Lookin' strong, John

A big part of Moira's distractions after or during fights is sexual. She's very dominant and will go several rounds until she's fucked the sense out of you.

Moira prefers to top you, but she always makes sure to get herself off as well. She'll wait until you've cum, but aren't worn out to sit on your face and ride it until she's satisfied.

Moira is a strict domme if she's not using sex to make an argument up to you. She'll punish you pretty harshly, but does work up to you being able to handle whatever she wants to throw your way.

She's stupidly good with the strap and is an absolute cocky asshole about it. She'll tease you relentlessly after about the noises that you made while she fucked you.

Does pull you into her office for sex, but never the labs because that's dangerous. There are toys in the last drawer on the right, which is always locked no matter what.

Moira keeps her nails long, so she only ever uses her mouth and toys on you. She also likes scratching you and looking at the marks later, occasionally taking pictures.

If you're home alone while she's busy in the labs or at the university, she will request that you send her pictures or videos throughout the day. Moira always remembers to show you her gratitude from that later on in the day.

Odessa Stone (Junker Queen)

She wouldn't be into having kids at first - thinking that something so small would make her weak.

It does - but she refuses to admit it.

You both decided adoption was probably the best option - adopting a sweet baby girl.

I think Dez would be all about teaching her kids to fight.

Even before they've learnt to walk.

"C'mon kiddo! I was fighting at your age!"

Sometimes you would find her playing with your baby - making it look as if they were both boxing.

It was quite a funny sight.

You'll come home from work and find them watching wrestling or something.

Probably swears around your kid.

Your babies first word is probably 'cunt' or 'fuck'

You're usually the one to take your daughter to school, but on the off chance Dez does - the rest of the parents are scared of her.

The kids adore her though.

She'll struggle doing stuff like diaper changes at first - as anyone would

~~~

As your daughter gets older - she grows into a mini version of Dez.

She wont call her 'mom' - instead calling her something silly like 'cunt' or 'fuckwit'

Dez gets a real kick out of it - and does the same.

Dez would be a little disappointed if your kid didn't want to fight, though she'd still be supportive - even if she didn't really understand.

Cries on your daughters wedding day - but tries to hide it.

"I'm not crying cunt, you're crying"

Mako Rutledge (Roadhog)

I think Mako would be really good with kids-

Big brooding dad & cute tiny daughter combo type vibe

Maybe she's really talkative, and he just listens.

He'd let her put clips in his hair and paint his nails.

It's giving Gru when his girls are doing ballet.

He's always the one to hold the kids when needed - since he barely has any issue.

His hands are just so big.

Even if you had like - 4 kids he would have no trouble carrying them all.

You were grateful that you could have some time alone sometimes, as Mako is a very competent father.

'crane's hand back while driving when kid opens snack' dad

Your kid might pretend to wear his shoes - and they can barely even stand properly in them, let alone walk.

Moira O'Deorain 

Does not want kids.

Only agreed because you would make a face at her whenever you saw a baby.

test-tube baby fr

Literally will not go to another doctor about her kids health.

Does she know anything about kids? No.

Does she think she knows more than the QUALIFIED children's doctors? Absolutely she does.

MIGHT agree to taking your kid to see Angela - if you're not too keen on her doing science on your kid.

HATES being called mom.

She's fine with your kid just calling her by her name.

This was weird on the first day of school - most parents thinking your kids other parent wasn't in the picture.

She was fine with that idea - meaning that you 'left' your old partner for her. Narcissist.

~~~

Your babies first word was definitely her name.

but in the cute baby way.

'Moiwa'

When your kid gets a little older, maybe they'll ask about Moira's arm.

"This is what happens when you smoke"

Your kid will never even THINK about smoking ever again.

It isn't until they're 30 that they realise that wasn't true.

Prefers to keep her kids away from science - as much as it was important to her.

She'll barely talk to you about it either - which may be hard if you're also a part of Talon.

Having to bring your kids to work with you is definitely SOMETHING.

You'd prefer for them to be with you rather than with Moira, though.

Your kids are NOSY, so you have to bend the truth a little bit.

Just to make sure they don't view their mom as the ruthless geneticist that she ACTUALLY is.

"Why is miss Amelie blue?"

"She didn't eat her vegetables"

Angela Ziegler (Mercy)

BIG on consistent check-ups.

Sometimes she'll do them herself, but she prefers the professionals.

She doesn't specialise in child care, but she does make sure that your child is going to the best doctor in the field.

Definitely enjoys shopping for baby clothes.

Works with baby on lap - letting the little guy play with her fingers.

Aeroplane noises while getting the baby to eat.

does NOT let the kid eat candy until they're like 10.

This was hard for you - because it meant you couldn't have candy in the house.

Secret stash of sweets hidden somewhere in your car.

One in Overwatch HQ too.

ALWAYS prepared.

Baby needs a snack? She's got cut up grapes in her bag.

Always has wipes and diapers.

"Hey babe? Where's their bottle?" She's already retrieved it from the drying rack.

Tiny first-aid kid in her bag at ALL times.

~~~

If your kid wants their ears pierced at Claire's. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Angela is panicked at any idea of infections - especially when it comes to your kid.

Your kiddo is made to wear clip on earrings until they qualify to be pierced by a professional.

Will always make sure places are baby safe before you take your kid there.

~~~

She's calm 90% of the time - she just cares about general safety and health.

Matching onesies with your kid.

Chilli and Bingo core :)

Angela would LOVE doing Halloween costumes for your kiddo.

They're always so CUTE.

If she has the time, she'll put together matching family ones.

Cole Cassidy

Baby carrier dad.

Like he'll just carry your baby everywhere.

Gets upset when he has to put the little guy down.

"We're just fine over here. No need to pull us apart"

Your child definitely prefers him to you - which you're fine with.

It's just so cute seeing them play together.

I'd say he's a girl dad - the type to teach her how to shoot, or play football with.

9 times out of ten, he'll fall asleep while reading her a bedtime story, so he always just ends up sleeping in your daughters bed with her.

The two of them cuddled up on the tiny mattress - he's holding your little girl so protectively.

~~~

The moms at the nursery you take your daughter to all think Cole is hot.

Too right.

They just need to learn to keep their hands to themselves.

Your kid is very protective of him - and your relationship.

If you're married, she'll be like;

"Daddy, show her your wedding ring!! Isn't it nice?"

It makes Cole chuckle every time.

Cole didn't even need to shut the women down - your kid was doing all the work for him.

~~~

Definitely the dad that all of your kids friends like

"Your dad is so cool!"

He's always invited to their little tea parties and stuff.

The knock at your door is three sharp taps, efficient and unmistakable.

You already know it’s Dr. Pell.

When it opens you find her standing there in her standard Talon black, tablet tucked under one arm, visor already flicking with bio-metric readings. Her eyes sweep over you excitedly, observing you.

“Morning,” you offer, voice still groggy.

Dr. Pell perks up. “Morning! I hope you slept well, today’s a big one.”

As she turns to lead the way, rattling off some vague updates about schedule changes, you fall into step behind her. 

“…re-calibrated the response times from yesterday’s trials, so today will be a bit more demanding,” she says, tapping her tablet as the two of you wind down the facility’s lower corridor.

You nod absently, barely listening. You’ve haven’t really slept, but it doesn’t matter. Your body feels weightless, strung tight with residual adrenaline. 

And your mind? Your mind won’t stop replaying every second of last night. Moira’s hands. Her voice. The way her eyes lingered on you.

Dr. Pell glances sideways at you as the two of you turn a corner. Then, without looking over:

“You missed your post-trial report last night.”

Your stomach turns. Just a little. You keep your eyes forward.

“It’s logged,” you say. “I’ll file a late copy.”

“Mm.” She scrolls something on the tablet. “I already accounted for it. The blood work came through this morning. Spiked cortisol. Elevated dopamine. There were some unusual patterns, but nothing outside the threshold.”

She turns off the tablet. Lets the silence settle.

“Busy night?”

You hesitate.

“Restless,” you say finally.

Dr. Pell nods once. She doesn’t push. But her voice is thoughtful when she speaks again.

“By the way— Moira approved a Tier 4 engagement scenario for you first thing today, so I’ll just be there to monitor your levels...”

You give her a quiet nod. She doesn’t seem to mind the lack of conversation. If anything, she’s almost buzzing beside you.

As you near the elevators, Dr. Pell glances down at her tablet again, then adds, 

“No one’s made it this far, you know,” She tries to say it casually, but the hint of pride in her tone slips through anyway, “Moira must be pleased.”

The words settle in your chest like a spark catching dry kindling.

No one’s made it this far…

You hold on to that, let yourself feel the weight of it. The pride.

Whatever this program is, whatever she’s building, you’re at the center of it now.

And if Moira is pleased? That’s all you need.

The elevator doors open, and you straighten your posture as you walk out, ignoring the tight coil of nerves winding beneath your skin.

You’ve come this far. You’ll go as far as she’ll let you.

By the time you reach the reinforced training chamber, your body is still humming.

Dr. Pell pauses outside the threshold and looks at you, observing you once again.

“No weapons today. Four-on-one. Close contact. You’ll be monitored for tempo, recovery time, and restraint.”

A beat. Then, with a soft smile she adds,

“You’ve already exceeded expectations. Today’s about confirming your consistency, not spectacle.”

You nod, “Understood.”

She taps the doors release.

“Good. Then let’s begin.”

The hiss of pressurized air follows, and the door slides open to allow you in.

The sparring room is no longer new to you. After days of routine, its sterile layout is etched into your mind. The room is utilitarian, with grey walls, padded flooring, and overhead floodlights.

Benches line one wall, all cold steel. A row of lockers stand nearby, locked tight, more for show than function. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat.

Across the far wall is the one-way window. A smooth, clear panel spanning nearly the full width of the room. Behind it lies the observation chamber, where silent machines and bio-metric readouts that track your every move lie.

You step inside. The door hisses shut behind you.

A figure moves behind the window. Dr. Pell, data pad in hand.

She gives you a tentative wave, her form slightly distorted by the tinted glass. You barely nod back before she turns to the console at her side and taps a button.

A soft click echoes from somewhere inside the wall, and suddenly, a shimmer pulses through it like water catching light. The transparency clouds over, silvering into a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you.

It catches you off guard, just for a moment. You rarely see yourself like this. Not in full. Not under the clinical lights.

You straighten your stance and take it in—your body leaner, harder.

You study your reflection carefully. Your shoulders look broader, your stance more solid. There’s a quiet tension in your frame now, like your body is always ready to move, to strike. You raise your arm and watch the way your muscles shift: smooth, controlled, like a machine that knows its purpose.

Veins trail your arms in thin, deep-blue lines, visible just beneath the surface like conduits waiting to fire.

The angles of your face are leaner. Eyes a shade darker. You barely recognize the person staring back at you.

The serum has done more than change your strength. It’s carved you into something deliberate.

Designed.

Behind the glass, Dr. Pell watches quietly, probably already logging.

You roll your shoulders, stretch your neck side to side. The hum in your bloodstream has settled into something sharper, more electric. You’re ready.

“Baseline stable…” Dr. Pell’s voice comes through the overhead comm, measured, but unmistakably pleased.

“You’ve come a long way.”

A pause.

“Let’s see if they can keep up.”

The far door opens with a hiss. Four Talon soldiers step through. They're each wearing light combat gear, no live weapons.

They fan out across the mat without a word.

You crack your knuckles.

They come at you all at once. You don’t wait for a signal, ready for them.

The first one tries to flank you on the left.

You pivot before he even reaches you, grip his collar, and drive him into the floor with enough force to rattle the tiles.

Another charges head-on, thinking brute speed will throw you off. You catch his wrist mid-strike and twist, feeling the tendons shift before you wrench his arm behind his back and drive a knee into his ribs. He crumples, gasping.

You step over the bodies of the two you just beat.

The remaining two hesitate—just long enough.

You close the distance fast, getting a knee to his gut, and an elbow to his throat. The third drops hard.

The other lunges. You catch his wrist, twist, drive him to the floor with a clean crack of his back against the mat.

Four down.

Your chest heaves once. Twice. But you’re not winded. Not really.

Silence follows as you look over to the windowed-mirror again, expecting nothing but your reflection.

But your reflection looks back at you, with three shapes now standing before it. 

Dr. Pell. Moira. And Maximilien.

Moira doesn’t blink. Maximilien leans in close, murmuring something to her. Her mouth curves into a faint smile, and she leans toward the speaker on the dashboard.

A soft chime crackles through the overhead speaker. You glance up as the feedback cuts, and then—her voice.

“You’ve adapted beautifully,” Moira says, crisp and measured. “I see it in the gait, the musculature. You are power without waste, elegant by design.”

The words hold. Cool on the surface, but underneath they light something molten in your chest. You fight back the grin rising at the corner of your mouth, your expression twitching despite yourself.

Praise from her is rare, and rarer still without some test attached. You square your stance and pretend it means nothing.

The speaker clicks off. Silence returns.

You don’t move.

Beyond the glass, Moira steps closer to Maximilien, her hands folded neatly behind her back. He leans in, voice low and indecipherable, and she listens, impassive. A beat passes. Then another.

Moira tilts her head slightly, offering him a quiet response. Whatever she says draws the faintest reaction from him: an incline of his head, polite, unreadable. His eyes never flicker toward you, but hers do.

Just for a moment.

Moira’s gaze lands on you like a fingerprint pressed to glass—cool, deliberate. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. But her mouth curves in another smile before she turns away.

The two figures retreat down the corridor beyond the glass, conversation resuming just out of earshot.

Dr. Pell stays behind, eyes still on her tablet. The steady beat of your blood in your ears is the only sound left in the room as you exhale, alone again.

You roll your shoulders once, let the silence settle around you, and turn toward the exit.

The door hisses open and the cool air cuts across your skin like a blade.

You step into the observation room, body still buzzing, muscles sharp with leftover adrenaline.

You're aware of every inch of yourself. Every breath.

Dr. Pell doesn’t look up right away. She’s seated at the console, legs crossed. One gloved hand scrolls absently across the tablet.

“You're still running hot,” she says. “Heart rate elevated, but stable. No apparent joint fatigue....”

