding, your limbs shaking, your body giving out—you didn’t fold.

Because Tommy’s voice still lived behind your ribs.

"You get back to me, y’hear? You always get back."

"You always this sweet? Cookies before patrol? Aren't I fuckin' lucky."

"You.. You look real pretty t'night, Darlin'."

And he would come. He had to.

Because you weren’t dying in this fucking basement. And they were going to regret not killing you the second they had the chance.

The forest had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Even with the storm passing overhead—just distant rumbles now—something about the air had shifted. Gone still. Heavy. Like it knew what was coming.

Tommy had dismounted three clicks back. Left the horse tied near a broken fence line. Didn’t want to risk it panicking from the noise he planned to make.

His rifle was slung across his chest now, hands steady despite the mud smeared up to his knees, soaked shirt clinging to his skin. His face was stone—jaw tight, eyes flat, dark.

They took you.

And that was all it took.

Through the treeline, half-crouched behind a rotted shed, he finally saw movement. Flashlights. Voices.

A woman—one of the ones who dragged you off—stepped out to smoke. Just past the edge of the busted house. Relaxed.

Stupid.

Tommy adjusted his grip. Wind blew. And then, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The crack of the rifle shattered the stillness.

Her skull snapped back, burst like a rotted melon. A full exit wound painting the wall behind her. No scream. Just the wet, dull slap of her body hitting the dirt.

That was the first.

Tommy didn’t breathe as he moved, rifle already slung behind him, hand reaching for the sawed-off on his thigh. He moved like water—low, trained, silent. Every muscle coiled, honed from years of training across FEDRA lines, Firefly camps, and shit most men couldn’t dream of surviving.

He approached the corpse without even glancing at it. Just stepped over her boot and reached down, yanking the walkie off her hip. He clicked it once—static—and then again, waiting for a voice.

“You good out there?”

Tommy pressed the button.

“She can't come to the phone right now.” he exhaled, voice low, graveled.

A pause.

Static.

Tommy smiled, as if his own joke caught him off guard. Tossing the walkie to the side.

Let them know. Let them fear. Let them start running.

Because he wasn’t here to negotiate. He wasn’t here to threaten or barter or wave a white flag. He was going to paint the goddamn dirt with their insides. One by one. Until he had you back. And until the last of them bled for what they did.

You weren’t sure if you’d passed out or just shut down for a while.

Your head hung low, hair plastered to your face, soaked in a mix of sweat, rain, and blood. Every nerve felt frayed, twitching from hours of abuse.

Your left eye was fully swollen shut now.

Breathing was shallow—like your ribs didn’t want to move anymore.

You couldn’t feel your fingers, couldn’t tell how much blood you’d lost.

Still hadn’t talked. Didn’t plan to. Didn’t have much left to say anyway.

“C’mon,” one of the men barked from the back of the room—scarred one, mean and lazy with his fists. “She’s fuckin’ useless at this point. We should’ve done this quicker.”

“You’re impatient,” the woman replied coldly, leaning against the table across from you, arms crossed. “Everyone breaks. You just have to find the right crack.”

You chuckled. Or tried to. Came out wet. Hollow.

“You… talk too much.” She sneered, standing up straighter, and just as she stepped forward to hit you again— The shot rang out.

Crack.

Silence.

Then a splatter.

Something wet hit the wall—behind you, to your left. Outside of the house. You blinked, barely able to lift your head. The woman turned sharply, eyes wide.

“What the fuck was that?”

The scarred man swore under his breath, reached for his gun, and shoved the nearest other lackey toward the door.

“You, check it.”

The man went outside, pressing his body to the wall.

Another beat passed.

Then a scream from outside.

It was short.

Cut off.

Wet.

Panic started to grow now—real panic. You could feel it vibrating through the floor, in the footsteps pounding across the rotted wood. Someone was yelling for reinforcements. Another bolted from the room entirely. A door slammed.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Tommy.

You felt him.

And so did they.

The scarred man was still in the room, pacing now, gun up, hand shaking. He looked at you, eyes narrowed—like this was your fault.

“You bring someone with you?” he spat.

You smiled, just a little. Blood pooled at the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” you rasped, voice shredded, “you should’ve killed me sooner.”

Flickering.

And then the lights cut out.

Everything went black.

You heard it first.

The splintering of wood.

The crunch of a boot.

And then the wet, heavy choke of someone gargling on their own blood from right outside.

You didn’t know where he was.

But you knew who it was.

And someone was about to die.

The first body crashed through the open doorway like a sack of meat.

Throat slit wide. Eyes glassed over. The blood so caked, leaking into the floor it looked black.

Tommy stepped through right after—rifle hanging from one hand, his combat knife dripping from the other. His shirt was plastered to him, soaked in blood that wasn’t his. His face was unreadable. Cold. But his eyes—

His eyes were locked on you.

And then he moved.

The woman spun to fire—too slow.

Tommy’s rifle barked once, and the round ripped straight through her neck. It tore it open like wet paper, spine severed, blood spraying in a hot arc against the wall. She collapsed with a sickening snap, twitching, mouth gasping—but she was already dead.

Fuck, you've never seen him like this.

This was different than clickers, or strays. This was—murder.

The scarred man screamed, firing off a panicked shot—missed wide. Tommy dropped the rifle and charged.

It wasn’t clean.

Tommy slammed into him like a freight train, knocking the gun from his hands, and they went to the floor with a crunch of ribs and a snapped chair leg. He didn’t hesitate. One hand gripped the man's throat—squeezed—while the other brought the knife down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The blade sliced into throat—fast, like muscle memory. Blood sprayed up across Tommy’s arm, hot and thick, pooling under them. The man tried to scream, but all that came out was foam and choking.

Then he shoved the knife up—straight under the jaw, the man spasmed—and stilled.

The final one—a younger guy—had dropped his weapon.

He was begging.

“No—no, please, I didn’t touch her—I didn’t—I was just following—”

Tommy shot him in the kneecap.

The scream that came out was feral.

He stepped forward, calmly, practically dragging the kid by the collar as he shrieked and sobbed, blood gushing down his leg.

“I don’t give a shit.”

He didn’t even use the knife. Just his boot.

Stomping.

The guy’s skull split, bounced once, then slumped limp. The floor was soaked now. The stink of death, copper, rot and terror.

Tommy finally dropped the blade.

Breathing hard.

And then—he turned.

He was at your side in three long strides, falling to his knees so fast it nearly hurt your ribs. His hands hovered, not even touching you yet—afraid to break something even more.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “Christ… look at me. Look at me, baby.”

Your eyes fluttered open. Purple, puffy. You barely smiled. Barely made a sound.

“You came,” you whispered, voice just a rattle of air.

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like he might snap a tooth. His eyes were full of blood and murder and grief. And then, so gently it broke your heart, he untied your wrists. And held you like you were something sacred. Even covered in blood. Even broken. He held you like you were still his.

His arms were shaking. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

Because Tommy Miller had just painted a room in blood—and still, none of it had been enough.

Your hands were barely untied when you collapsed forward into him, and he caught you like instinct. Like he needed to. His arms wrapped around your middle, mindful of the cuts, the swelling, the way your body flinched at even the softest pressure. His voice was a whisper now. Hoarse. Words stuck in his throat like barbed wire.

“Shit, darlin’. Look at what they did to you…”

You didn’t answer right away. Your face was half-buried in the blood-soaked collar of his shirt, the tang of iron stinging your throat. It smelled mostly of blood. But his scent was still there—earthy, sweat, gunpowder, and something warm. Something safe. You gripped at his shirt with fingers that barely worked, nails caked in dried blood.

“Tommy…”

“I’m here,” he murmured, cupping the back of your head, pulling you in tighter. “I’m here, baby. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You were shivering. Shock. He knew it. Felt it in your bones rattling against his chest.

He shifted, adjusting his grip, one arm sweeping under your legs. You cried out—just a little—and that single sound shattered something in him. He looked down at you, eyes glassy, jaw locked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“You got here,” you rasped, trying to focus on him through the blur. “That’s… that’s what matters.”

Tommy nodded, lips pressed to your temple, forehead, anywhere that wasn’t broken. He stood, slow and deliberate, cradling you to his chest. Your blood smeared across his arms, down his knuckles, mixing with the gore on his boots as he stepped over the bodies.

He didn’t look at them.

Didn’t need to.

They weren’t people anymore.

They were just reminders.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Mist rose off the dirt, the air heavy with the aftermath of violence. He carried you through it—shoulders squared, rifle slung back over him, blood dripping down one temple from a cut he hadn’t noticed.

His voice came low again as he moved through the trees.

“We’ll get you patched up. Warm. I’ll get you food, alright?”

He was just babbling at this point. Probably to keep you awake.

You didn’t respond, and that silence was a blade in his gut.

“Talk to me,” he said, quieter now. “Just… say anythin’, honey.”

You stirred against his chest, cheek brushing his collarbone.

“mmhmhm.. Food, yeah.” you mumbled, though it came out mostly as a hum.

Tommy exhaled. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t joy. It was grief, maybe. Or guilt.

But still—he held you tighter.

Through the trees.

Through the mud.

Back to the horse waiting down the path. Back to Jackson. And whatever would come next—for you both.

The forest whispered around you, leaves shivering under the rain’s weight. The storm had thinned to a quiet drizzle now, but the damage had been done—your skin was cold, damp, clinging to Tommy’s chest like it was the only place left on earth that felt safe.

He rode slow.

One arm locked around your waist to keep you steady, the other guiding the horse with a firm grip on the reins. His jaw was clenched so tight, it ached. Every breath that came from him was shallow, controlled. Like if he let it go too deep, he might snap in two.

You stirred a little, back of your head rolling against his collarbone. The bruises on your ribs lit up from the motion.

“Don’t—don’t move too much,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You exhaled a shaky breath.

“You know I’m in love with you… right?” Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your head was still resting against him, but your fingers—weak, trembling—tightened slightly around his coat.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whispered. “Not like this. I just… I want you to know.” His chest rose slow, then fell. The hand at your side flexed once. Twice.

There was a long pause. Just the sound of the rain tapping leaves, the creak of leather, the faint huff of the horse beneath you. Then, in a quiet, fractured voice:

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet. Tense.

“Yeah, I know.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of answer that carried weight behind it—grief, fury, guilt. Love.

You didn’t say anything else.

You couldn’t.

The words had cost too much.

Only after being checked by multiple doctors, and Maria… And, Joel… Did you finally get time to yourself.

Or so you thought.

“Jesus, look at you,” Tommy muttered, crouched in front of you, his hands working a damp cloth over the dried blood on your temple. “You get into a bar fight with a goddamn lawnmower?”

You huffed, throat raw, the corner of your mouth twitching despite the ache. “That supposed to be funny?”

Tommy shot you a look—half a smirk, half a grimace. “Didn’t say it was good.”

The rag moved gently over your skin, but there was nothing calm in his movements. Not really. His jaw was locked tight, his shoulders coiled like he still hadn’t come down from the killing.

And you’d seen it. All of it.

The aftermath, the blood, the bodies—the way he’d taken out seventeen people like it was nothing. Like he was built for it. Not just angry. Trained. Efficient. A switch had flipped and turned him into something else entirely.

You hadn’t said a word about it yet. You weren’t sure you could.

“You always this mouthy when you’re patching someone up?” you asked, quieter now. Your voice cracked a little.

Tommy didn’t look up. “Only when I’m patchin’ up someone too fuckin’ stubborn to stay safe.”

You blinked, the weight of his words like a slap. He finally looked at you, eyes hard, burning low.

Tommy stood abruptly, tossing the rag into the bowl with a splash. He paced two steps away, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the blood off his memories.

“You look at me different now?” he asked, voice dry. “After all that?”

You paused.

“…Little bit.”

His back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I mean,” you said, softer, “you did paint the walls with someone’s brain.”

Tommy snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, well. They fuckin' earned it.”

He turned back, walked toward you again—but slower now. Tension rolled off him in waves, soaked into the floorboards of the house. He stood in front of you, silent for a beat, then lowered himself back down to one knee.

“But you’re not scared of me?” he asked. Quiet. Direct.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The blood on his shirt hadn’t dried. His knuckles were raw. There was a smear of something dark on his jaw—someone else’s, not his.

And still, even now, with your body broken and your head ringing, he was here. Holding you up. Keeping you whole.

“…No,” you answered honestly. And, even if you secretly were—your answer would always be no.

Tommy’s eyes flicked over your face, searching.

Like he was trying to find the lie in you and failing.

His voice dropped.

“You told me somethin’ on that horse.”

You blinked slowly. “…Yeah.”

“Still true?”

The air in the room changed. Thickened.

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

His jaw ticked.

He reached up and touched your cheek—just two fingers, light and fleeting.

“I know,” he said, voice sanded down to something close to regret. “I just can’t afford to say it back right now.”

A beat. Your heart stuttered.

“Why?”

He exhaled hard. “’Cause if I do, and I lose you again…” he trailed off, jaw pulsing for a moment, the tendon in his neck sparking alive.

“I ain’t sure what I’ll become next.”

And god help anyone who found out.

Tommy’s fingers lingered against your cheek, but he wasn’t really touching you anymore.

He was looking at you. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or run headfirst into a wall. Anger pulsating off of his muscles, like a thick stench.

Eyes dark, jaw tight. His thumb dragged gently over a smear of dried blood near your lip, and his touch slowed like he was memorizing the curve of your face.

Your eyes looming up his face, you made contact with those easy dark browns.

“You look at me like that again,” he said low, almost like a warning, “… and I ain’t gonna be able to stop myself.”

Your breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

That silence—the heavy kind, the kind that means something—settled for just a second.

Then everything snapped.

He surged forward, grabbing your face in both hands like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth crashed into yours—all teeth and heat, desperate and rough around the edges. Not gentle. Not anymore.

It was hungry—like he’d been holding this in for years and something inside him had finally shattered. His lips crushed against yours, and you met him with equal fire, fingers tangling in his damp curls, dragging him closer, closer.

He groaned into your mouth, deep and gravel-thick, like the sound was ripped straight out of his chest. His hands slid down to your waist, yanking you forward off of the countertop, hauling you into his lap like he couldn’t get enough of your skin against his.

The kiss turned messier—your nose bumping his, your bruises sparking heat when his stubble grazed over your jaw.

None of it mattered.

You didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted all of it. Pretty sure the split in your lip had come undone again, slowly gushing crimson.

His breath was ragged when he pulled back just an inch, lips red, messily and slick, forehead pressed to yours.

“Jesus,” You muttered, voice wrecked.

Your thumb brushed along his jaw, feeling the tension still buzzing beneath.

"Don't start preachin' now."

God can't save you.

His laugh was low, dark, his mouth already moving back to yours. And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t hunger anymore.

The rain outside hammered steady against the windows, but inside Tommy’s small, dimly lit room, everything else fell away. The sharp taste of his lips on yours was electric—like fire against bruised skin, dangerous and alive.

His hands didn’t hesitate, tracing every line and curve, memorizing every inch of you with an urgency that made your breath catch. Fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You felt him—his body tense and trembling beneath your hands, raw and unrelenting. Fingers sliding beneath his shirt, tracing the hard planes of his chest—the steady thump of his heart racing in time with yours.

Every touch was desperate, like both of you were trying to make up for lost time, for the nights you didn’t know if you’d survive.

You arched against him, hands clutching at his shoulders as the tension twisted tighter and tighter inside you.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, voice rough and low. Tommy’s hands slid down, tracing the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The heat between you was fierce, bruising, alive—And in that small room, with rain pounding the windows and blood still drying on skin, you found a moment of something pure—something worth fighting for.

Tommy’s lips trailed lower, tracing a slow, burning path down your skin. His breath was warm, ragged, his hands gripping your hips like he’d never let go.

“Do you know what I would do for you?” he hummed, voice thick with something dark and fierce.

His mouth pressed kisses against your thighs, worshipping every inch like you were the only thing that kept him from losing his goddamn mind.

You shivered, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “Tell me.”

His fingers clenched tighter, pads of fingers digging just enough to remind you he was real, alive—dangerous in every way.

“More than what I did today,” he exhales, voice ragged, edged with something fierce. “More than tearing apart every son of a bitch who laid a hand on you.”

Your eyes met his—wide, soft, heavy with something unspoken in the dim, flickering light. Heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. The way he said it—like your pain was the spark to his wildfire, the fuel to his recklessness.

Tommy’s gaze locked onto yours, and slow, deliberate, his hand gripped the hem of your shorts, peeling the fabric down with careful hunger—mindful of your bruises, yet ravenous.

“You’re all I’ve got left to fight for,” he exhaled against your skin, breath hot and uneven, ghosting over your bruised flesh. “I’d burn the whole goddamn world to ash before I let you go.”

His touch was fierce, demanding—but beneath that storm was something fragile, a desperate tenderness clinging beneath the surface. His lips trailed along the sheer fabric of your underwear, planting scattered, teasing kisses like soft gunfire.

“Say it again,” you whispered, voice hoarse but tender.

A low growl rumbled from him, thick with raw hunger and reverence. “I’m insane for you,” Tommy confessed, voice breaking on the words. “You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart—and I’m fuckin’ lost without you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, craving to drown in the wild heat that radiated from him.

His lips pressed back against the thin cloth, one rough middle finger slipping beneath the edge to pull it aside. Then, without warning, his tongue flicked along your folds—careful, reverent—stirring a raw, guttural moan from deep inside you. His tongue swirled slow around your clit, tender and unrelenting.

“Shit—” you gasped, thighs instinctively trying to close. His free hand caught your leg, palm wide, pressing it firmly back down.

His tongue danced, tracing small strokes up and down, lifting his chin to trap your clit between lips and teeth. A breathy, rough laugh slipped out as he slurped, lips and scruff slick with your essence—crudely beautiful, just like him.

Tommy’s mouth never left you, worshipping every shiver that his tongue milked from deep inside. His hands moved with the same reckless devotion—one sliding up your ribs, beckoning for any inch of your breast, while the other curled around your hip, forearm and elbow pushing against your thigh, anchoring you like he’d never remove his mouth from your cunt.

The heat pooling low in your stomach bloomed fierce, aching, and wild.

Your breath hitched as he deepened his ministrations, slow licks encircling, pressing harder, teasing, nibbling—pulling from you guttural sounds you hadn’t meant to give.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark and stormy, swallowing the sight of you with something feral, almost desperate. There was a visible deep lick up, tilting his head into the taste.

“Goddamn,” he muttered between strokes, voice low and ragged. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your hands tangled in his hair again, pulling him closer as your body arched instinctively, desperate for more. As if stating, don't stop now, cowboy.

"Tastes like fuckin' heaven." It came out between vulgar slurping, and pebbling of his tongue.

Tommy’s lips parted from your heat with a pop, leaving a trail up your thigh, kisses wet, marking you with his hunger. His fingers slipped around your skin, tracing the raw edges of your pain and pleasure, making you forget the world—forget everything but him.

“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, his breath hot against your skin, “… Tell me what you want.”

You shivered, voice trembling, breath ragged. “You.”

"Shit, Doll," He leaned up on his knees, arm lifting behind to position his splayed hand across his back—fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt, and pulling it off.

If you died tonight, so fucking be it. The sight in front of you was enough to make you drool like a fucking dog. Tanned skin, scars peppered in random places, a dark inked sigil on his bicep, something you've definitely never seen before.

"… 'Makin be blush."

His voice came out sarcastic, almost unwavering in cockiness. His hands lowered, the clinking of his belt as he undid it—one hand pulling the leather slack until it fully slid out from his belt loops. "Roll on your stomach."

It came out more as a soft demand. Maybe, asking nicely if you squinted hard enough. He knew your condition wasn't tip top, his hands softly guiding around your waist to flip you on your stomach.

Leaning forward he lowered a hand to splay across your stomach, beckoning you to arch your back. His hand slid up from your stomach, rounding your ass, head tilting as if he was just inspecting you.

It felt a bit open, and airy. Never being on display for someone like this. "Gorgeous fuckin' girl." It rolled off his tongue like he was saying it to himself. Like you weren't even in the room.

"Cmon," He mumbled, it exhaled softly, slipping his free hand between your thighs, "Spread 'em wide." You obeyed without another beat, flexing your hips up to position against him—knees spreading open as they press into the plush of the mattress. As you move, he praises, "I know you're exhausted," A pause, "Yeah—That's a good girl."

"Tommy…" Your voice wavered, letting your face push into the plush of his comforter, a deep breath filling with his woodsy scent. It came out as a plea, and warning. His hands gently slide forward on the curvature of your back, fingers spreading heat across your spine. "I can't believe they touched you."

His fingers gently push your hair over your shoulder, back-bare—"I could do it a thousan' times over again,"

Kill them. He means slaughtering them.

Tommy leans forward, hand moving down to pull himself from his boxers, "You're lucky I don't lock you in this fuckin' room…" Breath coming out soft as his hand strokes up and down his cock, raising his hips to split you open. Sliding in with ease—a guttural clearing of his throat, and a whine so deep from your throat it causes him to let out a hoarse breath.

Hips sloppily grinding together at even the contact of penetration. "So fuckin' wet for me." His voice comes out grainy—bottom lip falling victim to the top row of his teeth. Hands coming down against your waist, holding you in place like some fucked-out pocketpussy. The shock rhythm of his hips starts slow, dragging his cock all the way out, and then slowly grinding back in.

"Fuck, sweet'girl," He rasps, deep hunger from his throat, "Take me so good…" One hand leaving your hips, sinking down to the back of your neck, a soft hold—hips jackhammering faster, and faster, until the echoing of skin-slapping fills the room.

At this point, you're spent. Head looming concussion from the event earlier, and his words eating at your braincells like fucking slop.

Babbles of his name, and whines slipping from your lips—muffled by the fabric shoved into your face.

"Look what they did to my poor fuckin' girl." He snarls, a deep exhale as he leans forward—his chest pressed against your shoulder-blades, rutting into from a deeper angle.

Tommy's tongue slides against a bruise on your shoulder, falling into an open-mouthed kiss along the lines of your traps.

"—if anyone ever puts their hands on you again," It sounds like a promise, relished in holy ink. That even a man who could bathe in the blood of others sins, could be so angelic to you. "Shit—Tommy," It's accidental, the twist in your gut coming all too fast.

"I know," He exhales, "I know, babygirl—" His hips stutter for a second, slipping out. You practically whine at the loss of connection, head tilting to the side to watch from your ass-up position. He's soft with the positioning, hands encircling your waist to flip you back over onto your back.

The breath comes out of his mouth in a deep, husky exhale. Eyes practically drinking in the sight of you on your back, legs tilted open for him, breasts on display.

"God—I'm one lucky fuckin' man," Leaning down, his lips trail around your chest, peppering soft nibbles and heated-healing kisses against your collarbones.

His face finally comes into your view, mouth inches from yours—so far in your space you could practically taste his breath.

You open your mouth, wanting to say somethng—anything—but you were so fucking tired. Just wanting to be used, below him as he takes out any ounce of anger he still has in his body.

"Wider." He nods to your mouth, leaning forward with a tilt of his head. You comply, lips parting wide, your tongue lulling out ever so slightly. It's slow, as he gathers the spit in his mouth, then moves his lips together, letting it dribble on to your tongue.

"My dirty fuckin' girl," It comes out as a husky laugh, before he glides his tongue against yours, taking in the spit, diving into a heated kiss—tongue and teeth.

His hand slid between your sweat-slicked bodies, grabbing on to his cock, guiding it to line up with your entrance.

Soft slide, as he buries himself hilt fucking deep inside you, tip of his cock pressing against the pink-and-reddened of your cervix.

"There she is," It comes out as a laugh. Like he was talking to it.

Panting entirely now, hips slapping and pistoning against your pelvis—huffs of groans, and pleas of your name as you flutter against him. "You're killin' me," Babbles from his mouth as he absentmindedly talks, plunging in all the way, and dragging back out. "Absolutely fuckin' killin' me."

The familiar coil in your gut comes back, that fresh blooming heat, pleas of his name, "Tommy—I'm gonna—" He swallows your voice whole, lips finding yours in another messy sloppy clash. Hand raising between you both, a palmful of your breast—thumb, and forefinger rolling the pebbling of your nipple in his grasp. Tommy's teeth sliding against your bottom lip, reopening the split from earlier—tongue swiping any inkling of blood.

"Cmon," He advised, "Let go, you're okay," Lips slowly making their way across your jawline, peppering down to your neck, "Milk me fuckin' dry." Boost of encouragement as his hand lifts from your breast, trailing against the back of your neck to take a fistful of hair.

The feeling washes over you, hot, and speckled—skin lit aflame as your stomach churns, insides tightening and fluttering against him. It elicits a cry from your throat, ripped of his name like a prayer, and pleasure. He smiles against the line of your jaw, delicate as he rides it out, making sure to hit the same spot over—and over—and over.

