_Stormy_

Bucky knew not what had come over him. His heart, once so steady and so sure, was no shaken up like a trembling leaf astray in the wind. Each morning, he prayed for clarity. Each night, he begged for deliverance. Yet still, his thoughts returned to you.

He saw you everywhere. In the market. At the well.

Even when you were gone, he could not escape you. A glimpse of another woman’s hair that slightly reassembled yours made his breath catch in his throat—only for them to turn and his heart falls hollow when he realizes it was not you.

When you were near, it’s like the world around him fell quiet. His eyes would follow your hands, the way your smile softened and the wrinkles around your eyes curled up happily. He would listen, just to hear your voice, even if you spoke only a few plain words, “thank you,” or “good day.”

It was enough to completely undo him.

You didn’t speak to him often. Bucky was just another man in the town of Salem. He was quiet, hard working, and unremarkable.

You, on the other hand, seemed to belong just about everywhere. People smiled when you passed. You had plenty of friends who adored you. Just one little laugh of yours was enough to draw other people in.

Even his friend Steve had once mentioned how pleasant you were.

He tried not to think of you, but it was useless. You were in his head from the moment he woke to the moment he laid down at night. It made no sense. You both had hardly spoke, your paths rarely crossed, and yet you had a hold on him stronger than any prayer could possibly break.

So, how is that you—someone he barely knew—managed to capture his cold and concrete hard with such fragile and gentle hands?

It wasn’t natural. It just simply couldn’t be.

And that thought alone lingered in his chest like a damn sin.

Perhaps, you had bewitched him.

The thought was foolish, he knew. Just the ramblings of a man too long starved of warmth, mistaking kindness for spellwork. But still, with talk of necromancy spreading through Salem, was it so wrong for his suspicions to linger?

He sat alone that afternoon, on a bench near the meeting house. Reading, or trying to read, the worn pages of his Bible. The autumn wind nudged the corners of the paper gently, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through town and to his nostrils.

It should’ve been a peaceful afternoon. It would’ve been, had it not been for the sound of your footsteps approaching.

Don’t look.

Don’t even breathe her way.

He felt your presence before you even spoke. The smoke and pine that had once filled his senses were now replaced by you. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the book, knuckles going white as his heart started to beat faster.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted, voice soft as ever.

Don’t look. Don’t look up.

Bucky gave you a small nod, his eyes fixed on the page he hadn’t read a single word of. “Miss,” he muttered, hoping the clipped tone would send you on your way.

But you didn’t leave.

“May I have a seat?” you asked suddenly, your voice polite.

He finally looked up, and it ruined him. The sunlight caught your hair just so, shining like a halo, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. This must be another one of your hidden spells—if you truly were a witch, that is.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into some sense.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He moved a little, not enough to be inviting, but enough to give you space.

It was as though every hint he tried to subtly give, every small attempt to keep you away, you ignored. Or worse, you had seen straight through him. It was as if you had slipped inside his mind for the truth—that he wanted you close.

You read his thoughts. Surely, you did.

And what kind of power could do that, if not witchcraft?

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, glancing towards the path. “It’s a fine day,” you brought up. “The chill hasn’t set in yet.”

He grunted. “Aye.”

You smiled faintly, unbothered by his shortness. “You always sit here, don’t you? Reading the same…” you glanced down at the Bible in his hands, “…book over and over again.”

Bucky forced his gaze to stay on the page. “There’s comfort in familiar things,” he muttered so low, as if he was speaking to himself.

“… and yet, you never seem comforted.”

As though pulled by some unseen force, his head lifted. Your eyes caught his briefly, and it took everything in him to not falter under your gaze. It felt as though you could see straight through him. His heart pounded so loud in his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach for you. He hated the weakness of it. He hated the vulnerability that came with simply looking at you.

“I’m fine as I am.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look it.”

He tightened his grip on the Bible, forcing himself to look away, as painful as it was. “You ought not concern yourself with me, miss.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” you said lightly, your voice warm. “Only curious.”

That nearly made him laugh, a bitter and choked sound that didn’t escape his chest. Curious—that was the word for it, wasn’t it? He had been curious once too, until that curiosity grew into something far worse. Until it grew into a fever that burned him from the inside out. A sickness that looked too much like desire—like obsession.

“Your friend is Mr. Rogers, isn’t he?” you asked suddenly, soft and curious.

Bucky froze. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, though the words had long since lost their shape and meaning. The sound of Steve’s name rolling from your lips was like a sharp knife twisting deep in his chest.

He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Aye. Steve Rogers.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth softening. It made him sick.

“He’s kind. Always polite.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s that.”

“He helped me with some firewood last week,” you continued, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to see—the way his knuckles whitened around the book. “He’s a good man.”

He let out a deep breath. “Aye, he is.”

You glanced at him then, eyes curious. “You don’t like to hear me speak of him?”

So, now you noticed his hints. It almost felt like you were taunting him.

“You speak freely of any man you wish,” he said, though his voice was rough and dark.

He told himself it was nothing—just his foolish imagination again. And yet, the thoughts took hold, crawling through his mind like poison ivy. What if you tried your spell on his dearest friend too?

Would Steve start to see you the way he did? Would his friend’s steady, good heart falter at your smile, the same way his own did? But then again—what if it wasn’t a spell at all? You had spoken to Steve more than you had ever spoken to him. Perhaps Steve was already fond of you, no magic involved.

Bucky didn’t know which thought tormented him more—that you bewitched his friend…

…or that you didn’t need to.

“Best mind yourself around Steve,” Bucky said at last. “Women seem to take kindly to him.”

You paused and blinked at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Are you warning me, Mr. Barnes?”

He didn’t look at you, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “Just stating the truth.”

You tilted your head, and another soft laugh escaped your lips. His stomach churned. “You make it sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Steve’s been charming folks since we were boys,” he muttered, turning a page he didn’t even read. “It’s in his nature.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “And what about you, then?”

That caught him off guard. He looked up to meet your face. “Me?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Surely you’ve someone who’s caught your fancy? A sweetheart waiting for you after prayer?”

There was certainty in your voice, but Bucky was convinced you were toying with him — wickedly so.

“No,” he said, voice tight as he looked down again, pretending to focus on the words before him. “No one waits for me.”

“None at all?” you seemed amused. “A man like you?”

“A man like me doesn’t keep company easily.”

You laughed again. “I find that hard to believe.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. The only reason he had no sweetheart was because you forced your way in and had taken the place of one in his heart. That every woman he met felt like a poor imitation of you.

“I didn’t mean to offense,” you said after a moment, voice going gentle. “I only meant… well, you seem a decent man, Mr. Barnes. Surely someone must’ve noticed.”

“You speak as though you know me,” he said, his voice rough and harsher than he intended.

Your face shifted slightly. At first, a flicker of surprise, then hurt. You blinked, your mouth parting slightly, yet no words came out. The sight of you like this twisted something unpleasant in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He should’ve felt relief, should’ve been glad to see you retreat. Maybe then you’ll get up and leave him alone. But instead, he found himself staring at you, taking in the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in shame.

There was something terrible in it—how part of him liked seeing you this way. Witches weren’t supposed to have hearts, so he took this as a sign of you being human.

“I spoke unkindly,” he said. “Forgive me.”

You looked at him then, your expression softening. A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and forgiving.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Barnes,” you reassured softly. “We all speak in haste sometimes.”

Your voice was so warm and inviting, it struck him straight through the chest. You shouldn’t have sounded so kind, not after the way he had spoken to you. Not after the spiteful thoughts he harbored.

He wanted to look away, but he simply couldn’t. The sunlight caught in your eyes and your smile was breathtaking. He almost believed you truly were what everyone claimed—something otherworldly. Too bright and too good.

He swallowed hard, shutting the Bible in his lap. “I should be getting on,” he announced.

You nodded, rising from the bench, your skirt brushing lightly against his boot. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Barnes.”

When you disappeared around the corner, he let out a low exhale and ran a hand over his face. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts a tangled mess. To you, that conversation might’ve been unimportant—just a passing exchange on a quiet afternoon.

But to him, it was everything.

If you were a witch, you’d done your work well.

And if you weren’t… God help him.

That night, Bucky knelt beside his bed, the single candle burning low. The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

“Lord,” he murmured, voice raspy, “forgive me my thoughts. Forgive me for the weakness in my heart.”

He paused, swallowing hard. He could still hear your voice in his mind, the soft way you spoke his name.

“I know not what manner of spell she’s cast,” he continued under his breath, “but I ask You, break it. Deliver me from it.”

But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t deliverance that came. It was you.

He saw you as you’d looked on the bench, sunlight in your hair, the soft smile tugging at your plump lips. He remembered how your eyes, how they lit up when you spoke to him, and he couldn’t help but picture how’d they look if they were to roll back in pure, unadulterated bliss.

He lay down at last, turning onto his side, the sheets rough against his skin. Sleep should have come easily, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw you again.

Your laughter. Your voice. It was all like a haunting song, sweet and merciless.

He turned over again, exhaling through his nose as frustration began to boil. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. It was useless. The harder he tried not to think of you, the clearer your face became.

“Stop,” he whispered to the empty and dark room. “Enough.”

But his thoughts didn’t listen, and his body didn’t either.

Bucky palmed himself through the blanket, grasping himself through thin fabric. His dick was already hard and full—he tried to convince himself it was due to the coolness of the autumn breeze that whispered through the cracks of his home, but even he knew better.

He shuddered as he felt his hard length throb against his palm. He was already leaking, staining his blanket with sin.

“Please… forgive me,” he muttered quietly as he started to stroke himself slowly.

His mind couldn’t help but conjure up a picture of you, your hands—soft and warm despite him never holding them—wrapped around him. He imagined your delicate fingers exploring his length with curiosity. He pictured you biting your lip once you discovered how big he was, how hard.

As he lost himself in the fantasy, his strokes became faster, more urgent. He squeezed himself through the blanket harder until he had enough. He needed to touch himself bare. His hand crept underneath the blanket and he allowed his thumb to swirl around the leaking tip.

He was so lost in the image that he hadn’t realized he started to mutter your name under his breath, a litany of desperate pleas and fervent prayers.

“This is a sin,” he rasped as his hips started to thrust up into his own hand as he chased for release. “This is… is so vulgar…”

Even as his conscience screamed that this was utterly wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His hands kept moving, stroking, squeezing as if possessed by a will of its own—as if he was cursed under a spell.

Each thrust of his hips, each clench of his fist around his sensitive flesh, was accompanied by a surge of self-loathing.

“I’m disgusting, touching myself like this…” his breathing grew ragged as his hand turned into a blur of motion. “It’s not enough—it’s never enough, is it? I can’t… can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her…” each word was a confession, a condemnation, a desperate cry that tore straight from his throat.

His whole body tensed, his muscles tightening as his cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand. He was so close. It was wrong, so wrong, but God—he needed it. He needed to cum. He needed to paint himself in the warm slick of his own release, and he needed to do it to the thought of you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and despite his words, his body was not remorseful in the slightest. “I’m so sorry, Lord. But I can’t… I need…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as he finally, blessedly, found his release.

He dipped his head back against the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he let out a choked cry in pleasure. He felt the hot, sticky proof of his sin coating his fingers. With a shaky breath, he looked down—coming face to face with the mess he’d made. He watched the way his seed had splattered across his abdomen, and he felt a wave of shame wash over him.

But even as he recoiled from the physical evidence of his weakness, his mind was already drifting back to you.