You step closer, watching the playback on her screen—frames of yourself moving like someone else. Faster. Smarter. Sharper.

“What did she say?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Dr. Pell looks at you. A pause.

“Moira?” She lifts one shoulder. “She doesn’t usually voice her thoughts in front of… inferiors.”

Another beat. Then, more thoughtfully:

“But she looked pleased. Which isn’t something I’d say lightly.”

You feel the pull in your chest at that—an invisible wire tightening. The kind of satisfaction that goes deeper than pride. You lean into it.

“She didn’t say anything after?”

“Only to Maximilien. Not for the record.” Pell taps the tablet closed, finally giving you her full attention. “She sees something in you. And she’s rarely wrong.”

You nod, slowly. Let that settle. The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable.

You glance at the reflection of yourself in the dark glass behind Dr. Pell. You can’t believe you once saw yourself in her. Side by side, you look taller and stronger, still buzzing with residual heat.

You walk to the chair without being told, sitting down slowly.

“Your pivot was sharper this time,” she adds, eyes moving to the screen. “The last one—wrist lock, slam—textbook.”

She shakes her head and turns to look at you, awe in her eyes.

You almost smirk.

“They hesitated,” you say. “Made it too easy.”

Dr. Pell lifts a small scanner and sweeps it slowly across your chest and neck, eyes on the readout.

“Yes,” She replies. “To your advantage.”

She shifts in her seat, smiling as she looks you up and down.

It’s not the usual clinical glance. There’s something else now—an interest she’s not bothering to hide.

You catch it instantly. The way her gaze holds a beat too long. Something’s changed.

It almost unsettles you. You’re not sure if it’s flattery or fixation, but either way, it’s creeping in sideways, quiet and uninvited.

Still... you don’t plan to stop it.

You'll let her think there’s something she’s discovering—something she’s part of.

She holds up a small retinal light, signaling you to follow it.

You sit straighter, following the light.

But if she’s watching you like that, then maybe she’s slipping too.

Dr. Pell is close to Moira. Not personally, maybe, no one really is, but logistically.

She sees her notes, hears her briefings, manages her subjects. She’s in the orbit.

And if Pell starts to see you as more than data, as something exceptional, maybe she talks more. Maybe she opens doors without meaning to. Maybe she becomes a bit more useful to you.

She wants to feel involved. Like she’s part of your progress. Maybe she’s projecting—thinking she helped shape what you’ve become. Maybe that’s why she’s so quick to praise now.

You'll let her think that.

Let her get comfortable.

Because every glance she gives you is a reflection of Moira’s design.

And you’ll take anything that gets you closer to the source.

“You’re what we hoped the early subjects would be. And more.” 

The compliment hangs in the air longer than necessary.

You sit back in the chair, heart still steady, feeling her eyes track the movement. A bead of sweat trails down the side of your neck.

“What’s next?” you ask as she returns to her tablet. “What’s the bigger picture? For Talon?”

Dr. Pell doesn’t look up from the data scroll. Her fingers flick through bio-metric graphs, slow and deliberate.

“That’s above my clearance,” she says, tone flat but not dismissive.

She mutters a timestamp under her breath and logs another marker.

Then, she sets the tablet aside, folding her arms, eyes sharpening on you like you’re more interesting without numbers.

“But let’s just say… this is only the groundwork. You’re no conclusion. You’re the beginning.”

You tilt your head. She keeps going.

“Overwatch had strong ideals. Old ones. Outdated ones. They clung to legacy instead of evolution. We’re not trying to fix what they broke, we’re building a new foundation from the rubble.”

Her voice is so matter-of-fact, but the name hits you harder than you expect.

Overwatch.

You don’t react, not outwardly. You control your face, your breath, the line of your shoulders. But inside, the word pulses in your skull like it’s hit a nerve.

A sound memory flickers behind your eyes—laughing in the barracks, the weight of armor straps being pulled tight, boots on concrete.

Your name being called out with familiarity.

They clung to legacy…

“What would they say now?” you ask, voice even. “If they saw what we’re doing?”

Dr. Pell doesn’t hesitate.

“They’d call it dangerous. Unethical. A threat to humanity.”

She smiles faintly. “Which, to be fair, is what innovation always looks like to the obsolete.”

The line is so certain, almost rehearsed.

You nod. Slowly. You don’t let her see the flicker of discomfort crawling up your spine.

“When people look back at this decade of human development, they’ll talk about geopolitical shifts, resource wars, collapsing institutions.”

She trails off, eyes still scrolling over the footage of your sparring session.

“But that’s not what matters. What matters is what we’re building in these halls.”

She looks at you.

“Better bodies,” she murmurs. “Better minds. Cleaner designs. Controlled variance.”

She looks at you like you’re already part of this future she’s prescribed. Maybe the first.

You fold your arms across your chest, keeping your voice neutral, curious.

“And Moira’s behind all of it?”

Dr. Pell lets out a quiet breath. It’s not a sigh, but reverence, neatly contained.

“Moira sees farther than any of us. I’ve spent years following her science. She’s a legend.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer.

“You’re lucky. You get to be part of the actual mechanism.”

Something about that phrasing pulls at you.

You should feel proud. Maybe you do. But it settles strangely in your chest—warm and cold at the same time.

“She says so little about the future,” you murmur.

“Because it hasn’t been made yet,” Pell says, easily. “She’s still crafting it.”

You imagine that—Moira cutting through timelines with her gloved hands, pulling strands of human evolution taut between her fingers. Your body, your mind, as part of the thread.

What if you’re just not part of that future?

What if you’re what she uses to test it?

You feel your pulse kick higher.

You try to picture what comes after.

When you’re faster. Stronger. More precise than even she expected. When you’ve exceeded every marker.

Would she still look at you the same way?

Would she still touch you like that?

“I want to be ready for whatever comes next,” you say.

Dr. Pell studies you for a moment.

“Well, you’re already ahead of schedule.”

She picks the tablet back up. Her lips move as she reads your metrics silently, nodding once to herself.

“Re-calibration's at seventeen-hundred. Get something to eat before then. Keep your head clear.”

You turn to leave, but her voice stops you at the door.

“Whatever you’re becoming… it’s working.”

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t wait for a response.

You linger for a second longer, pulse still steady, skin cooling under your clothes.

You could eat. Log the metrics. Return to routine.

But something buzzes beneath the surface—restless, unfinished.

————————————

You choose to wander the halls instead.

You don’t feel hungry. Not for food at least.

You walk, letting your boots guide you through the sterile turns and pale-lit corridors. You trace your fingers along the seam where two metal panels meet, just to feel something.

You go with no clear destination, your steps quiet, methodical. The facility feels half-empty at this hour, everyone seemingly busy with something.

Moira’s voice still rings in your head from the trial.

Power without waste, elegant by design.

The lights overhead hum at a constant pitch, and the walls stretch on in cold, seamless lines. Your mind isn’t in the corridor, though.

You’re still back in the lab.

Still feeling the scrape of Moira’s nails down your shoulder. The subtle drag. 

The way her nails had ghosted across your back the night before, clinical and practiced and still somehow electric. The faint scratch of them down your spine. The way her breath had brushed the shell of your ear, calm as ever.

You swallow. The memory should be private, indulgent. Instead it lingers like static, alive and inescapable.

Your skin prickles at the memory.

You round a corner, not paying attention, not needing to. You know these halls. But something changes.

The air pressure shifts. Just slightly. Enough to make your ears buzz.

You stop walking, hearing voices up ahead.

They’re distant, echoing. But familiar.

Your stomach turns cold.

You hear boots on concrete. Barked orders. Weapons being prepped. The chaotic rhythm of the barracks—your barracks. Years ago.

You blink, and the hallway ripples. Talon steel shimmers, just briefly, into concrete walls and flickering halogen lights. A locker slams. Laughter echoes down the corridor.

Then it hits—sharp, vivid.

A voice.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It’s gravel-thick. Familiar. You’ve heard that tone barking orders through smoke and gunfire before.

Your head snaps around.

The hallway is the same, but something’s wrong with the sound. It’s layered now—other voices crowding in. Equipment clattering. Distant footsteps. The rush of bodies moving in tight formation.

Your throat tightens.

You know that sound.

You whip around again. There’s still no one. Just the hallway, lit and silent.

You blink.

The sounds are gone.

Your hands rests on Talon steel again. Clean. Cool.

But your pulse is racing.

You turn your head and listen hard. Nothing.

No.

That didn’t happen. That was not real.

You exhale and press your other hand to the wall.

You lean your back against the tile, grounding yourself. Your sweaty fingers are cold against the panel.

“Wow,” a voice cuts in. “You really are starting to crack.”

Your head snaps to the sound.

Sombra’s leaning against the wall a few meters ahead, arms folded, one brow arched. She’s smirking, her default face, but the expression fades a little when she gets a good look at you.

Her smile flickers. “Easy… You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You say nothing, glaring at her.

Your pulse is still racing, breath shallow. Your body is pressed to the wall like you might fall if you let go.

She straightens, stepping forward—not too close. She tilts her head, scanning you.

“Okay, spooky. Do we need to reboot you or just give you a juice box?”

You force yourself to exhale. Then once more, slower. 

“I’m fine,” you grunt, looking away from her.

Sombra watches you another moment before her tone shifts—less bite, more murmur.

“Whatever they’re putting in you… they’re not putting it in slow.”

You say nothing. Can’t.

She clicks her tongue softly.

“I was only gonna screw with you a little. Fun, right? Not now.”

She lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

You stare at her, still trying to pull your breathing back into rhythm.

She lets the silence stretch, then clicks her tongue.

“Try not to short-circuit before your next dose.”

She gives a lazy wave, then turns, a smile on her face.

With the flick of her hand, she glitches away, fading into shadow and bright static.

Just like that, she’s gone.

The hall goes quiet again.

You stay standing there, still pressed to the wall, long after she’s gone.

And for a few seconds more, you swear you can still hear the sound of lockers slamming shut.

————————————

Later that day, you make your way down the familiar corridor toward Moira’s lab, boots echoing softly against the polished floor.

You pass a pair of silent technicians who don’t look up as you go by, eyes locked on their tablets.

The light above the lab door flickers once, blue, then green, before sliding open.

You pause for half a breath, smoothing your hands down the sides of your uniform before stepping in.

Moira doesn’t speak when you enter.

She simply glances over her shoulder from where she sits, then gestures with a tilt of her head to the open seat beside her. Dr. Pell is already seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes flicking between you and the screen.

The room is dim, the glow of the monitor casting sharp blue angles across Moira’s face. 

Her fingers hover over the play button, waiting for you.

You sit.

The screen in front of you flickers to life with a timestamp from months ago. The image is familiar in a way that makes your stomach clench.

It’s you.

Strapped to the table, arms pinned at your sides, chest mid-heave.

You’re dressed in the standard trial gear, thin fabric clinging to a body that hadn’t yet been restructured. Your eyes are wide, your breath uneven.

Moira doesn’t look at you. She’s watching the screen.

“The first dose,” she murmurs. “This was the moment it began.”

You glance at her once, expecting an explanation.

She gives you one without being asked.

“I want you to see what you were,” she says, not looking up. “Before the stabilization. Before your first successful dose.”

You don’t move. “Why?”

“Because you’re entering a new stage. And you need to understand the process behind the shape you’ve taken. Not just how you perform, but how you were built.”

You tense slightly in the chair. “I remember enough.”

Moira lifts her eyes to you, just for a moment.

“You likely remember the pain,” she says. “Fragments. Confusion. But not what we saw. Not how you changed. You need to see the thresholds for yourself. When the body breaks. When it adapts. When it begins to obey.”

You sit back, not quite comfortable. “Is this about control?”

Moira’s mouth lifts slightly—half a smile, half an answer.

“It’s about clarity.”

You watch her cue the file. A string of numbers, a day in your life you barely remember anymore.

“You were the first subject to survive my accelerated protocol without some form of organ failure,” she says. “And the first to self-correct mid-seizure.”

You blink. “I did that?”

“You did,” she says, almost thoughtfully. “You adjusted your breathing instinctively. Overrode the panic cleanly. No one taught you that. That was you.”

Something stirs in your chest.

“And why show me now?” you ask. “You’ve had this footage the whole time.”

Moira folds her hands in her lap.

“Because you’re beginning to internalize your performance,” she says. “You’re starting to believe it belongs to you.”

She leans closer to you.

“That belief is useful. But it’s also a risk.”

You don’t speak.

She studies your face, then adds—almost gently, but not quite:

“You’ve done more than I projected. I don’t say that often. Watching this… may help you understand why I’m still invested.”

You don’t mean to react, but the words hit anyway. It’s confirmation.

Proof that she’s still watching you.

Choosing you.

She shifts slightly, voice lower now, almost contemplative.

“Dr. Pell is here to record only your reaction. All of it is useful.”

You lean in slightly, unsettled by the stillness of your own recorded form.

“…It looks like someone else.”

Your voice is quiet, but Moira hears it.

“Most don’t survive even this point,” she says. “Or they survive, but remain… unfinished.”

Dr. Pell, silent at her own console, jots something down as the footage progresses. You shift in your seat.

“So she’s here to watch me watching myself?” you mutter.

Moira’s mouth lifts—just barely.

“Observation is more reliable than memory. She’s to record what the mind distorts.”

She turns toward you now, her gaze flicking to yours.

“I believe self-reflection is essential. After all… what’s the point of transformation, if you don’t understand what was carved away to make room?”

Your throat is dry when you respond. “You’re right. Show me.”

Moira presses play. The video begins with a flicker of static.

Muted lab lights. A cold, sterile room. You see yourself lying on the table, arms strapped down, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. It’s you, unmistakably. But younger, in some way. Less refined. Less knowing. Still whole.

You sit beside Moira now, watching silently, your own breathing quiet.

In the footage, your body is already tense before anything touches it. You remember this moment vaguely—the thick air, the hum of machines, the scent of antiseptic and metal.

But seeing it is different. Your left leg bounces in the restraint, an old anxious tick. You hadn’t realized how tightly balled your fists were until you watched your hands curl and shake.