The feeling overwhelmed him, eyebrows knitting together as he leans forward on his palms—head tilted down to watch as he ruts into you. Watching the connection—messy, and slick as the mixture of precum and fluid coat his cock.

He's practically in a trance. It's not too long later that the image of you writhing underneath him sends a livewire to his brain. Hips stuttering as they sloppily slam into you, his fingers knotting themselves into the blanket fabric beside your head.

"Shit, Doll," He hums, eyes shutting tightly as he buries deep inside of you one final time—muscles tense, biceps spasming as he holds himself over you.

The hot wash of him spilling inside of you triggers a brainfucked giggle to slip, his eyes only slitting open to watch.

When the dust settles, he pulls out with a tight groan—collapsing beside you like a weary shadow. His hand rises slowly, tracing a slow, tired arc across his face before threading through his tangled hair.

The sweat cooled on your skin, as you both lay tangled beneath the plush sheets. The room was heavy with silence, the only sound the soft thrum of rain against the windowpane. Tommy’s breath was uneven, chest rising and falling close to yours, but his eyes were fixed somewhere just beyond the ceiling, lost in thought.

Leaning over, you traced a lazy line along his collarbone with a trembling finger, careful not to break the fragile quiet. “You’re not gonna talk about it, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours above the blankets, fingers curling around your wrist with a surprising gentleness. “What’s there to say?” His voice was rough, distant. “Not proud of what I am. Not proud of what I did.”

You squeezed his hand. “Doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking like it was tearing something inside him loose, “It means I’m scared for you.”

Your eyes locked. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slow and heavy, he rolled to his side to face you, his hand still holding yours as if it anchored him to something real.

Tommy’s eyes lit aflame with something fragile—something you hadn’t seen before. “You’re the only thing I want to keep safe. Even when I can’t keep myself safe.”

You didn’t speak.

You just listened to the rain.

authors note: i love seattle tommy.. like ughhyess hubby give me all your dark and angst.. lemme get that also?? that fight scene… okay baddie!! you fought like hell!!

masterlist

[dark-l-angel]

hi pookie <3 just wondering if you could write for Jason and dick (separately) with a fem!spidersona who's a little on the thicker side (not dumb, like thick thighs.) Luv ur stuff!!

Batfam x thick fem!spidersona reader :

Jason Todd

Jason is feral for your body, point blank.

He especially loves your strength.. the way your thighs lock around enemies (or him…), and he feels it. Will tell you shamelessly:

“Could crush a man with these thighs. Lucky it’s me, huh?”

When you’re web-swinging, he watches like it’s the best show on Earth. Says it’s to “study your technique,” but we all know.

Loves pulling you into his lap, big hands sliding over your hips, saying in that rough voice: “C’mere, lemme feel you.”

After missions, if you’ve got a tear in your suit, he’s inspecting every inch, fingers brushing your skin longer than necessary.

Definitely a thigh guy. Loves having his head between them or just resting his hand there when you’re relaxing together.

If someone else stares too long? Jason’s arm is around you immediately, staring them down with a look that promises violence.

Dick Grayson

Dick is the definition of an ass man and a thigh man. He’s absolutely shameless about admiring you.

He’ll watch you move in the suit with open appreciation: "You’re gonna distract me, babe. And I mean, I’m not complaining…"

Constantly offers "training assistance" (especially flexibility exercises) just an excuse to have his hands all over you.

Praises your body like it’s poetry.

"You’re a masterpiece, you know that?"

"Perfect curves in all the right places."

After patrol, he’ll pull you close, run his hands over your hips, and murmur: "We need a cool-down, don’t you think?"

Loves to tease with feather-light touches over your skin, especially if you're sensitive, watching you shiver under his hands.

He’ll take any excuse to cuddle you, all tangled limbs, his hands smoothing over your curves like you’re something precious.

Tim Drake

Tim is flustered but obsessed.

He tries to play it cool, he really does, but you catch him staring all the time.. especially at your thighs when you perch on rooftops.

He has a weakness for seeing you in your suit after a mission, sweaty, breathing hard, curves on full display.

Cue Tim.exe has stopped working.

Loves laying his head on your thighs while working on his laptop. You’re his favorite pillow, bar none.

He gets adorably awkward when you catch him staring, mumbling: "You just… you look really good, okay?"

If you tease him about it, he turns red but leans into it eventually. Gets bolder with time, hands lingering longer.

Surprise kisses when you least expect it, pulling you into his lap to feel the weight of you against him.

Damian Wayne

Damian acts unaffected at first.. but inside? Absolutely not.

He adores your strength and body. He respects power, and you radiate it.

Will absolutely admire your form during combat and not hide it.

"Your physique serves you well in battle. It is… impressive."

Always ends training sessions with subtle compliments: "Your power is admirable. Continue honing it." (Translation: I can’t stop thinking about you.)

If anyone dares disrespect or objectify you, he’s ready to draw a blade.

Loves quiet, intimate moments where you’re both tending to injuries, his fingers brushing your skin gently but lingering over your curves.

If you sit beside him, he subtly pulls you closer, almost like he needs to feel you next to him.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce is quietly obsessed.

He’s a man of control, but you.. especially in that suit, especially with those curves.. make his restraint fray at the edges.

Watches you with a sharp, dark gaze, cataloging every movement.

He adores your strength. You handle yourself so well in fights, and he watches with a glimmer of pride… and something far more heated.

When you’re alone, he lets the mask slip:

"You’re… extraordinary. Every inch of you."

Big, warm hands exploring your curves, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.

Very much about subtle possession.. a hand on your lower back, guiding you, keeping you close in public.

In private? Deep kisses, his hands gripping your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

A/N : hey honey, I can also give u extras if u want:

- How they react seeing u in new suits (tight ones… ahem.)

- bedroom headcanons or even mini scenes

- Jealous moments (if someone flirts with u or touches u accidentally…)

- First time intimacy with each of them.

- How they’d mark u… ya know. With kisses or more.

[em1i2a3]

Girls Like You (Continuation of My Desire)

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Fem!Reader (Ex-HYDRA)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Violence, Blood, Gore, PTSD, Swearing, Description of Injuries and Harm to Characters, There is a self inflicted injury (by accident), Bucky goes through it again and it is quite a rough one for our dude, Angst, yknow what? The characters are kinda having a bad time for a great portion of this but we got a happy ending? That’s good. WS!Bucky makes an appearance.

Smut Warnings: Some good old fashioned lovemaking, Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’alllllll), Oral Sex (f! Receiving), Praise Kink, Biting, Marking, Choking (if you squint), Restraining (if you squint), Nipple Play, Fingering, Scratching (with intent to mark), Grinding, a little bit of a cum kink? Kind of?

Author’s Note: All I want to say is…Holy Crap. Thank you for the overwhelming response to ‘My Desire’! I wanted to give y’all what you guys were requesting, and I have decided to add a second part to this story! It took a hot minute and I apologize for that (I had a lot of ideas for this and needed to settle on something, and on top of that I wanted to try and do the story some justice), I also took a few liberties here for the story, nothing too major but I am hoping it is okay :) I hope everyone enjoys it, and thank you again <3 :)

Word Count: 24,961 (CERTIFIED YAPPER RIGHT HERE LOL)

PART ONE IS HERE: My Desire

After the third round, your body had given you no choice but to surrender, every muscle ached with the sweet burn of overuse, every nerve ending tingled like it hadn’t gotten the memo that it was time to come down. Somehow, though, you’d summoned the strength to peel yourself from the warmth of the bed to tug on a pair of underwear, followed by one of Bucky’s shirts, it was soft, oversized, and infused with his sweet scent; pine, sage, and lavender, the perfect mixture that almost brought you to intoxication. It was an attempt, however feeble, to reclaim a bit of control over the morning. To ground yourself again after hours spent unraveling at his hands.

The light creeping through the curtains was dim and gold, casting long shadows across the tangled sheets and the bruises that were peppered across your skin, marks from where his mouth had been, where his fingers had gripped, where you’d lost yourselves in each other again and again. You pushed your disheveled hair out of your face, the movement revealing a dark bite mark just below your ear.

Bucky’s eyes tracked the shift in the fabric of your shirt like a predator drawn to the scent of something familiar. He was lying back against the headboard, his hair a tangled mess, his chest flushed and still rising with the aftermath of exertion. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his gaze held the kind of smug amusement that made you want to either roll your eyes or kiss him breathless. Maybe both.

“You’re looking a little too proud of yourself over there” You murmured, climbing onto the bed, your voice lacking the typical bite it usually had, crawling on your hands and knees towards the pillow beside him. You collapsed onto your side, your gaze looking out the window, needing a second to just breathe. The cool air of the room kissed your heated skin, even though the sheets were still warm from where his body had been just moments ago, writhing beneath you.

A soft chuckle vibrated through the mattress, low and intimate.

You didn’t have to look to know he was moving. You felt the bed dip, his weight shifting closer. Then, his vibranium arm, cool and smooth, slipped beneath the hem of your borrowed shirt. His fingers found your hip first, brushing gently over the tender, bruised skin there. Then he slid further, wrapping his arm all the way around you, pulling you against his chest like you belonged there. Which, at this point, he had staked his claim enough that you were practically branded.

A quiet huff escaped you, more amused than annoyed. His vibranium hand fanned out across your stomach, the coolness of it displaying a startling contrast to the fire he’d left in his wake. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your skin; squares, triangles, swirls, anything his mind could think of before circling your navel like he wasn’t aware of what it was doing to you.

But of course he was. It was obvious.

“Bucky…If you keep touching me like that I’m going to break your fingers.” You warned against the pillow, the butterflies in your stomach twisting, already responding to his touch, just like it had the past three rounds. His nose brushed against your neck, his warm breath sticking to your skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface of your flesh.

”I think we both know you like my fingers far too much for you to actually break ‘em huh?” He responded, punctuating the statement by placing a gentle, open mouthed kiss to your bruised neck, a smile draped on his lips, your jaw tightening at the wetness he left with his tongue.

“Wasn’t three rounds enough?” You asked, now turning onto your back so you could look at him. He shook his head.

”I did tell you in the shower that I would want you like this every day didn’t I?” You let out a small laugh, your eyes scanning over the damage you had done to him last night, how the bite marks and bruises were already fading away, slowly but surely, disappointed that his work would be on you for longer, knowing it took you just a little longer to heal.

”Bucky…We’ve been having sex for hours at this point, I’m pretty sure you’ve thrown me into enough positions that the Kama Sutra would be embarrassed…You’re just overindulging now.” He grinned at your comment, his cheeks heating up thinking about what had transpired during the night, his fingers trailing over the waistband of your underwear.

”If that’s overindulgence I will proudly continue to partake.” He responded. You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already leaning down, catching your lips in a kiss that was a complete departure from the hunger of the hours before. This one was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that made your chest ache and your heart thrum painfully in your ribs. You whimpered softly into his mouth, your hands instinctively threading through the thick mess of his hair as you kissed him back, already melting into the weight of him pressing down on you. Bucky shifted slowly, the mattress dipping with his movement, slotting himself between your thighs like he belonged there. Your legs parted easily to accommodate him, the soreness barely a blip beneath the heat curling up in your belly all over again. He cushioned his hips against yours, his body settling over you like a heavy, protective blanket, in an attempt to mold himself to the shape of you.

When he pulled back from the kiss, his lips hovered a breath from yours, the heated air from him filling your lungs.

”Can I take this as a sign we can go for round four?” You let out a small laugh of disbelief, tilting your head back against the pillows to get a better look at him. You could see the way his cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with the hunger you had seen the entire night.

”Do you have an unlimited stamina cheat code from the serum or something? How are you not the least bit exhausted?” Bucky shrugged, a toothy smile coming up on his mouth.

”Sweetheart…I don’t need a cheat code, I could do this forever.” He whispered, his lips skimming your jaw, lingering for a few seconds, then traveling downward, pausing just above the scattered constellation of purple and red marks he’d left on your neck. His mouth ghosted over them with a feather-light touch, kissing the aftermath of his work, admiring the wreckage he’d caused. You sighed, the sound slipping involuntarily from your lips as his hand slid to your hip, anchoring you beneath him like he couldn’t bear the thought of you slipping away.

”Of course you could.” You murmured under your breath, feeling him gently tug at the collar of your shirt, the fabric shifting to expose more surface area to him. His mouth latched onto the skin, grazing it with his teeth, your fingers curling into his messy, tangled strands of hair that were still damp at the ends from the shower you shared, and possibly from him sweating.

”You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He teased, his words warm against your skin. You shuddered at the way his breath tickled across your sensitive flesh, his tongue poking out to trace over the bruises he had left hours ago.

“I’m…I’m just saying,” You stuttered, feeling his weight press into you as he adjusted himself, “If you weren’t a super soldier I’d be worried for your heart.” His laugh vibrated through you, continuing to trail down your body, keeping eye contact, reading every expression that came up on your face.

”That’s cute you care about me possibly having a heart attack on top of you.” He joked, reaching for the hem of your shirt, pushing it up to expose your stomach to him, as he peppered kisses along the soft flesh. “While I may be old in theory, my body is still young and it’s always ready to please.” He continued, his eyes watching you closely, seeing your lashes flutter at the sensation of his lips touching your skin, your body arching slightly to chase his movements.

“Always ready to please, huh?” You joked, scratching at his scalp with your nails, his eyes closing at the chill that raced up his spine.

“Mhm.” He responded, his lips moving towards your hip bone, his teeth gently nipping at the muscle, “I take my work very seriously.” You bit your lip, feeling him tug at your waistband to expose more skin to him, a soft moan escaping you, feeling him suck on the little fingerprint marks he had left while you were on top of him just half an hour ago.

”I’ve noticed.” You commented breathlessly. Bucky smirked against your skin, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear, pulling ever so slowly, teasing, testing-

RING RING RING.

You both froze in place, the intimacy in the air immediately being sucked out of the room, even though you were still burning from the inside out, longing for him to continue. Bucky let out a frustrated groan, dropping his forehead against your stomach, the reality suddenly setting in for the both of you.

”Nooooo.” Was all he could muster to say, as you reached blindly for the phone with your free hand, hoping it was going to be a quick conversation. You didn’t even look at the caller ID when you answered.

“Yea, hello?” You greeted, sitting up slightly.

”Wow, don’t you sound chipper this morning.” Natasha’s voice echoed over the other end of the line. You closed your eyes, feeling Bucky's hot breath still hitting your stomach, his vibranium hand remaining on your outer thigh, tracing over the three scars that marked your skin, like he was waiting for the conversation to be done so the both of you could get back to what you were doing.

”Nat? What are you doing calling at this time?” You asked, looking down at Bucky, who’s eyebrows raised slightly at the question.

”Well, Maria called me yesterday and asked if I would be willing to fly over there to extract the both of you, she said the sooner the better, so Steve and I decided to come down to get you guys. We just arrived in Vienna.” You felt your stomach plummet to the floor, seeing Bucky’s head shoot up from where he was, his eyes wide with horror, your hand unraveling from his hair.

“They’re here?” He mouthed, watching you nod slowly.

“Oh that’s great…Just landed right?” You asked, your voice rising in pitch slightly.

“Yeah, we are about twenty minutes away from the hotel, depending on how fast Steve drives of course.” You forced a laugh at her comment, trying to sound as natural as possible.

“Oh great, well hopefully Steve’s driving doesn’t get you too angry and he gets you guys here in twenty minutes.” You shot a look at Bucky who was staring at you like you had personally ruined his life.

”Twenty minutes?” He mouthed dramatically again, you nodded, now putting your hand over his lips so you weren’t distracted by him. Bucky said something which muffledb something against your hand, causing you to press your palm against his mouth just a little harder.

“Well, we’ll see you soon then!” You added, trying to cut the call as soon as possible so the both of you could scramble to get ready.

“…Are you alright? You sound a bit odd. You didn’t kill Bucky did you?” She asked, trying to make a joke even though she still sounded suspicious. Bucky bit down on the inside of your palm, just enough to make you flinch, smacking him on the arm, seeing a dumb smirk drawn up on his lips.

”Yeah, I’m alright. No, I didn't kill Bucky. It was a long night, so I’m just exhausted that’s all. Can’t wait to see the both of you though. I’m gonna start getting ready.” You announced, looking at your hand, seeing the little teeth marks in your skin, shooting Bucky a death stare.

”Alright. See you soon.” Natasha said, the suspicion still lacing her voice, reluctantly taking your answers at face-value, as you hung up, throwing the phone onto the entanglement of sheets at the foot of the bed.

“We are fucked.” Bucky announced, flopping onto his back, like a man accepting his fate.

“No Bucky, we are not just fucked…We are going to be crucified for the rest of our lives, we will never live this down.” You explained, rubbing your head as you got up off the bed, fixing your underwear and shirt quickly.

”Crucified is a bit dramatic I think.” Bucky responded, “Also, I doubt that Nat and Steve will really care about our sexual escapade, but we definitely won’t be able to live it down like you said..” You raised your eyebrows at him, dragging your suitcase towards you, digging around for a change of clothes.

”Bucky…I had a blood thirsty grudge against you no less than 48 hours ago give or take…Natasha is going to have a hard time wrapping her head around the fact that we suddenly had sex in under a day or two of being in each other's presence. She will be concerned about the change.” Bucky shrugged.

”So you have to tell her the truth…That’s all.” You huffed at how he said it so simply, like it was going to be easy. You tossed a pair of jeans onto the bed, before rummaging through the suitcase for a sweater, finding the simple high collar zip-up that was going to be fitting for hiding the marks that enveloped the skin of your neck, throwing it on top of the jeans, before turning your back towards him.

”And what exactly is the truth? That I invited you to shower with me? That I had a lapse of judgement all night?” He sighed, watching you peeling off his shirt. His eyes dropped down immediately to the deep, red scratches that ran down the length of your back, scattered all over the place in frantic patterns. He could feel his breath hitch in his chest as you threw his shirt over to him, snapping him out of the moment. Quickly he slipped the top on over his frame, adjusting it over his chest, taking in the warmth that you had given it before getting off the bed to stretch out his sore limbs.

“Hey, let’s not backtrack here and pretend that was just a lapse of judgement,” He murmured, grabbing your sweater from the bed, stepping towards you slowly, watching you find a pair of socks, “You didn’t look like you were regretting it when you had your nails scraping down my back and you were saying-.” You straightened up and spun on your heels so fast that you nearly knocked into him, placing your hand against his sternum to stop him from getting any closer.

”Don’t finish that sentence please…” You said, your cheeks heating up beneath his mischievous glare, he raised his hands in fake surrender.

”Alright…Alright,” He said, stifling a grin, “I’ll spare your dignity for now…But for the record, I think that moment was the highlight of my night.” He added, unfolding the sweater, “Now…Let me help you get this on.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

”I’m pretty sure I can dress myself.” He shook his head.

”Not right now you can’t, c’mon…Arms up, don’t make me wrestle you.” You rolled your eyes at him, unable to fight off the smirk that was coming up on your lips. You obeyed the request, lifting your arms with a dramatic groan.

”You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh absolutely.” He said without missing a beat, slipping the sweater over your head, his knuckles grazing your ribs as he pulled the fabric down slowly, your head popping out from the top of it. With a careful hand he smoothed the material over your body, like he was tucking you in, his eyes not leaving yours.

“Might be my new favourite thing…Dressing you after undressing you…I mean talk about full circle.” He joked, letting his hands linger just a second too long on your waist. You narrowed your eyes at him.

”You’re ridiculous.” You muttered, fighting a grin, watching him reach for the zipper, his gaze lingering on the scar between your chest, the bruises that lingered across it, where he had kissed and sucked with such reverence.

”I might be…” His voice dipping, his eyes raising back to yours, the both of you exchanging heated glances at one another, communicating without words, your eyes softening at the way he looked at you, his hand bringing the cold metal up your chest, the sound of the teeth catching rhythmically in the silence.

“But you’re still letting me help you are you not?” He added, watching the fabric effectively cover all the marks he had made on you. He didn’t step back right away, he stayed in your space, his eyes roaming over yours. His thumb grazed just below your jawline, feeling the warmth radiating from your skin, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. He sighed, like he was giving into all his wants and desires, reaching up with his vibranium hand to cup your cheek, caressing it gently, the coolness providing a relief from the heat that you could barely control at this point. You leaned in, seeing him mirror your actions, taking the opportunity to get the last few touches and kisses in before Steve and Natasha’s arrival.

The kiss was soft, not like the ones from last night which were frantic and breathless. It was slow, intentional, sensual even. You brought your hand up to his wrist, wrapping your fingers around it, to hold him in place. Bucky hummed against your lips, deepening the kiss, tilting his head to fit you better, his nose brushing against yours as he shifted closer.

The intimacy of the moment made you feel dizzy, not because it was heated, but because it was tender, gentle, and all consuming.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered over yours, breathing you in shakily.

”Are you sure we can’t squeeze in another round?” He whispered, his lips brushing against yours, voice low and hopeful like a prayer. You could hear the teasing laced into his words, but the way his thumb traced idle circles along your hip told you he was only half joking.

”You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Bucky pulled back slightly, a pout forming on his lips, acting wounded.

”I’m just saying! We have…” He paused, spinning the both of you around so he could see the alarm clock on the nightstand, “A solid fifteen minutes before Steve and Natasha arrive.” You arched a brow at him, holding onto his shoulders.

”And what do you think you’ll be able to achieve in fifteen minutes, you little sex addict?” Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“I can think of a lot of things,” He whispered, letting his hands sneak beneath the hem of your sweater, his fingers splaying warmly across your bare skin. His thumbs brushed lazy lines along your waist, and he leaned in to press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just let me prove it to you.” He added, his breath hot against your skin. Your cheeks flushed, heat rushing to your cheeks as you looked up at him. His pupils had blown wide again, swallowing up most of the blue in his eyes, and the intensity of it made your stomach twist with butterflies all over again.

”How about you hold yourself together for the day, and we can figure something out for tonight huh?” He raised his eyebrows, tracing his vibranium fingers across your back.

”Are you trying to bargain with a man who’s on the brink of starvation?” You gave him a pointed look, sliding your hands down to rest on his chest, gently giving him a little push to widen the space between the both of you.

“Bucky, it’s been forty five minutes…Maybe an hour since we last had sex…I’m very sure you’re not on the brink of starvation.” He gave you a sheepish smile, as his hands dropped to his sides in exaggerated defeat.

“Fine…At least I tried.” You let out a soft laugh, stepping back to grab your jeans from the bed.

”Yeah. Tried and failed.” You teased, as Bucky’s eyes watched you, scanning the curve of your hips as you stepped into your jeans, tugging them up with a practiced hop and wiggle, buttoning them and zippering the zipper, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth, leaning against the wall behind him. You raised your eyebrows at him.

”You done cataloguing my every move?” Bucky tilted his head, an unapologetic look of admiration glossing over his eyes.

”I was just trying to appreciate the art before the exhibit closes.” Your lips twitched slightly, as you grabbed your socks.

“The exhibit is just taking a brief intermission.” You shot back, taking a seat on the bed.

”Good,” He said, dragging his eyes over you once more, “Because I want a private tour later, full access.” You snorted, pulling on one sock, shaking your head with a smile of disbelief tugging at the corners of your mouth.

”My goodness,” you muttered, glancing over at Bucky, “How the hell are you going to pull off pretending you hate me if you’re all mush right now?” He raised an eyebrow at your question.

”I’ve still got some Winter Soldier kicking around in me, and I’ve also got a good poker face…I think I’ll be able to slip into the role very easily.” You let out a small laugh, tugging your second sock on.

”Not when you’re undressing me with your eyes Bucky.” He gave a shrug.

”It’s called multitasking. One of my many talents, right up there with marksmanship, espionage, and making you moan my name.” You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him, seeing him catch it without even trying, a small laugh escaping his throat, tossing it to the floor. You could feel the heat inch up your neck, encompassing the skin on your cheeks, burning from his little quips.

“Go open the window over there, we need to air out the room.” You muttered using the heady scent of the room as an excuse to cool yourself down while you reached to grab your black combat boots.

”Yes ma’am,” He smirked, padding over to the window, tugging the sheer curtains aside, unlatching the glass before pushing it open. A cool breeze swept into the room instantly, chasing away the thick scent of sweat and sex that clung to the sheets, blowing his hair back.

“Hopefully that will get rid of the Eau de Bucky.” You teased, pulling on your boots, tying them tight in double knots before standing to your feet and brushing the invisible dust off your jeans. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised, his eyes shining with amusement.