Bucky’s hand—still painted with his own release—drifted up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the musky scent of his own cum. It was wrong. God help him, it was so wrong. And yet, that wrongness only seemed to pull him deeper. He wanted to believe it was your presence that haunted him. He imagined marking himself with your scent, to imagine that it was your essence he carried on his skin, in his hair, in his lungs.

He laid back, the candle burned to nothing as the room swallowed in shadow. His heartbeat finally slowed, but the ache inside him did not.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest. He had sinned, that much he knew. It was all your fault.

And yet, he wanted to see you again.

The next morning came gray and slow. Bucky rose before the sun had fully climbed, though he had hardly slept.

He went about his morning ritual—washing his face with cold water, buttoning his shirt, muttering a quiet prayer that slowly started to lose its meaning. When he stepped outside, the world seemed painfully bright. The market was already stirring—townsfolk trading bread, firewood, and gossip.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

You stood by the well, the morning light touching your hair, the same beautiful smile gracing your lips. But you weren’t alone.

Steve was beside you—his oldest friend, his steadfast companion since boyhood—and he was laughing at something you had just said.

Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.

Steve’s hand brushed lightly against your arm as he passed you a small basket, and though it was an innocent gesture, Bucky’s stomach churned all the same.

He tore his gaze away and forced his boots to move. He wove through the market, pretending to study the stalls, the apples piled in a wooden crate, the neat stacks of folded linen. He nodded to a few familiar faces, though their words slipped past him.

His body was moving, but his mind refused to stay still.

Every few breaths, his eyes wandered back to where you stood beside Steve. Yesterday afternoon, he believed that the conversation you had with him was special—but as he stood there, watching how you two spoke so easily, he felt like he was crumbling.

He tried to focus on anything else. The smell of bread, the chatter of merchants, the scraping sounds of wagon wheels on dirt. But no matter how hard he tried, there you were—like a flame drawing him near even as he knew it would burn him.

And Steve…

Good, honest Steve.

Was it just him, or had his friend looked at anyone else that way? That boyish smile, the tilt of his head when you spoke. It was as if something unseen had already taken hold of him.

Bucky’s throat went dry as the thought came to him.

Had you cast your spell on him, too?

It made sense. Of course it did. Witches didn’t strike just once—they tempted, they lured, they spread their evil wickedness like smoke. He had been foolish to think himself the only victim.

He gripped the edge of the stall so tightly that the wood creaked beneath his hand. The merchant gave him a weary glance, but Bucky didn’t see it. All he could see was Steve leaning closer to you. All he could hear was your laughter, soft and bright like a bell.

She’s ensnared him, just as she’s ensnared me.

His feet began to move before he could stop himself. It wasn’t reason that guided him. One step, then another until he approached the both of you, his pulse thundering in his ears.

You turned your head, noticing him first.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted brightly, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that should’ve warmed him, but only made the blood in his veins run hotter.

He stopped before you, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Miss.”

Then, he turned to Steve. “Rogers. A word?”

Steve raised a brow, caught off guard by the tone. “Now?”

Bucky only gave him a short and stiff nod. “Now.”

You looked between them, your face confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Bucky’s jaw worked as if he might answer, but he didn’t trust his tongue. He only briefly glanced your way before turning on his heel.

Steve hesitated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised to you softly before following Bucky towards the edge of the square.

Bucky didn’t speak until they were out of your hearing range. They stood behind the meeting house where the noise of the market lowered to a hum. Steve barely had time to catch his breath before Bucky turned on him.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Steve frowned. “I—what?”

“You’ve not been feeling strange, have you? Lightheaded? Restless?” Bucky’s question came out fast. “You’ve been sleeping well? Eating proper?”

Steve blinked, a bewildered smile forming at his lips. “Buck, what are you on about?”

Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just answer me.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said slowly, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bucky’s eyes darted back towards the square, towards you where you stood by the apples—God forbid you curse them too—then back to Steve.

“You’ve been spending time with her,” he said quietly. “You ought to be careful.”

Steve’s confusion only deepened. “Careful?” he huffed a soft laugh. “Buck, she’s hardly dangerous. She was only telling me about the sermon this Sunday—”

"And you believe that?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed a little as he leaned closer. “What’s gotten into you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms. How could he tell Steve the truth? That he thought you were the cause of every restless night, every unholy thought that had taken its root in his mind and body.

“Just… watch yourself, Steve” he said at last.

Steve let out a sigh, resting a heavy palm on his shoulder. “You’re worrying over nothing,” he said gently. “You should get some rest.”

The sun had long begun its descent.

Bucky walked along the worn dirt path that curved through the field, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as the chill dusk brushed against his skin. He told himself the walk was for peace—a way to clear his mind and the ache from his chest. But no length of solitude could quiet the thoughts that plagued him.

They all came back to you.

How could you do this? A spell cast in secret—on him, on Steve, perhaps the whole town if no one was careful. Because the alternative, that it was simply his own heart betraying him, was too unbearable to name.

He walked for a while longer. And there you were.

You stood by the wooden fence that lined the greenery, a basket in your arms, gathering the last of the wildflowers that grew by the path. Alone, your shawl drawn close against the air.

He could turn back now, vanish before you noticed. But something stronger pulled him forward.

“Miss,” he greeted roughly.

You turned at the sound, surprise shifting into a soft smile. “Mr. Barnes,” you greeted with a gentle tone. “You walk often this time of evening?”

He nodded. “Clears the mind.” But his mind was not clear at all.

You tilted your head slightly, that curious look in your eyes. “And has it worked?”

He hesitated, then let out a dry breath. “Not yet.”

You brought a hand to your mouth and laughed quietly, the same way you had with Steve. The sound was small, but bright against the gathering dark.

Bucky looked away, jaw clenching. “You ought not to be out here alone,” he murmured. “The woods grow dark quick. folk talk of strange things, these nights.”

Your smile wavered, and although he wasn’t looking anymore, you still stared at his face. “Do you believe in such talk?”

“I believe something’s amiss. Something that makes good men lose their senses.”

“Good men…” your eyes softened, one hand rising to your chin in thought. “Such as you and Mr. Rogers?”

He inhaled slowly through his nose, not trusting his tongue. “I think…” he started quietly. “I think I must be going.”

You took a step closer before he could turn away. “Wait,” you protested softly. “Please. I’d like to talk.”

He should have walked off. He should’ve muttered a polite farewell and gone home to pray for forgiveness. But something in your tone, the way you pleaded for him, it hollowed out all his resolve.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“You shouldn’t walk alone in this hour,” he pointed out gruffly. “I suppose I’ll see you home.”

You smiled then, gentle and genuine. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”

He gave you a small nod, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s no trouble,” though his voice betrayed him—it was all the trouble.

You both began walking. The path stretched before you, narrow and worn from passing feet. The lantern light from nearby homes flickered dimly through the trees. Every few steps, your shoulder brushed against his arm, and each time it happened, his breath caught like he had been struck.

You were the first one to break the silence.

“You don’t seem the sort to keep to yourself, Mr. Barnes,” you started. “And yet I see you often alone.”

He gave a faint and humorless smile. “Perhaps I’m the sort that’s easier to keep away from than toward.”

You glanced at him, a slight pout on your lips. “I don’t find that to be true.”

He huffed out a quiet and dry chuckle. “Then you’d be the only one.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you say with a soft chuckle.

Bucky looked at you, his eyes watching your shawl slip just slightly from one shoulder.

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away. “Folk talk too much in this town,” continued. “It’s easier to keep one’s name clean by keeping one’s distance.”

“Then they must talk a great deal of me!” you joked, but your smile didn’t quite each your eyes.

“Do they?” he frowned.

You shrugged. “A woman who keeps company with no husband, who laughs too loudly, who reads more than she sews—they’ll make their stories. It doesn’t matter what’s true.”

Bucky stopped mid-step, and you continued on before pausing as well, looking over your shoulder at him with a confused tilt of your head.

Guilt crept through his veins like cold water. He had thought wicked things of you. He had called you a witch—an enchantress. But hearing you now, so calm and painfully human, that belief began to crack.

Maybe you weren’t wicked.

Maybe all along you were just a woman—kind, bright, and far too good for his suspicion.

But still. What if this was part of your spell? What if your words were meant to draw pity from him, to pull him closer until he could no longer tell right from wrong?

His heart and mind warred, leaving his tongue caught somewhere in the middle.

“I’ve heard what they say,” he admitted quietly. “But… I don’t believe it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie.

You looked at him then, surprised. “You don’t?”

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were completely locked on yours. All he did was shook his head.

Then, you smiled. Honest and genuine.

“That makes me happy, Mr. Barnes.” you stepped ahead again, nodding your head towards the road. “Come,” you urged gently. “We’re nearly to my door.”

The two of you walked in silence after that, save for the rhythm of your steps and the soft creak of the basket you carried.

When you reached your cottage, you stopped at the gate, pushing it open with a small creak.

“Thank you for walking with me,” you smiled. “It was kind of you.”

Bucky nodded. “Of course,” but he didn’t move to leave. His hand rested on the post beside him. He wanted to bid you goodnight, but in all honesty, he did not want to go.

A faint crease formed between your brows. “Mr. Barnes?” you asked gently. “Is something the matter?”

He swallowed, forcing himself to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Only—” he stopped, uncertain what truth he could give that wouldn’t damn him.

You hesitated, turning your head to your house for just a second before looking back at him. “Would you like to come in?” you asked at last. Your voice was careful and hesitant, but still carried warmth as it always did.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at you, at the hand you rested on the latch, at the door just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t. A woman alone, the town full of watchful eyes…

It would be all it took to seal both your fates in gossip and ruin.

But just the thought of stepping away from you, of leaving you here, all alone and helpless. It felt painful.

“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, though it sounded less like refusal and more like a confession.

You smiled faintly. “Then I won’t press you.”

He bowed his head, his jaw clenched and his body stiff. “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes.”

And as you turned, his eyes followed you. The faint lamplight from inside your cottage spilled out across the porch. Each step you took away from him was like a knife driving deeper in his chest—a torture method performed by you. Denying you felt like he was punishing himself.

“Wait.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The door remained half open, warm light curling around you like an angel being welcomed into heaven. “Yes?”

He hadn’t meant to stop you, hadn’t meant to do anything at all, but the idea of you disappearing behind that door without another word ruined him.

“I—” he stopped, letting out a slow breath in an attempt to steady his heart. “Forgive me. It’s only… been some time since I’ve spoken so freely with anyone.”

“Then I’m glad you did,” you smiled. You turned, preparing to enter your home, but Bucky’s voice stopped you.

“May I come in?”

You turned back to him, face caught in surprise.

He stepped forward, praying he didn’t look like a desperate man aching for attention—but it was far too late for that. He stepped all the way up to the foot of your porch like a man torn between sin and salvation, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.

“Only for a moment,” he reassured, the lie slipping easy from his lips.

And when you finally nodded, stepping aside to grant him passage, it felt as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

“If you wish,” you murmured.

He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The scent of floral greeted him. The whole space was comforting, in a way that nearly unsettled him.

You moved quickly, fussing with the few things on the small table near the hearth. You straightened a stack of books, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting. It was pleasing to watch you scramble.

“Forgive the mess,” you said with a nervous little laugh, brushing your hands down the front of your dress. “I suppose I should’ve tidied up before inviting you in.”

Bucky nodded, setting his hat carefully on the edge of the table before lowering himself into a chair, watching you fuss about the room.

“You’re cute when you fret,” he said before he could think—before he could stop himself.