The past-you flinches as Moira leans in on-screen. Calm. Methodical. Her lab coat immaculate, gloves smooth and dark.

She leans over you with practiced precision and says something too low to catch. Whatever it was, your younger self nods.

Then the syringe.

Even on the screen, it looks too large.

She inserts the syringe just beneath your collarbone.

You tense, even now, just seeing it. The needle presses deep, and the serum goes in slow—thick and dark like molten ore.

In the video, your reaction is immediate.

Your spine arches against the table. Every muscle in your body seizes. Your mouth opens in a silent cry before your throat finds the air to scream.

Your back on the table thrashes, bones contorting beneath your skin. Your veins rise—sharp and dark, spidering up your neck and down your arms like branching rivers.

The skin near the injection site blisters briefly, then smooths again with unnatural speed.

You flinch in real-time. Your eyes stay fixed to the screen.

“I—” you start, but the words crumble in your throat.

Dr. Pell says nothing, though you sense her still taking notes at her station.

It’s raw. Animal. You jerk and writhe, limbs fighting the restraints, foam gathering at the corner of your lips.

Onscreen, Moira never flinches. She sits, watching you seize with clinical fascination, one gloved hand steadying your shoulder as the convulsions wrack your frame.

Your eyes—on the table, in the recording—are wild, rolling back into your head.

A sudden moment of stillness hits, and you collapse, sweating, limp.

And then you twitch again—just once. A different kind of movement. Controlled. Too sharp. Too strong.

Your jaw locks, then unhinges for a second, teeth bared in a rictus of pain.

And through it all, Moira never looks away. On the screen, her hand presses to your sternum, watching how your body responds. f that's the case then I

You feel sick. You also can’t stop watching.

Then, suddenly, stillness.

You slump back. Sweat slicks your skin. Your eyes flutter open in the footage—glassy. Dazed. And then something shifts.

Your fingers twitch.

A ripple of movement, subtle but deliberate, runs up your forearm as if your nerves are remembering themselves.

You sit forward slightly now, watching the moment your body recalibrates. The way your fingers flex. The way your breath comes back slower, steadier.

You’d forgotten how much it hurt. Or maybe you’d just refused to remember.

Moira on-screen reaches for the latches with practiced ease, releasing them one by one until your wrists are free beneath her hands.

Beside you, Moira leans in, eyes glinting.

Her voice drops to a hush. “Look at you. Everything I hoped for. And you didn’t even know it yet.”

You can’t respond. Not yet. You’re too focused on the version of yourself still trembling onscreen.

Because watching it—the moment your body broke and reformed—you’re not sure what’s more terrifying:

That you survived it.

Or that you’d do it again.

Moira turns to you now, just slightly. “Does it feel distant?” she asks. “Or does it still live in you, somewhere under the surface?”

You’re not sure what to say. You feel hot under your skin, but not from shame.

You feel watched. Possessed.

You glance back at the frozen frame of yourself on the screen—sweat-slick, trembling, transformed.

And for a second, you wonder if she’s fallen in love with what she made.

Or if she’s still making it.

Moira shifts in her seat.

Without a word, she brings up another feed—this one stamped from just last week. A new video load.

The lighting in the room is the same, but the subject is not.

It’s you again. But not the same you.

Your body is still strapped down, but you no longer strain against them. Your expression is calm, almost serene. Your breathing is measured.

On the screen, Moira steps into frame, gloved and composed. She brings the injector up to your neck and you don’t flinch.

Instead, your head tilts ever so slightly toward her hand, like a reflex.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable—how your body reaches for her without hesitation.

The injector pierces the skin at your neck, and your muscles only twitch in acknowledgment. f that's the case then I

Moira says nothing for a long moment.

Then, almost to herself:

“Here you’ve clearly adapted. Conditioned. Even your pain responses have been refined. There’s no unnecessary movement. No wasted panic.”

Onscreen, you exhale softly as the dose enters your bloodstream. Your eyes don’t flutter like they did the first time. They hold focus—on Moira, just offscreen. In the frame, she leans over you, adjusting a monitor. Her gloved hand brushes your temple.

You don’t flinch. You lean into it.

Moira presses pause.

The still frame is damning.

Her hand at your cheek. Your eyes locked on her. An almost imperceptible tilt of your mouth, like the beginning of a smile.

She turns to you now, real-time, studying your face with the same precision.

“And here…” she says softly, tilting her head. “A different kind of response.”

You feel your face heat.

“I was… calm,” you say, unsure if that’s a defense or a confession.

Moira doesn’t answer. She zooms in slightly on the image.

“You trust me more than you did,” she says finally. “Not just with your body. With your mind. That’s real progress.”

She leans back again, her tone gentle.

“The serum can sculpt muscle. Sharpen reflex. But loyalty…” Her eyes cut to you. “Loyalty must be cultivated.”

You’re quiet. The air feels thinner now, like the walls of the lab have closed in.

The footage resumes—soft, clinical lighting casting you in sterile blues and greys. The restraints on your limbs don’t look harsh, not exactly. But they look necessary. Onscreen, your chest rises and falls rapidly, reacting to the serum coursing through your veins.

Moira doesn’t speak for a while. She’s too absorbed.

On the monitor, she leans over your prone form. Her gloved hand brushes your jaw, her thumb grazing your bottom lip, slow and thoughtful. You squirm in place, eyes fluttering open like you’re unsure whether you’re waking or dreaming.

At your side, Moira tilts her head slightly, captivated.

“There,” she murmurs. “That’s when it took hold.”

The screen flickers with biometric overlays. Heart rate spike. Neural synapse ignition. Muscle tension peaking.

“Not just biologically. Your mind started reaching then,” she adds, almost to herself. “Not away from the pain—but toward me.”

You don’t speak. You’re too busy watching it, too.

Onscreen, your lips part, forming silent words. You don’t remember what you said—but you remember the sensation. That need, deep in your chest, raw and sharp.

Moira’s expression softens as she observes it. She leans closer to the screen, like watching herself touch you brings her satisfaction.

“The body adapts quickly under pressure,” she says quietly. “But what fascinates me is how quickly you trusted me with it.”

She turns, then. Finally looks at you. Her voice still hushed.

“You weren’t afraid.” A pause. “You were breathtaking.”

The word lands warm in your chest, unexpected but welcome.

You feel yourself smiling before you can stop it. Not outf that's the case then I of pride, but relief—like you’ve been chasing her approval for so long, and now it’s here, catching you off guard.

The footage ends with your eyes closed, sweat glinting on your brow, your body still under her careful hands.

The screen goes dark.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Moira reaches to power down the console.

She steps away, back straight, but doesn’t move to leave.

Her silence stretches, weighted—contemplative.

“I think that’s enough for today, Dr. Pell,” she says, without turning.

Dr. Pell nods, already standing. “I’ll finalize the session logs and run the sync check.”

“Have them sent to me within the hour.”

“Of course.”

She gathers her tablet, smooths down her coat, and exits without another word. The door whispers shut behind her.

Moira doesn’t speak right away. She just walks past you toward the equipment bay, methodically selecting a vial from the refrigeration unit, her movements smooth and assured.

“You’re due for another dose,” she says, not looking at you. “This one will carry you through your next assignment. A more delicate operation.”

You shift slightly.

“Delicate how?”

She finally meets your eyes.

“This next mission is one not everyone is equipped to handle cleanly. But you don’t get distracted. You follow instruction. You deliver.”

You feel the praise land. Warm, grounding.

You don’t press further.

She gestures to the table.

You know the routine. Boots off. Jacket folded.

You lie back on the steel surface, the metal cold against your back. You keep your face still, knowing the cameras are watching, wanting them to see you unflinching.

The straps tighten across your wrists with their usual hiss, snug but not painful. You don’t resist. You know better than to squirm under her hands.

Moira moves with practiced ease, securing each restraint, her eyes flicking from your limbs to the monitor.

She moves into your peripheral vision. You hear the clink of metal. The quiet hiss of pressure being released as she primes the syringe.

You turn slightly to watch her hands.

“Maximilien’s been watching the trials,” you say quietly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her smile is small. Knowing.

“Maximilien is… intrigued,” she says. “He’s not easily impressed. But then, neither am I.”

Your chest rises slightly. You want more—details, specifics—but you keep your voice steady.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re no longer just a subject,” she says, voice smooth, “You’ve become a significant asset in my project.”

Her eyes lock on yours.

“We have plans for you,” she murmurs, “Both of us. And if you continue to perform the way you have been… those plans will grow.”

“I’ve adjusted today's compound slightly,” she says, stepping away from her tray.

You raise an eyebrow in a silent question. She answers easily.

“You’ll feel the initial side effects differently. Stronger muscle reactivity. A touch of euphoric elasticity. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Moira lifts the injector from the tray with one gloved hand, turns it in her fingers, checks the pressure.

You try to keep your breathing steady.

She looks down at you, and something in her gaze lingers this time, just long enough to catch. She leans in close, pressing her free hand lightly against your shoulder to steady you.

“This next mission will show me everything I need to know about you.”

You nod again, barely a breath leaving you as you tell her.

“I’m ready.”

She leans in, needle poised.f that's the case then I

“Of course you are.”

The injection is smooth. Controlled.

But the heat hits fast.

Your vision sharpens at the edges, like the room itself is folding closer around you. Nerves singing under your skin. Every inch of your body keyed up, caught between readiness and reverence.

Moira’s hands linger on your arm, gloved fingertips resting at the crook of your elbow. Her eyes don’t leave your face.

“You’ve adapted well,” she says, voice softer now. “Better than anyone.”

Her compliments land differently now, closer to intimate.

You swallow, trying to track her expression. But her gaze keeps shifting. Studying you. Measuring more than vitals.

Moira’s hand trails down your forearm, a careful touch that skims your skin even through the glove. She brushes her thumb along the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters fast.

“Your heart rate’s elevated,” she murmurs. “Is it stimulus… or anticipation?”

She leans over the table, her silhouette framed by the soft lab light above. The scent of her, cold metal and something faintly medicinal, fills your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, loud in your ears.

You can’t answer.

You’re not even sure.

Your body is too still, too open, breathing shallow under the soft weight of her gaze.

She sees it.

The tension in your throat. The way your fingers curl slightly against the restraints. The subtle shift of your hips like you’re caught between pulling away and pressing closer.

“You’ve already come this far for me,” she says, almost reminding you. “Haven’t you?”

You nod, barely. Her hand presses lightly at your sternum, fingers splayed over your chest. Your heart is hammering out of your chest.

“I ask for much,” she continues, looking you over. “And you give without hesitation.”

Her palm lingers there. Heat blooms in your chest — not just from the dose, but from her touch. From her closeness. From the way she speaks to you like you matter more than data.

Moira’s eyes return to yours.

“You weren’t built for half-measures,” she says quietly. “Neither was I.”

You feel her breath on your cheek. Every nerve in your body alive now, thrumming beneath her attention.

A low groan escapes your lips as the serum moves through your veins like molten lava.

She leans in closer, her face mere inches from yours. This close, you can see every line etched into her pale skin, every fleck of color in her hetero-chromatic eyes.

Her gaze is intense, almost hungry, as she observes the effect of her creation coursing through you.

You can feel the coolness of her touch even through the thin fabric of your tanktop, your skin flushing hot and cold as the serum surges through your blood.

Her hand feels large against your chest, her palm spanning the space between your chest. She presses down slightly, feeling the rapid beat of your heart.

"Look at you," she murmurs, her accented voice low and approving. "Stunning. Truly, utterly stunning."

Her fingers trail up, brushing over the column of your throat, feeling the way your pulse jumps at her touch.

She leans in even closer, until you can feel her breath mingling with yours, until her lips are a hair's breadth from your own.

You're pinned down, at the mercy of both her science and her whims. But as you stare up at her, you want nothing more than to prove to her just how strong you've become.

You want to make her see you not just as a subject, but as a person. Someone worthy of...something more than cold, clinical observation.

So you tilt your head up toward her, your breath catching as the serum coils deeper through your veins, sharpening everything around you. Her nearness, her scent, the unbearable pull of her just out of reach.

Moira smirks at the sound of your hitched breath, her eyes glinting with a wicked look.

She leans in even closer, until her lips are brushing the shell of your ear. Her voice is a low, sultry murmur, tinged with her Irish accent.

"Every signal you give off tells me something. And I never miss the ones you try to hide."

Her fingers trail down the side of your neck, a feather-light touch that leaves a trail of fire in their wake.

She cups the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your lower lip. Her eyes watch the movement, the way your mouth parts slightly at her touch.

"But you needn't try to hide it from me," she continues, her voice a low purr. "Not when your body tells me everything I need to know. Not when your pulse is pounding like this against my fingertips."

Pinned to the table, under her hands, under her gaze. Strapped down and studied like something half-tamed.

You should feel exposed. Vulnerable. But you don’t.

You feel seen.

Every word coils tight in your chest, every syllable settling deeper than it should. She’s not wrong, your pulse is racing. You can feel it against the restraints. Feel it in your throat.

And still, you don’t pull away.

You lean into the burn of it. Into the ache. Into the idea that maybe she already knows you better than you know yourself.

It seems she always did.

That’s why you let her keep touching you like that. Like she’s not just confirming data.

Like she’s claiming it.

Claiming you.

You should want to look away.f that's the case then I

Instead, you close your eyes and savor the feeling of her hand gripping the hair at the back of your neck.

Her other, good, hand slides down the length of your body, over the curve of your chest, your abs, your hips.

She doesn't linger, doesn't grope or squeeze. No, her touch is maddeningly, infuriatingly teasing. A whisper of sensation that sets your nerves alight and leaves you aching for more.

She leans back slightly, her gaze roaming over your bound form.

Her eyes are dark, the blue and red irises seeming to swirl together until they're almost black. The smirk on her face is wider now.

"I can see it all, mo chroidhe," she murmurs, her accent thicker in her arousal. "The way you tremble and burn for my touch..."

She leans down until her lips are hovering over yours, her breath mingling with your own.

“Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”

You can feel the heat of her mouth so close to your own.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. She studies your stillness like it’s permission, like she’s already certain you’ll surrender the moment she decides to take.

Your lips part just slightly, breath shallow.