”Eau de Bucky…Is an extremely limited edition fragrance, and it leaves a lasting impression, or so I’ve seen.” He commented, stepping away from the window, tousling his hair in an attempt to straighten it out and make it look less messy. You reached into your bag and retrieved your comb, tossing it to him in silence before turning your attention to the bed. In no orderly fashion you fixed the sheets and the duvet, trying to smooth everything down as much as possible to hide the evidence of what the night had brought to the both of you, there was a slim chance that Natasha would be roaming around the room but you thought you’d take all precautions just to be safe. You took one step back, surveying the room like it was a crime scene that you were trying to clean up in a hurry.

”Not too bad.” Bucky murmured behind you, catching your eyes in the reflection of the mirror, his hair now back to semi-normal, framing his face. He moved towards you, approaching slowly and gracefully like he was being pulled into your orbit. A small smile drew up onto his lips when his chest met yours, his arms immediately draping around your waist, his hands finding their place on your hips. He didn’t squeeze the sensitive flesh, he just held, his fingers twitching against you. You closed your eyes for a beat, exhaling slowly, trying to keep yourself composed.

”We really can’t be doing this right now…” You whispered, your voice sounding far less convincing than it was meant to be. When you opened your eyes he was already looking down at you, pupils blown wide, the thin blue ring around it shimmering, his eyes scanning over every detail of your face.

“I know…Just give me a minute okay?” You opened your mouth to say something, but couldn’t find a reason to protest, so you gave in, bringing your hands to rest against his chest, your fingers fanning over the smooth cotton of his shirt, his expression softening.

Then, with no rush at all, he bent his head and kissed you.

It was soft and slow, a gentle meeting of mouths that made your knees threaten to buckle all over again. Your hands curled into his shirt, gripping tight, like part of you already missed him even though he hadn’t gone anywhere.

His mouth moved with intention, savoring. One hand slipped up from your hip to cradle the back of your head, holding you steady as he pulled back to tilt his head, kissing you again, this time allowing it to deepen and last just little longer so that the both of you were desperate for one another. He was on a mission to remember exactly what you tasted like before everything between you had to be hidden behind sharpened words and narrowed eyes again, and he was exceeding his goals tenfold. Your hands slid up his shirt, arms curling around his neck to bring him closer, a gentle moan escaping his throat as his fingers tightened at your waist.

Then a soft knock at the front door tore the moment apart. You froze against him, pulling away, lips still parted and swollen, your heart slamming into your ribs like it was trying to escape. He gulped, pressing his forehead to yours, exhaling a curse under his breath.

“Perfect timing, as always.” He whispered, you narrowed your eyes at him, reluctantly pushing at his chest.

”Get your game face on, Barnes.” He stepped back, the warmth of his hands leaving you. You watched him closely, as he wiped his bottom lip off with his thumb before dragging his palm down his face, like he was scrubbing the softness off him, following behind you while you made your way towards the door.

Another knock echoed through the room, this one a little more firmer than the last.

”Alright, alright,” You muttered, glancing over your shoulder, seeing that Bucky was over by the kitchenette, leaning against the counter, his jaw set, eyes ice cold, back in character. You took a deep breath, unlocking the door and swinging it open.

”Hey,” You greeted, being met by Steve and Natasha at the door, the both of them looking content but slightly impatient. They looked like they had a night, and the lack of sleep was apparent in their eyes. You stepped aside, letting them into the suite with a polite smile.

”Took you guys long enough,” Bucky commented, his tone dry and mocking, as he opened up the mini fridge, searching for something, like he was trying to distract himself from looking over at you.

”Blame Steve, he’s the one that still doesn’t know how to drive properly.” Natasha shot back.

”I was going the speed limit…” Steve corrected, his soft blue eyes scanning the room in bewilderment, surprised at how large and fancy the entire place really was.

”That’s the problem,” Natasha commented, also admiring the scale of the room and it’s setup, “If we were any slower, we’d have to fucking crawl Rogers.” Steve sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck, as Natasha strolled further into the suite, her eyes scanning every inch of the space like she was a detective, which in some ways she was.

“You guys really lucked out on the accommodations,” Steve commented, peeking into the bedroom, your spine immediately tensing, you were praying that he didn’t see anything odd, or any proof that you shared a bed. You wrung your hands together, drawing your attention back to Natasha, seeing her eyes land on the finished champagne and whiskey bottles, the empty glasses, and the array of minis that had been drained.

“Did you guys decide to go on a bender or something? What’s with all the alcohol?” She questioned, her eyes shooting between both you and Bucky, watching him pull a bottle of water from the fridge, cracking the cap in one go.

“How else did you think we refrained from killing each other?” Bucky replied quietly, taking a sip from the bottle. Natasha crossed her arms over her chest.

”So you want us to believe that the two of you were just civil the entire time you were here and didn’t have a total scrap?” She asked, as Steve brought your duffel bag out of the bedroom, dropping it to the ground with a thud.

“I’m pretty sure one of us would be dead if there was a scrap…And it certainly wouldn’t have been me.” You commented, shooting a pointed glance in Bucky’s direction, trying to ignore his lips turning up behind the rim of his water bottle.

”Not with that shaky left hook of yours,” Bucky muttered, twisting the cap back on, his eyes going over to Natasha, “I had plenty of opportunities to take her down, I thought I was being nice by not doing so…Guess I should’ve taken my chances huh?” He asked, almost as if to mock her.

”You’d be face down on the carpet crying for Steve if you tried to lay a finger on me, so you should be grateful you didn’t press your luck, old man.” Bucky let out a soft laugh, and just as he was about to rebuttal, Steve interrupted.

”How are the both of you still on the hate train? You would think you would’ve gotten it all out of your systems by this point.” He said, exhausted, picking up your bag from the floor, “You guys better not be like this on the jet ride home, or else I’m going to rip my hair out.”

”No promises,” You and Bucky said in near unison, eyes immediately flicking to each other for a fraction of a second before quickly looking away. Natasha didn’t miss it, of course she didn’t, her lips turning up into a knowing smirk, one that could unearth secrets quicker than any truth serum on the market. She didn’t say anything, but she watched the two of you like she was reading the final chapter of a mystery novel she had solved halfway through. Steve sighed, picking up your duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder with ease.

”Alright you two, let’s get the hell out of here, the sooner we get in the air, the sooner the both of you can go back to living your separate lives.” Bucky moved quickly, grabbing his own bag from where he had left it near the couch, his fingers flexing slightly around the strap as he adjusted it over his broad shoulder, your bottom lip slipping between your teeth for a split second, a memory of the grasp he had on your hips the night before popping into your head, but you pushed it out quickly, making your way out of the room.

As the hotel door clicked shut behind the four of you, the warm hush of the luxury suite was replaced by the sterile chill of the marble hallway. You adjusted the strap of your bag, catching Bucky’s eye for half a heartbeat as you stepped into the elevator. Neither of you said a word, but the heat from that glance lingered, like a promise. After the flight. After the debrief. You’d see each other again, and be wrapped up in the ultraviolet rays of your lust that burned between the both of you.

The two of you stood behind Steve and Natasha in the elevator, trying to keep some distance between each other, the silence being filled only by the soft hum of the machinery. You could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, as Bucky shifted slightly from side to side, his bag brushing against you gently, almost like he was trying to get you to look at him, but you ignored it.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, you stepped out into the parking garage. The air was cooler here, sharp with the scent of exhaust and fresh concrete. Steve led the way toward the sleek black SUV waiting at the curb. Its windows were tinted darker than standard issue, and the engine was idling with a quiet purr. The garage was practically empty, except for a few cars scattered haphazardly in different spots, nothing completely out of the ordinary.

Natasha popped the trunk, and Steve tossed your bag in, with Bucky following suit, slinging his own up on top of yours. You peeked into the trunk, your eyes landing on a large black case that was tucked neatly in the corner, with Steve’s shield beside it. You paused.

”Natasha, care to explain the small arsenal you’ve got in here?” You asked, cocking a brow at her. Bucky peered over your shoulder, looking at the same thing you were, glancing over at Natasha for an answer. She shrugged, moving them over, pulling the trunk door down with one hand.

”It’s a little insurance.” She responded.

”Against what, exactly? An entire fleet of super soldiers? You really think that is going to protect us if Orkolov decides to send people for us?” Bucky questioned, his arms crossing over his chest.

”You two poked a hornet’s nest with a flamethrower…Any type of weapon at this point will be beneficial to have.” Steve commented, walking towards the driver’s seat, you scoffed, adjusting your sweater as you brushed by Bucky, having him trail close behind you while you opened up the back door and slipped across the leather seats, your foot knocking against another black box. Bucky followed in behind you, the tension from earlier curling and lighting back to life, like an ember that refused to go out. You leaned your head back against the headrest, eyes flicking out the window, avoiding Bucky’s gaze that was burning into the side of your face.

Natasha climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door with a quiet finality.

”Okay grandpa, let’s actually go a little above the speed limit this time.” She quipped as Steve put the car into drive, shaking his head at her, pulling out of the parking garage with practiced ease. The sun was rising on the streets of Vienna, but the citizens were nowhere to be found on the sidewalks. It was understandable to an extent, especially by the way the city buzzed until all hours of the night…The people had to sleep at some point.

Bucky leaned down, picking up the small case on the ground, placing it between the both of you, popping it open, checking the contents of it to distract him.

”Jesus Christ,” He muttered under his breath, eyeing the neat rows of ammo, the two short-range rifles, the three compact grenades that formed a triangle in the foam that held everything together, and a set of knives. “So much for a little bit of insurance Romanoff…” He added dryly, picking up one of the guns, and loading it, handing it over to you with a holster, giving himself the opportunity to touch your skin, even if it was just for a millisecond. You didn’t meet his eyes, but the contact made a shiver run down your spine, the unspoken words curling between the both of you just from the brief touch.

”Thanks,” You whispered, your voice tight, like a rubber band that was stretched to its limits. He didn’t say anything back, he just collected his own selection of weapons, then leaned back and stared ahead. You adjusted the weapon on your thigh, eyes scanning the empty streets that passed you once more, now getting an eerie feeling in your gut that something was off, you just couldn’t put your finger on it.

Then the first hit came like a thunderclap of reality.

One second the SUV was moving through the sleeping streets of Vienna and the next the sound of metal on metal screeched through your ears, the full speed impact of a truck hitting your side pulling you out of your mind in an instant. Glass exploded inward, and all four of you let out your own personal array of curses, the car spinning out while Steve tried to somehow regain control of the wheel. You could feel your ribs burn, your leg screaming with a searing pain, an unnatural warmth coating your skin, as the car settled, the scent of burnt tires filling your lungs. Bucky’s hand grabbed your arm, yanking you out of your daze.

”Are you okay?” He asked, panicked, unbuckling his seatbelt in one quick motion, shifting closer to you, his eyes roaming your body, pausing when he saw it, “Oh god.” He muttered, pulling back a little to look at the damage, your eyes followed his gaze, looking down at the right side of your ribcage, staring at the blooming crimson stain that soaked into your sweater, noticing a hole in the fabric where glass had sliced through and impaled your skin, a shard shimmering in the light.

”I’m fine, I’m fine.” You repeated, grabbing onto his vibranium wrist, trying to convince him of something you didn’t really believe. It wasn’t as bad as the other injuries you had experienced, but the timing was not beneficial to the situation.

The second hit came as quickly as the first did, another truck clipping the front of the car this time, spinning it out of control once again. The tires screamed and the metal buckled, jerking your body sideways, but before you could even brace yourself for the impact, Bucky wrapped his arm around you, putting his body weight over yours to shield you from any additional injuries or glass, pressing his vibranium hand against the ceiling of the SUV to brace himself, the vehicle continuing to spin like it was kicked by a god. His breath was ragged against your ear as the sickening motion screeched to a violent halt, the front end slamming into a cement pillar.

Smoke was already curling from the hood, the SUV croaking out its final grunt of life before the engine died. You hissed through your teeth, feeling Bucky pull himself from you, his hand immediately undoing your seatbelt, while the other one caressed your cheek, gently tilting your head.

”Y/N…Hey. Open your eyes.” He instructed sternly, his fingers tapping against your face, getting your attention in an instant.

”You guys okay back there?” Steve asked, his voice sounding like it was distant, almost as if the ringing in your ears was clouding the volume. Your eyes slowly fluttered open, coughing the smoke out of your lungs.

”Y/N’s bleeding, she’s got some glass in her.” Bucky said, his blue irises frantically scanning over you and the dazed look you had on your face, his fingers pressing more firmly against your cheek. You blinked again, your vision swimming into clarity, wincing at the pain that spread like fire under your skin. Bucky grabbed your hand and placed it against your ribs, pressing his down onto the back of yours.

”Keep pressure on it okay? We are gonna move you.” His voice was so calm, yet underneath it all there was a sense of urgency, something sharp, something worried even. He was not the version of him that had kissed you like you were his source of oxygen just half an hour ago, nor was he the version that cried in your arms when you had hugged him…This…This was survival Bucky. You nodded at him, pressing down against the wound.

He leaned over the backseat, grabbing Steve’s shield, handing it to him quickly. The smell of smoke and burning rubber grew thicker by the second, and the sun had barely begun to rise over the skeletal outlines of the buildings around you. The SUV’s hood hissed with steam, and the shattered windshield was a jagged mess of glass and spiderweb cracks. Even through all of this everything remained eerily still. No footsteps. No chatter. No traffic. Just the four of you against whatever was coming.

”We need to get the fuck out of this car before we get flanked.” Natasha said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Then…

A sharp buzz of static echoed through the streets.

“You said we’d meet again, didn’t you? And my, my…I think I beat my own record, didn’t even have you wait more than twenty-four hours…I must admit, I think that’s quiet impressive.” His voice echoed through the streets, the thick accent, the odd whistling in his speech from where his teeth had been knocked out the night before, it was all too familiar, and instantly recognizable. Orkolov. Your blood ran cold, even as your wound burned hot beneath your hand. The voice echoed unnaturally through the street, projected through concealed speakers somewhere in the shadows of the buildings, bouncing around like a ghost that wouldn’t die.

Steve had already thrown his door open, shield in hand, sweeping the street with his eyes. Natasha followed instantly, gun drawn, crouching behind the SUV.

”Barnes, there’s an alley on your left, get her to cover. Steve and I are gonna start moving down the street, see if we can get an extraction point.” Bucky didn’t hesitate for a second, his vibranium hand wrapped around your forearm gently despite the urgency of the situation, kicking the door open and pulling you out of the wrecked vehicle. Your legs trembled beneath you from the impact, your right leg pulsing with pain, like you couldn’t bear weight on it, but he kept you upright, half-carrying, half-guiding you toward the alleyway that Natasha pointed out, right between two shuttered storefronts, as Orkolov’s voice followed you like smoke.

“You thought I would let the both of you go after what you did? Thought I would give you the proper information on the super soldier delivery? After all that? You are both so naive…They’re already here making their way to this exact location to clear you guys out.” You glanced up at Bucky as he guided you down slowly onto the damped concrete behind a dumpster, crouching low with his gun drawn, his body staying angled in front of yours. You could see the tension in every line on his face, his muscles coiling from the venomous tone Orkolov was taking, knowing that he had this prepared all along. You wrapped your hand around Bucky’s forearm, in an attempt to possibly calm him down, his eyes drawing down to yours, his hot breath fanning over your face due to the close proximity.

”But I’m not going to kill you…Not before I get to see what I’ve always wanted to…An old war machine…” The words sank into the silence, and you could feel Bucky’s muscles stiffen beneath your touch, his fist clenching. “Because I’m a nice man though…I’ll give you two love birds a moment to say goodbye.” You could hear the smugness of his voice, the mocking tone he took, even though the odds were stacked against you, Steve, Bucky, and Natasha for that matter. The air changed in those moments, and there was a heavy, looming dread that overtook the both of you. Your hand tightened around his arm even more.

”Bucky.” You whispered, “Don’t listen to him. Focus on me.” He shook his head.

”Y/N…You know that’s not how it works…I-If he has them…It’s over, this isn’t like last night, it won’t be a trance you can break me out of.” His voice was hoarse, eyes glassy, already brimming with tears, knowing that it was of no use trying to beat around the bush, the reality of the situation was clear as day. It was going to happen whether you liked it or not, and in minutes Bucky would be gone…Replaced with the person who tried to kill you. The thought made you sick, and just like him, your eyes began to flood with tears as well.

”Just when things were looking up huh?” You croaked, attempting to somehow lighten the moment, your other hand still pressing tight against the bleeding that was beginning to slow on your ribcage. He huffed, a weak laugh coming out of his mouth, shaking his head, putting his gun down beside you, before reaching up to cup your cheek, his thumb trembling as it wiped away a tear that escaped the corner of your eye. His gaze searched yours, desperate, pleading, and frantic, memorizing every part of your face, feeling you lean into his touch like it might be the last thing you ever got from him.

”Trust me…If I had a choice I would’ve stayed at that hotel with you for as long as you wanted.” He whispered back, the both of you sharing a bittersweet laugh, before your throat tightened from the flood of emotions that took you, the broken sound of your breath hitching. Bucky’s hand moved slowly down your cheek, gently curling behind your neck to draw you into him, his forehead pressing to yours, the warmth of his palm radiating against your skin. The silence stretched between the both of you, as you brought your hand up to his chin, scraping the stubble on it.

”This isn’t fair…” You stated, another set of tears escaping the corners of your eyes, trailing down your cheeks, catching on your jaw.

”I know,” He said, his breath shuddering, brushing warm over your lips. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes red rimmed, lashes soaked, “But I’m grateful we at least had a night together.” He added, his thumb brushing over the hair on the nape of your neck, as he leaned in to give you one last kiss, the most gentle of them all, yet the shortest, the taste of salt catching on your tongue.

“I need you to promise me something,” He breathed, his vibranium hand coming up to hold your heated cheek, your tears sliding down his palm, seeping into the crevices. You nodded, feeling his thumb pressing into your skin, your hand still caressing his jaw.

“If he comes out…If he takes over fully. If he even comes close to you…You don’t hesitate. You don’t flinch. You don’t beg…And you don’t wait. You do what you have to, so that you can get out safely, okay?” Your mind was racing at a thousand miles a minute trying to make sense of what he was asking of you, your eyes searching his, seeing the way he looked down at you, almost like he knew he had no chance against this, the lines between his brows etching hard into his skin. It finally clicked.

“Bucky…You can’t ask that of me.” You could see the sadness in his eyes, the way they turned down at you, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smearing your tears along it.

“I would rather die by your hand than live through the possibility that I did something even worse than before to you…Do you understand me?” Your breath caught in your throat, every inch of your body trembling, not from pain, not from the blood still soaking into your sweater, but from the weight of what he was asking. What he was pleading for.

“Y-Yes I understand.” You sniffled, his hand still resting against your face, cradling it gently. The look in his eyes told you everything; he wasn’t asking because he wanted to. He was asking because he had to. Because there was no one else he trusted to make the call. No one else who mattered enough to make the act hurt less.

“Promise me you’ll do it.” He whispered, his voice raspy, raw, and broken, cracking at the seams as he tried to stay stoic.

You stared at him, the man who had once been your enemy. Who had cared enough to ask Steve about you when you were in the hospital. Who you had hated until something in you cracked open and everything inside came pouring out to fill his reservoir.

And now…

Now he was asking you to kill him.

The sound that left your throat wasn’t even a word–it was a whimper, a sob, a choking gasp of a person being forced to make a choice no one should ever have to make.

Your lips trembled.

Your heart shattered.

But you nodded.

Just once.

Barely.

“…Okay.”

The second you said it, something inside you died.

You felt it, that small, stubborn hope you’d been clutching like a lifeline slipping through your fingers like sand, dissolving into the blood on your sweater, the smoke in your lungs, the tears on your cheeks.

Bucky closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again, he looked at peace. Not happy. Not even relieved. Just at rest. Like he’d finally let go of the weight he’d carried for too long.

“I’m sorry,” He said, his voice barely more than a breath. “For everything.” You couldn’t see him through the blur of tears that continued to form in your eyes, your fingers trembling against his chin, his breath still fanning out over your skin from how close he was to you.

“I forgive you.” Was all you could get out, before the static over the speakers hissed back to life, and the first word dropped like a nuclear bomb between the both of you.

“Желание.” Longing. Bucky’s body tensed up almost in an instant, like his body had taken a bullet to the spine. Your hand was still on his cheek when it started, and he flinched like your skin burned him, his eyes going wide as a sudden tremor shook through him. Slowly, his hands slipped from your skin, the warmth fleeting, being replaced by the cool air that blew through the alleyway. His vibranium fingers wrapped around your wrist, and with devastating gentleness, he pulled your palm away from his jaw.

“Ржавый.” Rusted. He dropped your hand into your lap, a guttural sound ripping out of his throat while he tried to shuffle back away from you. His lips parted as if he was trying to say something, but right before anything could make its way out his jaw clenched, and he doubled over, his hair falling in front of his face, attempting to move himself away from you even more. His vibranium hand was steady against the concrete beneath him, as his other hand reached up to grip the back of his neck, you could see the way his nails dug into the skin, the soft tone of it going a deep red from how hard he was clawing at the same spot over and over again.

Then his teeth snapped together.

“Печь.” Furnace. You heard the crunch. The wet, squelchy sound of flesh between teeth echoing through your ears, your eyes immediately noticing blood dripping from his mouth in thick hot streaks, staining the concrete.

“Bucky!” You gasped, your instincts taking over before you could even think, your hands reaching out to him despite the pain that radiated from your ribs and from your leg. He staggered back, flinching at your attempt to touch him, his face coming back into your line of sight, his blue eyes glistening with terror, a sheen of sweat forming just above his brow.

”Stay…Stay back.” He choked, the words muffled and slurring around the blood that continued to fill his mouth, dripping from the corners, staining his skin.

“Рассвет.” Daybreak. Bucky let out a strangled gasp, his lungs seizing mid-breath, his vibranium hand reeling back and slamming into the concrete, a crack forming from the impact. You didn’t flinch, nor did you move a muscle, all you could do was cry, and watch as he slipped away from you with each word.

“Семнадцать.” Seventeen. His whole body shook, spine arching so hard it looked like something within him was trying to snap him in two. He let out a blood-choked scream, his hand continuing to claw at the back of his neck, scratching so much that his skin was raw, like he was trying to physically tear the programming out of his brain before it rooted into his system again, and invaded him. His shoulders met the opposite wall of the alley, his boots slipping in the blood and the shallow puddles beneath him.

”D-Don’t l-look.” He stuttered. His voice didn’t sound whole anymore, it was splintered, like it came from deep inside a collapsing structure, his chin coated now slicked and stained with the crimson blood that continued to flow out of his mouth. “P-P-Please don’t l-look.” He begged, as you tore your eyes away from him, another sick crunch being heard as his jaw locked, biting into the already raw and bleeding flesh of his cheek once again. You winced at the sound, shaking from the breaths you were trying to take in through your sobs. You could hear him spit onto the ground, the rocks beneath him scraping against one another as he shifted.

“Добросердечный.” Benign. The scream that tore from Bucky’s throat was no longer human, it sounded like a wounded animal, raw and ragged, like his soul was being dragged out through his chest. It echoed down the alleyway, bouncing off brick and steel like a siren of death, a sound so harrowing it stopped your breath mid-sob. Your eyes glanced at him, as he twisted against the wall, his back arching off it, limbs spasming like he was being electrocuted from the inside out. You couldn’t take it anymore. With all the strength you had left you scrambled forward, your sweater dragging through the puddles of blood that had dripped from his mouth, ignoring the white-hot pain that erupted from your ribs and leg. Before you could reach him, he slammed his vibranium fist into the pavement between the both of you. A warning that was wordless yet absolute.

Stay back.

His eyes were glassy with terror, wide and dilated, locked on you like you were a tether to the last piece of himself, he shook his head at you, the blood continuing to stream down his chin in thick glistening strands, dripping onto his white shirt, soaking it.

”C-Can’t…” Was all he could get out, his bottom lip shaking, bracing for the next word to come.

“Девять.” Nine. He grunted, bringing his hands up to his skull, his nails digging into his temples, dragging angry red lines down the side of his face, wincing at the pain coming from his bleeding mouth, and now from the marks he had made on himself. His teeth were coated a crimson red, as he spat again, trying to remove the excess blood that continued to flood his mouth.

“Возвращение домой.” Homecoming. His breath came out in staggered, wet, broken gasps. Choking slightly as his back arched again, his palms falling to the concrete to somehow brace himself so he wouldn’t fall. You could hear him trying to speak, his lips forming your name. It was slurred, distorted beyond comprehension, half-swallowed by the blood, and half-erased by the war that ran through his mind.

“Y-Y/N-“ He forced your name out, voice straining like it was dragged across glass, like he was attempting to keep your name on his lips so when he inevitably turned, The Winter Soldier would spare you somehow. You pushed yourself up onto your hands, still looking at him, your sweater soaked in a mixture of your blood, his blood, and the water from the puddles that lined the alleyway.