The words slipped out so naturally, that for a moment even he didn’t realize he had spoken them out loud. When you turned towards him, your eyes were wide, and his face and chest burned hot beneath the collar of his shirt.

“I—” he shifted in his heat. “I only meant… there’s no need to fuss, is all.”

But the damage was already done. You were smiling now, and his pulse jumped.

“Cute, am I?” you teased gently, folding your hands in front of you.

He dropped his gaze to his lap, fiddling with his hands. “It's just a word,” he mumbled.

He thought it’d grow uncomfortable from there, but what began as simple pleasantries—weather, town gossip, the harvest—turned into something comfortable, easier.

Every now and then you laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it did something terrible to Bucky’s chest. He found himself answering more freely than he’d meant to, forgetting the sin that had brought him here at all.

After a while, the candles burned low, the wax pooling near the base. You glanced toward the small basin tucked behind a curtain and let out a reluctant sigh.

“It grows late,” you announced, getting up with a groan. “I should bathe and call it a night.”

Bucky blinked, snapping himself out of whatever thought he was lost in. “Of course,” he agreed quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, stepping towards him before he could reach for his hat. “You needn’t rush off.”

He froze.

You hesitated, suddenly aware of your own boldness. “It’s only… I’ve enjoyed our talk,” you admitted sheepishly. “If you don’t mind the wait, I’d like to continue once I’m done. Just a few minutes.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry, his pulse loud in his ears. Every reasonable thought told him to go—that it was improper, that the whispers would be endless if anyone saw him leave your home after dark.

And still, he sat back down, his hat untouched.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

When you disappeared behind the curtain, the tension in the air seemed to close around him. The faint splash of water reached his ears, a sound that made the room feel too small and too warm.

Bucky sat rigid in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. His leg bounced restlessly, a nervous motion he couldn’t still. Every part of him screamed to leave, to do the decent, proper thing and walk out the door before his thoughts betrayed him again.

He should’ve done that from the start, and even then, he still didn’t move.

You were dangerous.

He pressed a hand to his knee, forcing it to still. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a fool.”

His eyes drifted towards the curtain again, to where your shadow moved softly beyond the light. He knew you were completely bare under there. Just one shift, one accidental slip, would expose you to him, vulnerable and raw.

“Goodness,” he muttered as his mind raced with images, each one more provocative than the last. He pictured your skin, glistening and wet from the bath. Your damp hair framing your face like a portrait of a water nymph.

He’s a coiled spring, wounding tighter and tighter with each passing second, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Bucky started to feel a growing tightness in his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing that had begun to distract him. But it was no use. His body, once again, was betraying him with his deepest, darkest desires.

And he was powerless to stop it.

He watched the curtain carefully, making sure you were still occupied with your bath. He allowed his hand to drift down to his lap as he cupped his heavy balls through the thick fabric of his pants.

He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself a slow, teasing squeeze. It was not enough—but it was a start. A small release of the pressure that’s building inside him.

A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you emerging from the bath, your skin flushed and rosy as water dripped down the valley between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, disappearing between your thighs.

He imagined you crawling to him, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face as you straddled his lap, as you take him into your own hand and…

This was bad. He was hard now, painfully so. He palmed himself through the fabric, strokes growing bolder and more insistent as his desire for you consumed him whole.

“I—I should go…” he grunted, hips bucking up into his hand to meet that delicious friction. “I… I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, Miss…”

“I’m almost finished, Mr. Barnes,” you called.

From behind the curtain came the faint sounds of movement—the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. Then you appeared again, composed and calm, your hair damp at the ends and your robe drawn neatly at your throat.

Bucky swallowed hard. You were the sight of temptation.

He pulled his hand away from his lap and rose at once, adjusting his stance and now unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I thought to take my leave, but—”

“I’m glad you stayed,” you interrupted, pleased.

His eyes couldn’t help but linger to your frame, the way the flimsy robe hugged your body in a way that was borderline inappropriate. He tried to force himself to look away, to meet your eyes at least, but he couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t impose,” he managed to say.

“You’re not,” you said. “It’s only talk, Mr. Barnes.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

You tilted your head, studying him from across the small room. The fire popped, breaking the silence, and before he could stop himself, Bucky took a slow, shy step forward.

You didn’t move away.

He told himself it was the candlelight playing tricks, that the warmth in your eyes wasn’t real, that it was some enchantment meant to draw him closer. But his body no longer listened to his reason. His heart beat hard in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was rough-edged.

“You’re…” he stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “You’re beautiful.”

You froze, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re kind to say so,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “And you, Mr. Barnes, you’re quite handsome yourself.”

“You… you think I’m handsome?” he asked in disbelief. “That… makes me so happy.”

He lifted a hand up before he could stop himself, his movement hesitant. His fingers hovered near your cheek, and you shuddered under his gentle touch.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he didn’t draw back. “I don’t know what comes over me when I look at you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you reassured as you had before.

You rest your palm against his hand, holding it steady against your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused, a testament to the hard life he’s lived. But it’s warm and strong, feeling a sense of safety and security in just a simple touch.

Bucky leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from your own. His head was spinning with your scent—the sweet aroma of your bath mingling with the unique fragrance of your skin. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted you in this very moment.

As if consumed by a powerful spirit, he closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that quickly ignited into something desperate. You sighed against his mouth, fingers curling around his wrist as you leaned into him.

You kissed him back like you knew that he was lost, utterly and completely.

His free hand came up to cup the back of your fragile neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of your hair as he deepened the kiss. He angled his head, lips moving over yours with a hunger that’s both gentle and urgent.

At this point, he no longer cared if it was a spell. His yearning for you burned too deep, too consuming to be reasoned with. Every shred of longing, every forbidden desire he had buried within himself seemed to rise to the surface, spilling into this single, perfect moment.

Consequences be damned. Prayers be damned.

And he knew he was done for the minute your body shifted against his, the damp fabric of your robe riding up your thigh as you pressed your leg against him. Whether it was intentional or not, it ruined him.

“Miss…” Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your bare skin against his throbbing, clothed erection made him shudder. “I… we shouldn’t—”

“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, his cock throbbing helplessly against your leg. “Do you find this… pleasurable?”

“No,” he grumbled—though it sounded more like a helpless plea. “Not pleasurable—not in the slightest… this—this is torture.”

His voice cracked as his hand wandered down from your cheek, to the curve of your waist hidden by the thin robe. His breath was trembling as though it hurt to speak.

“You’ve taken hold of me, Miss. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I walk through town and see nothing but you. I hear your voice in the wind, in the creak of every door… it’s as though God Himself has sent you in my mind to test me.”

He sucked in a shallow breath, his hand encircling your wrist and guiding it down to his throbbing erection. It pulsed in your hands. “I want to understand it. I want to see you and not lose myself. But I can’t. I can’t, and it’s driving me mad…”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Barnes,” you spoke softly, swallowing hard yet your hand didn’t move. “I apologize—”

“No apologies,” Bucky interrupted, letting out a ragged breath. “Just—touch me, please. I beg you.”

You were silent for a moment, and he was frightened that he might’ve scared you. But then, slowly, your hand started to move. Your fingers rubbed and stroked, tracing the large shape of him through the fabric.

He let out a sharp and ragged gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily into your touch—begging for more.

“That feels…” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his body surrendered to your touch. “That feels so good. Please, please don’t stop…”

Bucky’s body trembled with need, his hips rocking urgently into your palm as you continued to stroke and tease him through his straining pants. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh.

“I need… I need more. Please, I can’t…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as a shameful spurt of pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock, dampening the cloth.

You felt the wet spot spreading beneath your fingertips, the evidence of disgraceful arousal. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and curious—yet dark with desire.

“Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, your fingers still stroking, “you seem to be in quite a state. Perhaps you need help getting out of these trousers?”

“I—”

Without waiting for him to finish, you deftly unbuttoned his pants, fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged the fabric down over his hips. As his pants and undergarments peeled away, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, throbbing erection springing free.

“Oh,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his warm flesh. “Mr. Barnes… you’re—well, you’re big.”

“Squeeze it, my dear,” he breathed, body going stiff. “Please. Do not leave me too long, lest I—oh…!”

Bucky’s words died in his throat as you squeezed him gently. You marveled at the way his flesh pulsed in your grip—hot, hard, and heavy. You sunk to your knees before he could order you to, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin, and placed a soft kiss on the leaking tip.

He inhaled sharply, his fingers coming down to tangle in your hair as you lavish his aching cock with tender kisses. “Oh, mercy,” he moaned. “Y-you… you undo me.”

You let out a soft and amused hum, the sound vibrating against his dick. Your mouth parted as you took him in, your lips stretched taut around his thickness as you began to suck, tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock.

“Your mouth…!” he panted as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him.

“It’s… it’s incredible. Please don’t stop, please…” He groaned as his head fell back into pleasure. “Fuck—Lord, for-forgive… me…”

The words left him before he could catch them, shameful on his tongue. Bucky froze, breath ragged, a tremor running through him as the echo of his own voice filled the room.

Blasphemy.

He’d uttered blasphemy in a moment of weakness—of desire.

His throat tightened, his chest burning with guilt. He pressed a hand to his lips as if to seal them shut, to take the word back, but it was too late. How easily sin had found its way into him. How quick he was to forget the Lord’s name in favor of your warm mouth.

Bucky’s hips started to move on their own, rocking gently into the perfect suction of your lips. He was lost in a fog of lust, eyes hazy with desire and sin. He was drowning in the feel of your mouth around him, the way your tongue swirled and danced around his aching flesh.

He knew he should’ve felt guilty, that taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, but the pleasure was too delectable to stop.

His moans grew louder as your mouth worked his tender flesh. He could feel the pressure building, the coil of tension in his gut as his release approached. Just as he was ready to explode into your eager mouth, he suddenly pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Wait, Miss… stop—” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face a rictus of strain and effort. “We should… we should stop. This is… too much, too fast. This is wrong.” But despite his words, his hips involuntarily continued to twitch and jerk, seeking more of your warm and silky mouth.

You pulled back, your lips glistening with saliva and the first drops of his pre-cum. You looked up at him, eyes hazy with lust and confusion. “I.. I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, starting to rise to your feet. “I didn’t mean to… to push you too far.”

And as you move to stand, your robe slipped down, exposing your bare shoulder and the slight curve of your breast. The sight of your skin—exposed and bare—was Bucky’s undoing. With a strained groan and without a clear mind, his hands came up to grasp your shoulders, pulling you in and letting his lips connect to the soft skin of your neck.

You gasped. “M-Mr. Barnes!”

“Your skin… it’s perfect. Forgive me, Lord, for am I weak…” his hands slipped down your back, the damp fabric of your robe bunching under his touch as he tugged at it impatiently.

Even as he whispered prayers for forgiveness, his body refused to listen—driven by want, by need, by something he could not control.

His hand found the sash of your robe, tugging at it roughly and loosening the knot. The robe slipped down further, sleeves falling off your shoulders, your waist, until the garment pooled around your ankles.

He leveled to his knees, his lips trailing over the curve of your breasts, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin gently as his hands roamed all over your bare body greedily. Every movement felt like worship, each brush of his fingers a confession of how deeply you had crushed him.

Your hands tangled in his hair. “M-Mr. Barnes,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… I thought you wished to… end this?”

But Bucky was beyond the point of no return. He looked up at you—his eyes once vulnerable and confused—now dark and intense, the blue irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“I need you,” he growled. “I can’t stop. Not when I’ve seen the beauty of your naked skin, the feel of your soft flesh. I must have you—all of you, or I’ll die.”

Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you looked down at him. There was something dangerous in his eyes—an intensity that both frightened and drew you in. You could see the strain in him, the battle between restraint and surrender, and somehow, you wanted to be the one to unbind him from it.

“Yes,” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper, “yes, Mr. Barnes. Take me. Have me. I am yours.”

And just like that, something wild flashed in Bucky’s eyes—a feral, unrestrained joy.

In one desperate motion, he rose from the floor and gathered you into his arms, holding you close as though he had been starving for the feel of you. His steps carried a strange certainty, as if he already knew the way through your home, as if a stronger force was guiding him—his mind no longer his own.

When he reached the bed, he did not slow. He allowed you to fall back onto the mattress, crawling over you before you can even catch your breath. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him—body trembling with a mix of fear and hunger.

As Bucky settled between your thighs, you felt the hard and insistent press of his arousal against your bare pussy.

“Mr. Barnes,” you hesitated, swallowing hard. “Tell me… have you ever been with anyone before?” Your voice was soft, unsure. You could feel the raw, untempered heat of him, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed in a way that bordered on madness.

“I—no,” he managed, the word breaking rough in his throat. “I am pure. I’ve never…” He faltered, voice low with shame, as though admitting it were a sin in itself.

Your expression softened, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow.

“Are you certain, Mr. Barnes?” you asked quietly. “Certain you’d risk so much… with someone like me?”

“I would risk far worse,” he confessed, voice shaky. “If it meant feeling this… if it meant having you.”

You smiled as you leaned up, your lips meeting his in a soft and tender kiss. As your lips met, you whispered softly against his mouth.

“Give it to me, Mr. Barnes. Give me everything you have. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, around me. Consume me until there’s nothing left but the two of us and this moment.”

Bucky's eyes widened with hunger the minute your words reached his ears. With a hoarse groan, he moved forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss that stole the very breath from your lungs.

As he kissed you, he began to tear at his own clothing with urgency, buttons flying in his haste to divest himself of the barriers between them. He wrenched his shirt over his head, the fabric straining and then ripping as he tugged it off. His belt hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down his thighs.

“Need you,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat around me… to know you’re real and not some vision come to haunt me.”

“I’m not a vision, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his back. “I’m real.”

“That are you are,” he agreed huskily, grabbing his bare cock in his hands and pressing it up against your warm folds.

"Forgive me, Lord," he panted, his body shuddering as dick throbbed against your slit. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. But I cannot resist this temptation any longer. I must have her, must lose myself in her, or surely perish."

The words were a desperate, strangled prayer, a final appeal to divine mercy before he surrendered completely to the devil of his desire.

After his unholy prayer, he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a groan at the feel of your wet heat. You arched your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his swollen head caught.

“Have mercy, Mr. Barnes…” you whimpered, “please, be gentle—”

“I’ll try with all that’s left of me,” he grunted, already pushing past your entrance with a slow roll of his hips. “God help me, but I can’t swear to it.”

And after his unholy promises, he rolled his hips forward, pushing more of his thick length inside you, stretching you around him inch by excruciating inch. He tossed his head back in a moan as your tight, slick walls enveloped him.

“You’re… you’re so big!” you gasped, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can take it all… oh! Mercy, please—”

“You can do it,” Bucky encouraged, his voice almost hypnotic. “Every inch of me is going to fit inside you. I’ll make sure of it.”

His words were a sinful promise, a filthy incitement that only spurred him on.

“Breathe through it, my little dove. Breathe through the stretch, the burn, the pleasure. Take me inside you, all of me, every last bit of my aching, throbbing length. Let it reshape you, mold you… fuck, ruin you… for any other man.”

Bucky grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting them up slightly so he can drive his thick shaft deeper into your tight heat. He moved like a man possessed, moved like he no longer was in control of his own body.

“I can’t…” you whimpered helplessly. “Please, slow down! It’s too much… too fast!”

Your hips bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to accommodate the relentless invasion even as your body struggled to adjust to his considerable size.

But Bucky was a man lost in desire and lust that overwhelmed his last vestiges of control. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled.

“You say that, little dove…” he grunted, “yet your greedy little cunt is trying to swallow me whole. I can feel every bit of it—as if you’re begging for a good, honest man like me to fill you up.”

You sniffled under his crude words, yet it was something about his voice—raw and hungry—that made your body tremble with pleasure, walls fluttering around him.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he groaned at the feeling.

He tightened his grip on your thighs, pushing them up and back as he leaned over you, his body nearly folding you in half.

He positioned your smooth legs over his shoulders, the back of your knees resting against his chest. In this new position, a sloppy mating press, he’s able to plunge into you even deeper.

“God…” his hips piston relentlessly, the slap of skin against skin filling the room as he took you in such a dirty position. “I want to fuck you and burn for it.”

You could only moan helplessly beneath him. Your hands clutched at his biceps, feeling his muscles as he moved over you—claiming you, owning you. You’ve never felt so utterly filled and defiled—nonetheless on a man’s cock.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exhilarating.

And yet, you want more.

“I want…” he growled, hands tightening around your waist as he fucked deeper into you. “I want to give you my child, little angel. I want to flood your womb with my seed. I want to fill you with new life. I want… God, I want to make you mine.”

Each word was a dark and filthy promise. It was as if he had no control over his own mouth as he declared his deepest and most base desires. With each thrust, he ground deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he panted, his breathing hard. “To be mated with you like this, to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock, begging to be bred. It’s been my longest dream, little angel.”

His eyes—wild and blazing with lust—bored into yours as he loomed over you, hips driving into you faster and deeper.

“I’ve fallen asleep each night, only to wake with the phantom feel of your legs wrapped around me…” he tried to speak between moans and ragged breaths, every word coming out like a desperate whine.

“I imagined your nails raking down my back as I fucked you into oblivion… and now, here we are—fuck, lost in the… the throes of passion—on the brink of creation itself…”

His voice pitched higher as he babbled on, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you uncontrollably. The sensation was growing unbearable.

“I-I am yours…” you moaned, barely getting the words out. “I am yours, if… if you will have me so.”

Bucky’s body tensed above you. “Yes—that’s it, little dove…” his hips started to jerk and stutter, losing their rhythm as the overwhelming sensation of his release consumed him.

“Fuck, I can’t…. I’m going to…” he panted, voice rising higher and frantic as his cock pulsed inside you.

The sensation was overpowering as a delicious, torturous pressure started to build at the base of your spine with each erratic thrust. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his back, your body arching to meet his as he lost himself completely.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, yes!” you cried, your voice breaking into a moan as your cunt spasmed around him, releasing your own pleasure. “Give it to me, give me everything you have. I want to feel you coming inside me, filling me, claiming me…”

Bucky threw his head back and let out a strangled moan, the poor bed creaking and crying as his hips moved relentlessly—pounding into you deeper, harder. Then finally, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt as his orgasm came—blissful and hot.

You gasped as you felt his cock pulse inside you, releasing thick ropes of his pent-up seed. It felt like an endless flood, like he was saving himself just for you.

For a long moment, you remain locked together, Bucky's hips pressed tight against yours as you both trembled and shuddered. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Your body was still fluttering and clenching around his half-hard cock, as if reluctant to let him go.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “I could hold you like this forever and not tire.”

You hummed against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I… like this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing small patterns along his arm. “Just being near you, Mr. Barnes—”

“Please,” he interrupted firmly. “No need for pleasantries, especially after how I’ve undone you.”

A brief silence fell, tense and uneasy, making your heart flutter despite the closeness you had just shared.

You lifted your eyes to his, voice small so small and cautious, as if you were testing him.

“I… I love you, James,” you whispered.

“You… love me?” he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and awe.

“Yes,” you said, pressing closer against him. “I cannot hide it any longer. My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”

A low, choked sound escaped him—part sigh and part laugh. “By God… you’ve undone me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“And… what of my friend, Steve Rogers?” he asked quietly, hesitant. “Do you… feel anything for him? Or is this… only for me?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question.

“James,” you started softly, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek, “you have nothing to fear. My heart has been yours for some time. No one else…” your words faltered, but your eyes were steady and full of truth. “…no one else holds it.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your arm.

“I see,” he grunted. A shadow passed over his eyes. “There will be… rumors, you know. Whispers in the streets, questions in every corner of Salem.”

You tilted your head, a faint and defiant smile tugging at your lips.

“Let them speak,” you said softly, brushing a hand along his. “They do not know us. They cannot know what is here, between you and me.”

He frowned. “You’re not afraid?”

“I am not afraid,” you whispered, leaning closer until your forehead rest against his bare chest.

“Not while I am with you.”

The morning light slanted through the cracks of the shutters.

Bucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle mess of shame and obsession. Every thought from the night before clawed back into his chest. Each memory like a needle pricking at his conscience.

He felt… tainted.

A sinner.

Unworthy.

The warmth of your body against his, the softness of your hands, the tight feel of you—it was all lodged in his mind, a sin he could not wash away.

Bucky twisted the blanket around his fists, muttering under his breath.

It is wrong. All wrong. She is a witch, I am certain. No woman could draw a man to her heart so completely without dark craft.

The thought made him shiver. He shivered in fear, in desperate denial. You told him you loved him. You opened your heart to him. And here he was, lying in bed and hating himself.

It cannot be love.

It cannot be me who desires her so.

It must be your doing.

He rose stiffly from the bed, pacing the small room as though movement could dislodge the images from his mind. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, muttering prayers that could no longer help him. “God, forgive me. God, forgive me…”

He hated himself for the longing that still burned in his chest. Every glance he remembered, every confession from the night prior, it fed both the fuels of desire and disgust. He tried to tell himself he had been fooled, that it was all enchantment, yet a small, trembling part of him knew the truth.

He had given his heart willingly, though he would never admit it aloud.

Bucky’s boots crunched against the dirt road. The town had begun to stir—vendors laying out their goods, housewives exchanging greetings—but to him, it all blurred. His hands were still shaking, his breath uneven.

Steve stood near the well, speaking with a few men. He looked as he always did—steady, good, and unwavering. A man untouched by sin.

A man who hadn’t been ruined by a single night’s weakness.

He should know. Steve would understand. Steve would see the danger. He had to.

“Steve,” Bucky called out.

Steve turned, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of his friend. “Bucky. You look as though you’ve not slept a wink. What’s the matter?”

“I need to speak with you,” he said sharply. “Alone.”

“This again?” Steve frowned.

With a reluctant sigh, he nodded and stepped away from the others, following him to the side of the road beneath the shade of an old elm.

“What is it?” Steve asked, almost impatient. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Bucky dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’ve sinned,” he muttered. “God help me, I’ve sinned, Steve.”

Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing, letting Bucky continue.

“It’s her,” Bucky spat out suddenly, voice shaking. “She’s bewitched me. She must have. There’s no other way—no other way a man like me could…” he stopped himself, choking on the words—on the memory of your touch and the way his heart had broken open for you.

Steve’s face hardened—not in anger, but in warning. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the square where others milled about.

“Bucky,” he said slowly, carefully, “you need to watch your tongue.”

Bucky looked at him, confused.

“Witchcraft talk is dangerous,” Steve continued. “You know what this town does to women accused of it. Even a whisper—just one—can turn a neighbor into a mob. If word got out, she’d have no hope of mercy.”

“But Steve, you don’t understand. It feels like—”

“I do understand,” Steve cut in firmly. “I’ve seen what happens when men let their feelings twist into something ugly. Whether or not you believe she’s bewitched you, keep it to yourself. For her sake. For yours.”