"You." The word slips out, soft and wrecked. "I belong to you."

Moira smiles then, slow and satisfied.

You don’t wait.

You lean up—just enough to close the gap—and press your mouth to hers.

It’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s heat and hunger and something deeper, something feral that’s been building under your skin since the first injection.

The kiss deepens fast, without hesitation. She claims your mouth like it’s hers by right, kissing you hard and hungry, until your head spins.

When she finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, glossy with her saliva. Your chest heaves as you gasp for air, your body writhing against the restraints that hold you down.

Moira's eyes are wild. She stares down at you, her grip still tight in your hair, breath coming fast and hard.

For a moment, she just looks at you, her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face. It's not her usual smirk, not the wicked curve of her lips that she uses like a weapon. No, this is softer. Realer.

"Well, well, well," she murmurs, her voice low and rough with desire. "Aren't you a surprise, a rún …"

She leans down again, but this time, she kisses you. Her kiss is softer. Less demanding.

Moira’s tongue traces the seam of your mouth and your lips part instinctively, a soft gasp catching in your throat as you lean toward her.

When she pulls back this time, she's still smiling. Her eyes are softer, the wildness in them tempered with something almost like warmth.

Moira's hand continues its languid journey down your body, her fingertips skimming over the thin fabric of your tank top. You can feel the way your nipples harden under the cloth, straining towards her touch.

A dark smile curves her lips as she feels them, knowing the effect she's having on you.

She leans down, her teeth grazing your ear as she murmurs, "Does that feel good, hmm? Do you like the way my hands feel on your skin?"

Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. You hate how easily the words unravel you, how her voice settles into the soft, raw places you pretend don’t exist.

You nod, barely.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please keep going...”

Moira’s hand drifts lower again, over your toned stomach, your hips, until she reaches the waistband of your shorts. She dips her fingers beneath the fabric, her nails lightly scraping over the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

The serum hums through your muscles, tightening everything under her touch, each nerve lit up and waiting for her next move.

A whine slips out before you can stop it, soft and shaky, full of want. She chuckles, a low, sultry sound that sends more heat pooling between your thighs.

She tugs at the button of your shorts, popping it open with ease. Her hand slips past the waistband, her fingers skimming over the damp fabric of your briefs.

She cups your sex, her palm pressing against you, feeling the heat and need radiating from your core.f that's the case then I

"Christ, you're positively soaked," she murmurs, her voice a low, appreciative growl. "Are you this desperate for my touch?"

A quiet, shaky groan escapes you before you can stop it, your hips shifting just enough to betray what you’re trying not to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Her other hand slides down, fingertips catching the hem of your tank top, curling under it, slow and methodical.

She lifts the fabric gradually, letting it graze your skin as it rises, exposing inch by inch—your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest.

With your wrists bound, the fabric ends up bunched over your head, behind your neck.

It’s caught and twisted just above your collarbones, framing you. You can’t cover yourself. Can’t shift. Can’t look away. 

Your hands tug at the restraints as you take a deep breath, trying to still your heart rate. The cool air of the lab pebbles your skin, your nipples hardening into aching peaks.

Moira steps back to take you in properly, eyes sweeping over you with clinical interest, but something darker simmers underneath. Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.

Moira pauses then, resting her gloved hand on your bare stomach. She looks up at you, her dark eyes intense as they meet yours.

You hold her gaze, your skin burning beneath the soft press of her palm. Her hand is warm through the latex, her touch careful, but her covered nails drag just enough to make your muscles tense beneath her.

You can’t help yourself.

“Please Moira…”

You whisper her name.

A soft plea.

Plain need, slipping out before you can lock it down.

You'll tell yourself it’s just the dose. The aftermath. But you know better.

It isn’t fear of the table or her touch, it’s the fear of how much you don't want her to stop.

She sees the hesitation in your eyes, hears the fearful way you've said her name.

A flicker of something almost like tenderness passes over her face, but it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a knowing smile.

Her hand slides up your stomach, her fingers moving up to splay out over your ribcage.

She leans down, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear as she murmurs, "Hush now...it's alright. I've got you."

Her thumb and forefinger find your nipple, rolling and plucking at the sensitive bud. Pleasure sparks through you, making you arch into her touch despite your nerves.

You feel the cool of the serum surge deeper, flooding your senses so fast it blurs the edges of your thoughts. For a moment, you're afraid you won't be able to withstand what comes next.

Moira chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through you.

"Don't be afraid, love," she coaxes, seeming to read your mind. Her accent is thicker in her arousal, "I won't hurt you…"

Her hand slides lower, popping the button of your shorts and tugging down the zipper. Her fingers slip inside, pushing past your briefs to cup your bare sex.

A low groan escapes her lips as she feels how ready your body already is for her.

"Fuck, you're perfect," she breathes, playing with you inside your pants. "Such a good pet, getting so worked up for me already..."

She teases your entrance then, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp through your teeth. To make your hips buck up against her hand, silently begging for more.

Her eyes are dark as she watches your face, taking in every move you make.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" she murmurs, her voice a seductive purr. "To give yourself over to me completely.”

Moira feels your body tense, hears your breathing hitch as her gloved hand strokes you.

She doesn't miss the way you look away, your cheeks flushed with a mix of arousal and shame.

A dark chuckle rumbles in her chest as she cups you again, feeling the heat of you against her palm.

Her first finger pushes inside, just barely, stroking along your hole with a maddeningly teasing touch.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Heat floods your face.

She can feel you throbbing against the pad of her finger, your body already so desperate for more.

But she doesn't give it to you. Not yet. Instead, she leans down, her lips so close to your ear. You turn your head to the side, pressing your cheek to the table, trying to hide the way your teeth clench, eyes squeezed shut.

"Shh, don't hide from me now," she coaxes, her accent thickening with her desire.

Two fingers circle your entrance now, teasing, tormenting, not quite pressing inside. 

Your hips jerk, your thighs trying and failing to clench around her wrist as you fight the urge to grind against her hand.

"I know you can feel the camera watching us. I know it makes your little heart race. But there's no shame in giving in to what you want. What you need..."

The knowledge that someone, anyone, could be watching the footage of you like this, seeing you spread out, wanting and desperate for her touch... it should horrify you.

But despite yourself, you know Moira can feel the way your body responds at the thought. Your arousal spikes knowing you could be on display for her right now. For anyone.

She slips two fingers inside you, teasing along your fluttering walls.

You moan low in your throat, hips shifting involuntarily.

Her other hand trails up your side, fingers pressing firmly over the curve of your muscle before gliding to your neck, where she lingers, measuring the flutter of your pulse with cool, clinical precision.

She leans down, her teeth grazing the side of your neck before she bites down hard enough to leave a mark.

A sharp breath escapes you, more shock than pain, but you don’t pull away. You tilt your head instead, offering her more, heat blooming under your skin where her teeth press deep.

Moira's eyes darken with lust as she feels you grinding desperately against her hand, your body betraying your arousal.

A wicked smirk curves her lips as you turn your head, seeking out her face. She meets your gaze, her eyes glinting with hunger.

"That's it…" she says softly, "Look at me. Let me see the need in your eyes."

She increases the pace of her fingers, pumping them in and out of your clenching heat.

Your hips buck and writhe beneath her touch, seeking more, always more.

Moira leans in closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from yours. You can feel her breath mingling with your own. Her eyes search yours, intense and consuming.

You kiss her—rough, open-mouthed, already lost in the pace of it. Teeth, tongue, the wet sound of it filling the space between lab-cooled air and flushed skin. 

When she finally pulls back, your lips are slick and swollen. Your chest heaves as you gasp for air, your body trembling with the effort to hold back your impending orgasm.

Moira's stare pins you in place, her cheeks are flushed, her ginger lashes damp and spiky. She looks feral. Ravenous.

Moira looks at you as she feels your body tensing, your walls fluttering around her fingers as you teeter on the brink of ecstasy. Her fingers piston in and out of you at a punishing pace, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room.

Moira leans in close, her breath hot against your ear.

Her other hand holds firm on your neck, the pleasure edging into pain as she pushes you relentlessly towards the peak.

“What are you waiting for?" she coos softly. "You're so close, I can feel it. You’re gripping my fingers like a vice, desperate to come undone."

She nips at your earlobe, then soothes the sting with her tongue. Her voice drops to a low purr.

"You need to let go, love. Surrender yourself to the pleasure. Don't deny yourself this bliss."

Her other hand slides down your body, finding your nipple. She squeezes, rolling it between her fingers until it's red and throbbing.

You groan through gritted teeth, back tensing as the sensation spikes too fast.

Moira feels your body tense, your muscles pulling taut against the restraints as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

A raw sound breaks from your throat, your body arching helplessly into the touch. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she murmurs darkly, "That's it, mo chroidhe. Let me feel you come apart."

A low, wicked laugh escapes her as you come undone beneath her touch.

She doesn't let up, her fingers continuing to pump in and out of your spasming sex, working you through the waves of pleasure.

She bites at your neck, sucking hard, marking you as hers. Her other hand rolls and plucks at your nipple until it's red and aching and throbbing in time with your pulse.

Moira can feel the way your body trembles, your muscles quivering and jumping beneath your skin. She can feel the way your walls clench and flutter around her fingers, trying to pull her deeper, to keep her inside you.

She works you through the aftershocks, her touch gentling but never stopping, until your body goes pliant.

Your chest heaves as you gulp down air, your skin slick with sweat. Moira takes in the sight of you, her eyes hungry and possessive, satisfaction curling her lips.

You can’t hold her gaze for long. Every inch of you is still thrumming, overrun with heat and adrenaline, and whatever she’s just pulled from you.

You feel wrecked, rewired.

And the worst part is you already want her to do it again.

Slowly, she slips her gloved fingers from your still-twitching sex, bringing them up to her mouth. She makes a show of licking them clean, her tongue swirling around the digits.

Her eyes never leave yours, watching your reaction, reveling in the way your pupils dilate.

With a low, sultry chuckle, Moira leans down to meet you, her lips hovering just barely from your own. Your breath mingles, your hearts beat in tandem, your bodies thrumming with a shared, electric energy.

Her lips brush against yours in the barest whisper of a kiss. It's not enough, not nearly enough, and you find yourself whimpering softly, your fingers curling into a fist beneath you.

Moira lingers there for a breath, just long enough to feel the way you tremble.

Then, slowly, she pulls back. Her eyes stay on yours, unreadable but focused, like she’s not done studying you yet.

Her other gloved hand comes to rest gently on your cheek, a touch so light it barely registers. But it’s not clinical. Not this time. She strokes her thumb once under your eye, a soft drag along heated skin.

“Still with me?” she murmurs.

Your chest rises shakily as you nod.

When she finally moves to the restraints, it’s with care—not rushing. The cuff around your right wrist clicks open first, her fingers brushing along your skin as it falls away. Then the left.

Your arms are free, but you don’t move right away. You lie there, dazed and still open, your chest bare, skin flushed, body humming from the aftermath of her touch, and everything that came with it.

You glance at her through heavy eyes. Her expression is calm again, but softer.

She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same fingers she used to touch every part of you.

“This is what you were made for,” she says, voice low.

The words settle in your chest like heat spreading through your ribs.

You don’t question them. You don’t want to.

If she says you were made for this, then you believe her. And God, it feels good to be.

Moira slips an arm behind your back and lifts you with practiced ease, guiding you upright

She turns, adjusting the console, her figure partially silhouetted by the dim light of the screen.

You exhale.

Your body is warm. Heavy. You feel marked, even though you can’t see the places she touched. You feel changed, like something got rewritten beneath your skin and you let it happen.

Not just the serum. Not just the protocol.

Her.

She touched you like you were hers. Like she knew what you needed before you did.

You don’t know what that makes you. Or what you want it to mean.

But as you sit there—still catching your breath, exposed chest rising in the cold room, lips swollen, body used and cared for in the same breath—you know one thing for certain:

She’s not done with you.

And you’re not done wanting her.

You stretch slowly, muscles sluggish but responsive, the serum still moving through you like a low, electrical tide. You tug your tank top back over your head, smoothing it down over your skin, still flushed and tingling from everywhere her hands claimed you. You button your pants back up with slow, deliberate fingers.

Across the room, Moira is already back to work. She wipes down the injector, logs something into the console, places the spent vial in a sealed tray. The glow of her monitors lights the edge of her jaw, sharp and composed.

You step down from the table without a word, and for a moment, she doesn’t acknowledge you.

Then, with a flick of her hand, she powers down the terminal and turns to walk.

You fall into step beside her.

Neither of you speaks at first. The sound of your boots on the floor echoes faintly in the wide corridor.

“Was that... part of the experiment too?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Not everything I do with you is for the data,” she says, voice softer now. “Some decisions are… personal.”

"And... The others? Do they get treated like I do?” you ask, your voice still low, hoarse.

“There are no others like you,” she says, not bothering to soften it.

You nod, eyes forward.

"They get your time too, though. Not just me."

Moira doesn’t look at you.

“They get my attention,” she says quietly. “But you have my focus.”

The words send a chill down your spine. You try not to show it.

She stops outside your door, eyes flicking over you one last time.

“Log your vitals,” she says. “And hydrate.”

You nod. “Will I be checking in with you before my next mission?”

She watches you for a beat longer than necessary.

“No,” she says finally. “Dr. Pell will handle your prep.”

You open your mouth to respond, but her tone doesn’t invite questions.

“You already know what’s expected of you,” she adds as the door slides open, “There’s nothing more I need to say.”

"Okay."

You step inside, standing a little straighter under her gaze, as if trying to match the weight of her confidence in you.

Something quieter settles between the both of you.

“Goodnight... Doctor,” you say, voice steady despite the pull behind your ribs.

Moira’s expression barely shifts, but her voice is softer when it comes.

“Goodnight, darling.”

Rating: DARK WATERS AHEAD! gr@pe elements!

Note: Jotun!Loki and disguise heads up

You cover your mouth to stifle a giggle while pulling your betrothed behind you with haste. The god of thunder was just as eager as you, having no problem keeping up while trying to remain quiet himself- gradually hearing the sound of the ballroom get farther and farther away. 