“Один.” One. His fingers curled into the concrete, veins rising beneath his skin. His back arched, muscles pulled so tight they looked like they might snap from the tension. The scream he let out was strangled and wet, ripped through clenched teeth, his jaw trembling with the effort not to break. The coagulated blood continued to spill from his mouth, thick and hot, splattering the ground beneath him in rhythmic droplets. He didn’t sound human anymore.

“Грузовой вагон.” Freight car. Suddenly he collapsed forward, panting, his body twitching once, then twice, before freezing completely, his hair shielding his face, so it was out of your sight completely. Silence overtook the alleyway, and all you could hear was your heart beating in your ears, banging through your chest like a drum. You were breathing fast, on the brink of hyperventilating, as he lifted his his slowly, and looked at you.

His irises were blown, wild and distant. You could’ve sworn they were black, because you couldn’t see the signature storm blue, not even a hint of it. It was just darkness.

Then he moved with such ease, like he wasn’t just fighting for his life seconds ago. It was smooth, fluid, and silent, the perfect mix for a highly trained assassin. He crawled towards you on his hands and knees, the puddles ripping with every movement staining his sweatpants, his mouth still dripping blood.

You scrambled backward, your palms slipping against the wet concrete, your wound on your ribs screaming for your attention. You tried to speak, tried to say his name, to plead, but your breathing was so fast it just came out in choked noises. The puddles rippled beneath his hands, spreading red with each movement, his palms dragging through his own blood, staining them even further. Your spine hit the cold wall behind you, the rough texture biting through your sweater, every nerve in your body immediately lighting ablaze as the raw panic settled in.

“Bucky…” You rasped, finally managing to say something. He didn’t answer, not that you were expecting him to anyways. His head hung low as he moved, his long strands of sweat drenched hair clinging to his cheeks and jaw, finally close enough in proximity that you could smell the metallic, coppery scent of his blood, like you were breathing in pure rust.

Your lips parted, a tremor shaking through your body, his body shifting in front of you, mirroring how he shielded your body when you had arrived in the alley. His head tilted just enough for you to see the way the blood glistened along his teeth, watching your sweater garner more and more stains from where the crimson strings dripped from his chin. His breath hit your face, warm, humid and metallic. Your nose crinkled at the smell, his shadow draping over you completely. You pressed yourself tighter against the wall, still holding your wound, wincing while trying to build distance between you and him.

His gaze dropped, and you followed it, seeing it lingering on the spot where you were bleeding, your fingers trembling with every shallow breath you tried to take. His hand came up, his movements precise and calculating as he reached towards where your hand was.

“D-Don’t…Please don’t.” You whispered, your voice barely audible through the trembling in your chest. But he didn’t stop. His eyes, black and bottomless, remained fixed on the bloodied press of your hand over your ribs. With a single, rough jerk, he shoved your palm aside, and suddenly the dam broke and you screamed, only for it to be cut off by his hand clamping over your mouth.

The blood on his skin was warm, slick and metallic as it smeared across your lips and chin, his grip tightening just enough to muffle you. In that moment you thought this was it, this was where he was going to kill you, and you couldn’t even care less, because you weren’t bringing yourself to shoot him, no matter what you had promised Bucky. Something in The Winter Soldier’s eyes told you he knew exactly what you were thinking, as he watched another fresh set of tears streaming down your cheeks, soaking into the side of his hand.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the pain, for the end, for the inevitable…But then his vibranium hand began to move, pushing apart the torn fabric of your sweater to expose the wound, his fingers curling around something jagged that shifted in you, something that didn’t belong, the shard of glass. In one quick motion he yanked, and a scream tore from your lungs, muffling and vibrating against your face, his hand loosening just a little bit from your mouth so you could breathe easier, even though the taste of his blood was making you lightheaded. There was temporary relief from the burning sensation, and now when you inhaled it didn’t feel like your entire right side was going to explode…

The sound of glass shattering rang out through your ears, causing you to flinch. For a single, petrified second, you were certain he was going to drive that shard into your gut—twist it until your lungs collapsed or until you bled out. You had braced for it, felt your heart seize in anticipation of the pain that never came but the wave of relief when he had thrown it almost made your sobbing worse.

He slid his hand off your mouth, smearing the blood along your skin in the process, his touch lingering for just a few seconds before leaving you completely, his shadow still looming over you, while his breath fanned over your skin.

You opened your eyes, though your vision was occluded due to the tears that just kept coming. You blinked gently, allowing them to fall down your cheeks, letting them intermingle with the blood stains he left on you, until you finally dared to look up at him.

His face was still, frozen and devoid of emotion. His mouth was open, and his cheeks were swollen from where he had torn through the wet flesh with his teeth. He was still bleeding but it had tapered off a bit, his body already working overtime to heal itself as fast as it could. His pupils remained dilated, but something—something in those dark, hollow eyes flickered. Just barely.

Recognition.

It was fractured, uncertain, and buried deep beneath layers of programming, but it was there. A single thread in a web of chaos. His brows twitched, and the muscles in his jaw tightened beneath your observant eyes. You didn’t know if it was your face or your voice echoing in his ears, but something rooted him to the spot and stopped all additional movements from him.

“…Do you know me?” You asked, the question spilling out of your lips like you were a madwoman that completely forgot who she was sitting in front of.

He didn’t answer.

But his body shifted subtly. Slowly. Mechanically. His bloodstained palm coming up to hover over your face.

His eyes, black and void of all emotion, didn’t blink. They pinned you in place, and for the first time since he changed, there was something behind them. Something that watched you not like a target, but like a truth.

A memory.

His gaze dropped, not in fear or hesitation, but with razor-sharp purpose, tracing the line from your face to the center of your chest.

And then his hand moved down.

Not fast.

Not like he was going to go in for a strike. It was like he was landmarking, the shadow of his hand ghosting over your collarbone, before stopping right where the zipper of your sweater started.

Then with the greatest hesitation, he pressed his palm flat against your chest.

Right over the scar.

Over the thick, blood-matted fabric of your ruined sweater. Over the place his knife had sunk in–when you were screaming, when you had fought him, when your blood had spilled across his hands and he didn’t stop.

Your breath caught in your throat, shallow and fast. You could feel your pulse hammering right beneath where his palm lay, and somehow, that felt more terrifying than if he had tried to kill you again. Because this wasn’t the Soldier attacking.

This was him having a conscience of some sort, which was certainly not in his programming.

A beat passed.

Then another.

His hand didn’t move for a long time, it just rested there, he wasn’t pressing hard enough to hurt you, but it wasn’t a ghost of a touch, either. It was firm. Present. A silent claim. A memory anchoring itself to flesh.

You could feel his fingers tremble slightly, just the smallest quiver against the slope of your chest. Whether it was from restraint or something else, you didn’t know. But he didn’t pull away.

Your hand moved before your mind caught up–slowly, trembling, stained with dried blood. You reached across the space between you, watching him the whole time, watching the unreadable storm behind those bottomless black eyes.

And then you touched him.

Your palm met his chest, just over his heart. You were surprised that you felt its faint beat through your hand, steady and strong. The fabric of his shirt was soaked through, sticky with blood and sweat, but through it you could feel the coldness that radiated from him.

He flinched at first contact. It was a subtle recoil, a twitch in the muscles beneath your hand. But he didn’t stop you. Didn’t push you away. And somehow that meant everything.

You kept your hand there, splayed open over him like you were trying to absorb some part of him back into yourself, a soft sigh escaping your throat, as your pulse pounded in your ears. Even though he wasn’t Bucky, there was still something in there that held The Winter Soldier back from doing what he does best, you just couldn’t understand what, or how it was happening. He continued to stare at you as you carefully brought your other hand up into his line of sight, reaching towards his face, wanting to see how far he’d let you go until he showed his true colours and snapped.

His eyes flickered over to your fingers, watching them hover above the dark red swelling on his cheek–where his teeth had torn into his own flesh in a desperate attempt to resist the programming that was built into him. He didn’t stop you–but he didn’t invite you to continue either, he simply waited with the same unreadable expression carved into his blood-slicked features like stone.

With the utmost caution, you closed the space, allowing your palm to press against his cheek. His skin was ice cold, like winter steel. Like something that was forged from the snow that never dethawed. The bite of it stung your fingertips, and it made you flinch, yet you kept your hand there, cupping the wounded part of him as if it could ease the agony he had inflicted on himself.

Your thumb brushed faintly over his cheek, across the dried, sticky blood that coated his skin, trying to be gentle with him even though his eyes were still dilated and blank, like he was on the brink of switching at any time.

For these suspended moments he let you touch him like he was who you desperately wanted him to be, absorbing every caress like it was meant for him, even though it wasn’t. You watched as he closed his eyes, his lips parting for a brief moment, before he spoke.

“Ты моя слабость.” You are my weakness. The words slipped from his lips like a sin–low, hoarse, and raw. It was a confession, a surrender, dragged from the deep, ruined part of him that no amount of programming could erase. You could feel your pulse throbbing beneath your skin, warmth spreading throughout your entire body.

The Winter Soldier–this cold, broken weapon that had been forged in blood and silence–had just admitted something no handler could have beaten out of him. No conditioning could have rewritten that. And as his breath ghosted over your skin–thick with the coppery scent of his blood–you felt something inside you shift, fracturing, breaking.

Your fingers trailed from his cheek to his jawline, following the sharp curve that was slick with drying blood. Your hand settled gently at the side of his cold damp neck, where his pulse bounded against the pads of your fingers at an irregular rhythm, he was nervous, but it didn’t show on his face. His eyes still weren’t open, but you could see his bottom lip trembling, like he was trying to resist whatever was going on inside his head.

Then slowly, you pulled him towards you, until his ear hovered beside your lips, and his blood-matted hair brushed against your cheek, the scent of iron truly invading your senses this time. You swallowed thickly, tilting your head so your breath tickled the shell of his ear.

“Я твоя слабость, потому что он все еще дышит внутри тебя… Обещай мне, что ты позволишь ему вернуться, Солдат.” I am your weakness because he’s still breathing inside you…Promise me you’ll let him come back, Soldat. It was as if you could feel his body stall as the words slipped from your lips, like the act of breathing for him suddenly became foreign. You assumed it was because he didn’t think you knew Russian, or maybe it was because you were pleading with him to give up his residency in Bucky’s body, either way, the tension between the both of you was palpable.

There was a moment where nothing happened, where he was still, where you couldn’t even tell if he was breathing–if it wasn’t for his pulse slamming against your fingertips you would’ve thought he died because of how statuesque he was.

Then he began to turn his head to the side, just enough for his eyes to meet yours. They were still black, twin voids with a slight ring of blue surrounding them if you looked closely–which due to the proximity, you could basically see every detail in them. His forehead hovered an inch from yours, and now you were sharing air, invading each other's lungs with every exhale and inhale.

The two of you were locked in place, blood-stained and tethered by something unspoken, though neither of you looked away from one another. It was as if you were communicating without words, until he gave you a small nod. It was so faint you thought you imagined it, but you took it as an answer, a promise, regardless of how tiny the gesture was.

Before you could say anything to him, a distinct sound pierced the quiet.

It was distant at first, the sound of tires rolling against concrete, the faint squeaking of the truck's suspension heaving from its occupants, the rumbling of the engine. Then it grew closer, stopping short behind the mouth of the alley.

The Winter Soldier pulled away for a moment, his body immediately growing rigid, slipping back into its calculated, mechanical, inhuman form. He glanced over the dumpster, scanning the area with professional accuracy, his ears tuning into every sound the new arrivals made, trying to figure out how many there were just by the different types of step patterns he heard. He counted out five, but for all he knew it could’ve been more.

You felt his vibranium hand slip down to the gun holster on your thigh, unclipping the bloodied leather to slide the sidearm free. He looked down at you, then to the gun, examining it for a moment, getting comfortable with the grip before removing his bloodied palm from your chest, reaching for the other gun he had placed beside you prior to his transformation. You watched him closely, seeing the way his thumbs traced over the grips, adjusting his hands to suit the weapons, before putting them both down briefly.

Wordlessly, and with a steady touch, slipped his hands under your knees, guiding your legs inward, up towards your chest so you were practically curled into a ball behind the dumpster. He was careful, precise, and made sure he didn’t cause you any additional pain, nudging you behind the rusted metal just a bit more to ensure you were completely covered. You both shared one last look at each other, him giving you one more nod to solidify what he had agreed to just moments prior. I’ll let him come back.

Then without another thought, he picked up both guns–yours and his–rose in one quick motion, and slipped out the opposite end of the alley, his footsteps careful enough not to echo and give off his location prematurely, before firing off a warning shot that rang through your ears. The shadows swallowed him whole, leaving you alone, listening to the chaotic array of comms going off, and an array of arguing that came in short bursts, followed by footsteps going further away from where you sat behind the dumpster.

You stayed frozen for a long while after he left. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could do was curl tighter into yourself behind the dumpster, your hand pressed to the wound on your ribs, the other slick with drying blood that didn’t even feel like yours anymore. Your ears rang with the phantom echo of his words. With the memory of his hand over your mouth, smearing blood across your lips like a brand, then the way he put the same one against your chest.

You didn’t know how long you sat there trembling. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Then you heard running coming from the same direction he vanished from. You lifted your head weakly, bracing for the possibility that the super soldiers found you before they could get taken out, accepting your fate without a fraction of fear.

From the shadows, Natasha stepped into the light, sweeping the alley with her weapon drawn, her eyes sharp and ready to shoot anything that moved, but it was Steve who saw you first. The look of horror that draped on his face was indescribable, it was as if he was having flashbacks to when he found you after The Winter Soldier had attacked you.

”Y/N/.” He said, filled with panic, his shield clattering to the ground as he rushed towards you, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands hovering over you, not knowing where to start, his eyes frantically going over the bloodstains on your sweater, seeing the wound you were holding with your hand, then looking up to your face, seeing the blood smears that had dried a deep maroon on your skin, resembling bruises.

”Jesus…What happened to you?!” His voice cracking around the question, hesitant to touch you, afraid it might make things worse, Natasha crouching beside you as well now, her brows knitting together with concern. She scanned you–trained, methodical, emotion carefully restrained behind her steel-colored eyes.

“Did he…Did he do this to you?” She asked, pushing your hand off the wound that she was already aware of, applying pressure herself instead, pressing down significantly harder than you had, a hiss escaping your mouth.

”No. I’m not injured apart from my leg and the wound I got from the accident.” You sputtered out through clenched teeth, your fingers curling into the sticky fabric of your sweater.

”You don’t have to cover for him. We heard the trigger words Y/N…He turned into The Winter Soldier, there’s no way he didn’t do anything to you. We heard you scream.” Steve shot back, watching you close your eyes tightly.

”I’m telling you the truth. He didn’t hurt me…He pulled the glass out of the wound…He covered my mouth so I wouldn’t give away our location.” You explained, cringing as Natasha pressed a bit harder into the wound, the pain turning into a slow pulsing throb.

”How do you explain all this blood then?” Steve quipped, motioning to all over you.

”He was bleeding from his mouth…He bit through the inside of his cheek when he was turning…He was trying to resist it.” You said between laboured breaths, feeling your skin beginning to mend together slowly beneath Natasha’s palm, the serum finally kicking up into your bloodstream. “He didn’t lay a hand on me, at least not with the intention of hurting me…You know I’d be dead if he did.” Steve froze in his spot, his eyes glancing over at Natasha, uncertainty flickering behind his blue irises.

”I’ve never seen him do that before…Sure, maybe he’s overridden orders but that was after I took a beating and a half from him…He’s never fought back against the trigger words itself though.” Natasha’s hand slowly began to ease from your side, loosening the pressure, her eyes burning a hole into your cheek, almost like she already knew the reason why, her brain idly connecting the dots, then suddenly an array of gunshots and screaming echoed down the street.

”Listen, how about we discuss this when we get to the extraction point. We only have ten minutes to get there and we are wasting them talking about why he spared her.” She cut in. You immediately tense up, looking between both her and Steve.

”Wait…What about Bucky? We can’t just leave him.” You said, desperately. Steve clenched his jaw, and you could see how the veins in his neck stood out slightly under his skin. You saw the guilt feathering over his features, the conflict playing out on his face, the ache that always lingered behind his eyes when it came to Bucky, and the fear that loomed in the background, knowing that there was a possibility The Winter Soldier wasn’t going to take kindly to him or Natasha if they decided to wait for him.

Steve let out a steady breath through his nose, steadying himself slightly like he was trying to hold back the emotions that were beginning to build within his chest.

”I don’t want to leave him…” He said quietly, “But we can’t risk it Y/N, not like this. We don’t know how he will react to us, and we don’t know if what he did with you was a one off. He could kill us.” He added, seeing the way your eyes began brimming with tears while you shook your head at him.

”You know damn well he would do anything in his power to get to you if you were in his position Steve…You can’t do that to him…Please, don’t do that to him.” Steve dropped his gaze from yours, feeling the anger behind what you were saying.

“We will call for a separate extraction. We just can’t take him with us now. We don’t have time, and we can’t risk it.” Natasha cut in, coming to Steve’s defence. You swallowed hard.

”I’m not leaving him.” You stated, meaning it with every inch of your body. You took in laboured breaths, feeling your side ache for a brief moment, stinging as the flesh began to tether together, but you still refused the idea of leaving Bucky here alone.

”Then we’ll have to do this the hard way.” Steve said, shifting forward quickly. You didn’t even have time to recoil before his arms were under you, scooping you up and throwing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Immediately you protested.

”No! Get the fuck off me! Let me go!” You screamed, your voice cracking, as you squirmed and kicked against him, the sides of your fists hitting his broad back, seeing Natasha picking up his shield, following closely as he began to move down the alley, opposite to where the screams and gunfire were ringing out.

“Put me down! Don’t do this!” You begged with tears streaming down your face in hot streaks, feeling your chest tighten with every short inhale you took between sobs.

”I’m sorry, Y/N…But I’m not leaving you here to die. I’m doing this for your own safety.” Steve retorted, moving quickly through the streets.

”Fuck my own safety!” You shot back, another fist slamming into his back, continuing to squirm against him to try to make it harder for him to move, even though it had little impact, “You’re abandoning your own fucking friend!” You yelled. Every word that fell from your mouth was like a blade and every thrash of your body against his back was a reminder of the weight of what he was doing. Yet, his arms stayed firm around your legs as he pushed forward, past the burnt-out cars, and closed stores, toward the extraction point that felt like it was lightyears away.

Your sobs grew louder, harsher. Each gasp was ragged, caught between broken cries and short, shallow breaths that made your chest rise and fall like a ticking time bomb. You were falling apart with every second that passed, and it was beginning to worry Steve and Natasha, they had never seen you in such distress before, especially for someone you couldn’t stand three days ago.

Your vision began to blur, shifting into shapes and shadows. You couldn’t get a full breath in. Your lungs clawed at the air, trying to fill, but each inhale came shorter than the last. Your throat burned. Your chest ached. Every sob stuttered in your body, and then, everything went black.

——————

A violent gasp tore out of your throat when you regained consciousness hours later. You jolted upright, eyes wild, searching around the bunk that you were in, hands scrambling around the sheets in a panic, like you were looking for a weapon.

“Woah, woah…Hey, take it easy.” Steve said, breaking through the fog that clouded your mind, his hands coming up to hold onto your shoulders, steadying you as much as possible. It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the low lighting, to the cool press of metal walls and the familiar hum of the Quinjet that surrounded you. The bunk you were in was small, cramped, tucked along the edge of the jet’s interior. You were wrapped in a grey military-issued blanket that had slipped halfway down your frame. Beneath it, your clothes were still torn and bloodstained, but the wound on your side had healed, which was a minor relief.

“W-What happened?” You asked, looking up at Steve, who now took a seat on the bed, his expression soft, and exhausted.

”You couldn’t catch your breath, and you passed out,” He said gently, “You’ve been unconscious for a few hours.” Hours. You blinked hard, trying to process his words, feeling the dread coming up and settling in your throat.

”…Where is Bucky?” You whispered, watching the way Steve took his eyes off of you, avoiding your gaze, his hands leaving your shoulders slowly. You could feel your pulse beginning to rise again with each minute of silence that passed through the room.

”Steve. Where is he?” You pushed, your voice stern now, fighting through the panic that pressed into your lungs. He let out a sigh, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours.

”We called for a second extraction for him…But they told us we needed to wait until they could get one of the secured units out to him, the ones with a cell. They didn’t want to risk bringing him back without one.” He explained, his eyes scanning over you with concern when he saw your face drop. Your stomach twisted at his words, your shaky hand coming up to cover your mouth, feeling bile rising in your throat.

”I need a bag…I think I’m gonna vomit.” You warned quietly, your bottom lip trembling, watching as Steve stood up from the bed to grab the trash bin near one of the storage containers, handing it over to you quickly. You barely managed to get the bin in your lap before your stomach turned violently. There wasn’t much to throw up since you hadn’t eaten that morning, but the dry heaving still tore through you with brutal force, leaving your throat raw and your muscles shaking, as your body ejected whatever liquid it could.

Steve crouched beside the bunk, one hand steadying the bin, the other rubbing circles along your back, trying to provide you some sort of comfort. Trailing near the end of your vomiting episode you let out a gut wrenching cry, the kind that came straight from your chest, as you raised your head, tears already streaming from your eyes. Steve didn’t say anything at first. He just reached for the trash bin, set it aside gently, and then–without hesitation– he wrapped his arms around you. His touch was careful, firm but not constricting, like he was afraid you might shatter if he held on too tightly. You stiffened at first from the contact, but the moment you felt his steady heartbeat against your temple and his breath settling into your hair, you gave in, sobbing uncontrollably, his shirt soaking up the tears that fell from your eyes.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t tell you to calm down. He just held you like a brother would, his fingers drawing slow, grounding circles into your back while your body shook with the weight of guilt that overtook every inch of your mind. He waited until the storm inside you ebbed, to pull back enough to see your tear stained face, his expression full of concern and confusion, his thumbs coming up to wipe the wetness off your cheeks.

“Y/N…Will you be honest with me and tell me what’s really going on…You’re never like this, I haven’t seen you this emotionally beat up since you were hospitalized, and I’m struggling to understand what’s happening inside your head right now.” Your eyes closed for a moment, feeling the truth sitting heavy in your throat, burning to be said, to be put out there, to be known. You had no clue where to begin with the confession. How could you possibly explain that you formed this connection with one of your sworn enemies that you despised, that did an unthinkable act to you? How could you somehow convince someone that within two days of being saturated within one another you managed to put all your differences aside and bond? It was impossible to do it without sounding like a crazy person, and you knew that, but you took the leap of faith hoping that the scramble of words that poured out of your mouth would convey everything you wanted to say.

”I didn’t mean for it to happen,” You murmured, your eyes darting away from Steve’s, swallowing the lump in your throat, a small laugh coming out of you, almost in disbelief, “God, I didn’t even think it would happen in general. I hated him. You know I did. But…It was like when we got on the plane, and we were alone, things just changed.” You could still feel Steve’s eyes on you, listening with such intent that it looked like he was hanging off every word you said. You looked back at him, your lips pulling up into a bittersweet smile, “I was ready to kill him on that fucking plane…But he didn’t even put up a fight, he showed up with guilt, apologies, he felt remorse for what he did and he was so caring… I just couldn’t help but see him in a different light.” You paused, sniffling, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, noticing your skin was still stained with the blood from the alley.

”He’s everything you used to rant and rave about when you were trying to convince me to give him a chance to apologize.” Steve didn’t speak for a long moment, he just let everything you said settle between the two of you, letting out a long sigh.

”I knew it…” He said quietly, his hands leaving your cheeks, wiping the tears off on his pants. Your eyebrows knitted together.

”What?” He smirked at your reaction.

”Y/N…I’ve known Bucky my whole life basically, I know his tells, and it was pretty easy to piece things together when he kept staring at you from the kitchenette…Also I saw two sets of handprints on the bedroom mirror that the both of you forgot to clean off.” Your mouth dropped open, heat immediately creeping up your skin, rising up your neck and flaring out over your face.

”Could’ve been from the last guests.” You breathed, watching a grin draw up on Steve’s lips.

“Yeah…Not when I could see the little scratches Bucky’s vibranium hand made on the glass.” You couldn’t help but reach up to hide your face in your hands in embarrassment. Steve let out a soft laugh, gently tugging your makeshift shield away from your cheeks, “C’mon, we’re all adults here…Kind of. It’s not that big of a deal.” He explained, letting your wrists, leaning back on the edge of the bunk, bringing his elbows to rest on his knees. The silence that followed was heavier now, stretched and thoughtful, like the weight of what you’d just shared was finally settled into the space between you.

”You must’ve really got through to The Winter Soldier though…” Steve commented, breaking the silence. You tilted your head a bit, glancing down at the blood under your fingernails.