Steve stepped back with a tired sigh. “I should get going. There’s work to be done,” he added, turning to leave.

“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, the name stuck in his throat like a plea.

Steve stopped, looking over his shoulder.

Bucky’s chest heaved as if the very words were clawing their way out of him. “It wasn’t me,” he rasped, hands clenching at his sides. “I swear to you, Steve, it wasn’t of my own will. She… she used her spellwork—she must’ve. She drew me in like some poor creature to the flame.”

“What—”

“She looked at me,” Bucky continued painfully. “Just looked, and I followed. As though I’d no mind of my own. She bid me come inside… and I went. Like a fool, I went.”

The memory of your voice, soft and warm, wrapped around him again like smoke. His throat tightened and his heart started to hurt—as if his own words were torture.

“She whispered to me,” he went on, trembling now, “and it was as though every prayer I’d ever known fled from my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I was hers before I even crossed her threshold.”

“Bucky…”

“She touched me,” Bucky pressed, voice going louder. “She took me in, bewitched me so I couldn’t turn away. And before I knew it…” He let out a sharp, broken breath, his gaze unfocused as the night before bled into the present. “I was in her arms. I was one withher.”

The words were barely free of his tongue before regret crashed through him.

Steve’s face changed—subtle, but enough to knock the air from Bucky’s lungs. The furrow of his brow deepened, his mouth parted ever so slightly, a look of horror flickering in his eyes.

Bucky’s stomach twisted at the sight.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

God, not like that.

Those words—they weren’t the truth. He’d painted you as some siren, some witch who’d snared him in your web… when the truth was always there, lingering beneath the surface.

Bucky wanted you.

Every step he had taken towards your door, every shuddering breath, every kiss—it had been his choice. His own hunger. His heart. And yet, here he stood, spitting out lies to his oldest friend because the truth was too frightening to hold.

Because admitting it would mean facing the sin he could no longer call witchcraft.

You fool, he thought bitterly.

You’ve damned her with your cowardice.

And worse—he’d damned himself for loving you.

Steve’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Bucky…”

Panic prickled up Bucky’s spine. “Steve—wait,” he stammered, his hands lifting slightly, as if he could grab the words back out of the air. “I didn’t mean—what I said—it wasn’t…” His mouth worked, but nothing coherent followed.

Steve’s expression hardened, the faint horror melting into something grim.

“Bucky,” he began, “if what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t something we can keep between us. You know what must be done. We’ve got to tell the townsfolk. The minister. Someone.”

“No!” the word tore from Bucky’s throat. “No, Steve, wait. I—”

“You just said she bewitched you,” Steve cut in. “That she took you into her home and… ” he faltered a little, uncomfortable, “… bound you to her will. That’s not something we can ignore. It’s witchcraft, Bucky.”

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. His palms were slick. “I spoke out of turn,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was confused, that’s all. I—”

Steve shook his head. “You were frightened. I heard it in your voice. The whole town’s been on edge since the last trial. If what you say is true, they’ll want to act before more harm comes to anyone else.”

Bucky felt the world cave in beneath him, the morning air suddenly too thin, too sharp, too difficult to breathe in. The noose of his own making was tightening—no, not a noose. He could see it too clearly in his mind.

It was flame.

It was rope bound at your wrists.

It was a wooden stake planted in the dirt of the square, kindling stacked high and dry at your feet.

The townsfolk didn’t forgive witches. They burned them. They’d burn you.

Bucky swallowed hard, grabbing his friend’s arm in a tight grip. “Steve, no, you don’t understand—”

Steve froze at the desperation in his voice, but it wasn’t the words that made his blood run cold. It was the look in best friend’s eyes.

Wide. Wild. Half-mad.

Bucky’s pupils were blown wide, breath sharp and uneven—looking exactly like a man possessed. He looked less like the boy Steve had grown up with and more like someone under a wicked spell.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered, almost frightened.

Bucky shook his head, his grip tightening. “She didn’t—she didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t tell them, Steve. Promise me.” His voice cracked, raw and frantic.

But to Steve, it only confirmed the worst. The town had seen it before—men caught under spells, their minds turned to ash. His friend’s eyes were full of fever. Bewitched. It had to be.

“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, prying his arm free. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure they undo whatever she’s done. I swear it.”

Bucky’s face went pale. “Steve, don’t.”

But Steve was already stumbling back, fear bleeding through his voice. “I’ll get help,” he reassured. “They’ll know what to do. They’ll save you.”

And before Bucky could stop him, Steve turned and ran—feet pounding against the dirt road, heading straight for the square where a single whisper could set the whole town aflame.

Bucky stood frozen for a breath. The morning air stung like ice in his lungs.

He had lost control of the story.

And now, the town would come for you.

The night air was sharp, the smell of dirt and woodsmoke filling his nostrils.

Bucky walked the narrow path behind the square, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, boots crunching against the gravel. His thoughts were a storm—loud and relentless. His walks were meant to steady his mind, but it was impossible.

“James!”

He froze.

Your voice, breathless and shaken.

He did not want to turn, but his body betrayed him once again. You came stumbling towards him through the shadows, skirt gathered in your hands, hair disheveled from the hurried walk. There was a look on your face that nearly undid him—a look of fear, confusion, and blinded trust that made his chest ache.

“James,” you gasped again, clutching at his sleeve as soon as you reached him. “The town is cruel. People are talking about me!”

Your words tumbled out, scared and shaky.

“Whispers at the market… mothers pulling their children away. They’re saying I—” your breath hitched, “… that I’ve bewitched someone. That I’ve done something wicked.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

You took a step closer, gripping his arm tighter. “James, you know me. You know me. I would never—”

“I know,” he cut you off gently, still looking down. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

You stared up at him, and although he wasn’t looking at you, you searched his eyes for the warmth that had once made you feel safe. But all you found was a storm.

“We could go,” you whispered suddenly. “We could run away—tonight. Just you and me. No more whispers. No more cruel eyes. Just… us.”

Bucky’s expression softened at your words. A fragile, aching longing broke through the panic—like he wanted to say yes. Like he wanted to take your hand and never look back.

But then, his jaw tensed, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I… can’t.”

Those two simple words made your heart drop in your stomach. “Can’t?”

“I’ve a name here. A life,” he whispered, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bear to see your heartbreak. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. It’ll… only make it worse for the both of us.”

Tears burned in your eyes, your grip on his sleeve faltering just slightly. “James, they’ll destroy me.”

But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes stuck somewhere over your shoulder, looking at anything but you. The evening wind tugged at his coat, cold and cruel, and still he stood there—silent.

“James,” you choked out, your voice breaking around his name. “After all we shared… last night, the walks, the bench by the church—was it all nothing?”

God help him, he almost wished you truly were a witch—so you could cast a spell on his tongue, force the words out of him, make him say something instead of standing there like a coward.

“I thought—” your voice cracked again, “I thought what we had meant something to you.”

His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words so quiet they almost broke apart in the air, almost as if he didn’t say them at all.

You took a shaky step closer, desperate. “Did you love me, James? Even for a moment?”

Finally, finally, he looked at you. His lips parted, the confession falling like a death knell.

“Yes.”

A pathetic sound escaped you—a choked sob, broken and small. The sound struck him right in the heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach you, to hold you, to run away with you.

But then, you let get of his sleeve.

And before he could reach for you, before he could even think to make it right, you turned and ran—your figure swallowed by the night as your sobs trailed behind you like a wound he had carved himself.

Bucky was a hollow man by the time he made his way back towards his small home. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door, drown in silence, and pretend none of it—none of you, ever happened.

“Bucky!”

The familiar voice cut through the dark. He turned to find Steve jogging towards him, lantern swinging in his hand, face grave and pale beneath its flickering light.

“They’ve found her,” Steve said breathlessly when he finally reached him.

Bucky’s blood went cold. “What… what do you mean, they’ve found her?”

“They’ve taken her to the square,” Steve replied, catching his breath. “Said they caught her trying to run. The magistrate’s called for a trial, burning her at dawn. They’ll do the… the preparations tonight. You shouldn’t miss it.”

Bucky shook his head almost violently, stepping back. “No,” he rasped. “No, Steve, I can’t—”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You have to.”

“I can’t,” Bucky bit out, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me—”

“It’s for your own good,” Steve snapped, firmer this time. “You were the one she bewitched, Buck. You said so yourself. Everyone is expecting you. You can’t just hide away now.”

Bucky’s throat closed up. His own words were being thrown back at him like chains, binding him to something he could no longer control.

Steve reached out, fingers curling around his arm, unyielding. “Come on,” he urged, tugging him forward. “You have to be there. It’s your duty to the town.”

The square was awash in torchlight, a cruel glow that seemed to swallow the night whole. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, cast long by the gathered townsfolk—faces tight with fear, with hunger for someone to blame.

Bucky’s stomach lurched when he saw you.

Your wrists were bound behind your back, rope biting into your skin. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled and loose, haloed in the torchlight. Horror was crawling up his throat like bile. You looked so small against the wood, your face filled with dread. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in your shoulders, the way your chin lifted just slightly, as if refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But once your eyes met his, you broke down immediately.

Tears began to streak down your cheeks, catching in the firelight, and your voice was hoarse and raw—likely from screaming beforehand.

“James!”

Everyone turned to him at the sound of your voice.

You struggled against the ropes, shoulders straining, eyes wide and desperate as they locked onto his. “James, please—please, tell them! Tell them I’ve done nothing!”

Bucky froze where he stood, breath punched from his chest. His heart screamed for him to move, to tear you down from that post and hold you. But his legs—his coward’s legs—refused.

The magistrate stepped forward, robes sweeping against the ground, his voice deep.

“Do not heed her words, boy,” he intoned. “Do not let the devil’s tongue sway you. It is all part of her deceit. A witch’s plea is honeyed venom.”

The townsfolk murmured their agreement, and it made Bucky sick.

“James!” you sobbed again, your voice hoarse, trembling. “Look at me—look at me! You know me!”

Your voice split through the square like a bell tolling for the damned.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed, stepping close to him. “Buck, don’t listen.”

Bucky’s wide eyes snapped to his friend. “Steve—”

“Don’t let her words get in your head,” Steve pressed, voice low but firm. His grip on Bucky’s shoulder was iron. “That’s what they do. They twist your heart, make you doubt yourself. You said it yourself, she bewitched you. You can’t fall again.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but just as he was about to…

“Tonight,” the magistrate interrupted, lifting his hand as if presenting you to the crowd, “we bear witness to the corruption festering in our midst. A woman consorting with darkness. A woman who ensnared a man of this town in her devil’s grasp.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers growing louder.

The magistrate turned to Bucky. “James Barnes,” he declared, “you are the one who bore witness. Step forward.”

You finally stilled.

The wailing that had been pouring out of you—your pleading, your begging—died on your tongue. Slowly, your head lifted, tear-streaked face glistening in the torchlight as your gaze found him again.

No.

You couldn’t believe it.

“Witness…?” you breathed.

Bucky’s boots felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he took that first step forward. His pulse was beating loud in his ears, his chest burning as though the pyre beneath your feet was already alight.

He couldn’t look at you—but he could feel your pain.

Your tear-stained cheeks went still. Your shoulders stopped shaking. The frantic, wild panic in your eyes bled away, leaving only something worse.

“James,” you whispered, his name breaking on your tongue.

It wasn’t a plea anymore.

It was disbelief.

It was betrayal.

He dared to glance at you then—and the look on your face carved straight into his chest.