‘’You know you’re becoming a bad influence with your lack of stopping me,’’ you whispered, slowing your pace down as his chambers drew near.

‘’It be a crime to deny you, my love.’’ Thor chuckled, keeping his voice quiet as well while the both of you walked at a steady pace side by side now. 

Betrothed.. All your life you’ve looked forward to the day you would wed your childhood lover. At first the two of you had been promised in secret, but as time went on with Thor looking to be the chosen son, Asgard began its demands for the prince’s to look for their wives- as aid stayed traditional when one ruled. This granted the perfect opportunity for you and Thor to no longer hide, and it wasn't long before the ceremony was set to date. 

It was almost here.. In fact, tonight had been the pre celebration before the two of you would be one tomorrow. Of course, none of this had stopped the two of you from continuing your sexual relationship and thus, with a few flirty gestures, the two of you had slipped away to get your alone time. 

As Thor’s chambers approached, you went to quicken your speed with excitement, only to find yourself being pulled back to a halt by the one who you thought were just as eager to reach their destination. With a confused look, you relaxed to find Thor chuckling and waving his free hand to assure you.

‘’Worry not beloved, I have merely forgotten that some wine had been spilt before the ceremony so the chambermaids might still be at work. It would do us no harm to take on a guest chamber,’’

You relaxed a little, happy to still go as planned- even if it were a different destination and allowed him to lead the way. ‘’Nervous, were we? You couldn't wait to indulge until the feast?”

Thor looked over his shoulder at you with a smirk and chuckled. ‘’It was merely to calm myself from indulging in you, right then and there.’’ his eyes gave a drop down to take in your features, admiring how wonderful you looked in his colors. ‘’You do not make it easy.’’

You bit your bottom lip, feeling your cheeks redden almost to the same shade as your gown. ‘’You think I am not suffering as well?” you teased and his lustful glow made him quicken his pace again to where you had to hold your dress’s folds up with your free hand in means to not trip and fall.

It was only two halls before the two of you finally turned to where guests were welcomed to stay when far travel made it necessary. Pausing at no particular one, Thor opened it and peaked inside to confirm its inhabitants before he gave you a sly smile that the coast was clear.

By now, your heart beat had been racing- not so much from the quickness you two had done to get here, but it was always exhilarating being taken by the god of thunder. You loved him with just as much giddiness as the day you two had confirmed, and your body was already ready for him by the time he pulled you in and shut the door behind you both. 

‘’Oh my love, i couldn't wait any longer..’’ you sighed with desperate need when Thor immediately pressed his body to yours, his large hands gripping your waist while your arms reached up to wrap around his neck. 

‘’You act as if I haven't taken you every waking day,’’ Thor grinned, his voice a lustful hush while his chest rose and fell heavily with need. 

Your back pressed up against the wooden door, feeling his knees brush up against yours slightly to indicate he was bending down before his lips captured yours in an almost longingful kiss. The two of you instantly sighed in each other's mouths, finally sating just purely the need to be near each other- but you both knew it wasn't going to stop there. 

Keeping the back of your head pressed against the door by merely the press of his mouth, you felt Thor’s hands quickly travel up behind you, fingers curling into the fabric before there was a harsh, ripping sound- followed by the loosening fabric against your body.

You gasped in his mouth, quite not expecting this type of session when the two of you were away from a more convenient spot that held spare clothes- but you figured a servant would be beckoned later to fetch you a covering. Thor was desperate, taking this opportunity to fill your mouth with his tongue once you had gasped and let him in. 

His hands worked blindly, pulling and ripping what was necessary with haste until you felt the fabric fall and pool at your feet, leaving you bare aside from your lower undergarment. 

Just when you began to gain the need for air, Thor pulled away before dropping his eyes to take in your form, hunger consuming his features while his hands gripped almost tightly at your waist.

‘’I hardly knew i had taunted you this much,’’ you offered a jest, feelings a little shy with how he was gazing at your body, seeming to be gazing upon you like one did for the first time- which of course was silly, because of two of you have seen each other many times before.

‘’You’re stunning Y/N.. absolutely stunning..’’ he whispered, his eyes flicking up at yours to catch your blushing self before he began sinking to his knees, keeping that eye contact while your hands clutched at his shoulders.

‘’I need you my love..’’ you whispered, not entirely minding the foreplay but you had been ready for him for quite some time now.

Thor smirked, hands sliding from your waist, to your hips. ‘’I know darling, I know.. All in due time..’’ he promised before his fingers curled at your hips to glip onto your panties, hardly pausing while he dragged them down and revealed just how much you were ready for him. 

You shivered, anticipation consuming you while you leaned back against the door, hands still at his shoulders while you felt his hand grip onto one of your ankles, bringing it up to rest your leg now over his shoulder and open yourself up to him. You felt his warm breath fan gently against your cunt, and the more he stared at you, the more nervous you got.

‘’Please..’’ you urged, biting your bottom lip while feeling his hands gently caress behind your thighs and ass.

‘’Needy little thing aren't you,’’ he chuckled and your cheeks reddened harder.

Thor wasn't one for much dirty talk, or perhaps.. Taking on a different style compared to what he has been saying so far. Was this teasing payback from all your flirtations from earlier? Was he perhaps savoring you on your last day of merely courting before the two of you were wed? 

Curiosity hardly had time to really make you ask before you suddenly felt his lips caress the inside of your thigh, just merely half an inch from your weeping cunt. His facial hair was soft, adding a slight tickling sensation at the same time while your hand moved to his hair to lightly urge him on.

Hearing him chuckle, he finally indulged by running his tongue up from your entrance, to your swollen bud. Your body nearly jolted, pleasure shooting through you so suddenly, your fingers curled into his golden locks. There was something different in his methods today, how he seemed to tease and build you up- as delicious as it was- compared to most times where it was all at once, a glorious, overwhelming sensation to completion. You hardly wished to complain now, your pleasure was still surely climbing the more he stroked at your clit, dipping down at times to lap at your entrance while using the tip of his nose to aid your build up. 

‘’Oh gods.. Right there- just.. Just like that..’’ you moaned, your head lolling from side to side, hardly caring at this point if a palace staff member or guest passed and heard. 

Thor hummed against your cunt, moaning at the taste and sending vibrations right through your core. The more you reacted from his administrations, the more his hands gripped you- almost possessively, like he couldn't get any closer. 

If you were to lift your feet off the guard, you’d be able to tell you would be held to his face with how hard he was pressing into you. His tongue plunged, nuzzling his face side to side before a hand slid up your body and to your chest, gripping one of your breasts and using his thumb to begin swiping at your hardened nipple.

Your moans fell with almost every breath, getting nearer and nearer to orgasm while one of your hands covered his own, squeezing around his fingers while they squeezed at one of your globes. You hardly realized your hips were grinding until your eyes fluttered open to look down at what was happening to you.

Thor was watching you, almost like a predator but through half lidded eyes like he were drunk on lust, himself. His mouth was relentless, his gaze alluring and everything just pulled you right where he wanted you to be before your orgasm suddenly crashed over you like a wave. 

Your head got thrown back, back arching and eyes rolling to the back of your head while you moaned pornagraphically and your hands held onto him for dear life. By the gods he didn't stop after that, oh no. He drank in your essence like a man starved, brows furrowed and eyes closed as if he were relishing in what you gave him. Even then to your last drop, he continued to reach his tongue as far as he could go, almost searching for your soul while you panted and twitched, whimpering to indicate your growing overstimulation before he slowly pulled away.

A bit of yourself was on his nose and chin, causing you to blush while he set your leg gently down before rising to his feet. Your eyes rose to meet his, a sated smile tugged at your lips while your arms reached up to hold onto your betrothed.

‘’My darling Thor.. i can hardly wait to start eternity with you..’’ you whispered, feeling the warmth of him envelop you with his arms wrapping around your naked flesh.

‘’Eternity is a long time Y/N, are you sure you’re making the right decisions?”

His question hardly made you come down from your high, busy letting him turn you and walk you backwards towards the bed with your cheek pressed against his armored chest.

‘’I want you, that is a decision i never would question.’’ you hummed with a gentle smile, feeling the bed meet the back of your legs before you felt Thor slowly release you and take a step back.

‘’You love me?” 

His question made you open your eyes and smile at him, hands at his chest gently with an assuring nod. ‘’Of course I do.. I love you, only you, nobody else.’’

‘’Then why did you cheat?” 

His expression was serious and the question had you pause with a mixed emotion running through your veins. Was he jesting? At a time like this? You furrowed your brows and looked over him as if waiting for the ‘just kidding’ moment.

‘’I.. I never cheated..’’ you said with a bit of offense itching at your words.

Thor smirked, his thumbs gently stroking the flesh at your hips, having to bend down slightly to do so but meeting you more than halfway to be nose to nose with you. ‘’If you love him, no matter what- as you say, then why not recognize your lover? After all, you’ve fucked enough times where you should be able to tell the difference.’’

His harsh words came with a bite and cruelty, making hurt twist in your chest where you leaned away from him to look into his eyes. Wha.. what was he saying? No.. those eyes.. Those baby blues you love so much had a different tint to them, almost lighter in a way where your brows furrowed and your body tensed.

‘’You.. Your-’’

Your words were cut off when he suddenly shoved you back, making you yelp and land on the mattress with a slight bounce that had your hair move into your face. With a huff, you pushed it away and glared at the being before you, sitting up and hardly caring if you were naked.

‘’Where is my husband?”” You demanded and ‘Thor’ merely chuckled and spread his arms wide, almost showing off while grinning down at you.

‘’Probably at another brothel, enjoying the last days of freedom before saddling himself up with a woman he doesn't even appreciate. Not.. truly.’’ ‘Thor’ shook his head before he inhaled sharply, a bright glow suddenly washing over his features where you had to turn away to protect your vision, now seeing who truly stood in front of you. 

Loki.

Disgust twisted your stomach while your body curled a little in itself, an arm draping over your chest while your legs quickly shut. You glared at the second prince with all the hatred and betrayal that coursed through your bones and you knew he could see it.

‘’He loves me Trickster, a feeling i’m sure you hardly recognize.’’

Loki smirked, looking down at you with all the pride and victory he had still- remaining clothed in his usual royal attire to make a point against vulnerability. ‘’Do not deny yourself of the truth dear Y/N, you know we had something before.’’

Your cheeks heated and you looked away from him. ‘’That was a long time ago.. Long before i had chosen Thor.’’

‘’That, you did. My only question is why?”

‘’He lov-’’

‘’If you use the word so fruitlessly than i clearly hold the wrong title of liar, darling.’’ Loki cut you off, clasping his hands behind his back while he gazed at you much softer. ‘’He’ll cast aside your wants and needs the minute the throne makes contact with his ass.’’

You glared at him and his loose words. ‘’And you wouldn't?”

Loki smirked and leaned down, making you tense a muscle that would help you scoot away but something told you to heed your actions, this close to a snake. ‘’You’d be on top of me darling.’’

Your eyes flashed at him and you got to your knees, eyeing the spot beside him that would help you get off the bed. ‘’You're disgusting and what you did was a pure act of trickery. If Thor is to hear of this-’’

‘’If?” Loki side stepped, his body blocking you from leaving the bed, making you lean back and use both arms now to cover your front, practically feeling the way he would sneak glances any time he could. 

‘’We are betrothed. If he were to find out i had slept with another, it may disgrace the court in trusting their future queen..’’ your eyes flicked to his. ‘’Even if it was unwilling.’’

Loki laughed, practically throwing his head back while you shamefully looked away from him. ‘’Unwilling? My dear, I have the very evidence still on my tongue with how UNwilling you were. Did you not take pleasure in what we did?’’

You huffed and made to get off the bed again. ‘’What you did was wrong and you know it. You’d be lucky enough to even-’’

Loki’s slender hand grasped your shoulder and shoved you back, sending you landing on the mattress once more on your back and you scrambled to sit up.’’do not threaten me dear one or i shall do far worse things than take you UNwillingly.’’ he mocked the word, as if reminding you of its lie while you tensed on the mattress. ‘’Have you taken thought that this perhaps has happened before? Or maybe when the two of you are wed, would you question who truly lies with you every night?”

‘’Stop it..’’ you seethed, fear bubbling from the possibilities of what might happen.. Or what already has..

‘’Sometimes a psyche is far better protected than a body.’’ Loki smirked, drawing your attention now by feeling a dip in the bed, just to see his palms now flat upon it, almost as if prowling his prey while you tensed.

‘’What are you saying?” you whispered, heart beating fast while the snake smiled at you.

‘’It could be our.. Little.. Secret..’’ he whispered, seduction coating his voice when his knee joined the mattress, then the other, until he had begun crawling slowly over to you where your body hesitantly tried scooting up and away.

‘’I can’t do that to him-’’ you shake your head, wishing not to live a life of betrayal and nearly yelp when the second prince catches your ankle.

‘’But darling, you already have.’’ he shook his head before with one hard yank, he pulled you to him- causing you to lie back before his body hovered above yours, palms on either side of your shoulders.

You glared at him, panic urging your words to bite, the last line of defense when you saw him rise to his knees and unclip his cape- almost avoiding magic to make this moment last longer for you. Your heart beat fast, eyes wide while taking him in while he cast aside piece by piece of his armor over his shoulder like there was nothing to worry about. Sound must have been a factor he had already considered because his careless movements indicated something must have happened to the room prior to deafening it. 

‘’How about a deal love.’’ Loki smirked, armor off and slowly removed his leather off his shoulders, noting how your eyes couldn't help but watch as he made himself bare- bringing back what memories the two of you had when all of this was.. Consensual.

‘’Rather than drive yourself paranoid of who exactly you find yourself fucking every night, i shall require for you to come to me now and again. We can.. Work on the schedule at a later date.’’ 

His lewd words and suggestion drove you to look up at him with disgust, fingers clawing at the sheets below you until you were sure your nails had pierced through. 

‘’And if I refuse?”

Loki smirked, looking down at you now while he purposefully dragged his hands now down his naked upper half, purposefully lingering at his toned abs he knew- at one point- had driven you crazy to feel for yourself before his hands began to play around at the fabric of his pants. ‘’You won’t.’’