”What do you mean?” You asked, looking back up at him briefly.

”Well…The other reason why they said they needed a secured unit for him was because they found Orkolov and the other super soldiers completely unrecognizable. Executed.” You paused for a moment, your eyebrows raising.

”And you think that’s because of me?” He took a deep breath.

”He knew you were in danger, both The Winter Soldier and Bucky I mean…And judging by the way he tried to hide you behind the dumpster, I’m pretty sure all of that was to keep you safe. I don’t think he would’ve lived if it wasn’t for you…He took down seven super soldiers and Orkolov by himself…Think about that for a second.” You bit your bottom lip.

”I think you’re giving me too much credit here…” Steve gave you a look, one of those classic, weary, no-bullshit Captain America stares that cut through every deflection like a blade.

“I think I’m giving you exactly the credit you deserve,” he said, gently but firmly. “You’re the only one he didn’t hurt. Not a scratch. And I’ve seen him in that state before, he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t flinch. He neutralizes. Hell he almost fucking killed me when I encountered him, beat the crap out of me until I was black and blue…” You glanced away from him again, picking the skin around one of your nail beds, watching the dried blood flake off onto your sweater.

”…We should’ve waited for him…” You murmured, as Steve watched the way your eyes glossed over, like you were being transported somewhere else. Back to the alley. Where The Winter Soldier stared at you with those black eyes, drinking you in before he left you behind.

”We’ll get him back,” Steve said, his voice completely solid, leaving no room for doubt to peek in, “It’s just going to take a little longer…That’s all…”

——————

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into two months.

Two months of complete silence.

There was no word on Bucky. The extraction team had gone to Vienna three times and searched for him, but found nothing. The higher-ups refused to share any additional information with you and Steve, except for the same repeated line: “Be patient with us, we are doing what we can.”

It was hell.

Every night felt like a loop of that alley, his blood on your hands, the way he pressed his palm over your mouth, the wild look in his eyes that flickered with something more human than anyone expected. You couldn’t stop hearing your own heartbeat thundering in your ears as he disappeared into the shadows. You couldn’t stop thinking about whether he thought you left him on purpose.

You barely slept, and when you did you’d wake up the entire compound with your screaming. You didn’t eat much, just picked at whatever was made, nibbling until a wave of nausea took over and you were forced to stop. The others noticed, of course, they weren’t blind, so they kept their distance, tiptoeing around you while also trying to be supportive.

Natasha tried to keep you moving, dragging you to the training floor under the pretense of sharpening your form, but really, she was just trying to get you to feel something again. Bruce ran blood work on you twice, trying to figure out if the lack of appetite was caused by something physiological or if it was all in your head, but you could’ve saved him the trouble by telling him the truth.

You were heartbroken. That’s where your hunger strike and nightmares were coming from. It was plain and simple. This was the kind of heartbreak that sank deep into your marrow, made your body feel foreign, like your own skin was too heavy to carry. The kind that turned silence into something sharp that pressed against your chest until you had no choice but to gasp for air that never felt like enough.

Tony offered distractions in his own awkward way; projects, new tech for your suit, extra hands-on work in the lab. You tried once and ended up staring at a half-wired circuit board for an hour before leaving the screwdriver behind and going straight back to your room.

Steve stopped trying to push you after the third time he found you curled on the floor of the gym locker room, soaked in sweat and tears, fists raw from pounding the same bag until your knuckles split. After that, he didn’t try to give you pep talks anymore. Didn’t feed you false hope or ask you to stay strong. He just started sitting with you, whether it was on the balcony, or on the roof, rain or shine, it didn’t matter, he just wanted to make sure you had someone with you, and deep down inside, you appreciated his presence.

Then Sunday came.

You only remembered the day because Steve brought you coffee and sat on the balcony beside you, watching as you huddled into the blanket that was draped over your shoulders, the steam from the mug curling upward and kissing the morning air and your face. The sun was barely cresting over the skyline, serenading the clouds with its light, when your comm crackled to life beside you. You flinched at the noise, immediately putting your mug down on the coffee table, and picking up the device, bringing it to your ear.

”Go for Y/N,” You rasped, glancing over at Steve who was shifting in his spot, leaning forward a bit to tune into the call.

”We found him.” It was Hill. Her voice was curt, but quieter than her usual volume, soft and gentle, knowing that the information was going to hit you like a ton of bricks, “We got a ping from a remote safehouse on the outskirts of Hietzing. We got him. He’s alive.” Your eyes went wide, as your throat began to tighten.

“I-Is he okay?” You asked, your voice shaking, while a cool breeze brushed over your skin.

“Yes, but he’s sedated. We’re bringing him back to the compound now.” She replied, and it was like the world had shifted beneath your feet. You reached out to hold onto Steve’s arm, steadying yourself.

”ETA?”

“Four hours. I’ll keep you updated if there’s more information.” Then she hung up. You pulled the comm away from your ear, your hand shaking from the nerves that began to creep through your body, placing it beside your untouched coffee. Your eyes remained locked on some distant point beyond the skyline, body frozen, lungs tight, the word alive echoing over and over in your skull like a prayer you weren’t sure you deserved answered.

Steve’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

”Hey,” He said, drawing you out of your trance, “He’s coming back, that’s good news.” You blinked a few times, like you were trying to wake yourself from a fever dream, then you took in a deep breath, letting the ice cold air invade your lungs.

“He’s coming back…” You repeated. The knot that had been sitting in your chest for months, pulsing with guilt and fear, finally snapped loose. The tears came fast and silent, carving hot trails down your cheeks before you even noticed them. You didn’t sob, didn’t make a sound. It was like your body was too stunned to react the right way because of the relief that struck you.

Steve didn’t say anything. He just sat there with you, letting the silence carry the weight of it all. You wiped at your cheeks, sniffled softly, but the tears wouldn’t stop, but for once they weren’t due to sadness. He was alive, and that was all that mattered to you in those moments.

——————

The four hours dragged by like molasses.

You and Steve moved to the landing deck, wanting to be sure the both of you were the first ones that Bucky saw when he came off the jet.

Neither of you said much during the wait. Steve stood tall beside you, arms crossed over his chest, his face unreadable while he watched you pace along the marked up concrete. You were unable to keep still as your nerves twisted tighter and tighter with every passing minute. You were so anxious that it felt like your skin didn’t fit you properly.

The low roar of the jet’s engines thundered overhead, vibrating through your ribcage as it came into view. You stopped pacing. Steve straightened beside you, his arms slowly uncrossing as the both of you watched the aircraft descend onto the landing deck with a mechanical and gentle grace. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, and every second that passed made your chest burn. Your hands trembled as the hydraulics hissed, the screech of metal settling into position echoing through the air. The engine cut out soon after, leaving everyone in total silence.

The ramp lowered with a deep groan, the steel creaking under the weight of anticipation. You didn’t breathe or move a single muscle. You were frozen in your spot, then your eyes caught the silhouette that made its way down, the sun casting down on him in the most glorious reveal.

It was him…It was Bucky.

His hair was longer than before, hanging just above his shoulders, but his face was the same. A little worn, maybe, but not broken. No bruises. No fresh scars. His bright eyes scanned the landing deck, alert and burning with something sharp and searching. His jaw clenched tight, his chest rose and fell heavy beneath a black tactical shirt stretched over a body that looked… Bigger. Somehow. Broader, thicker, even stronger than before. You blinked hard, almost in disbelief. He’d survived two months of god-knows-what, and somehow came back looking like an adonis.

“Bucky.” You breathed, then your legs began to move, and you took off. Your boots barely touched the ground as you sprinted towards him, your heart thundering against your chest like it wanted to break through your ribcage. His head snapped toward the heavy sound of your footsteps, and in those moments your name tumbled from his mouth with such softness that you could barely make out what he was saying.

He quickly moved down the ramp, opening up his arms to meet you halfway, bracing for impact as you collided in a soundless explosion. Your body launched into his, your arms immediately flying around his neck, legs wrapping and connecting behind his waist, catching you effortlessly, stumbling back a few paces before his arms slid around you, tightening like a vice grip.

You buried your face into his neck, and he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for two months. He squeezed you so tightly that it bordered on painful, but at that point you couldn’t care less. You inhaled shakily, drinking in his scent, one of many things you missed from him. He smelled like gunpowder, cedar smoke, and leather, with a hint of mint, you assumed he had a shower on the jet on the way over after he woke up from sedation, because there was no way he was pampering himself during the two months he was missing.

Bucky’s arms cinched tighter around your back, one hand fisting the fabric of your jacket like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he physically held something. His metal arm pressed into the curve of your spine, anchoring you to him while his flesh hand moved up to cradle the back of your head, fingers coming gripping your hair gently. His breath stuttered as he inhaled deeply, like the air in his lungs had been stale until now, like you were the only thing he trusted to fill his chest again.

”Jesus Christ, it really is you.” He whispered, disbelief cracking under his words. You pulled back just far enough to see him, bringing your hands up to cup the sides of his face, and it hit you all at once just how much you missed him. He looked up at you, his bright blue irises cascading over your face, taking in every detail, flickering with a raw tenderness that reached into the hollow of your ribs, a smile coming up on his lips.

”I’ve missed you so fucking much,” You said, voice cracking right down the middle of the sentence, “You have no idea what it’s been like without you…I didn’t know if you were dead. I didn’t know if you were alone or cold. God I didn’t even know if you were ever going to come back.” Bucky let out a soft, shuddering sound from his chest, sounding somewhere between a laugh and a breathless ache. While still clutching you tightly, he sank to the ground, sitting on the concrete with you still wrapped up in him.

”I was always going to find my way back to you,” He admitted, a smile drawing up on his lips, “Even if they never came for me…Even if it took fucking years…I would’ve crawled to the ends of the Earth, just to find you.” Your hands ran over his cheeks, the stubble grazing across your fingers with each stroke, your eyes scanning over his.

”I thought about you every day.” He murmured, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closing to breathe you in, “You were in everything. I’d close my eyes just to see you.” His voice was so soft and tender in those moments that you felt your heart squeeze in your chest. Your hands slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the longer strands of his hair, and your nose brushed his, your heavy breaths hitting his face, your lips hovering over his.

“You don’t have to do that anymore…Never again.” You whispered, seeing the way he smiled up at you in the softest way possible. His eyes tilted down to your lips, like he’d been starving and suddenly found the one thing that could sustain his hunger.

”I’ve been dying to kiss you…Can I-.” You didn’t let him finish his sentence, and not once did you consider the people around you at this point, you were so blinded by happiness that you let yourself do what needed to be done. You just crushed your mouth to his. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tender. It was the kind of kiss that unmade you, devoured you, dragged you under and remade you from the ashes. Your lips clashed together in a frenzy, months of silence, longing, and suffering crashing into one impossibly desperate moment. His hands were everywhere, your waist, your back, your jaw, pulling you in like he could fuse you to his skin. Your hands clawed into his hair, anchoring yourself to him, needing to feel every inch, needing to know he was really there.

Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sound guttural and raw. You gasped, and he took it as an invitation, deepening the kiss with bruising hunger. His teeth grazed your lower lip and you moaned, chasing him like you’d die if you stopped. It was messy, breathless, too hard and too soft all at once, but it was everything. It was home.

You didn’t even realize the way he was holding you until your lungs screamed for air and you finally broke apart. Your chest heaved, mouth open against his, breathing each other in like you were one another’s oxygen, noses brushing, foreheads resting together as his hands cradled your face like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

A soft clearing of a throat cut through the haze like a needle popping a balloon.

You both turned your heads in unison to see Steve standing a respectful distance away, arms still crossed, with a smirk draped on his lips. He wasn’t hiding the amused glint in his eye, though, or the quiet warmth he had for the both of you.

“I hate to be that guy,” Steve said, eyes flicking between the two of you with that Captain America patience, “But you’re technically sitting in the middle of the landing pad.” Bucky groaned, leaning his forehead back against yours with a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh.

”Thanks for the heads-up, Steve.” He responded, before turning his attention back to you, your gaze locking back onto his, your heart still hammering in your chest as you reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

”We should probably get you inside…Let you get your bearings and everything, maybe get you something to eat.” Bucky hummed, but didn’t make a move to unravel himself from you just yet, he just kept you against him for a second longer, before you leaned in one more time.

”We’ll pick up where we left off later tonight.” You whispered, watching as his eyes lit up at your words.

“Really?” He asked, voice low and hopeful. You kissed him once more, leaving it at a peck instead of letting it grow with intensity this time.

“You still have that private exhibit tour booked…With full access, remember?” You murmured, a smirk drawing up on your lips, winking at him a bit. He let out a soft laugh.

”God, you remembered that?” He questioned quietly, his cheeks heating up slightly as his arms unraveled from your waist so you could get up.

”I remember everything, ” You responded, holding your hand out to him, pulling him up to his feet, “And I’m looking forward to the cash in.” He smirked, giving you one last kiss before making your way off the landing pad wrapped up in each other’s warm embrace.

——————-

The team insisted on celebrating.

The moment Bucky was cleared by the med bay and had scarfed down a sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in days, Tony declared it a “welcome-the-hell-back party” and ordered enough food to feed an army. No one wanted to make him sit through anything formal or flashy, so it was takeout boxes, mismatched wine glasses, and laughter echoing through the Tower’s common room like nothing had changed.

You sat beside Bucky on the couch, thigh-to-thigh, the air thick with heat between the both of you. Everyone around you was relaxed, smiling, tossing jokes around like old times–it had been a while since everybody got together like this so the dynamic wasn’t anything short of unnatural.

Even throughout all of this, you were only able to focus on the quiet rhythm of Bucky’s breathing beside you, or the way his arms flexed against yours while he was eating his rice dish from the takeout container, or the way your body shifted every time his gaze lingered on you when you decided to chime in and make a comment of your own during a conversation.

You were trying to play it cool, but it was almost impossible when Bucky was in this state of admiration. You weren’t sure if people were noticing or choosing to ignore the very obvious signs, but they respected the idea of not acknowledging it just for tonight, especially with the context of the situation in general.

There was a low simmering ache of anticipation curling beneath your ribs, it wasn’t urgent, not yet at least. Not when the both of you knew how the night was going to end. The urgency would kick in behind closed doors, and that’s what you couldn’t wait for.

The night stretched on, and the conversations began to wind down. Sam was the first to call it a night, yawning exaggeratedly, and making a quick comment welcoming Bucky back, clapping him on the shoulder before leaving the common room.

Bruce left soon after, offering a small smile and a kind nod, taking a bottle of wine with him ‘for later.’ Natasha followed suit, shooting a lingering look to you, arching a brow at you with a quiet approval, cause she had been paying attention to both you and Bucky the entire night. She didn’t say anything, but the message was clear. Have fun, go make up for the lost time.

Tony and Clint wandered off to the roof together, talking about testing out some of his new glow in the dark arrows before heading to sleep. Then it was just Steve left, lingering near the kitchen island, nursing a drink. He let out a soft sigh.

”Well, I think I’m going to finish this off in my room.” He said, motioning to the glass, the ice clinking in the glass. The both of you glanced at him.

”Oh, okay, goodnight Steve.” You replied, a smile drawing up on your lips. He looked between the two of you one last time, a faint smile coming up on his face.

”Try not to break anything.” He joked, taking another sip of his drink before walking down the hallway, leaving your sight, the door to his quarters clicking shut moments later.

And just like that, it was only the two of you.

Instantly the room felt different, like the walls had closed in around you both, pressing you two together, drawing you closer. You turned to look at Bucky, not surprised he was already watching you, eyes soft but lust filled, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek like he was trying to keep himself in control. The dim lighting of the common room casted small yellowed shadows over the both of you, the silence settling within the space. You could feel your cheeks heat up as you stood up slowly, holding out a hand to him.

His fingers curled around yours with a quiet desire that you’d felt simmering beneath the surface all night. His grip was gentle as he stood up from the couch, letting you lead him out of the common room. You guided him down the hallway, you were the first door on the right, and you wasted no time pushing it open, dragging him in with you.

Before you could close the door yourself, Bucky’s hand shot out, slamming it shut with a force that rattled the frame, your back meeting it soon after. You gasped at how fast he moved, only to have your breath stolen when his mouth crashed against yours with the kind of hunger that only two months of separation could build. He wanted to taste every inch of you, as if he would disappear if he didn’t consume you whole right then and there.

You moaned into the kiss, fingers scrambling to find purchase, one going to his broad, thick shoulder, while the other sank into his hair tugging just enough to earn a guttural growl from him, his chest vibrating against yours. He caged you in against the door with his body, his hips pressing against yours, wanting to feel every part of you.

His vibranium hand slid along your waist, slipping beneath the sweater you were wearing, the coolness of it shocking the heat that saturated your skin. His touch made your knees weaken, a breathy sound escaping you as his mouth pulled off yours, carving out their own path down your jaw, straight to the tender spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting along the sensitive skin, making his first mark on you, pulling back to watch it bloom a dark red, returning quickly to continue his descent down your throat. The scraping of his stubble along your flesh sent goosebumps along your body, a small gasp escaping you.

”God I missed you so much.” He whispered, his hot breath sticking to your skin, peppering a kiss along the column of your throat, his tongue slipping out to lick your pulse point, before sucking gently.

“Bucky,” You moaned, arching into him, your thighs already trembling, as he slid his knee between your legs, guiding them apart just enough for his body to nestle even closer to you, the friction causing your lashes to flutter. Your fingers curled in his hair as his mouth pressed hot, wet kisses on your neck until he reached the collar of your sweater, feeling the thick bulge in his pants pressing against your hip.

”Let’s move to the bed…” He murmured, lifting you up effortlessly, “You deserve more than the door.” He joked, earning a giggle from you, as he dropped you down onto the duvet that covered your mattress, immediately covering your body with his, settling between your thighs.

”Tell me what you want,” He said, pushing your hair away from your face with his vibranium hand, “Anything. I’ll give it to you.” You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the stubble there.

”I just want you. I want you so fucking bad.” He nodded, leaning down to kiss you again, his tongue sweeping over yours, before sitting back on his knees to look at you, peeling his shirt off and throwing it to the side in one quick motion. You felt your jaw clench, your eyes roaming over the new scars that muddled his skin, your hands coming up instantly to touch them, the muscles beneath your fingers tensing up. You explored slowly, lovingly, like you were relearning the man you’d ached for every night he was gone. Your palms flattened over his chest, his heart hammering beneath your hands, and when you looked up at him again, Bucky’s expression had softened, his hands reaching to hold your wrists gently.

”Your turn.” He whispered, slowly pushing your hands off his stomach, and reaching for the hem of your sweater. You sat up to help him, pressing a soft kiss to his sternum, before raising your arms above your head, allowing him to pull the fabric off of you, throwing it to the side. You laid back down against the bed, looking up at him, watching as his eyes roamed over you like he hadn’t seen your body in years. His vibranium hand pressed to the curve of your waist, the cool temperature sending a shiver through your spine, while the other reached up to cup the underside of your breast through the soft, thin material of your bra.

”Cream…” He breathed, dragging his thumb over the trim that lined the cup “Of course you’d wear something soft and pretty like this.” He commented, feeling your nipple harden beneath his palm. You smirked at his comment, biting your lip as your cheeks heated up even more.

”Take it off for me.” He instructed softly, tracing small patterns along your waist with the tips of his cool vibranium fingers, watching you lean up and reach behind yourself, unclasping the bra slowly. You let the straps slip from your shoulders, before gently letting the cups fall away, revealing your breasts to him.

The second your bra hit the floor, Bucky’s hands were all over you, tracing over the scar that went between your chest, like it was his version of the sign of the cross, it was his way of showing you he wanted to let you in. His warm hand slipped to the side to cup one breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened peak of your nipple, as his vibranium hand mapped over the other one, spanning over the curve of it, squeezing gently.

”Jesus Christ…You’re so fucking perfect.” He whispered, your back arching into his hands instinctively, your eyes staying on his as he dipped his head down, closing his mouth around your nipple, sucking slow and deep, his tongue swirling and pressing against it with just enough pressure that it made your toes curl. Your fingers tangled into his hair instantly, pulling him closer to you, feeling the bulge in his pants grinding against your already soaking core.

“Bucky…” Was all that fell from your mouth, as he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast, licking a long, warm stripe over the soft flesh, flicking his tongue across your nipple, then drawing it between his lips, giving it a gentle bite.

“You make the sweetest sounds.” He mumbled, his voice muffled by your breast. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he continued to alternate between breasts, blowing against the saliva that coated the skin so that he could overwhelm the sensations that crashed over you.

“You like when I touch you like this, huh?” You nodded quickly, breath stuttering with each little flick of his tongue.

”Yes…God yes, please d-don’t stop.” His mouth curled into a grin against your chest, as he began his descent down your body, licking down the scar, trailing over to your ribs, trying his best not to miss any skin that was exposed to him, wanting to paint the most worshipful path down your body.

”I won’t stop until you tell me to.” He whispered, kissing the soft swell of your stomach, his tongue dragging down past your navel, his stubble scratching against your skin as he stopped right above the waistband of your pants. You were already panting, your hips raising off the mattress ever so slightly, squirming beneath him, silently pleading for him to continue. Bucky looked up at you through his dark lashes.

”Can I take these off?” He asked, his fingers already curling under the waistband. You nodded instantly.

”Yes…Please.” You said breathlessly. He smiled up at you, tugging the fabric down slowly, dragging your panties along with them in one fluid motion, leaving you completely bare in front of him. He threw everything to the side, watching as your legs parted for him, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.

”Fuck…Y/N.” Was all he could manage to get out, as his gaze locked onto your soaked, glistening folds, “You’re already so fucking wet, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.” He said, his hands sliding up your thighs, your body reacting to the lovely contrast they both provided, while he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, moving higher with each one. He kissed all the way up until his mouth was just hovering over where you needed him the most, his hot breath causing your core to flutter around nothing.

Then he stepped back. You leaned up onto your elbows, confused at what he was doing, until he curled his arms under your knees and pulled you down the bed. You gasped loudly at the quick movement, feeling your thighs hanging off the mattress, while your ass was just teetering on the very edge. A small smile came up on his lips as he dropped to his knees in front of you, kneeling between your legs, his hands spreading you open gently.

”Look at you,” He whispered, his eyes drinking you in, “You’re dripping for me.” He kissed the inside of your thigh, biting down on the soft flesh to elicit a gasp from you, before leaning forward, licking you in one long, slow, indulgent stroke, lapping up the juices that already coated your folds. You let out a sharp gasp, your hips jerking slightly, as Bucky’s strong, muscular arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place as he devoured you.

His tongue circled your clit slowly, then flicked it with just enough pressure to make your thighs clench around his neck. He moaned into you, the vibration causing you to tremble beneath him.

“Fuck.” He murmured, “You taste so fucking good…” He added, moving back in to take your clit between his lips, sucking gently as his tongue began to trace lazy circles against it, his arms holding you open to him, rendering you completely helpless under his mouth. Your hips jerked against his face, but that only made him hold you tighter.

“You’re so fucking soft.” He praised, as your fingers reached down, threading into his thick hair, gripping tightly when he flattened his tongue against you, licking slow, unrelenting strokes over your clit, moaning into you, the vibration making your thighs close around his head.

You were panting now, completely exposed and at his mercy, and the way he looked up at you through his lashes while his tongue moved in the slow rhythm he found nearly broke you.

”I missed this so fucking much,” He whispered, kissing your clit softly “Missed the way you taste, the way you fall apart for me…God, I fucking just missed you.” He added, licking you again–deeper now, tongue sliding between your folds, pushing into your entrance briefly before he slipped a finger into you. Your breath hitched, as one of your hands slid out from his mane of hair, grabbing onto his vibranium arm.

”So fucking warm.” He groaned, adding a second finger, curling them inside you slowly, pressing against that little spot that made your legs buckle.

”Fuck Bucky, right there.” You moaned.

“I know sweetheart…Let me feel you hmm?” He rasped, his tongue returning to your clit, flicking in soft wet stroke, perfectly in rhythm with the way he fucked his fingers into you. You closed your eyes tightly, pushing his face into you even more, grinding up into his mouth as you started to lose control.

”Don’t stop, oh my god…Please don’t stop.” You begged, feeling him shake his head, not breaking his rhythm.

”I won’t.” He replied, voice thick with lust, as he shifted slightly, grabbing onto your hand, intertwining your fingers, your hips continuing to grind desperately against his face, seeking more.

”Bucky.” You sobbed, your voice totally wrecked between gasps.

“I know baby…I know.” His tongue returned to that devastating rhythm–press, flick, suck– perfectly in time with his fingers, which began to pick up speed, curling in just the right spot.

Everything inside you tightened, winding and coiling until everything snapped, as the pleasure bloomed so deep it hurt. Your thighs pressed around his head, your back arching off the bed, feeling your breath catching in your throat.