The magistrate continued. “This woman, accused of witchcraft, shall face the Lord’s judgment by flame. Let the fire cleanse her wickedness—”

But your voice tore through his words, desperate, as if it could save you.

“I’m with child!”

The square fell silent.

For a moment, not even the wind dared to move. The flames waiting at the base of the pyre crackled softly, the only sound between you. You weren’t shouting at the magistrate. You weren’t appealing to the crowd.

You were looking straight at him.

At Bucky.

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “James… it’s yours.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a fever. The magistrate stiffened, his hand tightening on the torch. A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth. Someone whispered “witch’s spawn” like a curse, and soon the words spread in terrified murmurs through the mass of faces.

The magistrate’s face blanched.

“Witch… seed,” he hissed. “This cannot be allowed to live. An unholy union—taint upon the town…”

“Lord preserve us,” someone muttered.

“She and her child will doom us all!

Bucky’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly brought him to his knees. His lungs burned. He couldn’t look away from you—your tear-streaked face, the trembling in your jaw, the desperation in your eyes.

This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t a witch.

This was you. Carrying a piece of him.

But the magistrate’s voice cut through the cold air. “Light it.”

The torch was lowered. The dry wood caught, flames licking upward, crackling hungry and bright.

“No!” Bucky roared, running forward. Steve grabbed him by the arms before he could reach the stake, dragging him back as he thrashed like a man possessed.

“No, don’t—stop!”

The fire climbed higher and higher, smoke curling thick into the air, swallowing your figure in its angry orange and gray glow. Your scream split the square, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Bucky fought harder, his boots scraping against the dirt as he tried to free of Steve’s grip.

You gasped for breath through the smoke, your skin bathed in firelight. And then your eyes found his.

For a moment, for one agonizing moment, you smiled.

Your lips parted, trembling, your soot-streaked face softened at the sight of him.

Bucky believed, in the back of his mind, that you were going to forgive him despite everything. At least, with your forgiveness, he might’ve been able to rest.

“She’s not burning…” the magistrate muttered, voice tight with fear.

“It is true,” you finally confessed. “I am a witch. But I never cast a spell on anyone. Not on you, James. My love for you…” you coughed, the smoke choking your lungs, “it was real. It always was.”

The crowd stirred, panic sweeping through them as the flames climbed but left your body untouched.

You did not burn. You did not turn to ash.

No. You remained.

Your voice grew louder, cutting through the crackle of the fire.

“You betrayed me, James. You took my heart straight from my bare chest and crushed it beneath your clean boots.”

Your smile twisted now—no longer gentle.

“I shall return. And I will seek my reprisal through this town—starting with you.”

Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, and a sob tore through his chest. He clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking as he stared at what he had done.

“I will start with your body—just as you took mine,” you vowed, your promise ringing through the smoke.

“I will take your hands, your left arm, the one that touched me so tenderly. Then I will take your mind—until it’s nothing but a shattered thing. Until you cannot remember your own name… or who you ever were.”

You glanced at Steve. “Until you cannot remember your own dear friend.”

Bucky’s knees trembled, and the heat of the fire did nothing to warm the icy dread in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching towards the smoke, toward the golden glow of your eyes—but there was nothing.

“Please, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I—I loved you! It is true! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

The flames hissed and crackled, but the figure they had enveloped no longer stood there.

You were gone.

“She’s vanished!” someone cried.

“Witch! Sorcery!” another shouted, pointing at the empty stake.

Bucky’s legs felt like lead. He could only stand frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking. The fire that had licked at your body minutes before now crackled harmlessly against the empty wood.

All around him, chaos erupted—people shouting, running, collapsing in fear—but Bucky barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the stake.

The place where you had stood, screaming, pleading, burning… was now nothing but scorched wood and lingering smoke.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop seeing you, the golden glow of your eyes, the firelight dancing over the face he once pressed kisses to.

Bucky stood rooted, the embers at his feet and the ghost of smoke in his lungs, unable to tear his eyes from the scorched stake.

He had spoken the words that sent you there.

He had watched you burn.

And underneath the grief, a colder thing took hold—dread.

He had hurt you, the woman he loved, and in the silence that followed your vanishing, he felt your promise pierce through the night like a living thing.

The town scattered into the dark in panic, and Bucky was left alone on the square, palms slack at his sides, heart pounding with the terrible certainty that what he had done would not be forgiven—and that soon, he would know just how you meant to make him pay.

holy hell this was so long. thank you so much for sticking through the end <3 thank you @houseofhyde for this meme because this was literally bucky i fear.

Her therapist suggested that she should put herself out there and join a club or something.

So, she decided - to not do that.

But, she had conversations with Enid - to which the pink-haired girl did most of the talking - and Eugene started coming up to her because he wanted to get information on Enid, but also advice on how to talk to his new roommate.

"What does he do?" She asked.

Eugene pushes his glasses on his face, his eyes squinting as he thinks. "He mostly looks at my pets like their chocolate pudding. He's too clingy."

Y/n swishes her mouth with air, "First, ew, but he's an Addams, aren't they kooky anyway, what did you expect? Secondly, he's new, and looking for a friend. Try showing him what you like to do, and ask him about himself."

Eugene shifts in his spot, clearly uncomfortable about something; he blurts out, "Could you come with me? I need a buffer; I can't handle him by myself. He might like you; you're weird."

Her jaw moves, and in a totally not sarcastic tone, she says, "Gee, thanks." Her torso twists from side to side as she rocks herself. "I don't think I can. Besides, I have a date today that I can't miss." She excuses.

Eugene's eyebrows lift, "You never have dates. We can do it tomorrow if you want, but you are helping me." His tan hands clutch y/n's purple and black sleeve.

She bit her lip. "I guess tomorrow's fine then. If you don't mind, I'll need to visit someone I know, as well." She mutters, giving in. After all, the Addams' boy might like it.

__

"This is my roommate, Pugsley; Pugsley, this is my - person that I know, sort of, Y/n L/n." The bug boy greeted. Pugsley's eyes lit up as he shook the girl's hand.

"Didn't your mom get murdered by an axe murderer?" He asked, delighted, and she went slack.

"Yeah." Her voice monotone.

"-so! What do you guys wanna do?" Eugene steps in.

"I don't know, but I wanna know every detail of what happened!" The Latino boy said, turning back to his question.

Eugene grabs the both of them, pulling them out of the dorm room and down the hallway. "I've got a better idea! Why don't we go to the hummer's shed!" He lead the two teens to the wooden shack, with a badly painted bee on the front.

Eugene's voice filled the silence about his bees and the honey collecting process. Y/n stopped listening after: "The cool thing about honey making is -" And it seemed Pugsley wasn't all that interested either.

Her mind travels to the only place it ever seems to go, the Skull Tree. "Hey, I've gotta go.." She mumbles before leaving through the door.

The two boys turn to you, confused. "Where are you going?" She looked at Eugene then Pugsley.

"Remember what I told you? I have to visit someone." She reminded him.

The Addams boy stepped to you in curiosity, "Who are you seeing? Can I go?" He asked, obviously desperate to get away.

Every reason in your mind, everything in the girl wanted to say no, because he was yours. It was your special place, but you sympathized with him. "I suppose, but don't be weird about it, and don't tell anyone." She pleaded.

The two teens and a bummed Eugene walked from the shed to the woods away from campus. "I don't like this." The olive skinned boy squeaked while Pugsley and Y/n looked like they were taking a lovely stroll through the park. When the ominous tree loomed before them, Eugene barked out a 'No'. "I've heard about this place." His hands shook as he frantically dug in his pocket for his inhaler.

"Don't tell me you're scared?" The girl asked.

Eugene overtly gestured to the tree. "This is the 'person you know'? This is where the clockwork hearted boy lies!" Y/n held no expression that he would deem "normal" to him.

"I come here all the time. I clean his grave, and I talk to him." She explained.

"There's a dead kid here? Could we dig him up?!" Pugsley wondered.

Eugene; however, has a mild crisis, "Absolutely not! I don't wanna deal with worms and maggots, and he probably smells."

"He is handsome, though." Y/n sighs, while Pugsley asks, "Aren't you a bug lover?"

Eugene begins to walk away with his hand in surrender. While the other two stay there. "I kind of feel bad, but maybe he's right. It is kinda weird to like a dead person." The girl considers.

The Latino boy turns and immediately defends her, "I think it's cool! There's something calming about a graveyard. I think maybe you might be the only interesting person here, besides him." He points to the bust of the angular face of the boy who is currently rotting under their feet.

"Please, don't tell anyone about him. He means a lot to me." She explained. Pugsley smiles warmly at her. "Thanks. You're not so bad, Addams." She said.

She started to head back. "We should probably go. The pyre is gonna start soon, you coming?" Pugsley shook his head.

"I'll meet you there." She nodded as she left him alone, hoping he wasn't going to desecrate it.

Pugsley walked around the grave toward the bust. He was fairly good-looking, okay, he couldn't deny that he was extremely good-looking. "She really likes you. That's the only thing I know about her; I just met her today, but she's the first person I feel comfortable around. I'm glad you are that person for her." He spoke aloud to the spirit of the boy. He stepped to the tree, hearing a faint noise among the birds. He leaned his head in, and a ticking noise of his heart echoed a continuous beat.

In his clumsiness, Pugsley tripped on a root of mangled tree and hit the dirt-sealed grave. Taken aback, his hands surged with his powers, electrifying the ground, pulsing through the earth, and colliding with the corpse below.

A gloved hand plunges through the ground, clawing out of the darkness. Pugsley watches him rise up from the dirt with a smile. 'Y/n's gonna love this!'

___

He brings him to the shed for the night, tying him up so he wouldn't wander off; Eugene found him in the morning, and upon the undead boy reaching for him - the shaken boy ran out to find the two responsible for this.

He finds Pugsley first and demands an explanation. "I jumpstarted his clockwork heart by accident; it's a surprise for y/n." The Latino boy grinned.

Eugene gritted his teeth, "Well, get it out of my shed and put it in her room. It's your problem! Not mine!"

Pugsley sighed and went with him to the shed. A stench permeated the air as they stepped closer to the entrance. The zombie sat slouched in the corner. Waiting.

"Hey! I hope you had a good night. Eugene doesn't want you here, so I'll introduce you to someone who will love your company. You may know her; she's spent a lot of time with you. She doesn't know your alive yet, but it'll be fun!" The boy stood up at the mention of her.

With the rope in Pugsley's grasp, he guides the stumbling boy to the girls' dorms. They stop at the sign written with your name and her roommate's. "She's not here yet, but we can wait for her." The excitable boy states, opening your door.

__

You walk in with a towel around your shoulders, absorbing the dripping hair. Unbeknownst to you, the zombie boy sat at the corner of the bed. He intently, and somewhat bashfully, watches the girl.

You take the towel and wrung your damp locks. Then, in your peripherals, a dark figure stood by your bed. You screamed out, clinging to the desk. It frightened the boy, and he groaned through his unused throat.

"What?" You spoke as you breathe sharply. The mud-covered boy rigidly stepped towards you. In his fist, he opened it to reveal muddy wildflowers and a crumpled piece of paper.

You carefully pinched the paper, flattening out the creases. The image revealed to be your sketch of him. "You're him?" You gasped. "How?" Your voice sultry and wispy.

The boy responds with a low grunt, and you hummed. Talking may not be on his repertoire as a zombie.

"I guess it doesn't really matter now; the fact is that you're here!" You smile, touching his mucky coat. Your hand immediately stained with damp soil. "Oh, we should get you cleaned up."