‘’Let me guess, you’d ensure the court of what had transpired, thus destroying Thor and I’s courtship and practically having me banished under unfaithfulness?”

‘’An excellent suggestion darling, i shall take you up on this idea.’’ Loki chuckled, watching how your eyes flashed before the sound of a zipper threatened your eyes to glance down. ‘’By coming to me- or shall we say.. Cum for me, rest ensure I shall not tamper with your sad excuse for a marriage. I find it not a hard decision, and after all, you used to take me so well..’’ 

With his last words, he brought the monster out, it already standing at attention. 

Your eyes couldn't help but look at it, swallowing your nerves down with a shiver when he began to stroke it slowly, running his thumb against the top as if to tease himself while his eyes remained on you.

‘’Is.. Is this what this is? Jealousy?’’ you demanded in a whisper, almost gasping when he leaned back down suddenly onto his free hand, drinking in your expression while he continued to stroke himself. ‘’You wish to hurt Thor?”

‘’Oh no darling, hurting Thor is merely a bonus in all of this- if he were to find out.’’ he corrected, his words deadly serious before he smirked when you flinched, feeling him now stroke himself through your wet shameful folds- coating himself in it before you felt the tip align with your entrance, your hands subconsciously coming to his shoulders as if to brace yourself.

‘’I wish to hurt you.’’

Suddenly he shoved his hips forward, sliding himself into your wet channel that nearly had you cry out with your back arching off the mattress. His merley grunted, a moan following after with the feeling of your cunt strangling and trying to accommodate his intrusion. You were almost grateful he had prepared you, but this didn't make it any less sick while your nails dug into his skin.

The stretch gave a sting, but you feared the pleasure now as he stilled to ensure you would adjust around him, almost as if making you enjoy this was crueler than its opposite. 

‘’All that time.. Of us being together.. Just to turn around and choose him.. One would say you're far more cruel than i Y/N..’’ Loki whispered, hurt lacing his words and you almost caught it if the feeling of him didn't distract you as he slid out slowly, ensuring you felt every inch, every ridge and vein before pausing at the tip. ‘’And yet your cunt still welcomes me, as if it were the very thing that didn't forget..’’ 

With that, he harshly shoved himself back in, causing you to slide up an inch on the mattress while your nails held onto his bare shoulders. A whimper escaped your lips but you refused to give him more, grinding your teeth to stifle any satisfaction he was searching for. Tears pricked in your eyes while you continued to glare up at him, he giving you an indifferent look down his nose.

‘’I’ve.. I’ve had bigger..’’ you snapped at him, using your words as your only line of defense in ways to cope with what he was giving you.

Loki hummed and leaned forward, smirking at how you winced and obviously lied to him but he decided to play along and indulge with his cock shoving back deep into you.

“Well then, you most certainly wouldn’t mind if I took you in my true form, now would you?..” 

‘’Loki..’’ you whispered a warning, almost a beg while a chill ran down your spine and spread goosebumps along your skin. 

‘’yes dear one?” it was a mock more than an ask, a subtle warning that he was going to carry on anyway but perhaps a chance to hear you beg. 

You glared up at him, even if tears managed to well up enough to run down your cheeks and you hoped your nails were drawing blood as they sank into his shoulders. He pushed himself inside you all the way and stilled. You knew it wasn't a pause of any benefit, he wanted to watch you. 

His temperature changed quickly, going from warm flesh to now cold as a corpse. Your arms began to stretch higher as his body rose, growing slightly in proportion while his skin began to change to a deep blue. You weren't afraid of him- in the past, he often spoke about his true heritage.. Back when the two of you shared peace.. And more. However, that didn't change the panic in your eyes while his cock began to grow inside of you. 

He was already large and still desperately hard, but the sting returned as if he hadn't prepared you at all- indicating just how much his Jotun cock was bigger compared. 

You winced enough before you turned your face away, almost withering under him as you desperately tried to find purchase and ways to cope with how much you were stretching. His hand found your jaw, bringing your face back to look at him.

‘’No no no pet, you look at me..’’ Loki whispered, his eyes studying your face with almost a softness, like he was appreciating your reactions that were being caused by him. ‘’I want to watch that beautiful face as you cum..’’

‘’I won't cum for you monster.. Even then, the one I cried out for was for Thor..’’ you gritted out, wanting to bite at him if his hand wasn't gripping so hard on your jaw.

‘’And how many times have you cried out for me? Come now darling, have you truly forgotten all those moments we’ve shared?’’ Loki tsked, raising his head a moment and inhaled, closing his eyes to fully adjust to his true form that- by the gods- had stopped growing before he looked down upon you with his red orbs. 

‘’Perhaps a little reminding is needed.’’

‘’He’ll kill you..’’ you whispered, whimpering as Loki pushed your chin up, exposing your neck and spiking your heart rate again.

‘’If this doesn't kill him first. That is of course.. If you choose not to keep our little secret.’’ Loki mocked and bent down, running his tongue along your neck, making his way slowly up to your ear. ‘’Mmm do i have to threaten your groom to be next?”

Your body tensed at the mention of harming Thor. although the two have had their moments, you wouldn't challenge Loki at actually going through with it.. He was mad as it was for Thor being up first for the throne, and his blood would be on your hands if you did in fact have a chance to save him. 

‘’Would-’’ your words were cut short when he suddenly began to pull out, dragging his heavy cock through your channel before he paused at the tip, just as he had before, but your hands gripped onto his forearms now to brace yourself, drawing in a breath.

‘’Would.. You promise me his protection if I agreed?” you said quickly, wishing to get it out now before he’d cut you off again.

‘’Hmm..’’ Loki looked you over as if to consider it; as if he still wanted you right now and it made you shiver. His lips parted, teasing that he would speak but at the last second, he pushed himself in, watching how you cried out and arched off the bed, trying to take him but he stuffed you overwhelmingly full. 

‘’I will consider it darling. Perhaps it would depend on how much you beg me to make you cum.’’ the snake smiled, already seeing you pant while his hand left your jaw, dragging down your body before he began to fondle one of your breasts. 

One of your hands went to his wrist, weakly trying to pry him off with no results before your eyes caught sight of your lower stomach. There was a bulge that protruded out, marking exactly where his cock was before it shrunk when he began pulling out. His eyes noticed your staring with wide eyes and he chuckled, beginning to fuck you at a slower pace to let you watch your stomach go up and down, up and down.

‘’Like it darling? I only regret not taking you sooner like this.. Your warm channel is doing wonders for me..’’ Loki purred, a pant in his voice that indicated he wanted to cum just as badly as you wanted this over. 

You didn't answer him, biting your bottom lip to cope with the stretch and hated how fast it was becoming bearable. His hand began to travel from your breast, teasing your other nipple with the stroke of his thumb before it began to glide down, squeezing itself between your bodies to find your clit.

Your hand on his wrist followed his, tugging with all your might to interrupt it's decent but as soon as he found that swollen bud of nerves, your grip locked on. You neither pulled or pushed him away, your body beginning to separate itself from your mind in search of pleasure, making your head begin to roll side to side to snap out of it, focus, anything but trying to cum. 

‘’What's wrong darling? Are you perhaps going to do exactly what I want you to do?” Loki smirked, watching you struggle while his fingertips rubbed slow circles against your clit, hardly matching the rhythm of his hips that took on a steady pace that began to make the sound of slapping flesh fill the room.

‘’Loki..’’ you whimpered, panting as your other hand found the sheets below and clutched it, ripping fabric while your lips parted open.

Loki’s head tipped up and closed his eyes, almost as if he had just heard music and hummed. ‘’That's it darling.. Say it again..’’

He began to rub faster, almost catching up to his thrusting pace while you couldn't help but moan and flutter your eyes up. ‘’L-Loki..’’ you said louder, trying to convince yourself that you were asking him to stop than to keep going.

‘’Are you going to cum for me darling? Milk my cock like you had all those years ago when I laid claim to your virgin cunt? Strangle me for all I'm worth?” Loki grunted out, moaning in between claims as his own eyes began to flutter from his own growing pleasure. 

‘’P-please.. Of gods- fuck.. Please..’’ you moaned out, mind completely lost while your hips even rose to match his own, feeling how Loki’s other hand had to shift above your shoulder to keep you from sliding up too much. 

‘’That's it darling.. Thats it- oh fuck.. Norns you’re.. Cum now darling.. Cum for me-’’ Loki groaned out, his mouth falling open as he began to see stars and your back arched with your orgasm suddenly crashing over you.

“LOKIII!’’ you cried out, hardly caring if there was a sound spell or not, nothing could have stopped your reaction as you thrashed, squirmed and withered through your orgasm while he continued to pump into you at a vigorous pace before suddenly he pressed forward, his whole body laying on top of you as you felt the hot ropes of seed shooting up into your womb. 

He humped your body, his cum seeming endless while your body began to twitch and tingle, feeling yourself be stuffed full where some of his spent leaked out where the two of you were connected. Your body was shaking, limp as he stayed on top of you until his high was completely finished and you felt him begin to lessen slightly in size with a warmer feeling to his flesh. 

Fluttering your eyes open, you rolled your head over to find him back in his usual form, panting softly before his hands raised himself up to hover above you. The two of you were sweaty and looking fucked out. His hair hung down his shoulder and framed his face while yours spread out around your head in a predictable mess. You were exhausted and had to energy to move while he did, leaving your line of vision to stand before you saw the light of his Seidr illuminate the room for a second. 

No doubt he had changed, making himself seem like nothing had happened. There was a tingly feeling against you, the light much brighter in your vision where you had to close your eyes a moment to protect your sight before you finally lifted your head to look down at yourself. 

Loki had restored your red dress as if he hadn't even ripped it. By the slight pull of your hair, you knew it was back in place and yet you shakily sat up with the gushing feeling between your legs whenever you tensed. Loki was indeed dressed, running a hand through his hair and cracking his neck before looking over at you with a soft smile.

‘’I’d suggest you do not wear that color if you wish for a gentler experience with me. Green would be much preferred.’’

You glared weakly at him while your arms came to wrap around yourself, a shiver running down your spine while you lacked the ability to speak at the moment. 

‘’Consider that fool to be protected. No harm shall come to him by my hand so long as you behave.’’ Loki told you confidently, almost as if this was a court meeting before he made his way towards the door and paused, looking over you once more with almost a drunk look.

‘’Gods i really did miss you..’’

Tag List+ Interactions: @honeybnz @foxherder13 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @fire-in-her-veinz @nervouseden @kathren1sky-blog @eleniblue @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @queenofstarsign85 @slytherinqueen4life @soulpiercing @westwindrhapsody @lulubelle814 @angelofthorr @lolathecorso @literatureatthebowofnails @autumn-rain-embers @societyfolklore @sharris8 @izka8520 @jaidenhawke @mischeveousscamp @ladymischief11 @possumpork @patroclus-is-the-bigger-person

Note: This was darker than expected but thank you again for taking interest in my teaser and awaiting it's publication :)

~I’d also would like to give a huge shout out to https://www.tumblr.com/societyfolklore who helped inspire the skeleton of this storyline! Please be sure to head on over and check out what work(s) she has 😁❤️

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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You had believed medicine was a discipline of precision and care, built to preserve life. 

HYDRA stripped that belief from you within the first forty-eight hours of your abduction.

They never called it what it was—kidnapping. No, they called it recruitment.

A late-night, sleep-deprived trip to the store for ice cream had cost you your freedom. At your awakening, you found yourself sitting in a white room with no windows, no wallet, no phone, and a man in a black uniform calmly explaining that your credentials were impressive, your skill set rare, and your cooperation expected. When you refused and demanded to leave, he wordlessly slid a thin file across the table. Inside were photos of your mother walking home from work, timestamps of months spent tailing her carefully highlighted in red.

You learned very quickly when to stop asking questions. To lower your head and listen. To do exactly as you were told.  You were just trying to survive. And yet, guilt still clawed relentlessly at your chest as soon as your head touched that filthy excuse of a pillow they provided you with.

You had no idea who he had been before HYDRA took him, what parts of his life had been stolen, what memories erased, what humanity suppressed. If he could even still be called a man, or if he was nothing more than an experiment, forged and trapped within these walls. Still, beneath everything they had done to him, there was a person. And no human being deserves to be reduced to a lab experiment, trained to kill and denied any life of their own.

The truth is that here, forced into a role you never wanted, you are still part of it. Every dose you administer, every wound you clean, every monitoring protocol you follow—even if it is just to keep him from spiraling into uncontrollable violence—you are still contributing to HYDRA’s system, keeping the gears turning. You are an important cog, however unwilling, and the sole thought is enough to make you nauseous, tormenting you during those sleepless nights spent on an uncomfortable mattress inside your new, grey bedroom.

You are a witness, a caretaker, a facilitator. And in keeping him alive, you sustain the very machine that caged him. Your hands remain steady, but each measured movement is weighted with fear and reluctant responsibility. 

The Winter Soldier is HYDRA’s greatest asset and its most closely monitored prisoner. Officially, you are not his handler. You don’t issue commands or mission parameters, nor have the power to activate him or order for his mind to be wiped. That job belongs to others—men who speak in clipped phrases and avoid eye contact with what they have turned him into.

You monitor his vitals, track the effects of the serum, treat injuries sustained in the field, and document behavioral anomalies. You make sure he eats when they remember to feed him, that his body remains functional between cryo cycles and the scars don’t fester.

You are also the only one allowed to touch him without restraints, but no one had planned for that.

At first, they tried rotating doctors. None lasted more than a week. Some requested reassignment after the first day; some broke down at the first violent outburst from the Soldier. One had a panic attack so severe she had to be sedated and removed from the facility entirely. 

The memory of the first time HYDRA insisted on assigning a second doctor is still too vivid to forget. An older man with trembling hands and a voice that cracked at the smallest instruction. The moment he’d stepped past the threshold, the Soldier went rigid, his gaze snapping from you to the stranger, like a gun sight locking onto a target.

The doctor hadn’t even touched him. He’d reached for a stethoscope, but the Soldier had moved faster than you could shout. 

Metal collided with bone. 

The doctor went down screaming, clutching his shattered wrist. 

Restraints were deployed seconds too late and sirens screamed as the Winter Soldier fought agents with silent, feral fury.