You came with a sharp, desperate cry, your body convulsing, clenching around his fingers as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your hand squeezed his, the other fisting into his hair, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it.

Bucky didn’t stop though, he moaned into you like your climax was his own, lapping up every single drop you gave him, dragging his tongue softly over your clit while you whimpered through the aftershocks.

“You’re so fuckinng beautiful when you come.” He whispered, finally lifting his head just enough to breathe. You glanced down at him, seeing how utterly wrecked he looked, his chin slick, lips glistening with your arousal, and his eyes heavy with need. He kissed the inside of your thigh, grounding you as you slowly came down from your high, his hand still holding onto yours tightly.

“Incredible.” He breathed, nipping at the sensitive flesh on the side of your knee, kissing the little mark gently, still looking up at you, his pupils blown wide, and shimmering. You let out a soft, shaky sigh, as your fingers drifted through his hair, combing the strands back away from his face, a small content hum escaping his throat, his lips pulling off your skin, another mark blooming along the flesh.

”Need me to get you some water before we continue?” He asked, slowly removing his fingers from you, shyly licking your arousal off of them, taking time with each one. You could feel your cheeks heat up at the sight, unraveling your hand from his hair.

”I think that would be a good idea.” Bucky smiled, placing one more kiss on the inside of your thigh, before standing up from his kneeling position, adjusting himself slightly to hide his erection, and wiping off his chin, attempting to conceal the evidence of what was happening inside the room.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move.” He joked, leaning over to give you a quick peck, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips.

”Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.” He smirked at your comment, pulling away quickly, sneaking out of the bedroom, leaving you completely alone. Your skin was humming where he kissed you, every inch of your body vibrating with the aftershocks that traveled through you. Slowly, you raised from the bed, shifting yourself up the mattress to slip under the covers, a low ache blooming between your thighs where he had worked you open so perfectly, where he had devoured your soul, still feeling the wet imprints of his mouth where he had kissed along your skin. You exhale shakily, settling against the pillow, waiting quietly in anticipation for the next moment you had him next to you.

The door creaked open softly, as Bucky slipped into the room again with two glasses of water in his hands. His hair stood up in all directions, cheeks still flushed a deep red, with a grin plastered on his lips noticing how plump they were from overworking you. He shuffled towards the bed, holding out the glass of water to you.

”Thanks,” You said, taking it from him, your heart flipping at the gesture, his fingers brushing against yours, giving you a nod, before stepping around to his side of the bed, avoiding the pile of clothes on the floor. He set his own glass down on the nightstand, turning to the side so the thick planes of his back were exposed to you, watching as he looked around your room, taking in all the little details that were plastered along the walls and the tops of your dressers. You took a sip of your water, feeling the coolness invade your chest, bringing you a temporary relief from the heat that burned through your flesh.

He continued to look around your room, staring at a small framed photo of you and Nat.

“That was my first mission back after I was released from the hospital.” You explained, putting the glass down on the bedside table.

”You look so different.” He responded, turning back to you, seeing you smirking.

”Well…People do change.” He let out a soft laugh, moving towards the top of the bed, slipping the duvet down the mattress, the cool air kissing up your legs, before slowly pushing the fabric of his pants down his thick, muscular thighs, stepping out of them one leg at a time. You felt your jaw tense, your eyes roaming over him with nothing but hunger. He stood in nothing but his black boxer briefs, the smooth fabric pulled tight across his hips, and there was no hiding the thick outline of his erection pressing against it, begging to be released from its confines. You felt your thighs clench together, just drinking him in like he was your choice of alcohol. His body looked like it had been carved from marble, and it was evident that he really was working out during the time he was away from you just by the difference in the way his skin stretched along the expanse of muscle.

Bucky blushed beneath your gaze as he slipped under the covers, the mattress creaking with the weight of him pressing down on it, as he turned onto his side to face you. For a moment, neither of you moved, you just absorbed each other's heat, eyes trailing over each other.

“So beautiful.” He murmured, reaching up to brush his fingers down your cheek, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You bit the tip gently, before taking his wrist into your hand, guiding down to rest on your bare hip, as you shifted closer to him, your leg instinctively lifting to curl over his waist, drawing your slick heat against the hard outline of his erection, wetting the fabric of his briefs.

“Jesus…You’re going to ruin me.” He whispered, resting his forehead against yours. You smiled softly, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, letting your fingertips roam over a scar that bisected his collarbone.

”Good, then we’ll be even.” He laughed under his breath, closing the space between you, kissing you with all the control he had left in his body. His lips moved against yours like he wanted to savor all of it, even though he knew he was going to have all the time in the world to do this a thousand times over.

His hand slid up from your hip, gliding along your ribs, feeling the indents of your scars, tracing them until he reached your throat, curling his hand around it. He didn’t squeeze, but the possessiveness of the gesture alone made your breath stutter, his palm resting flat against the skin as his thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling it accelerating beneath his touch with each gentle stroke. He pulled away from the kiss, his shaky breath sticking against your wet lips, as his eyes locked onto yours with a heat so tender it made your chest ache.

”You’re mine…” He whispered, like a promise and prayer wrapped up into one statement, “I’m never going to leave you again…Not like I did in the alley.” You swallowed, your throat bobbing beneath his hand, as you reached up to hold his wrist.

”Even if you do…You’ll always find your way back…” You responded, breathless, feeling him gently squeeze your neck, surging forward to kiss you again, rolling his hips against you, the friction of the movements driving you mad in an instant, your arousal soaking into his briefs. You could feel his lips turning up against yours, satisfied with how wet you were still, so prepared. He pulled back, peppering kisses along your jaw.

”Bucky, please…Please I need you.” You whimpered, your hips arching up to meet the slow grind of his, writhing beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulder.

”I’ll give you everything you need.” He replied, feeling the sharp sting kissing his skin as you scratched down his back, hissing at the burn.

”Fuck,” He breathed, his hips stalling for a moment, looking down at you, “You’re gonna leave so many marks on me.” You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth.

”That’s the idea.” He let out a small laugh.

”Want me to carry around the evidence of our night? You think that’s hot?” You nodded.

”Just marking my territory.” Another laugh came out of him, his chest vibrating against yours.

“Touché I guess.” He responded, his lips brushing over yours again, before shifting slightly, creating a little space between the both of you so he could reach down with his free hand to push his briefs off himself, just enough to let his cock out from the dampened fabric, letting the weight of it settle against your soaked folds.

He didn’t move at first, staying still with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavily, the both of you exchanging air, like he knew the moment he started moving he would begin to unravel. His lips ghosted over yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth, exploring every crevice as you reached down, your fingers curling around the base of him, eliciting a groan that vibrated through your chest.

”Jesus Christ.” He rapsed, pulling away from your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as you guided him through your arousal, teasing the tip along your entrance, “I can tell I’m not going to last.” He commented, trying to focus on anything but the sensation of your warmth pressing against the head of his erection, his thumb brushing over your pulse point again.

“I don’t even care…I just want to feel you inside me.” Those words alone almost made him cum right then and there, the desperation growing between the both of you, the craving of just wanting to be connected again. He didn’t need to waste anymore time.

His body trembled against yours as he angled his hips, nudging at your entrance, before slowly pushing in, feeling you stretching around him, your walls welcoming him back with the warmth that he missed. Your mouth fell open, gasping, your back arching off the mattress as he bottomed out in you, his hips meeting yours with a shuddering breath, stilling inside you.

”Fuck Y/N…You feel like home.” He moaned, kissing along your face, your eyes brimming with tears from the sheer closeness, from how right everything felt in those moments. You reached up blindly, needing to touch him, desperately attempting to anchor yourself. He caught your wrist with his vibranium hand, knowing exactly what you needed, as he threaded his fingers through yours, pinning the intertwined hands beside your head, using this as an opportunity to begin to move.

Each thrust was deliberate, angled perfectly within you so he could get as deep as possible, so he wouldn’t miss feeling a single spot. You could feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, his body molding to yours like there had never been space between you at all. His mouth stayed near yours, breathing you in, kissing you between moans, between whimpers, between the breathless begging. You were completely surrounded by him; his scent, his warmth, his breath panting against your lips. His hand stayed firm around your throat, never squeezing, just holding, just claiming.

“Look at me,” Bucky whispered, his hair tickling your face, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, “Need…Need to see you.” You opened your eyes slowly meeting the desperate irises that you had grown to love, seeing the completely wrecked look painted across all his features. His brows were furrowed, lips parted and swollen from crashing them against yours, and his skin was flushed red, with a sheen film of sweat. There was no disguising the desperation in his expression, as it mirrored your own, his hips bucking against you a little harder, still keeping his pace, dragging himself so deep that you whimpered his name like a prayer.

”Bucky…” You gasped, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes, “I missed you so fucking much.” You said, unable to stop yourself from reminding him how much you wanted him there with you for the past two months, your nails dragging along the muscles of his back with your free hand.

”I know Y/N…I dreamed of you every night…I’m…Fuck I’m so happy I’m back with you,” He breathed, his voice thick with emotion, his forehead pressing to yours again, lips trembling as he kissed the corner of your mouth, moaning when your walls clenched around him. He closed his eyes tightly, before leaning forward again to claim your lips with his.

The kiss wasn’t pretty, it was messy, soaking in need, with teeth clacking, and mouths parted wide, breaths intermingling together. You gasped into him as he rolled his hips again, and his own moan spilled into your mouth, long and low and unraveling. You could feel him shaking above you, his whole body trembling from the effort of keeping himself at the slow pace he was going, wanting to last, to savor you, to make up for every second he lost.

Your nails dragged hard along his back again, leaving a fresh trail of angry red lines across his skin, eliciting a groan as he pulled away from your lips.

”Fuck…” He choked, hips stuttering just slightly, chest heaving against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing him in even closer, impossibly close, clinging to him, his vibranium hand squeezing yours.

”I need all of you.” He nibbled softly on your jaw before kissing it, moving faster now, thrusting deep with each snap of his hip with a pace that nearly made you cry, his thumb pressing into your pulse with just a little bit of pressure, drawing out a soft gasp from you, watching your face, the way it contorted, your mouth dropping open to take in short breaths of air, nails still marking his back.

“Jesus…You’re my weakness.” The words fell out of his mouth, and you could feel your eyes shoot open, tears pooling in the corners, already blurring your vision, his pace slowing so he didn’t overwhelm you.

”Y-You really were in there?” He smiled at you, leaning down to kiss you gently, his hand leaving your throat to caress your cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, wiping away a stray tear.

“You tethered me to him…Even when he had taken over, and I was pushed into the dark…I could still hear your voice and feel you when you touched his chest.” He explained, his confession spilling into the space between your bodies while he rolled his hips against yours again, kissing away the salty tears that came down your cheeks, “Are you okay?” You nodded immediately.

”I’m just…I’m just relieved I wasn’t wrong.” He laughed a bit.

”Of course that’s what you are concerned about.” He murmured, kissing the side of your neck, as his hand gave yours a light squeeze before letting go, his other arm curling around your waist to angle you better against him, so the head of his erection grazed over the spot that made you writhe beneath him.

“Oh my fucking god Bucky.” You gasped, melting into another moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, your hips now rocking into his, rolling against his thrusts, meeting his hips, chasing your release with reckless abandon.

”I’ve got you…Always going to have you.” He whispered. Your walls clenching around him, a moan falling from his lips, losing himself to the feeling of you pulling him in. Then suddenly, his arms locked around your back, lifting you as he sat up, bringing you chest to chest with him, his cock still buried deep inside of you. You gasped at the new position, your thighs tightening around him, your bodies pressed so close it felt like your hearts were beating in tandem with one another. His mouth instantly peppering wet kisses along the tops of your breasts, your nails digging into his shoulders again at the sensation of his cock pressing against your cervix.

“Holy fuck,” You whimpered, clinging to him, as he thrusted up into you, hitting so deep that you nearly sobbed in ecstasy. The wet sound of your bodies moving together filled the air between the moans, the slick, obscene slap of skin against skin only adding to the fire burning behind your ribs. Your arms tightened around his neck, rocked against him, your hips meeting the frantic thrusts of his, your bodies colliding in that perfect mess of desperation and worship, your walls pulsing around him.

“I’m not gonna last.” He groaned, his voice totally wrecked, tracing up to your collarbone with his lips.

”Please don’t stop…” You gasped, grinding down against him harder, chasing every ounce of friction, “I need you to cum in me…I need all of it.” The begging was the thing that got him instantly. His head fell back with a strangled moan, hips bucking up wildly as he lost himself to the way your walls gripped him, the heat and slickness of you dragging him straight over the edge. You felt him twitch deep inside just a heartbeat before he cried out your name, and spilled into you with a moan that shook through every inch of his body.

The warmth of it hit you fast, thick and hot, coating your insides with every desperate pulse of his release. You gasped, your walls fluttering around him, still clenching as your own orgasm chased his, sending tremors through your limbs. The pressure built so sharp and blinding that you buried your face into his neck, crying out, and biting down, your body locking against his as the world tilted on its axis.

Bucky held you through it, his arms wrapped completely around you, one hand splaying on the small of your back while the other cradled your head. He didn’t stop pressing kisses to your skin even as both of you slumped forward, his cock still seated inside you, twitching with aftershocks, his spend already beginning to leak from your folds and drip down his length.

You both stayed still for a long time, panting, tangled up, sweat-slicked and trembling in each other’s arms.

“Wow.” You whispered into his neck, kissing against the bite mark you left on the tender flesh, your heartbeat finally steadying.

“That was…Amazing.” He murmured, his voice still rough from the aftermath of everything you just did. You smiled lazily at his words, your fingers tracing over the raised scratch marks that you had left on his back.

“We’re gonna be so sore tomorrow.” He let out a soft laugh at your comment, pulling back so he could press his forehead to yours.

”Definitely worth the soreness I think.” He replied, earning a nod of agreement from you. The both of you stayed wrapped around each other, too content to move, his hand tracing slow circles against your lower back.

Eventually, he shifted, pulling out slowly, a gasp escaping your throat from the unexpected emptiness you felt, as he laid you down on the mattress. Bucky’s hand lingered on your thigh for a moment, his thumb stroking the soft skin as he stared down at the mess between your legs–his release trickling from your pulsing core.

”I’ll be right back.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. You gave him a small hum in response, too blissed out to form words, your body still tingling from your orgasm, the cool air brushing over your sweat-slicked skin. The mattress shifted as Bucky padded over to the en suite bathroom, turning the sink on. You listened closely, hearing the cabinet door creaking open, before closing soon after, then the water closed, hearing him return to you, crawling onto the bed beside you with a small wet towel.

”Let’s get you cleaned up hm?” You nodded gently, shifting just enough to let him ease your legs apart again, his large hand cradling the outside of your thigh with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. The towel was warm, damp and soft, and he moved so slowly–wiping the insides of your thighs, cleaning the sticky mess that had begun to cool against your skin. You watched him as he worked, his brows slightly furrowed, lips parted in quiet concentration. There was something utterly domestic about the moment, Bucky, post-orgasm, still flushed and damp, eyes gentle and full of something you could only describe as tenderness, carefully cleaning the mess he left behind.

“You okay?” He asked, glancing up at you with a little wrinkle in his brow, his hair falling in front of his face. You reached for him, brushing the damp strands off of his forehead with trembling fingers, your touch lingering on his temple before sliding down to cup his stubbly cheek.

”I’m more than okay.” You replied, a smile appearing on your lips, as he brought his free hand up to hold onto your wrist, turning his head to kiss your palm.

”Just making sure.” He breathed, giving you one last gentle swipe with the towel before double-checking for anything he might’ve missed.

Satisfied with his work, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your hip, before shifting off the bed to put the towel into the appropriate basket. You let out a small sigh, turning onto your side, pulling the covers up to your neck. Bucky returned quietly, the soft padding of his bare feet barely audible against the floor. The room had settled into that perfect kind of silence, heavy with the warm afterglow and the calm that only came after something deeply intimate. You felt the mattress dip behind you as he climbed back into bed, his arm sliding around your waist instantly, pulling your back against his chest.

You let out a small, content sigh, your hand finding his forearm beneath the covers, bringing it up so you could hold it in front of you. His nose nudged against your ear, his hot breath sticking to your neck.

”I’m so grateful for you.” He whispered, kissing your shoulder gently, as his vibranium arm slid under your pillow, wrapping across your chest to pull you into him even more, so he could slot himself in the crook of your neck. Your body melted into his, your eyes fluttering shut as you traced your hand up his forearm.

”I’m grateful for you too, Bucky.” You replied, feeling his chest vibrate against your back as he hummed softly.

“Still can’t believe I’m here.” He said quietly, nuzzling his chin into your neck.

”You’re here, and you’re not going anywhere.” You responded sleepily.

”Not a fucking chance.” He shot back, laughing lightly against your skin. There was a pause between the both of you, one of those long cozy silences where nothing else had to be said. You felt safe for the first time since you two were separated, and your body was exhausted yet full of warmth, giving into the sleepiness that began to catch up to you from the countless nights you laid awake waiting for good news.

“Do you need to sleep on the floor?” You asked out of nowhere, your voice light and curious, as your fingers ran over the vibranium of his arm, right where it rested over your chest. Bucky snorted behind you.

”I think I’ll be okay as long as I’m beside you.” He grumbled, pressing into you more.

”You sure? I might snore…You might regret this decision really quickly.” You joked, feeling him shift behind you, leaning forward so he could see the smile that was already plastered on your face.

”First off…You never snore, and second…If you did, I’d take every snore, every blanket tug, and every toss and turn with pride…Just to fall asleep next to you like this.” You felt your cheeks heat up.

”You’re getting all poetic on me, Bucky.” He placed a gentle kiss on your warm cheek.

”Well, I guess you bring that out of me.” He commented, his fingers drawing absent circles over your skin, “Do you want me to turn the TV on for you, since we’re talking about our sleep traumas.” You shook your head.

”No, I think I’ll be okay…I’ve got a super soldier with a vibranium arm protecting me.” Bucky couldn’t help but let out a laugh at your response, the warmth of his breath sticking to your neck.

“Yeah, you’re right about that…Nobody would be getting through me.” He responded, pressing another kiss to your shoulder before letting the room slip into a quiet hush. Your breath evened out in time with his, tangled under the blankets, skin pressed to skin, surrounded by warmth and the soft scent of each other.

And as the last flickers of consciousness slipped away, you felt him kiss your hair one last time, a barely-there brush of his lips, promising you tomorrow, and the rest of his days.

[sp4ceboo]

The Princess's Guard: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader x Kirishima Eijirou

genre: medieval au, fantasy au, a/b/o au, omegaverse au, alpha!katsuki x omega!reader x alpha!eijirou, non conventional a/b/o dynamics, porn with some plot, afab!reader, princess!reader, smut

summary: you recognise something is amiss the moment you step into your quarters. getting rid of the kidnappers is the easy bit - the challenge is teaching your two bodyguards a lesson.

tw: 18+, smut (p in v, knots, overstimulation, one spank, one slap, double penetration, anal penetration - both fingers and dick 👍, oral f receiving, everyone's a switch, some knife kink, spit kink, size kink if you squint, cum eating, kats highkey loves the pain, reader is mean, degradation & praise), violence, blood, death, sword fighting, attempts at kidnapping, lil izuku cameo!, about 33% plot and 67% smut

wc: 5.9k

other works

You recognise something is amiss the moment you step into your quarters. The careful balance of scents - your own, and the comforting mix of campfire smoke and musky citrus - has been interrupted, invaded by a foreign odour that, though faint, is dirty and reeks of the undercity. Your ears prick, and your eyes find the rumpled curtains of the furthest window.

A sloppy job, then.

They may not be the subtlest, nor the most precise, but whoever they are, they certainly have their timing mastered (or they simply got lucky; a fluke of sorts), since both members of your personal guard are absent as of the current, busy quietly dispatching a nobleman you’d ordered them after. It had taken time, but you and your brother had discovered him guilty of covering up various crimes including some less than savoury instances with his underpaid scullery maids.

You know what the intruders are here for. It is not for the relative finery of your rooms, though they are not nearly as gaudy as they should be for a princess, nor the jewels gifted to you by neighbouring nations that nestle with all their lustre in the darkness of the small chest on your mantel, but for you.

It would not be the first time mercenaries and bounty hunters have been bribed exorbitantly to face your two guards and steal you away into the night. After all, you are of a rare kind. You are an omega: the youngest of the twenty that survive the ancient bane that still ravages the lands your father rules over, and those beyond your borders too.

When the nation found out that the princess had presented as an omega, they had rejoiced, almost elevating you in status over the crown prince, your older brother. Izuku had not minded -  rather, he enjoyed the peace, as for once, it was you who the people wanted blessing their babies and mediating their problems, not him.

You were, and still are, a sought after omega princess in a sea of alphas and betas, and so your father had hired your personal guard. Most of the kingdom is still under the impression that you will be married off to some lucky noble or foreign prince, but little do they know that you are already claimed; anyone who sees you and your guard up close will notice the way their eyes follow you at all times, the way they wear the grooves down their backs from your nails proudly.

They too have littered you in their marks, drenched you in their scents, claiming you as theirs without question, and you would have it no other way. You have your guard, and they are all you need.

But your alphas are not here, and though it is not the first time someone has tried to break into your quarters, it is the first time you are alone when it’s happened. Still, in the years of omegas’ absence, people have forgotten their strength; they have forgotten that the blood in your veins and the instincts woven into your being are just as potent and intense as an alpha’s.

You take a deep breath. The smell of the undercity has grown stronger, enough so to tell you that whoever lies in wait for you, concealed somewhere in your quarters, has crept closer, maybe even entered the antechambers you stand in. Your hand drops down to your sword, your fingers curling around the hilt as you spin slowly in a circle, scanning the room.

There is the soft scuff of the sole of a boot against floorboards.

Unsheathing your sword, you whirl to face the man who stands just behind one of the sofas: he is a beta by the looks of it, which explains why you couldn’t pinpoint his exact location. What little scent he has is fully masked by the stink of undercity on him.

His hand blurs, and a loud clang rings out as you slash your sword in a tight arc, deflecting the dagger he hurls at you. You trap it beneath your boot as it skitters across the floor - you can see a dark substance lacing its tip. Some sort of mild sedative, most likely, which means that he must have come with others to help transport your unconscious body.

Sedatives are a smart idea, if a little hard to carry out. If your alphas had been with you, the sedatives would have taken them out of the picture soon enough, allowing for less required brawn to take them out, but it’s only you, and you’re nimble enough that this beta’s rather shaky aim is not enough to finish you off.

You drop low, moving fast, skidding around the sofas and tackling him to the floor, pinning his throwing wrist to the ground with your knee. It’s a struggle to keep yourself from skewering him at such close distance while he wriggles futilely in an attempt to throw you.

“Who sent you?” You demand, pressing your sword to his neck hard enough to draw blood.

He takes a deep breath, but instead of speaking, he whistles tremulously - a signal of some sort. Cursing, you dispatch him quickly, briefly mourning the fate of your nice fluffy rug as your attention is drawn to the grappling hook that you hadn’t previously noticed on your window sill pulling taut. You’ve gotten soft, too reliant on your alphas. Back in the day, you would have noticed something like that immediately.

The two men that climb up the rope and into your antechambers are both alphas, and greed glows bright in their eyes at the prospect of the omega princess all by herself, only dimming slightly when they spot their fallen comrade. You take a few steps back, wanting to judge their abilities before you dive in.

Two against one are the sort of odds you like, even if you’ve deskilled enough to stupidly overlook warnings so obvious it’s like they’ve been left out for you. A grin pulls at your lips, even despite the way the two alphas look at you - your own barely let you lift a finger, and though they are perfectly happy to spar with you, you like it when there’s a little more at stake.

“Even from outside, you smell so sweet, pretty omega,” the one on the left croons.

He cackles, and the other laughs with him, the two of him like deranged hyenas. Fatally, they have underestimated you, unable to see past the fact you are alone and without your infamous guard. They think you are ripe for the taking. You will prove them horribly, horribly wrong.

You decide to kill the one who spoke first.

Lunging forward, you easily slip past his guard and deliver a sharp crack of your knuckles against his jaw; aghast, he gapes at you, and you don’t waste your time as you clash your sword with his, the sound of steel on steel ringing out. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his companion is frozen in shock, mouth hanging open. It means that the fact they’ve gotten this fair is certainly down to beginners luck, and you’re a little disappointed they won’t prove more of a challenge.

You’re not being cocky - you understand how badly the kingdom needs you, as a figurehead of the omegas and a resistance against the bane if not someone for your brother to fall back on and your parents to gain support from. Still, you do not call for guards, and you do not run from this fight: something you’re sure your alphas will berate you for not doing later.