__

You grab a bucket of water and a clean cloth to clear the chunks of earth off him so he won't clog the drain when he showers. You took care to make it warm for him. He watched you dip the cloth and squeeze out the extra water. Every time the warm cloth touched his face, his eyelids fluttered. As you wiped his skin, clutching the patches of dirt in his hair, picking out the clumps.

"I'll have to get you new clothes." You spoke while wringing out the cloth; the bucket of water quickly turned murky, and bits of soil floated at the top.

"What do you like to wear? Do you like cozy clothes?" He didn't respond. "Do you like nice dress clothes?" His head staggered, nodding.

Pugsley comes into your room, "There you are! I see you've met him. Can you believe it!" The girl looks at him confused.

"How do you know? How did this happen?" You asked, standing up. The rotting boy next to you, grabbing at your hand. You glanced at him from behind, taking his hand into yours.

"After you left, I tripped and landed on the ground; my powers surged uncontrollably from the fall, that I shocked the ground with my electricity, and - he came out of the ground." Pugsley explains.

'Well, that explains it.'

"You don't suppose we can come to your room to borrow some clothes?" You asked. Pugsley's face was bright.

"Of course you can, come on!" Pugsley motioned out the door.

The thought did cross your mind that it may prove a bad idea to roam around with a corpse in broad daylight. How Pugsley even got him up here unsuspecting in the first place, you may never know. Unfortunately, he was following you out. You turn around and hold his shoulders. "Maybe you should stay here. No one else should see you. You can take a shower while you wait, and if someone comes in, hide in my closet." The girl explained.

The boy growls angrily, grabbing at your hand, not liking the idea of being separated.

"Did you just growl at me?" Your tone firm. The corpse's head droops down, 'I'm sorry.'

"I just don't want to cause a panic and have you hunted. I'll be back soon. I promise." You comfort the boy; staring at his cheek, an urge flowed through you; compromising by kissing the tips of your fingers and transferring your kiss onto his cheek. Your fingers came back slightly dirty. "You should really take a shower, though."

With that, they leave the room with the unnamed boy still dazed by the kiss.

___

Y/n and Pugsley enter his dorm room. Eugene looks at them as they enter. "Please tell me you didn't bring that zombie!" His voice cracked, as he tensed.

She glances at the black and white striped boy. "He knows too?"

Pugsley dismisses it, "It's fine. He's in her room." He informed a tense Eugene.

"I guess your first impression didn't go so well?" Eugene pressed his lips into a line.

"It grabbed at me and tried to eat me!" Pugsley chuckles.

"No, he didn't!" The girl changes the subject by asking Pugsley to his closet. He led you to the drawer, and most of his clothes were black and white stripes. "What are you, a burglar? I don't think he can pull off this." She takes out a couple pairs of black pants and a black and white sweater. Closing the drawer, she nudges her head toward Eugene. "What about Mr. Anxiety over there?" She whispered. Pugsley shrugs. "Hey, bug boy, what kind of style do you have?" She asked.

"Well, it's kind of casual, but I have vests and sweaters. I have some fancier shirts, but - why do you ask?" He wondered. Obviously, it was for his least favorite monster in the world.

"Oh, no! You are not giving that walking pile of stench my nice clothes!" He shields his closet from the others.

"That is insensitive! What has he done to you?" Pugsley defended the absent boy.

"I told you, it attacked me!" Y/n sighs.

"I'll talk to him about it. If you want an apology, he can personally-" She was interrupted, "uh-uh, I never want to see that thing again!" Her blood boiled at his demeanor toward 'Sparky'.

"Fine; can you at least show me a couple of outfits?" Eugene shook his head, denying you again.

"I'll owe you a favor." She suggested.

He eventually spoke, "Anything?"

"Anything, but getting rid of him." She set a boundary, but he seemed pleased. He moved out of the way to open the door. The girl gave him a description of items to take out, from sweaters to dress shirts and some slacks. "These will do nicely." Eugene closed the closet, folding his hands together. "Alright, what do you want?" She asked.

"Not now, I think I'll save it for a rainy day."

The two teens leave with their pile of clothes, "Fine." She said, while leaving.

___

The dorm room was empty when they opened the door. "Good, she's not here." You sighed. Luckily, Taffy was more extroverted - spending most of her day at the various clubs or practices. She would only be in the room in the early morning and evening hours. So, your special friend will have to hide in the closet by then.

"We're back!" You announced, knocking on the door of the closet. "I've got clothes for you; did you shower?" He responded with a grunt and slightly opened the door. He hid behind it while he held out his pale bare arm. The base of his wrist had sealed over a wound; there was no hand, only a stump.

You draped a sweater and pants on his arm before he moved from the door and shut it. Pugsley left after setting down the clothes on your bed.

You wait as he groaned, and the constant thuds in your closet suggested his struggle to get the clothes on. "Would you like some help? It's just me, now." He grunted as he opened the door, stumbling out. His pants were on, but left unzipped and unbuttoned, and his shirt was on, but the buttons lay undone. His bare skin in between the gaps was pale and wrinkled. The girl zipped his pants up before moving onto his buttons. "Here we go." You whispered as you start buttoning the shirt from the bottom. "I suppose your fingers are still a bit stiff." You acknowledged; he responded with a rough sigh. "I know. I'm sorry; it must be hard, but I'm always here to help you. It's okay to need help sometimes."

You went up from the middle, toward the top. As you grabbed the lapels, something caught your attention. "What's that?" You muttered.

"May I?" Your eyes lifted to his, and he grunted, nodding. You lifted the shirt to the side to see a bronze piece of metal in the shape of a heart, moving. Gently, you caressed the edge of it. His throat vibrated. "It's beautiful." You glance at him, and his eyes were already all over you. "Did you make it?" He nodded.

"Wow." You breathe, flattening the shirt over his heart to button the rest. "Will you sit on the bed for me?" You asked. Stiffly, he obeys your request while you grab a hair brush. His hair, though straightened from the water, curled up at the ends. It seemed tame compared to the stone face, capturing voluminous curls.

"Let me brush your hair for you." You quickly sit across from him. Gently gliding the bristles through his dark hair. "The bust by your grave; it looks like you have curly hair." He nodded slightly in between his purring. Your hand held his head as the other tackled the snarls. "I can see that by the way it curls at the ends. I like curly hair; I know it's a pain to maintain it, but it always looks so soft!" He loudly exhaled through his nose. "What? Do I amuse you?" He bobbed his head.

You continue to brush his hair, "What was the bust for?" He hummed and grunted. For a moment, she forgot, "Sorry, yes or no questions."

She bit her lip as her eyes drifted to his chest. "You were an inventor?" He nodded. "So, you were probably a top student." A tiny noise came from his lips. He watches her with intrigue. He then points to her. "Me? Oh, I'm nothing special. Just an outcast of outcasts. I've never been fond of people; some are nice, but I just wanna be on my own. Everyone keeps telling me to be around people, but how can I when it mentally exhausts me." He looks at the girl with understanding, like he feels exactly the same. "You're not like them, though. I haven't said this many words in a row since - I don't even remember."

He rests his head on your shoulder; his semi-damp hair brushes your cheek. As it dries, you can see his hair curling into itself. Your hand lifts and rests on his curled locks.

"I was right; it is soft." You acknowledge before looking at the clock by the bed.

6:45 pm.

"My roommate will be back soon. You'll probably have to stay in the closet." He groans. "Maybe I can persuade her to stay with her friends for a while by being sick or something. Then you wouldn't need to hide." He motions to himself and bites the air. "What? No! You can't have her brain. She is one of the actually decent human beings on this planet. But I know you are probably hungry." He shows her his stump.

"I can't. I don't know how. I can't just get you new parts, I mean - you're a dead man, not a Chrysler LeBaron. Besides, it's a waste of time to try and fix a boy. It's better to just accept a guy's flaws."

He bites the air again. "Br-" his voice comes out. You shifted in your spot as he spoke again, "Bruh-"

"Do brains heal you?" You ask. "Clearly, because you are actually forming words now, or trying to." You slid off the bed, standing up. "Let's get you some brains then." You held out your hand. He grabbed it and followed you outside.

___

Through the halls, when a student passes by, you pull him toward the wall or turn him around. Taffy passes by on her way to the dorm and she notices you.

You call out, "I'll be back in a while, Taff, don't wait up!" You hear her quietly say, "That's my girl." As she heads toward the room.

He needed help down the stairs, and slowly, you guided him down one wobbly step at a time.

As you get to the steps of the entrance, students started flowing both in and out. To protect him, you pulled the sunken face of the boy toward yours, covering it as best you could with her hands. His arms wrap around your waist, waiting for the people to pass. He was leaning in more, desperate for contact, and the stench of death tickled your nostrils. His lips grazed over yours as your head turned to check, his lips place gentle pressure on your cheek. He pulls away, looking at you.

He huffs in mild disappointment. "Let's go." You whispered, pulling him toward the gate. Thunder rumbled in the sky as the rain fell in a heavy downpour, their hair dripping as you open the creaking gate. The warmth slowly seeping from your body as you reach for the boy. He pulled you along. It won't be long before the chill of the rain would give you a temperature.

Light had illuminated the droplets of the rain, as two headlights came from the dark, racing on the road. Your interlocked hands broke as he stepped in the road as the car sped through, colliding with the creature before the screech of the brakes echoed through the rainfall.

The girl gasped, horrified of the scene. You rushed over, but he was gone. The driver came out cringing. "What?" His high-pitched tone voiced his confusion and shock.

Behind him, the zombie attacked him. The man reached for you for help, but you let him consume the victim's brains.

You step toward him after he finishes slurping his food. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" You clutched his biceps, more concerned with him being hit than him having grey noodles for dinner. His hand rests on your back. He seemed to be alright; being undead had its perks. Still, you hold him close as you both head back to your dorm. "We gotta be careful."

You dodge students back to the dorm, opening the door to your room. Neither of you thought of the possibility of the lights being on. You both walk in, and Taffy greeted you, "Hey, you alright? Where'd you -" she interrupted herself with a scream.

You look from Taffy to him, and he stalks toward the screaming girl, picking up something by the door and attacks her. You rush in between the two, and he stops mid swing.

"Don't hurt her! What is wrong with you?! Just go!" He looked at you with sad puppy eyes. "Leave and hope no one finds you!" You shout at him, whispering a soft, "please" to him. He stumbles out of the room; taking the object with him, and Taffy cries, freaking out from the danger; as you hold her in your arms. "It's alright, Taff, he's gone. He won't hurt you." You comforted her as she hyperventilates. "Just breathe."

"We should tell the sheriff." Taffy says after a while. "I will." You coax her. "You can go to sleep."

She looks at you with her dark chocolate eyes, "I don't think I can." She whispered. You hold her tighter, "Okay, then I'll stay up with you." She asks you to share her bed. You crawl in bed with her and cuddle. You had asked if you could turn the light off. She hesitated as if he would creep back in once it was dark. You turned on her bedside lamp before turning off the main room light. Your hand hovering over the switch as your eyes glance at the missing space, where your art trophy sat.

___

It had been several days since Lily saw your zombie boyfriend. The anxiousness gnawing you from the inside, hating the thought of how you yelled at him. It had to be done, but did it really? You just hoped that he would be safe and come back to you.

At night, when you're asleep, loud bangs pounded on your door, freaking you both out. You recognized his groan. You open the door, and upon seeing him, you grab him before he could come in, taking him to hide behind the outside of your door. "What was that?" Lily wondered anxiously.