But you… well, he tolerates you.

That’s the word they use. Tolerates. As if there’s anything neutral about his actions towards you.

The Soldier doesn’t really speak. His responses are economical: a turn of the head, a shift of weight, the faint tightening of his jaw when something displeases him. You learned his language the way one learns a foreign alphabet—slowly, and constantly terrified of making a fatal mistake that could change everything. You learned the difference between stillness and readiness, between compliance and restraint. That when his shoulders went rigid and his metal hand flexed, you needed to step back and let him recalibrate.

The change didn’t begin with trust, though. It began with fear.

The rest of the agents were afraid of him. They had every reason to be, frankly. In the weeks leading up to the incident, the Soldier had grown volatile in ways HYDRA could not easily quantify. Missions ended messier and recovery periods stretched. There were moments—brief, unsettling lapses—where commands lagged and he hesitated just long enough for alarms to register before compliance snapped back into place.

HYDRA answered the way it always did: with punishment and pressure. And you saw the cost written across his body.

Until you finally stood your ground and intervened.

The Soldier had been awake for six minutes when the alarms went off. 

You knew this because you were watching the numbers climb in real time: heart rate spiking dangerously fast, blood pressure surging high enough to trigger red warnings across the console. His respiration was shallow and uneven, each breath dragged through clenched teeth and dilated nostrils. The biometric sensors embedded in the containment room floor registered rapid, erratic movement.

Pacing.

That was already bad.

“Why isn’t he responding?” An agent snapped behind you.

You didn’t answer immediately, your eyes still locked on the glass.

Inside the reinforced medical room, the Soldier moved like a caged animal. Back and forth, bare feet silent against the white floor, and metal arm rhythmically flexing and unclenching with a soft, mechanical hum. His head twitched even at the hiss of the vents, a low growl vibrating dangerously in his chest at the distant echo of boots in the corridor.

He was awake, but he wasn’t present.

“Soldier.” His handler barked, activating the intercom. “Stand down.”

No response.

At the next command—louder, sharper—he stilled for half a second, long enough for hope to painfully tighten your chest. Then, he turned abruptly toward the glass, eyes wild and unfocused searching not for authority, but for threat.

His vitals spiked again.

“Sedate him.” The handler ordered.

Your fingers curled hard around the edge of the console. “No.”

The word came out harsher than you intended.

You forced yourself to breathe, to think clinically. “If you sedate him now, you’ll exacerbate his fever.”

“What do you suggest then, Doctor?” Your title was laced with mockery.

You decided to ignore the umpteenth jab at your competence, swallowing as your eyes nervously flicked back to the glass.

“I need to go in.”

The room went quiet.

“That is not in accordance with the protocol.” He gritted out, earning himself a glare.

“I’m aware.” Your eyes didn’t waver as they met his. 

Inside the containment room, the Soldier struck the glass without warning, causing the whole room to flinch. The punch was not hard enough to crack it, yet the impact furiously reverberated through the observation wing. His metal hand connected again, producing a deep, resonant thud. His breathing was louder now, ragged, bordering on a growl.

His heart rate surged past one-sixty.

“Doctor—”

“If I don’t intervene now,” you said quietly, “You’re going to have to deal with a full-scale breach in under two minutes.”

Although they hesitated, you didn’t wait for their permission.

The moment the door to the observation wing slid open, something changed—not immediately, but the monitors noticed before anyone else did.

His heart rate dipped just a fraction. From one-sixty to one-fifty-six. His breathing hitched, then slowed, unevenly at first, as if his body had recognized a familiar presence that his mind still struggled to place.

You took a step into the containment room and the Soldier froze—a machine stalling after a conflicting input.

His head slowly turned toward you, his gaze snapping to your face and holding, unblinking, as if everyone else had just disappeared.

His breathing was still edged with some unnamed strain, yet each inhale felt deeper than the last. Controlled in a way that seemed forced, like he was dragging himself back from the brim of madness by sheer instinct alone. The rigid line of his shoulders eased with it, almost imperceptibly, but your eyes noticed it at once. 

The metal hand that had been clenched tight twitched, before fingers began uncurling one by one.

“Vitals stabilizing.” Someone murmured over the comms.

You ignored them and simply took another careful step forward.

“It’s alright.” You whispered, low enough that it wouldn’t carry past the barrier of reinforced glass. “You’re safe.”

You had no idea how much those words mattered to him.

His blown pupils tracked you with unnerving precision, following each movement of your body as if pulled by an invisible thread. He didn’t blink, nor looked away. It was the same way he watched you during examinations, through wound care, and in those long hours when you sat beside his cot and pretended not to notice how he would inconspicuously inch closer each time.

As if losing sight of you meant the world would pulverize below his feet.

You stopped far enough to not invade his personal space.

“Good.” You murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Just breathe with me.”

The monitors confirmed his compliance: heart rate down to one-thirty; blood pressure falling into safer ranges; temperature still elevated, but no longer climbing.

Behind the glass, the agents stared in silence.

“He didn’t respond to any of our commands.” One of them said under his breath.

You swallowed.

You knew it was only a matter of time before they would realize it.

You almost flinched when the Soldier took a deliberate step toward you, not aggressively. Every muscle in your body tightened anyway, instinct screaming at you to run and lock the door. But you didn’t back away. You had learned, painfully, that sudden motion broke whatever fragile equilibrium existed between you two.

He stopped close enough that you could not ignore the faint sheen of sweat along his temples, your eyes instantly catching the subtle tremor in his flesh hand that only appeared when he was overstimulated.

His eyes never left your face, though.

That’s when you gently lifted a hand, palm open. “Easy.”

His focus narrowed on the movement, his left hand uncertainly mimicking you, until cold metal met warm skin. The contact was light, but his pulse spiked anyway. Then, just as quickly, it settled.

“Heart rate down another ten.” Someone whispered.

You felt sick. Not because of him, but because of what this meant in their eyes.

They had suspected it before. Documented it in cautious, clinical language: the subject exhibited reduced agitation in the presence of primary medical staff. There was notable improvement in compliance during examinations conducted by you.

But what they mistook for obedience was nothing more than fixation.

And as the Winter Soldier stood in front of you—calm, silent, barely held together by your presence—you realized that whatever HYDRA had carved out of him, whatever they had taken away, they still couldn’t reach that deeply broken part of his mind that had latched onto you and refused to let go.

Without you, he spiraled: violent, unresponsive, lost in a haze of half-awareness and threat assessment. With you, his body remembered how to regulate itself. His fury quieted and his attention settled.

“Doctor,” the handler called slowly. “You may step back now.”

The Soldier’s head snapped up at the interfering noise.

His shoulders locked, palm pressing more insistently against yours. With his chest heaving quicker than normal, anyone could clearly see that his fragile control was splintering at the edges once again.

“If I step back,” you mumbled, keeping yourself still. “His vitals will spike again.”

No one answered.

Inside the containment room, the Soldier didn’t break contact with your hand—he just leaned closer to meet your eyes, enough that you could feel the rough, warm drag of his breathing tickling your nose. His posture was protective without being hostile, his formidable body subtly angled between you and the rest of the agents.

A warning to everyone else. A barrier between what had become his fixed point in the fog and the avid tide trying to take it away from him. 

“Alright.” The handler sneered at last. “Maintain position.”

You briefly closed your eyes, allowing yourself a slow sigh of relief. When your eyelids fluttered open again, the Soldier was still watching you, his breathing unconsciously syncing to yours.

From that moment on, nothing was ever the same again.

The containment wing is quiet, the silence settling in around the fact that you’re the only one left. Everyone soon learned that lingering would only lead to more troubles.

The reinforced glass wall stands between you and the Soldier once again, thick enough to stop a tank and threaded with sensors that track every shift of his weight, every minute fluctuation in his vitals. You sit alone at the console, tablet tucked against your ribs and eyes flicking between the readouts and the man behind the barrier. The room is all white and steel, with fluorescent lights loudly buzzing overhead like insects burrowed in your skull. 

He is standing today, shoulders squared, head slightly bowed, gaze fixed on you with unnerving intensity. You can’t hold it for long. Attention from him has always felt… dangerous. Like voluntarily stepping onto a frozen lake knowing it will inevitably crack beneath your feet. 

You keep your eyes on the monitors instead, scrolling through vitals you don’t like and couldn’t fix fast enough.

Even without looking at the data, his posture tells you how bad the night was. 

His heart rate is elevated—steady, yes, but high—and cortisol levels haven’t returned back to baseline since he was last put under. It’s clear that the serum is working overtime to compensate for something HYDRA refuses to name. Because the wound should have healed by now—a ballistic injury to the right side of the abdomen, deep enough to cause significant pain but not to damage any vital organ. Under normal circumstances, the serum would have closed it within two days. You have seen him regenerate from worse, his torn muscles and shattered bones reforming with brutal efficiency. Despite that, this time the tissue remains angrily inflamed, the sutures pulling tight instead of dissolving.

An asset that doesn’t heal is an asset that can fail. 

So they caged him here, again.

“At least vitals are holding for now.” You mutter to yourself.

He doesn’t respond, but his head tilts as you speak, just slightly, as if orienting himself toward your voice. The monitors reflect the hitch in his breathing instantly, and that causes you to shift your weight uncomfortably, the chair creaking slightly under you.

His metal hand lifts, fingers flexing once against the glass, this time not striking it. Just touching, as if to claim the boundary. Your throat tightens at the sight, forcing yourself to move your eyes back on the medical charts.

You have been listed as essential personnel. Singular. The only one he allows near him. The only one he hasn’t tried to kill until now. All because of that fateful night, three months ago. He hadn’t calmed until you had shoved past the guards and coaxed him with your shaky voice and his palm against yours. 

And HYDRA had taken note, as usual.

You keep staring at the same line for too long, until the numbers stop making sense and instead start looking more like indefinite shapes—meaningless, looping back on themselves. You drag a hand down your face and lean closer to the console, scrolling back up on your tablet, then down again, as if repetition might magically manifest a solution.

The serum markers now look like they’re fighting something.

Your fingers still, before you pull up a secondary panel to overlay two datasets, and your stomach drops. 

Threaded through the Soldier’s bloodstream like a parasite is an unfamiliar compound, its elevated concentration persistent.

“That’s not right.” You murmur.

Behind the glass, the Soldier’s spine straightens, eyes narrowing as if he’s felt the shift in your mood and decided he doesn’t like it at all. 

You glance up at him automatically. “Wait a second,” you’re already pushing back your chair. “Just—wait.”

His brow furrows in displeasure.

You step toward the door, loudly knocking on the metallic surface until the agent stationed outside opens the small view hatch, only his eyes visible to you. “Call Dr. Keller,” you say quickly. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

The guard hesitates for a mere second, before you hear him walk away.

In the meantime, behind you there’s a dull thump that pulls your attention back to the man caged there.

Your head snaps towards him, just in time to see the Soldier’s metal hand rest against the glass, but his fingers are now spread wide, pressing. His jaw is clenched, blue eyes fixed on you because you’ve drifted too far, out of his reach.

“I’m right here.” You cajole. “I’ll be back soon.”

His answer comes in the form of his flesh hand curling slowly into a fist by his side.

Dr. Keller arrives a few minutes later. 

He’s older, silver-haired, immaculate in a way that suggests choice rather than coercion. His confident posture is that of a man who belongs here because he wants to. 

Barely sparing the Asset a glance, he takes a small step into the room.

“What do you want?” He asks, already impatient.

You turn the tablet in his direction, yet he hardly looks at the screen. “This compound,” your finger taps the value. “It’s interfering with the serum. It shouldn’t be there at all. What is it?”

Keller squints at it, then his expression smooths in pure indifference.

“Oh. That.” He comments bored. “It’s CX-17.”

Your heartbeat quickens, something in your chest curling just wrong at the name. “And what exactly is CX-17?”

His hesitation lasts long enough for it to be intentional. “A behavioral catalyst. Part of Project Genesis.”

You squint at him in confusion. “Project what?”

Keller exhales through his nose, eyes rolling. “You weren’t cleared for the full scope, obviously. But I’m feeling generous today, since you clearly lack the intellectual capacity to reach any logical conclusion by yourself.” You grimace at his condescending tone.

“The serum alone is limited. Replication has been unsuccessful and subjects don’t survive long enough for meaningful results, so the Winter Soldier Program was suspended indefinitely.”

Your mouth dries. “What does that have to do with this compound?”

An annoyed huff falls from his lips. “The Asset remains the only viable template, therefore natural compatibility was… explored.”

The last word lands wrong.

“What do you mean ‘explored’?” 

Keller’s eyes briefly flick toward the glass, then back to you. “Attempts were made to encourage reproductive behavior. He resisted. Violently. So the directive was adjusted accordingly.”

“You drugged him.” Horror dawns on your features, your voice nothing short of a whisper.

“We enhanced instinctual drives and suppressed inhibitions.” Keller snaps. “CX-17 was designed to lower resistance. It was a necessary step to secure the future of HYDRA.”

“No. You created an untested compound,” you start slowly, the words feeling like shards of glass on your tongue. “And pumped it into a body already under extreme physiological stress. And you didn’t even think to mention it to me?”

“It wasn’t your concern.”

A sharp, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “I am his doctor.” Your voice rises. “You weakened the serum and destabilized him, and you didn’t even notice because you were too busy trying to turn him into—into a breeding machine!”

Keller’s face darkens as he takes a step forward. “Watch your tone, you little, insolent bitch.”

Your eyes harden, far from intimated as your shoulders straighten. “How dare you—”

A thunderous bang cuts you off.

The glass shudders as the Soldier slams his fist into it once. Twice. The sound is deafening up close. His breathing is irregular, shoulders rising and falling harshly as he regards you with eyes blown wide—fury, agitation, and something far less controlled flickering beneath it.

Your body instinctively faces him. “Soldier—”

Keller swears under his breath as he starts backing toward the door. “You seriously think you matter to that mutt?” He spits venomously. “You’re a variable, that’s all. And when you’ll stop being useful, he—”

Another blow. Harder enough for cracks to spiderweb the reinforced glass.