In truth, you miss the adrenaline rush. You miss duelling with people who aren’t terrified of slicing your precious omega skin open, and the bitter smelling alpha opposite you certainly doesn’t seem to be scared of such a thing as he recovers from the blow you landed.

He rushes at you, but he’s unsettled and a little frenzied, like an angry bull, and in a precise parry, you disarm him. His sword clatters to the floor. Swiftly, you bury your blade into his chest and yank it out again, letting him fall to the floor as you turn to the other, your shoulders squaring. This one’s face has gone pale, and frantically, he whistles - gods, of course there’s more of them.

Though the fear sours his previously overbearing scent, he’s more skilled than his late companion. You clash with him, feinting left before striking right, but he’s fast enough to dodge, only getting nicked in the forearm: still, he stumbles backwards, and you lash out again, sword glittering like quicksilver.

A glance over his shoulder reveals a hand on the sill as another attacker climbs up the rope, and you curse. There’s no way of knowing how many of them are waiting out of sight. You need to dispatch this one and get that hook off your window sill before the odds go from fun to mildly threatening.

Lunging forward, you take him off guard by twirling right past him instead of attacking; seizing the poker from by the fireplace in your left hand, you dart closer to him and bring it down hard on his wrist, using your sword to flick his out of his hand and backing him up against the window. You brace your feet, widening your stance in preparation to deliver the final blow.

“Gotcha.” Hot breath brushes your ear, a cold blade at your throat. The poker clatters to the floor.  “You’re a feisty one, omega. Now drop that sword.”

You swear. You weren’t fast enough, and another must have climbed through the window when you were by the fireplace, your back turned. Opposite you, you can see your former assailant’s eyes fill with relief, his fingers clutching the mantelpiece as he pants, gasping for breath.

A furrow forms in his brows, and he looks past your shoulder before walking over to the window sill and securing the grappling hook - the one holding you must be communicating with him somehow.

The dagger at your throat presses into your flesh. “Don’t make me tell you twice, fucking bitch.”

At first, you stiffen, but then you force your muscles to relax, feigning surrender as you let your sword arm droop. The attacker behind you chuckles, the blade at your throat easing, and you bring up your free hand to paw at his forearm, producing a breathy, frightened noise from deep in your chest. Anyone who knows you well enough would see right through it, but it works like a charm on the self righteous alpha you’re using it on.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve, yanking it away from your neck as you slam your head back, crunching it into his nose. He howls, stumbling backwards, and you keep a tight grip on him, heaving him forwards and right into his companion - the momentum sends them both right over the sill, and you don’t bother to watch them fall as you unhook the grapple and let it plummet after them.

Disgruntled, you step back from the window and stare at the bodies on your floor and their growing pools of blood. Sheathing your sword, you stride through the rest of your quarters to check if there’s any lurkers. You’ve just finished scouring your bedroom and have begun to unbuckle the plate armour you’d previously had on when you hear the door to the antechambers open, and two familiar scents wash over you. Your guards are back.

Katsuki smells like bonfire smoke and burnt sugar, while Eijirou is citrus and gentle musk; remnants of their essence linger on you and all over your quarters, woven deep into the well worn spots they often take up on the sofas of the antechamber and even deeper into your bedsheets.

Their scents spike suddenly, and you know they’ve seen the bodies. Katsuki calls your name, and suddenly the two of them barrel through your bedroom door - the space in your room seems to decrease rapidly as they enter, two huge, imposing alphas protective and ready for a fight. Eijirou deflates at the sight of you unscathed, but Katsuki bristles.

“Are you hurt, omega?” He barks.

“I’m fine,” you soothe, patting his broad chest. “Nothing I couldn't handle.”

Eijirou steps forward from where he fills the doorframe, inhaling, checking your scent for the distinct metallic tang of blood. You watch as he scans the room, skimming it for anything wrong despite knowing you’ve probably already done so.

Remorse is clear on his face, and you know that if Katsuki was less frustrated with himself, it would be on his too; though you are not hurt, though you are capable on your own, and though you are the reason there were gone, they still were not there to protect you when you needed them. You can see they are both painfully aware of it.

Slowly, Eijirou gets to his knees in supplication, and after hesitating, Katsuki does too.

“My lady,” Eijirou says softly, eyes downcast. “We have failed you.”

Katsuki remains silent, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He cannot meet your eyes. Taking a step forward to stand directly in front of them, you cannot help but relish the way the power rushes to your head. There they kneel, at your feet, heads bowed. It’s at odds with the pure strength that sings in their veins and permeates their very beings, strength that is so clearly evident in the ripple of muscle that lines their every movement and the patterns of scars on their skin.

“Two of you, and still you can’t do your job properly,” you sigh, bending down so you can look them in their eyes. “Pathetic, good for nothing alphas.”

Intertwining with Eijirou’s sweet musk, the warm scent of caramel floods the room as Katsuki immediately catches on to the cruel, saccharine tone of your voice. You laugh softly, prowling over to him, amused by the way he unashamedly breathes in your scent.

Picking up the silver dagger on your desk, you wrap your fingers around its ornate hilt and roughly fist a hand in Katsuki’s blonde hair, yanking his head back. He glares at you, his crimson eyes defiant, the muscles in his neck straining, and you flip the dagger in your hands before pressing the tip to his throat. A low growl sounds low in his chest as you trace the line of his jaw, clenched to perfection.

The burnt sugar flavour to the air only grows.

With a flick of your wrist, you nick his skin with the blade - another flick, and his shirt is in shreds; he snaps at your fingers with his teeth like he can’t help it. Quickly, you seize his face in your hand, holding him steady. He snarls again, deep and churlish, and you glance down, smirking at the sight of his cock tenting his trousers.

“Fucking bratty, aren’t you, Kats?”

“Omega,” he replies, a raging  inferno behind his eyes.

You ignore the way his chest heaves and the way he looks at you, instead turning your attention to Eijirou. He ducks his head, and though you like the way he grovels, you’re aware that it’s only because he knows you’re feeling mean today. You tip his chin up so you can look at him head on.

“And you, Eiji,” you coo, simpering. “You act all sorry, as if your dumb puppy eyes will make me go easy on you.”

Like he’s aching to touch you, his hands twitch, but he knows not to without permission, instead balling them into fists; you swipe a thumb over his lower lip before hooking a finger into his hot mouth, coaxing it open, careful of his sharp teeth. There’s something pitiful and pleading in his gaze, like he’d kneel at your feet to worship forever if he could.

His eyes glaze over when you spit in his mouth.

He whines, low in the back of his throat as he swallows like a good little alpha, and you tell him so with a fleeting kiss. Chuckling when he leans desperately into you, you pull away from him, perching on your mattress and beginning to undress: they remain kneeling on the floor, you the empress and they the reverent subjects of the kingdom inside your bedroom.

Carefully, Eijirou attempts to train his gaze on the mattress, loath to be on the receiving end of your ire, but Katsuki goads it, staring openly at your body with blood red eyes burning with hunger and wanting. When you remove your underwear, parting your legs for them to see, he surges up to his feet, his restraint at the end of its tether, but you halt him with a hand on his wide chest.

Firmly, you push him backwards, and his knees hit the floor with a dull thud. He scowls, and you drag your nails softly down his cheek. You know he likes the pain. In fact, he relishes it; both he and Eijirou wear the marks you make like badges of honour, of worthiness, for the omega princess deems them deserving of her touch.

“Move from there again, and I won’t let you touch me all night, alpha.”

A deep, rebellious rumble emanates from his chest like thunder, and this time, you strike him across the face - his head snaps to the side, and though he fights it, though he bites down hard on his lower lip in effort to stifle it, a muffled, helpless groan leaves him. Triumphantly, you smirk as he pants, great shoulders heaving, hands clenching to form fists.

You look to Eijirou, and he gazes up at you starstruck, so eager to please, to have a taste. Beckoning him forward, laughing at his hesitance, you kiss him hard before lying back against your pillows, helping him undress and directing his head between your legs. He moans into your pussy, licking so earnestly into your heat the moment he’s boxed in by your thighs it’s as if he might die if he doesn’t, so fervent that you're half inclined to believe it.

Burying your hands in his red hair, you tug lightly - just the way he likes it. You’re rewarded with a delicious, depraved sound that vibrates right against your clit, and you buck your hips against his face, eyes rolling at the friction.

“Please,” he whines when your thighs close around his head.

“He’s fuckin’ useless,” Katsuki spits. “I could do a better job, omega.”

You arch a brow. “Keep on like that, and you won’t get a chance.”

That shuts him up, the floorboards creaking as he shifts uncomfortably from his spot on the floor. He knows your threats are not empty, still, you can see his cock is hard, achingly so, because he likes, craves, the torture and the constraints just as much as he hates them. In the same way, Eijirou likes the way you give him space to let go, fucking him until he’s dumb as if he’s nothing but a toy, a knot.

You can feel the mattress rocking beneath you. Desperately, Eijirou humps the soft blankets beneath him, gasping into your cunt, his fingers clenching in the fabric as you grind against his face. Throwing your head back, you cry out his name; your orgasm builds molten in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” you hiss, tugging hard on his locks to yank him right against your cunt, and then you’re coming on his tongue.

Sparks of overstimulation begin running down your spine as he continues to lap at your pussy; you pull insistently at his hair, and he lifts his head from where he’s lost in you, breathing hard as he gazes at you with lidded eyes. He’s amusingly fucked out from the taste of you, dazed and drunk and a little teary, still weakly rutting into the mattress.

“C’mere, alpha,” you laugh.

Eijirou scrambles to slot himself into the space made by your outstretched arms, and you kiss him sweetly. He’s fucking huge, broad shouldered enough that he covers your body completely with his, engulfing you in honeyed citrus and musk and still adorably struck dumb. The essence of you is laced on his tongue, and it makes you giddy.

He nuzzles against your scent glands, hiding his face in your neck, and you let him recover there, instead beckoning Katsuki over - he curls his lip at the easy way you call him but comes as you bid him anyways, too impatient for your touch to do otherwise. Eyes blazing, he glares down at you, his weight creating a dip in the mattress.

Lifting your hand, you pull him down to you. All it really takes is a kiss, and he’s tearing his trousers off like they burn him. You bite down on his lower lip, and he groans into your mouth, pumping his dick in his hand, once, twice, trailing his tongue down the column of your throat, holding your waist in a grip that’s bruising.

“Don’t make me wait any fucking longer, omega.” His lips are hot in your skin.

You smirk. “Oh, I think I will.”

Eijirou begins rolling his hips against you, wanting to steal your attention back. He’s painfully hard, his cock flushed red and pulsing against your thigh. Curling your fingers around him, you kiss him ardently, like you’re trying to taste the syrupy whimpers that fall from his lips. A short cry leaves him when you swipe your thumb over his cockhead; he bucks up into your touch, sensitive from how long he’d been grinding against the mattress.

You begin jerking him at a pace he can’t keep up with, savouring the sweet gasps and moans that you coax from him like treasures. Katsuki nips rather pointedly at the curve of your shoulder and you casually shrug him off, enjoying how you hold him in the palm of your hand maybe a little too much. It’s altogether too easy to ignore him with sweet, sweet Eijirou writhing in the sheets beside you, moaning your name like it’s worship.

“That’s it, alpha,” you coo. “Just like this, yeah?”

Frantically he nods, and the scent of citrus heightens, like an orchard of orange blossom has sprung into existence in your quarters, filling your nose with its fragrant perfume. It doesn’t take him long to unravel and shatter under your hands.

His thighs tremble as he comes, over his chest and yours, and still you do not let up, squeezing his knot tight - he sobs, begging you incoherently, and you groan, half because of the mess you’ve made him into, half because you can feel Katsuki’s cockhead rubbing against your pussy as he litters your skin with hickeys from behind.

Eventually, you ease up, and Eijirou goes limp, gasping and shaking like a newborn calf, hips twitching from the aftershocks; you laugh when he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot against your collarbone as he laps at your scent glands, still eager to please after you’ve worn him out. Carding a hand through his hair, you studiously ignore your other alpha as he nibbles at your earlobe, instead pressing gentle kisses to Eijirou’s face.

After some contemplation, you scoop up some of his release from your skin and twist around to face Katsuki. Holding his eyes, you bring your fingers to his lips, smirking at the soft whimper from your left as the blonde takes you into his mouth up to the third knuckle. Unsurprisingly, he’s impatient when you kiss him, as eager to taste you as you are to taste Eijirou on his tongue.

You’ve made him stay himself long enough.

Pressing him into the mattress, you pin him flat on the bed and straddle his hips, grinning triumphantly down at him when he has no time to curse at you for forcing him to hold back for so long - he’s too busy curling his fingers around the base of his fat cock and lining himself up. A soft groan slips from you as you sink down on him, unravelling from somewhere behind your sternum.

Being on top of an alpha like Katsuki is a thrilling thing, wholly different from Eijirou. Eijirou obeys, does everything he can to please you, and it gives you the type of power rush that leaves you giddy. But Katsuki, Katsuki fights, and even now, as you ease his cock slowly in and out of you, you can see the challenge in his eyes. In response, you rake your nails down his chest, carving red lines into the strength of him, and he could not hide the way his body responds to the twinge, the sting, if he wanted to.

Bucking up, he twitches inside you, and you bare your teeth at him, pinning his wrists and snarling when he surges against you, hips snapping up into your heat - you bend over him, grazing your canines over his jugular in warning, and though he goes still, a rumble thrums deep in his chest.

Katsuki is taut beneath you, muscles tensed as he strains against your hold, eyes gleaming with a hunger that makes your stomach twist. The view is enough to make you clench around him, and you hear a quiet whine from Eijirou, no doubt enjoying the sight of the other alpha with his hackles raised as much as you do.

“Sweet omega,” Katsuki pants, a note of desperation leaking into his tone. “Let me fuck you.”

Something coils in you and pulls tight, so hot it burns, and you yank him upwards so you can claim his mouth, sweeping your tongue against his and biting down on his lower lip: as you do, your hands release his wrists, and you feel every inch of him stiffen at the non verbal permission.

Caramel floods your nose, so potent you almost taste its sweetness on your tongue, and strong, calloused hands flip you onto your front, wrapping tightly around your thighs and tugging them until your back is arched for him. Hard, his palm cracks down on your ass, and your eyes roll back, hips jumping back towards him as the pain frissons down your body, tugging indelibly at your insides.

Your jaw goes slack as Katsuki runs his cockhead through your folds, your insides coiling as you brace yourself for the moment he thrusts in.

It doesn’t come.

Whining, you arch your back further, and then, softly, Katsuki chuckles. You grit your teeth, too easily able to imagine the smirk on his face, the way he’s gloating about how he’s got you to change your tune so fast - how he’s got you presenting for him like you’re in heat.

“Eager, aren’t we, princess?”

You snarl. “I’m warning you, alpha.”

This threat is empty, though, and he knows it as well as you do: any admonishment you make means nothing with how much your cunt is slicking up, hungry for his knot. Still, he knows not to test you any further, and in truth, he probably doesn’t want to. You made him wait, after all.

Unceremoniously, the air is knocked from your lungs when he sinks himself inside you to the hilt. The wanton sound that slips from deep in your chest is embarrassing enough that you bite down on the sheets beneath you, fingers fisting in the silky fabric, but Katsuki’s used to you, and he yanks at your hair until he can hear you clearly, the way he likes.

He stays there for a moment, drawing out the equilibrium, the sweet balance of every inch of his cock buried inside your heat, your walls clamping down on him like a vice. This alpha is petty, remembering his pride now he’s got you beneath him, and he wants to make you wait. It’s a good thing you’re more patient than he is.

You clench around him, on purpose this time, and the sound that leaves him is feral.

The pace he sets is brutal, avid, everything that is Katsuki. He is never one to do things half hearted, and fucking you is no different: he pounds into you like he means to imprint his family’s crest on your womb. You cannot think of anything but the heady pull of his cock through your walls, the slap of his skin against yours, the bruising grip he has on your hips.

Your hair is still twisted around his fist, and punishing, he tugs on it, keeping your back arched for him, keeping you there so all you can do is take what he gives, pussy fluttering around him, desperately trying to suck him in. The way your slick drips down your thighs is lewd, the sound of it lewder.

“Kats,” you gasp, and then his cock finds somewhere deep inside you, somewhere that makes your eyes roll back. “Katsuki!”

He chuckles, releasing your hair, and your head flops down onto the mattress - you’re too boneless to hold it up yourself. A gentle hand cups your jaw, and then you’re gazing blearily up at Eijirou, his kind eyes taking up your field of vision, a wide, ruby red sea to lose yourself in; with one hand, he holds yours, the other reaching up to pet your hair.

“You’re taking him so well,” he praises. “Good, yeah? Is Katsuki making you feel good?”

You try to respond, but you’ve been robbed of your words, your tongue stolen, so instead you moan, panting and trembling and twisting the sheets in your left hand; in your right, you grip Eijirou so hard you think you hear his joints crack, but you can’t be sure over the rough noises Katsuki is making - or the sounds he’s drawing out of you. Something stretches tight in your stomach, and you gasp, feeling yourself begin to tip over the edge.

Wickedly, still railing into you, he rolls his fingers over your clit, collecting your slick, and then you feel his thumb at the rim of your ass, not quite entering you yet, but there, almost there. Tears well up in your eyes, and Eijirou’s face blurs before you, your mouth falling open as Katsuki practically wrings the orgasm from your body.

Katsuki pushes his thumb all the way in. You come, voice hoarse as you scream his name.

He stills, and you realise there’s no knot stretching you out. Your breath hitches, thighs jumping as you brace yourself - he’s perfectly capable of fucking you through an orgasm and overstimulating you until you’re sobbing. He’s done it before, and you wouldn’t be at all shocked if he did it again.

To your surprise, all he does is pull out and pat your ass cheek fondly: confused, you attempt to push yourself upright, but your arms give out before you make it halfway. Laughing, Katsuki runs his fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness and obviously relishing the soft whine that escapes you, and then he’s pushing his thumb into your ass again. Something goes molten inside you.

He’s not done with you yet. He’s far from done.

Your thighs are still shaking as you come down from your high. You fight the urge to squirm, either backwards on him to ask for more, or forwards and away because you’re a little raw, a little sensitive. Katsuki scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you out: it’s clear now, he’s preparing you for his cock.

“Just relax, omega,” he soothes. “Breathe.”

Playing with you a little more, he leans over you and trails kisses down your spine - you glance over your shoulder, eyes flicking down to the length of his cock, rock hard and slippery against your thigh. You catch a glimpse of his eyes, glittering and hungry, and your pussy clenches around nothing. Eijirou curses under his breath, and you turn back to face him, noticing he’s hard again.

And then strong, calloused hands are lifting you up, and Katsuki is sitting you down on his cock, settled with his back braced against the headboard of your bed. A whimper escapes your throat, your nails digging into his thighs from where they frame yours, toes curling at the glorious stretch of him.

You’re panting again by the time he’s buried all the way inside. Eijirou is watching, his fingers wrapped around his cock, eyes fixed on where Katsuki’s cock enters you. Katsuki wraps an arm across your front, cupping your breast and kneading your flesh in his palm, easily drawing the other alpha’s attention - once he has it, he hooks your knees over each of his forearms and spreads your legs wide, and finally, you understand what he’s up to.

“Think Eiji wants to join us, my lady?” He taunts.

“Yes - ah!” You yelp when he rocks his hips, muscles jolting. “Fuck, p - please.”

That’s all he needs to hear before he’s crawling forward on the mattress, eyes fixed on you, on the tremors running down your legs, on your heaving chest. You whine his name, tipping your chin up to expose your throat for him. Eagerly, he trails wet kisses along your collarbone, turning his head to mouth at your scent glands and drink you in, laving his tongue over your sweat damp skin.

Eijirou lines himself up, easing himself in. You’re trapped between two deliciously warm, muscled chests, and gods, you’re full, so full you can barely breathe, so full you’re seeing stars before your eyes, a galaxy condensed into your room. Lips claim yours, citrus blooming on your tongue, and then they’re moving, they’re moving -

“Our omega princess needs two cocks to satisfy her, hm?” Eijirou croons. “Isn’t that right?”

Katsuki grunts. “Can’t - fuck - can’t leave her wanting,”

You sob, for it is divine, the friction, the pleasure, breaking you and mending you over and over until you lose your voice calling their names. Beneath it is the sharp bite of overstimulation, ever looming, electric in your veins. You’ve been launched in orbit, leaving you anchored only by their hands on you, lost in the cataclysm.

And then, shaking, enraptured, you are falling, flying. Behind you, Katsuki buries himself in your ass, spilling his load, his knot already beginning to swell. You’re convulsing around Eijirou, sucking him in, greedy, and that’s what pushes him over: he comes with a groan, grinding his cock into you so his knot sits snugly in your walls.

Gently, Katsuki rubs his hand up and down your side, a comforting purr already kicking up in his chest - you sigh as Eijirou strokes your hair, tucking your head against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your eyes are already closing, soothed by the smell of caramel mixing with citrus to form a perfect half and half, sugary but a little tangy.

“You okay, sweets?”

You melt at the deep rumble of Katsuki’s voice, nodding with your nose pressed against Eijirou’s scent gland. Someone is drawing patterns along your side with their fingers, someone else’s breath is ruffling your hair: this is heaven, sandwiched here between your two alphas.

“We’re sorry about the intruders,” Eijirou mumbles.

You summon enough energy to half heartedly punch his arm. “Eiji. I can’t ask you to be a bodyguard all the time - I don’t want you to be. Besides, you two are the best alphas I could ask for.”

 “Mm, we take care of you, don’t we, omega?” You can hear the grin in Katsuki’s voice.

“Yeah,” you smile, content. “You do.”

a/n: u can literally see the point where i lose patience w it all 💀 whoops

taglist: @gethexxed @rori-ol @fashominnie

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hi can I request a Bucky x yn where it was her who was knocked off the train not him and years later Bucky finds out that she’s the winter soldier and Steve wants to stop her at all costs but Bucky says she’s still in there.

It’s on the HYDRA plane where he gets through to her and they get married and have sex in the end

She’s Still In There » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Boyfriend!40s Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend/Agent!Female Reader with Post Serum Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier!Female Reader with Steve Rogers/Captain America, Sam Wilson/Falcon, and Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow

Summary: You fall off the train during a mission in the 1940s. Years later, Bucky has an encounter with you and does everything he can to get you back to your normal self.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, soft Smut (18+), language, mentions of death, HYDRA, nightmares, violence, blood, crying, husband!Bucky/wife!reader, kissing, hickeys, sweet/dirty talk, unprotected sex, praise kink, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request @bladesismylife 🩵

A/N #2: Italic text is nightmares and flashbacks. Thank you to @buck-star for helping come up with some ideas for this!🩵 Bucky is still a Super Soldier and let’s pretend that Bucky doesn’t have a metal arm, he’s not the Winter Soldier, and he’s a SHIELD Agent in this. Enjoy!

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

1945

“I don’t think the guys would appreciate that we keep kissing when we’re supposed to be working.” You giggled softly.

“I don’t care.” Bucky says, pecking your lips once again.

You smiled and kissed him sweetly. The kiss was short lived when Steve pulled you and Bucky apart.

“I’m happy that you two are in love, but no kissing during missions.” Steve says.

“Yes, Captain!” You and Bucky say, playfully saluting him.

Steve playfully rolled his eyes at you guys.

“See you guys down there.” Steve says.

“We’re right behind you.” Bucky says.

Steve zip lines down to the train. Bucky zipped line behind him a few seconds after him, along with you. You three landed on top of the train. Bucky opened the hatch on the train’s roof. Steve jumped inside first, then you, and Bucky. Steve held his shield in front of himself. Bucky shielded you with his body, which you find sweet.

Steve got separated from you two when a sliding door closed and a HYDRA agent started shooting at you and Bucky. You guys dodged the blasts and shot at him, taking him down with ease. Then Bucky ran out of bullets. The sliding door opened back up and Steve tossed a gun to Bucky. He caught it and picked up where he left off. Steve used all of his strength to push something heavy into the HYDRA agent, which knocked him down.

“I had him on the ropes.” Bucky says.

“I know you did.” Steve says.

A HYDRA agent came up behind Bucky and Steve, aiming his gun at them.

“Guys, watch out!” You shouted.

They turned around to see him. Steve pushed you and Bucky behind him to shield you guys from the blast he shot at you guys, which knocked all you three to the floor and made a hole in the train’s wall. You picked up Steve’s shield and started shooting at him. The HYDRA agent shot a blast at you, sending you outside of the train. You were hanging on a handle that was about to fall off.

“Y/N, I’m coming!” Bucky yells.

You nodded. Bucky moved towards you carefully, trying not to fall off.

“Grab my hand!” He yells, extending his hand out to you.

You reached your hand out to his, your fingertips brushing lightly against his before the handle gave out and you fell off the side of the train. You screamed as you plummeted downward.