In a calm voice, you told her, "Taffy, I need you to go to Bianca's room and spend the night there alright. Actually, tell her that you need to spend a week there."

"Why? What's going on?" She lifted the covers as she moved out of bed.

"My friend is sick, and they are here. I promised they could come and crash if they needed it, and I'll probably catch it while I take care of them, so maybe you should ask to stay in another dorm for two weeks." You explained, once again attempting to lengthen her absence, knowing that she hated getting sick. She had two rehearsals and a gala to help Bianca with.

"Babes, you know I can't get sick right now!" Taffy whined, "but it is sweet of you to help those in need." She grabbed her pillow.

You helped her pack a bag of her clothes and other items she needed.

"Okay, love you." She smiled, kissing your cheek.

"Let me know if you need anything." You tell her, watching her head toward Bianca's room before moving the door, revealing a more alive dead man. His skin still ghastly pale, and dark circles around his eyes, but he certainly looked better. Quickly, you ushered him in.

"You came back!"

He held your head and kissed your temple. He gingerly set your now fairly damaged and bloody trophy in its original spot. You sigh, "You've been busy, I see. I'll have to clean that and tell Taffy that I bumped into the table and dinged it." He hummed.

He looked at the mess of Taffy's side of the room. "I helped her pack a bag; she's gonna stay with a friend for a while, so you'll be safe."

You hold his jaw in your hand, studying him. "You look better. I suppose you ate well?" He nodded, still unable to speak. You let go of his face, finding his hand and pulling him across the room.

You both lie together on your bed as you talk to him. He watches you fall asleep, giving you a tender peck on your lips as your breathing deepens.

When you get up, he is not on the bed but on Lily's side of the room. You yawn, as you noticed he cleaned her side of the room. "Oh, thank you."

He comes over with an outfit.

You snicker, "Its cute, but that dress does not match your skin tone." You joke. He grunts, holding it up to you. For you. You cover his palm and push it down.

"That's not really my style." You tell him.

But he insisted.

"I hate dresses." You fought back.

He thrusted it toward you; his guttural grunts becoming impatient. You sigh, taking it. "Can I at least have a jacket and some tights?" He goes to her closet and grabs suitable items. Throwing them to you.

You awkwardly turn around, undressing and putting on under garments from your closet, and tights. The dress was a struggle. You couldn't find the opening of the skirt. There was only material. You found the large hole of where your shoulders and head would come out, but you didn't want to step through it like pants. It was snatched from your hands, as he took the material of the skirt and opened the space. He silently told you to lift your arms, and he slid the dress over you. He helped place the shoulder straps and the sleeves of the dress correctly. Fluffing the skirt out, which reached to your knees.

___

They say every cloud has a silver lining, but on this day, it was a tempest of darkness and doom. It was the dreaded time of the month where your stepmother arrived at Nevermore for a family session with your therapist, as scheduled with the previous Headmaster, professor Weems. You completely spaced due to the fact that the dead boy you were crushing on was resurrected a week ago. Unluckily, they came to the school to hold the meeting.

Y/n's stepmother was sweet yet carried an undertone of bitterness toward the therapist. At the end of your session, she adamantly insisted you show her your room. The therapist nudged you on and expecting her to drop her act and blow up once you were in private, as you brought her into the room.

Like clockwork, she threatened you with being admitted into Willow Hill and abused you with her poisoned tongue. Before your undead lover came out of your closet and bashed her head in.

The mental abuse, paired with the zombie you shared a bond with murdering your abuser, overstimulated you. As you process, he comforts you with a hug.

"What are we gonna do?" His tattered mouth lifts; he cups his hand around my head. He hovers his mouth over my forehead, and a gentle pressure touches my skin.

He looks at the dead body.

He slowly inches towards it, moving down to a crawl. A long dark tongue protrudes from his mouth and from the crack in her head, he pulls the two pieces apart, and sinking his teeth into her brain.

The girl watches in disgust, but randomly not surprised. "Well this is a problem." He wobbles while getting up, and standing close to you. "Thanks for getting rid of a piece of her, but we still have to bury the body." You tell him, and both of you stare at the desecrated corpse.

___

In the evening, after the RA came in during dorm checks, you and him went out with the body of your stepmother and he lead you to the skull tree. You wheeled the body covered in a blanket - the cart which you borrowed from the laundry room.

It was difficult getting it down the stairs and through the grass. He only wished that he had his powers right now so he could help you lift it, but sometimes that's how things are. He clutched the other side with his hand and helped you as best he could. Reaching the sunken ground by the bust of his face; he helped you tilt the laundry cart, dumping the body in.

"Is it peaceful down there?" You wondered. He turned to you and slowly shook his head. You inhaled and a smile appeared on your face. Your eyes caught the stone boy's. "Before you were brought back, I heard about your legend. I was incredibly lonely one day, when this one girl - Heather, she always wears the color red, and is part of the cheer team - she ripped my favorite drawing and put gum in my hair, among the many other stupidly cruel things she's done to me, and overall just a really mean person. This place made me feel better. Seeing your face comforted me because I know that I could always count on you to hear my ramblings." He saw through your smile, tears filled your eyes. He dug into his pocket and took out a cloth, before wiping your tears. You giggle, "I'm okay. I'm happy that you're here. It is slightly better than just talking to stone, though he's way more handsome."

He balled the cloth in your mouth in defiance. You pulled it out of your mouth as you smacked your tongue around your mouth, "I'm sure that my 'dearest' stepmother will finally do some good, and perhaps another that will get you back to your gorgeous self." You lift your hands to his cheeks and kiss his healed mouth. *Muah* "All right, come on before someone sees us."

___

In the early morning light, he left the room as you slept. He had his own mission; he was going to find this 'Heather' you spoke of.

Now that he's here, no one messes with you and gets away with it.

He looked through the framed pictures around the school, looking for the cheer club. He stopped at one - the fencing club - in the middle stood Morticia Frump, but his eyes were on the small brunette on the left. He sighed as he ripped his eyes away, continuing on for the cheer club.

91', 95', 00', 07', 15', -

He saw a familiar girl, your roommate, in the last picture on the wall. He looked through their names: Lily 'Taffy', Bronwyn 'Brownie', Stevie 'Marty', Emma 'M&M', Samantha, Heather-

His dark eyes glared at the pictured girl. He got his target, and now was the hunt.

A boy smacked into him and accused him to, 'watch where you're going, freak.' He was not in a merciful mood; he grabbed the boy and threw him in an empty janitorial closet and split open his head to slurp its contents, leaving the rest of him there to be cleaned up.

His gait was more fluid as he walked. In his clearer vision, his stump was healing. His fingers forming bones and torn flesh. One more would do it, and his next meal was on the list.

He spotted her in the quad, putting on red lipstick. He had to get her away from people; his brown eyes observed the boy who sat next to her, had a coffee. He looked at his right hand, the flesh broken, and bones peeked out from within the healing skin. He reached his mangled hand out, focusing his energy on the cup. He went further and thought of you, how that girl abused you. A burst of energy flicked from his hand to the cup, flying across the table and splashing hot, brown liquid onto Heather. A blood-curdling scream filled the quad, but he reveled in it.

While the boy next to her attempted to help, she smacked him and ran inside. He hid behind the doorway as she ran past. He lunges at her and cages her against the wall.

"Hello Heather." The boy spoke. She screamed. He gagged her mouth with his right hand; Shushing her. "I heard that you've been targeting my beloved. Y/n, you should know that, at least." His teeth clenched in a dark grin. Her eyes widened in realization. "Familiar? Good. Now, your pathetic little life will finally have a purpose." She made noise in his hand. She lifted it off, "Please, I won't bother her again!" He shook his head, "I think there is something you should know: You only possess the cliche tricks of an amateur, you really need to feed your brain and think up some decent ones; let me do it for you." He sneered, his tongue licking his lips.

___

The gala was today, and Taffy begged you to go in support for her, if anything else. She wanted to take you to the place she bought her ball gown.

"I am going to be your fairy god-sister, Babes. We will get you a killer gown!" She smiled. You supposed it wasn't a bad Idea, it would take your mind off of your 'boy toy' - as Lily puts it. Though the mere thought of that nickname made you want to curl inside of yourself. It was a vile, denigrating phrase for someone that didn't merely make you smile every time you thought of him, or that held your heart, but someone who made the world make sense.

'Absence makes the heart grow fonder', and in his absence, he occupied your mind. Hopefully, he would be back before the gala so he can avoid the crowd. Maybe, perhaps, he could be her date.

With that, she looked at dresses with her roommate, keeping him in mind.

___

At the gala, Y/n and Lily enter. Lily moves in her pink and white ballgown with blue accents, donning a blue mask. You wear your gown and mask, attempting to somehow find your man.

"You look hot, babes!" Taffy's eyes glance behind your shoulder. "I think you have an admirer." You feel a hand touch your shoulder; you turn to see a boy with his hair slicked back while wearing a black and red domino mask.

He silently offers his hand, and you take it. He brought you to the dance floor and danced with you. His gloved hands hold both your waist and your hand. His golden brown eyes never strayed from you. You keep up with his movements, following his steps, chasing him, as he holds you close. He took your other hand in his and moved you out and to his side, then out and into a spin.

When the music ended, he led you to a private area outside the gala. When you were alone, he lifted his mask over his head, holding it in his hand. The boy before you was the exact spinning image of the clockwork boy's bust. She couldn't help but touch him, her lips tilted upwards, "It's you!"

His pearly whites are revealed behind his lips, "It is." You are surprised by both his appearance and now his smooth voice. "I've got you something -" A pink tongue darts out from his lips as he reaches into his red coat pocket and holds out the red hair tie.

"Heather's-" you gasped.

"Though I try to find those with more nutrients, I couldn't help but stomach her." His voice low, that only you could hear. "Do you like it?" You nodded, biting your lip. "Good, because it's all for you, you know."

"What?"

"I was nothing, everything was dark and empty, then I heard your voice. It pulled me out of that darkness. It always made my day when you visited me. Even when you were quiet, I could feel you. Then I was brought back, and all I wanted was to be with you." He admitted.

"You want me?" He slowly nods. "You love me?" He pulls you close. "You killed Heather, for me? I could kiss you!" His honey eyes glistened, he grabbed your arm and took you to a more remote spot.

He cups your cheeks in his hands and closes the gap; waiting as his lips hover over yours. "May I?" He softly asks you.

Your eyes open; your hand finding his wrist, as you stared at him lovingly. "Yes." As soon as the word left your lips, it was stifled by his mouth. It moved against yours, in a sweet, intimate dance.

Your hand kept a hold of his wrist, while your other hand tentatively gripped his tamed curls. He growled in the kiss, pushing your back to the wall, making you gasp. He knew what he was doing and took the opportunity to slither his tongue into your mouth. You moan in his mouth and wrap your arms around his neck.

He broke the kiss before he went any further and took the red scrunchie.

His warm brown sugar eyes roamed your face. "Do you, Y/n, promise to be mine?" He asked.

"I will." He tied the scrunchie onto your finger.

"And, do you - "

"Isaac."

"Isaac," you repeated with a smile, and he reciprocated the smile, "will you promise to be mine as well?"

"There's no one else that I'd rather have."

Dividers: @pepsipoet

Drawing reference:

Credit to taryn_platt_ @tarynplatt *just found your Tumblr blog

Lily/Taffy's dress:

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this one. Like, comment, reblog if you like. I appreciate it.

Song inspirations:

Dust Bowl - Ethel Cain

Zombie - The Cranberries

In The Next Life - Kim Petras