“Y/N!” Bucky screams, watching you fall.

Bucky gets back on the train with Steve’s help. He stared down where you fell. He broke down in tears. Steve put a comforting hand on Bucky’s back. Steve teared up too.

“Come on, man. Y/N would want us to finish this mission successfully.” Steve says softly.

Bucky nods and sniffles. He wiped his tears away before standing up and finishing the mission with Steve. The only thing Bucky wants to do is that he wants to take down every single HYDRA agent with his bare hands for what happened to you.

PRESENT DAY

That day of you fall off the train has haunted Bucky for years. He can still hear your scream as you plummeted down thousands of feet. Bucky was tossing and turning in his sleep, sweat covered his face.

“Grab my hand!” He yells, extending his hand out to you.

You reached your hand out to his, your fingertips brushing lightly against his before the handle gave out and you fell off the train. You screamed as you plummeted downward.

Once again, Steve had to wake up Bucky from his reoccurring nightmare. He walked over to Bucky’s bed and sat down next to him.

“Buck.” Steve gently shook him. “Wake up. You’re having that nightmare again.” He whispers.

“Y/N!” Bucky shouts when he finally woke up from the nightmare.

Steve moved back a bit to give Bucky some space. Bucky sat up, breathing heavily.

“I almost had her.” Bucky says, his voice cracking and eyes tearing up.

“I know you did.” Steve says softly, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Bucky inhales deeply and shakily exhales.

“What time is it?” Bucky asks.

“Almost 8am. Training starts in a couple hours.” Steve says.

“I’ll be ready in a little bit.” He says.

“Take all the time you need.” He says, patting his shoulder.

Bucky smiles. Steve left his bedroom so he can get ready for the day. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to splash cold water in his face to wake himself up more before getting dressed.

Training for Bucky consists of sparring with Steve and punching at the punching bag. Today, he just punched the punching bag. He’s already on the second one after busting the first one.

“Did he have that nightmare again?” Natasha asks, standing next to Steve.

“Yes.” Steve answers quietly.

Fury walks in the gym when Bucky punched the punching bag so hard that he sent it across the gym, sand leaking out of it.

“I’ll pay for those.” Bucky says, pointing at the busted punching bags.

“Don’t worry about it.” Fury says.

Bucky nods and left the gym. Steve watched him leave, already knowing that he’s going home to think about you like he always does.

“Bucky needs to go out more instead of upsetting himself about his girlfriend’s death.” Natasha says.

“I agree.” Steve says.

Steve got to thinking. Bucky leaving the apartment more often than just going to SHIELD would be good for him.

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks, leaning forward and sticking his head in between the front seats.

“That’s for us to know and for you to find out.” Steve says.

Natasha pulled Bucky back in his seat. He sighs and looks out the window, watching cars pass by. Suddenly, a car hit Sam’s car, startling everyone in the car. A thud was heard on the roof of the car and then a hand was punched through the windshield and ripped the steering wheel out of the car. Everyone’s eyes went wide. Steve put the car in park and whoever was on the roof of the car flew off of it and landed on the road a great distance away from them. Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Natasha stared at you. They knew who you were without having to see your face. They all got out of the car, running away from you.

You shot at them, missing all of them and shooting Steve’s shield. The four of them knew what they had to do… fight back. Steve already had his shield and Natasha had a couple guns on her. Bucky and Sam knocked out a couple HYDRA agents and took their guns. You dodged the bullets with ease when they shot at you. You looked at all four of them, trying to decide who to go for first. That’s when your eyes landed on Bucky. You walked towards him. You aimed your gun at him, shooting at him. Bucky dodged the bullets by hiding behind a random car. Steve threw his shield past you to catch you off guard so Bucky could get away from you. You ended up catching his shield and threw it at Bucky. It got stuck in a nearby van. Bucky looked at the shield and then looked at you.

You got a knife out of your thigh holster and flipped it in your hand before making your way toward him. You tried to stab him, but Bucky stopped you each time. He managed to smack the knife out of your hand and ran. You chased after him, catching up with him with ease and jumped on his back. You put him in a chokehold with your arms. Bucky stumbled backwards, grabbing onto a car so he didn’t fall. He reached his hands back, grabbing onto your tactical jacket and used all of his strength to throw you off of him. Your goggles and mask fell off your face when you hit the ground. You turned around, staring at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes went wide and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

“Y/N?” Bucky says with shock in his voice.

“Who the hell is Y/N?” You asked.

Steve caught up to Bucky, his eyes going wide when he seen you. Sam came flying behind you and kicked you to knock you down when you aimed a gun at Bucky and Steve. You stood up, staring at Bucky. Natasha shot at you.

“Stop shooting at her!” Bucky yells at her, smacking the gun out of her hand.

Bucky looked over to where you were standing, only to find out that you weren’t there anymore. He ran all over the place in the area to find you, but couldn’t find you. His mind was all over the place. He fell to his knees in the middle of the road. He didn’t know what to think. Steve, Sam, and Natasha caught up to Bucky.

“Bucky, are you ok?” Steve asks softly, crouching down next to him.

“She’s alive.” Bucky mumbles. “She looked right at me and didn’t recognize me as her boyfriend.” He says, his eyes tearing up.

It took everything in Bucky to not break down in tears. Tears did roll down his cheeks. He knows one thing… he’s going to go after you and try to get you to remember him.

———

You were back at the HYDRA base getting patched up. You were leaning back in the chair, staring off at the wall on the other side of the room. You were lost in your thoughts. There was something familiar about the man you fought today.

“James!” You squealed when Bucky picked you up from behind and spun you around.

Bucky put you back on your feet and turned you around so you two were face to face. He cupped your cheeks and kisses you passionately. You smiled against his lips and grasped onto his Army uniform.

“I missed you today, doll.” Bucky whispers against your lips.

“We seen each other this morning before you trained.” You say with a smile.

“That was hours ago.” He says with a playful pout.

You giggled and pecked his pouty lips softly.

“We’re going out for dinner and dancing tonight.” He says softly.

“Sounds romantic. I can’t wait.” You almost whispered, smiling up at your boyfriend.

You quickly sat up, shoving away the doctor who was patching you up. The HYDRA agents who were in the room pointed their guns at you. Alexander Pierce, Brock Rumlow, and a few other people walked in the room. Pierce motioned for the agents to put their guns down, in which they did.

“Mission report.” Pierce says.

Instead of answering him, you stared off at the wall again. Pierce smacked you across your face when you didn’t answer him. You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking about the familiar man you seen today.

“The man on the bridge…” You looked up at Pierce. “Who was he?” You asked.

“Which one?” He asks.

“The one with the long brown hair.” You replied.

“He was part of your assignment today.” He says.

“I knew him. I knew the blonde man too.” You say softly.

Pierce started talking about how you shaped the century, but you weren’t really listening. You kept thinking about the long haired man on the bridge.

“I’m going to need you to do it one more time.” He says.

You nodded, agreeing to do it again.

“Wipe her memory.” Pierce says.

The doctor nodded and pushed you back in the chair, strapping your arms down to the arms of the chair. You tried to prepare yourself for the pain that’s about to come when you get your memory wiped, even though, you know what it feels like.

———

“Bucky, you’re not thinking rationally. Y/N needs to be stopped at all costs.” Steve says.

“I don’t care, Steve. I’m going try to get her to remember the man she’s in love with.” Bucky says.

“Barnes, she’s the Winter Soldier. She can easily kill you.” Natasha says.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He says.

“Buck…” Steve whispers.

“Don’t try to stop me, Steve. My mind is made up.” He says.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm to get him to stop walking.

“I care about her too, Buck.” Steve says softly.

“She’s still in there, Steve. I know it. Please let me do this.” Bucky says, his eyes tearing up.

Steve seen the sadness in his best friend’s eyes. He knows how much you mean to Y/N. He’s also not going to let him do this alone.

“You’re not doing this alone. You’re gonna need a team.” Steve says, referring to himself, Natasha, and Sam.

Sam and Natasha nodded in agreement, agreeing to help him out. Bucky looks at Steve and then looks at Sam and Natasha.

“I’m in charge.” Bucky says.

Steve nods.

“Suit up and get your weapons ready. Y/N needs our help.” He says.

———

Steve, Sam, and Natasha with helping Bucky get to you. Now, Bucky is standing inside of the helicarrier across from you, a few feet separating you guys.

“Please don’t make me do, doll.” Bucky pleads softly.

You stared at him with no emotion. Bucky watched as watched took a knife out of your thigh holster and flipped it in your hand. He took a deep breath before you two charged at each other. Bucky easily avoided the knife. He managed to tackled you to the ground. He yanked the knife out of your hand and threw it somewhere in the hellicarrier. He pins your legs down with his legs and pins your arms above your head, holding them down with one hand. His free hand gently caresses your cheek.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier, doll. Your name is Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.” Bucky says, trying to get through to you.

You squirmed in his hold, trying to get free. Bucky’s strength overpowered yours.

“Remember me, doll? It’s James. I’m your boyfriend.” He tells you.

You still tried to get free of his hold on you.

“This isn’t you. This is HYDRA’s control on you. You have to fight it, babydoll. Can you do that for me?” He says softly.

You used all of your strength and somehow got free of Bucky’s hold. You kneed him in the stomach to get him off of you. He groaned in pain and fell to the ground next to you. You sat up and got on top of him, pointing a gun at him.

“You’re my mission.” You growled, cocking the gun.

“Then finish it. I’m with you to the end of the line, doll. Just know, I forgive you.” Bucky says softly.

You lowered your gun, staring at Bucky in confusion and wide eyes. You were confused on why he was giving up so easily. That’s when all of your memories came flooding back into your mind like a broken dam. You dropped the gun and got off of Bucky, sitting down next to him and held your head in your heads. Your breathing became heavy and squeezed your eyes shut. Bucky sat up, keeping his eyes on you.

“Y/N?” Bucky says softly.

You finally recognized his voice. You looked up, seeing the man you fell in love with years ago.

“James?” You whispered.

“It’s me, doll.” He whispers.

You threw yourself in his arms, hugging him tightly. Tears fell from your eyes and his.

“Let’s get you out of here.” He says softly, picking you up bridal style.

———

Over a year later, you and Bucky got married and bought a house. You and him couldn’t ask for a more perfect life than this.

“Bucky.” You giggled when Bucky kissed your neck softly, his stubble tickling your neck. “Your beard is tickling me.” You say.

“You’ve never complained about it before.” Bucky says.

He spun you around and kissed you sweetly. The kiss turned heated quickly. Bucky picked you up and carried you to yours and his bedroom. He gently laid you down on the bed and hovered over you, his Army dog tags dangling above your face. Bucky smiles as he gazes down at you. You gazed up at him, moving his long hair out of his face.

“You’re unbelievably gorgeous, babydoll.” Bucky whispers before kissing you passionately.

Bucky’s hands found their way to the bottom of your -his- t-shirt and took it off of you, pulling away from your lips momentarily. His fingers traced every scar on your body before softly kissing each one of them.

Your hands tugged at Bucky’s t-shirt, wanting it off. Bucky sat back on his knees to take his shirt off. He then put his hands on the tops of your thighs, rubbing them as he gaze down at you. His hands made their way to the waistband of your leggings. He looked at you, waiting for permission. You lifted your hips as a way of giving him permission. Bucky took your leggings off and dropped them on the floor.

“How come I’m showing more skin than you?” You asked with a pout.

Bucky chuckles lightly before getting off the bed to take his sweatpants off. You took your bra and panties off while Bucky took off his boxers. He got back on the bed in between your spread legs. He leaned over you and gave you a soft kiss.

“Are you ready, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly.

“Yes.” You replied softly.

Bucky lined his hard cock at your entrance and slowly slid it in your pussy. A soft gasp left your lips. Your hands grasped onto his arms, digging your nails in his skin. Even though, you’re used to his size, it just feels different compared to what his size years ago.

“James…” You moaned softly.

“I got you, babydoll.” He almost whispers. “I’ll take care of you.” He says softly.

Bucky’s thrusts were gentle and loving, which you didn’t mind. You love it when he’s gentle and loving with you. Sometimes you want more. You and Bucky liked to switch it up between gentle and loving and quick and fast in the 40s, but now, he’s just gentle with you. He doesn’t want you to be uncomfortable in any way, even though he knows what you can handle and he’s known you for years.

“More please.” You begged softly.

Bucky complies to your soft begs. He sped up his thrusts. You threw your head back against the pillow, enjoying the pleasure you were receiving from your husband. Bucky leaned down, kissing along the column of your neck. He moved his lips to the side of your neck, his teeth nipping on your skin as he marked you up.

You and Bucky gazed at each other with love and adoration in your eyes. You grasped onto his dog tags, giving them a yank to pull him down for a kiss. Bucky’s lips felt soft against yours. Your hands found their way to his head, carding your fingers through his long soft brown hair. One of Bucky’s hands gently caressed your cheek.

“I love you, James.” You say softly and breathlessly.

“I love you too, babydoll.” Bucky almost whispers.

Your orgasm was building up. So was Bucky’s. He could sense it.

“You close, doll?” He pants.

You moaned and nodded your head in response. Bucky started rubbing your clit, your orgasm coming fast.

“Oh god!” You threw your head back against the pillow. “Fuck, James!” You moaned loudly.

“Cum for me, doll.” He says softly.

A loud moan left your lips as you came on his cock. Bucky rubbed your clit a few more times before focusing on his own orgasm, which wasn’t too far behind yours. A low moan left Bucky’s lips as he came inside of you. His thrusts came to a stop and he pulled out, laying down next to you. You snuggled yourself against your husband.

“Can I ask you something?” You asked after a few minutes.

“Anything, doll.” Bucky says.

“That day on the bridge and hellicarrier, how did you know I was still there?” You asked softly.

“I just knew when I seen you. You’ve always been the woman I fell in love with when we were in the Army.” He almost whispers.

You smiled and leaned up to kiss him sweetly.

“You’ve always been the man I fell in love with.” You whispered.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[gawkgokgok]

Silence of the lambs

Aemond Targaryen x Daemons daughter!reader

summary: You and Aemond married for the peace of the realm even though you disliked each other. Peace is the last thing you would find in your chambers...

warnings: MDNI, subtle violence, reluctant kissing, choking, attempted rape, a bit of a praise, tiddies!, all this but its suppose to be hurt/comfort😭😭 almost 2.3k

a/n: this is the first and probably the last thing I'll ever write. just had some fun and decided to share it here.🩵 English ain't my shit, sorry for the mistakes. hope this won't be a waste of your time divider credit @cafekitsune (hope that's okay) :P

Cold.

Cold and distant.

Two moons passed since your wedding day. Even though you shared chambers, you limped to get used to each other. Stiff. Not present. If you talked, it would be the smallest, briefest conversations only about necessary. Usually it was silence. That’s all you knew. And perhaps it was for the best...

Silence in the morns. Silence in the day. Silence in the nights. Most familiar whisper of your rooms was crunchy fire. The only thing that kept this place from turning into a dungeon.

Dungeon with chains lost on the eyes.

You returned tired to your shared coffins. Spending your evening with pregnant Helaena and her twins. Playing until little offsprings got tired and ready for their cribs. You seeked change. Anything, just to get the obese hours pass quicker.

Hands of wind grabbed your ankles and planted shivers across your skin. Balcony door was wide open. He stood there. Face in his palms. Or so you thought. His back was covering any chance of view. You pursed your lips. Should you worry? Should you talk to him? Would it make things worse?

The slouching of his shoulders made you sigh and slowly approach. You ideated running your palm across his broad form to soothe him. But you feared of overstepping.

"Did something happen?" It was quiet. Not particularly soft, but quiet.

Your eye caught his arms tensing up. You hated that your presence and voice made him like this. You didn’t care at first, but it was becoming frustrating.

He didn't look at you. He was quiet for a long moment before he put you back in your place. "...nothing happened."

You stared at his nape, covered by waves of moonshine. He was being difficult, and you just wanted to go to sleep and close the damn doors. Curling your tongue in your mouth, you gathered strength to stay calm.

"Are you alright?"

You felt his anger grow. The last thing he wanted was your concern and your worry. "I’m fine." He cut the air with his teeth.

Your heart stilled at his harsh tone. Overstepping. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it and warily stepped back into your chambers. You didn’t wish to argue. Deep down you preferred silence over arguments. If he doesn’t wish to speak of what’s troubling him, who are you to press matters?

You left him to his thoughts. Retreating with tail between your legs as you started getting yourself ready for the bed.

You were used to him hiding his feelings away, but whenever you would show concern (as rare as it was) or try to ask about anything, the storm would just take over his mind. He had no interest to trust you and you respected that. Not like you shared many of your thoughts to him either. To anyone, really. Being the daughter of the man he hated, you understood... to certain extents.

You heard the balcony door close just as you moved the covers under which you planned to hide and let your body and mind rest. He strode over to you, his hand grasping around your upper arm as he turned you around to face him. You gasped in shock and before you could wince from his iron grip, your mouth was muffled by his. Pushing your lips apart with his restless tongue, forcing cold shivers down your spine as he tried to drown you in his control.

You didn’t know what scared you more, his assault or his sudden behavior. You couldn’t tear your arm away. You couldn’t arch your head away. You couldn’t even welcome air in your system. Liquid in your veins was gaining adrenalin. You were almost trembling from fear. You started expecting the worst...

He scoffed at your whines of protest and pushed you on your back, slamming you on the soft mattress. You winced slightly when you hit the bed. Short-term pain quickly overshadowed by terror. His body savaged over yours in an instant.

"Ae- Aemond, what are you- what’s gotten into you!?"

He was deaf as he started pulling your night shift up. And you looked up at him with wide and terrified eyes, unable to fight back his strength. Whatever was dancing in his sharp violet one... it smelled rotten.

"What's gotten into me?" His voice was strained as he fought to keep your limbs in place. A low, mocking laugh rang as he focused his gaze on your heaving chest. "Lets find out."

Your eyelids strained even more. Throat drying up. Breath hitching out of control along with your shaking body.

The only time you consummated was on your wedding night. It wasn’t pleasant. It didn’t hurt, but you weren’t enjoying it. And you knew he didn’t either. This was completely out of the blue and his rage was blood-freezing.

You were scared, yes, but you were more scared of the idea what would happen if you started actually resisting... He never hit you, but the tales of his temper rolled around the corridors like plague.

Dark pleasure filled his stare. He could see the hesitation in you, the tremble and fear. But he didn't care. He knew he had you right where he wanted. His bruising touch on your skin felt ten times heightened now that you fell completely out of control. Getting hunted down...

"Good. That's good..."

Aemond praised with a twisted smile. His hand moved from your wrists to your neck, his large hand wrapping around you and holding you down. You shivered when his palm had more control over your breathing than you. His other hand passed along your body, feeling every curve and angle of your frame. Your breath couldn’t even hitch every time his fingers grazed over your plush stomach and waist. Your fists bagged the sheets firmly and you shut your eyes as you let him do what he wanted.

He was lost in his own desire, in his own lust. Ignoring your discomfort. He just needed to satisfy his needs. He needed to let out his frustration somehow. Or on someone... He continued roaming his hands across your body, touching you like you were a toy.

"You're so beautiful..."

Your eyes shot opened as you heard his mumbles. Seeing how he was fixated on your body, you took the chance before the damage could be done. Marital rape was not on your list tonight. You bit your tongue and dared to touch him, cupping his cheek. "...Can-... can you at least tell me what's wrong?...Please."

His jaw clenched. Your touch was so soft, so gentle and so different from the grip he had on you. It took him by surprise. His eyes locked with yours. He was quiet for a moment, the darkness in his gaze fading for a quickly-lost moment.

"It's nothing. There's nothing wrong." He muttered through gritted teeth, moving his head to the side to avoid your warm hand. His brows twitched into a frown and his hands hooked in your smallclothes.

Your fingers curled into a fist before you let your hand drop. You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know how to calm him. How to reason him. How to talk to him.... You were his wife and you had no clue how to handle him. Bitterness stashed your mouth. You sighed heavily. He already had your mound bare.

"..this won’t solve whatever’s bothering you." You tried to sound calm. Tried to appear like you weren’t fighting for the right over your body right now.

He huffed, becoming more and more irritated with you. Pushing your nightgown over your chest. His voice was low and ragged as he saw how cool air affected your nipples.

"It would. It can. At least for a moment.."

"Please, let me help you.." ..somehow, you hoped. Carding your hand through his silver locks, pulling the strands back so they weren’t falling over your faces as he loomed over you.

"....I’ll listen. I promise." And you meant it. You’d do anything to avoid this situation. If it meant behaving like a proper loving wife who listens and cares, you would do it. Despite the resentment you hold for each other.

Your gazes locked as he listened to your pointless rambles. There was a flicker of hesitation, but he flashed it away with a mutter as he cupped your breasts. "It's nothing. I just had a bad day."

"Then let me hear about your day."

You covered his big hands with yours and you felt him twitch. Surprise washed over his face as he looked back up your eyes once again. You noticed his observing eye roam over your features and you softened your whole demeanor. You meant it. You were fucking tired of this. The silence. The distance. The feeling of constant unwelcomeness. You just wanted to enter your chambers ONCE and be relaxed in his presence...

Looking at you, seeking sincerity and curiosity in your eyes, he closed his own and sighed. "It was tiresome, lots of meeting, training, planning for the future... everything that’s expected of me."

You nodded slowly, listening to every word that rolled off his tongue. And you noticed it. A silver of honesty, perhaps even trust. Your nails skied up his arm, gently scratching his nape. You wanted to make him as calm as possible. "...you’re tired..?"

Aemond let out a low purr, his eye fluttering shut. "Hm."

You pulled his shoulders so he would lay down on you, wrapping arms around his neck. You felt tension all over his body, but you didn’t care. If he thinks he can do whatever he wanted with you, so could you with him. You tucked his head under your chin.

You were trying to value his emotions. As hard as it was... you understood what he meant. You didn’t know every detail of his training nor his council meetings, but you knew what it meant to be drained. Exhausted. And that was enough to make you empathic.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy. You held him tighter, your arms getting a rush of protectiveness. Letting him find shelter in your embrace. Solace in your arms. Peace in your scent and warmth. You wanted to make him feel heard and seen. He held onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he was holding onto for dear life. You felt it. You sensed the shift. He was allowing you to see him. To see his vulnerability. To dive below the surface of his thick skin.

"It's just too much sometimes. I don't know if I can do it anymore." You felt his lips brush along your skin as he mumbled quietly.

"I know. I know it is, but draining yourself to the last drop isn’t doing you any good. And satisfying everyone’s expectations is impossible."

You tried to comfort him. And seeing this softer side of him. This... lost, broken boy. It made you desire gentleness towards him.

"...I know you don’t like being told what to do, but I’m advising you... let that dumb old cunt go. Otto is not worth your time or energy. He never was. Ungrateful people don’t deserve the effort you’re putting up, Aemond."

From your FAR point of view you knew enough. You knew why Aemond was the way he was. Even though you struggled to understand his dark motives most of the time, you understood where he was coming from. And being a child loved only under conditions does that to a person. You secretly admired that he’s still standing and isn’t reaching for cups like Aegon.

"I know. It’s hard to see it and let go, especially when that someone is your family..."

You sighed, plucking the right words...

"...but I’m your family now."

Even though your marriage has been distant and cold, you still had time to change that... right?

His silence made you chew your lips nervously. You really had no idea what you were doing nor saying... He shifted slightly to look at you, his eye overflowing with emotions. He didn't say anything, just looked at you, searching your face for something.

"I know you didn’t choose me. I know I didn’t choose you. I know we agreed only for the greater good, but... I’m tired sometimes as well. I wish we didn’t resent each other."

You whispered honestly while taking in his pained expression. It broke your heart knowing even you, his wife, struggled to give him the care and affection.

He took a deep breath and gently touched your cheek, his fingertips lightly caressing your skin. "I'm sorry for the way I've been... towards you." He whispered and pulled the nightgown down, covering your body.

You leaned into his touch. Wanting him to know that he’s welcome to you from now on. Your smiled even though you were terrified when he jumped you. "...it’s our first time being married, right?"

Aemonds eye wrinkled, a small, barely-there smile tugged the corners of his lips.

It was nice to see him smile, even if the situation was far from funny, but he was calm. And that’s all that mattered to you.

Warm.

Warm and close.

Silence. That’s all you knew. And yet... it felt good. It felt right.

You helped him with the buttons of his leather doublet. Changing him in his night clothes as you both exchanged soft looks and amused smiles. You hid under the sheets and cuddled until you let lambs bounce your minds away. You let him sleep in your chest.. cling to you.. seek your comfort. And you didn’t even wish to think about denying him. For the first time, you felt truly at peace in his presence. You will be the wife he needs.