Keller pales. The sentence dies in his throat and with one last frown, he turns and quickly punches in the access code—the same one deliberately withheld from you, the person who knows this room and its equipment like the back of your hand—shouting for the guards as the door closes with finality behind him.

What a pathetic worm. 

Behind the glass, the Soldier roars—raw and wordless—slamming both of his fists against the barrier, rage finally breaking free of whatever flimsy control he had clung onto until now.

The monitor spikes, prompting you to run towards the console, throwing the tablet somewhere nearby.

“Don’t—” You gasp, but it’s too late. His heart rate surges again as his gaze locks onto the door behind you. 

“No!” You shout, but another blow strikes the glass. “Hey! Stop. Look at me.”

He freezes mid-motion, eyes flying to your face.

You move closer to the glass, palm lifting slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a skittish wild animal that could either bolt or break. 

“It’s me, see?” Your voice shakes, so you swallow around the lump of fear clogging your throat. “It’s only me in here.”

He wheezes once, as if his lungs forgot how to work properly, before his chest starts moving at a more normal pace. The fist lowers shakily, fingers uncurling as violence drains out in increments. At last, his forehead drops to rest against the glass with a tired, hollow thud.

Your palm meets the barrier, waiting for him to place his directly opposite to yours. “Good,” you whisper. “That’s it.” The monitors follow your lead.

You let out a long exhale at that point. Your startled reflection stares back at you, overlaid with his impassive face, so impossibly close. The proximity inevitably drags your mind back to a few weeks ago. 

It was past midnight when a handler shoved him inside the medical bay, scornfully laughing. “All yours, Doctor. He didn’t move fast enough.” 

The man left as fast as he came, the metal door locking behind him.

As your gaze returned to the still Soldier, you noticed a fresh, long cut sitting on his right forearm, the fabric of his tactical shirt ruined. Without thinking, your fingertips gently brushed the skin surrounding the wound, causing a shiver to run down his spine.

For the first time, his pupils dilated noticeably with something far from rage. You missed it entirely, too focused on retrieving some antiseptic, but he couldn’t take his eyes off your lips and the concern in your furrowed eyebrows as you asked him to sit on the cot. 

He inhaled deeply at the way your fingers tenderly wrapped around his wrist as you started to clean the cut, overtaken by a sudden, primal impulse that his programming couldn’t contain. And then, as you were cutting some gauze, something small and almost absurd appeared from his gear: a crumpled, battered flower. Most of the petals were gone, leaving nothing more than the crumpled stem clutched carefully in his metal hand.

“Oh.” Your eyes blinked in surprise at the sad daisy. Your weight shifted uncomfortably under his expectant blue eyes, hungrily waiting for your reaction.

“Is this…” You spoke meekly. “For me?” A sharp, quick nod. “I uhm... t—thank you, Soldier.” You mumbled finally, gently taking the offered gift. “I… never got flowers.” A careless, mumbled afterthought, only meant for you.

The Soldier frowned as if you had just spoken in a foreign language, his brain not comprehending how a pretty woman like you had never received flowers. His fingers flexed where they rested uselessly on his thighs, visibly uncertain about his next move.

The corners of your lips lifted in a genuine, small smile, hands already reaching back for the gauze when the Soldier stood up with sharp precision, forcing you to look up at him with wide eyes as you tried to take a few steps back.

He was faster.

Towering over you as he leaned in, his lips caught yours in a clumsy, desperate kiss. His mouth moved frantically, taking advantage of your little, startled gasp to shove his eager tongue in your mouth as his hands impulsively reached for your waist, tugging you closer with possessive certainty. Like he needed to make sure you weren’t just a lovely figment of his abused brain. 

You froze completely, feeling your heart slam painfully against your ribs. And yet, your body gradually turned pliant in his tight hold.

The kiss became more insistent, charged with urgent need. 

You should have stopped him. Should have taken a step back and made a run for the door to shout for his handler to take him away.

But instead, your eyelids fluttered close and your lips tried to keep up with his desperation, one hand cupping his jaw as your thumb brushed his cheekbone. All the caution and the fear dissolved with a stolen, fragile human gesture, sweet in his awkwardness.

You tried to avoid it, you forbade yourself from picturing his handsome features during those cold nights spent alone in your cell. And yet, the more you were forced to take care of the Soldier, the more you grew used to his silent, insistent presence and his constant watch over you during long, lonely hours.

And he, in turn, started to crave your gentleness and the way your pretty eyes would glance up at him with poorly concealed trepidation.

In that moment, the world narrowed to the feel of his rough hands palming your curves and the faint taste of copper on his tongue. The crushed stem rested between your palm and his chest. Something fragile held against something unsteady, caught in hands too tight to tell the difference between keeping and breaking.

Mine, his eyes screamed when you finally pulled away.

Ownership.

And God help you—you let it happen.

The memory shatters as a shrill creak resounds sharply in the room. Your eyes fly to your left, where the Soldier had moved. His metal hand is wrapped around the reinforced handle of the door, plates whirring as he tests it—pulling, twisting, applying calculated force. 

He wants out. He wants you.

“Hey,” you bark, your pulse ringing in your ears as you rush toward the console. “No, Soldier. Stop.”

His head turns just enough to meet your eyes. Then, his lips wrap around your name. Rough. Unused. The sound of it sends a chill down your spine.

“I’m here, I’m fine.” You babble. “You don’t need to come out.”

You can see the moment hesitation crosses his mind in the way his grip weakens for a mere second, before all hell breaks loose.

The Soldier plants his feet too wide, like the floor might slide out from under him, and presses his metal hand to the seam of the door, holding. His fingers curl and uncurl a couple of times, as if deciding how much strength to use. His shoulders begin to shake then, jaw locking hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind through the glass. His breath stutters out of him in short, broken growls, fogging the reinforced pane in front of his face.

“Please.” You beg, barely louder than a breath.

The word hits something already fractured.

His flesh hand slams flat against the door.

The impact booms through the room, a deep, concussive sound that rattles the console and thunders in your ribcage. The door doesn’t give, not immediately, but the frame shrieks in protest.

He hits it again.

This time he doesn’t pull back fully. He leans into it, forehead dropping to the steel, spine bowing as he pushes. The shaking gets worse, travels through him in violent tremors, like his body is overloading, like too much power is trying to flow through the limited space of his veins.

His right arm joins the metal one.

A low, involuntary snarl claws out of his throat, and then he pulls.

Something pops. A hinge shears halfway through with a sharp crack, the sound brief but catastrophic. The door tilts a fraction of an inch, enough that the frame bends, and bolts snap free one after another, pinging across the floor like shrapnel. 

With one final, brutal surge, he rips the door free of its housing. It tears loose with a roar that dies abruptly when the slab of reinforced steel crashes to the floor, denting it. The alarms begin their wail, red lights strobing the room, yet he stands there unbothered, framed by ruin, with the broken door at his feet like a fallen shield. His chest rises and falls like he’s just surfaced from deep water, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides as his gaze finally flicks over you with quick efficiency—hands, throat, face—checking. Cataloging.

If it was someone else, they would have completely missed the subtle way his eyes soften, like tension easing from a drawn wire.

The room is now open. And all that force, all that damage, was only ever aimed at getting to you.

Every instinct you have—doctor, captive, human—screams at you to run when the Soldier takes a step closer.

Your legs don’t listen though, even if your mind supplies you with a thousand terrible endings per minute as he keeps moving stealthily. A predator relishing the sight of his wounded prey before finally indulging in his coveted feast.

At the very beginning, when his anger started pouring out wild and unrestrained, you thought that there would be a moment he’ll turn on you as well. That you were foolish to believe you were different.

Maybe that day has finally come.

The Soldier stops right in front of you. You can see the conflict still raging behind the blue in his eyes, where anger stays coiled tight, barely leashed. He smells like metal, antiseptic and something burned. 

His flesh hand lifts, hesitating, then falls back to his side like he’s afraid of what it might do.

“I need you.” He says hoarsely. A confession.

Your throat tightens. Slowly, you decide to nod. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m here.”

That’s all it takes.

He closes the distance, wrapping his muscled arms around your waist to pull you into his chest. It’s sudden and fierce, but still controlled—tight without crushing, as if holding a fragile possession he doesn’t trust himself to keep intact. His chin drops to your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your neck.

Your hands hover uselessly for a heartbeat, before they uncertainly land on his back, delicately resting on his trembling shoulders. His body shudders at the contact. The storm inside his chest doesn’t dissolve completely, but it quiets, contained by the simple fact of having you in his arms.

Your eyes reluctantly close, an attempt to control your still racing pulse. Fear has braided tightly with a warmer sensation stirring in your belly, you realize horrifically. It’s not a secret that you have always been terrified of him, of what he could do if a wrong word dared to fall from your lips. And yet, here in his hold, standing in a room that resembles more a battlefield littered with steel and dust, you feel safe enough to breathe.

Once your cheek tentatively comes to rest against his chest, your focus narrows on his heartbeat.

It’s still too fast.

The sirens finally cut out one by one, as if even the system knows better than to challenge the Soldier right now.

Your fingers on his back twitch, instinctively curling in the snug fabric of his tactical shirt, before relaxing again. Your body feels divided—half screaming to pull away, half unwilling to test what might happen if you do.

His arms tighten, perceiving your sudden reluctance.

This is wrong, you think. This is all so wrong.

Project Genesis.

The letters keep pulsing behind your eyelids, nauseating in their simplicity. Creation. Beginning. Dr. Keller talked about it as if what they had done, what they had planned, was anything other than abuse dressed up in language that made men like him and Pierce feel important.

Your stomach twists violently.

You stood confused at this console for weeks... months. You obsessed over his vitals, adjusted dosages, charted reactions as you softly reassured him while the others kept barking orders. And all the while, something very specific had been running through his veins.

Something meant to break him.

“I didn’t know.” The words slip out without permission, thin and useless. Your vision blurs at once, tears welling too fast for dignity. You squeeze your eyes shut, but they spill anyway, hot and uncontrollable, soaking the fabric of his shirt.

“I didn’t know,” you sob. “I swear I didn’t—I would have—”

Your voice collapses completely.

The weight of it crashes down on you all at once. Not just the revelation, but everything that came before it. Every order you followed, every time you told yourself this is the only way you could keep him alive. Every moment you chose caution over confrontation.

A stupid, complicit coward—that’s what you are.

Your shoulders begin to shake. Embarrassed, you attempt to hide yourself by curling inward, forehead pressing harder against his pec.

You should have pried more, should have seen it. You’re a doctor, yet you blindly accepted whatever ineffective explanation they fed you.

“I let them do this to you,” you choke. “I let them use you. I was there. I was right there.”

Each sharp, stinging breath feels like a deserved punishment.

“I’m so sorry.” Your voice is feeble, almost inaudible. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The Soldier doesn’t move. For a terrifying second, you think you’ve gone too far, that your collapse has triggered some hidden, trauma response.

Until there is a subtle shift. 

His chin lowers, resting awkwardly on the top of your head, as if not entirely sure he’s doing it right.

“Stop.” The Soldier rasps out, lips briefly touching your temple.

You try, you really do, but the apologies keep flowing like a river in the middle of a storm, tangled and incoherent.

“I didn’t mean to—God, I didn’t—please believe me—”

“Not your fault.”

The words are blunt, stripped of any softness, but they land like a hand braced against your back meant to steady you.

You shake your head violently against his chest. “It is. It has to be. I was part of it, I was part of the—”

“No.” 

No elaboration, no uncertainty.

A weak laugh emerges through the tears, not a single trace of humor in it.

“You don’t understand.”

His next exhale is sharp, tinged with barely contained frustration. One arm loosens enough around your waist for him to pull back, not to release you, but to face you without any obstacles that could make you doubt the meaning behind his words.

You never noticed how piercing his eyes are up close. Almost too aware. 

“You didn’t hurt me. They did.” He continues solemnly. “You fixed my wounds. You talked to me... You stayed.”

“That’s not enough.” You sniffle, lips pressed tightly as they try to hold back an embarrassing sob.

“It is.” He answers at once.

You break again at that. A sound tears out of your chest, raw and forlorn as you throw yourself back into his arms, your face finding its refuge against his chest as your fingers curl around his forearms like an anchor.

“I’m scared of you,” you admit, the truth tasting like blood. “And I hate myself for that too.”

His body stiffens almost imperceptibly.

“I know.” He whispers.

“I thought you would hurt me,” you continue, words spilling faster now that the seal has broken. “At first. Every day, I kept waiting for it, waiting for the moment you’d decide I was like them.”

A broken chuckle bubbles up, humorless. “Maybe I am.”

His arms tense around you. “Never.”

His voice is rough at the edges. “You’re different. Always were.”

Blinking up at him with your vision still swimming with tears, you swallow thickly. “How can you be so sure of that?”

The Soldier hesitates—a pause where language fails him, where concepts don’t line up neatly because of the constant wipings.

“You don’t look at me like… weapon.” He mumbles carefully, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows as they furrow pensively. “You don’t raise your voice. You always ask.”

Your chin trembles dangerously.

“You listen.” He adds. “And you’re kind.” He nods as if stating a fact. “And beautiful.”

The last word is quiet, almost uncertain.

It hits you like a physical blow to your ribs. You had not expected that, not now. The intimacy of it feels treacherous and precious all at once in such a fragile moment.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He confesses suddenly, tension creeping back into his shoulders. His grip tightens again, reflexively. “I didn’t want to… they were asleep.”

The information feels like a bucket of icy water being dumped on your head.

“They wanted me to touch them, and—and do...” The words come out shakily. You swallow thickly once you realize his eyes have never looked so haunted, staring somewhere past you, as if the memory had successfully sucked him back. 

“I don’t want that. I—I refused.” His jaw clenches. “I just want you.”

The words are desperate. Simple. 

Around you, the red lights finally dim as well, until they go completely dark, the automated voice in the corridor announcing containment failure cut off mid-syllable, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence that presses in on your ringing ears.

His arms lock around your waist, metal and flesh equally unyielding, anchoring you back against his torso as his wobbly chin hovers near the crown of your head. Every passing second, his grip tightens imperceptibly, until you are struggling to breath properly.

That’s when you feel it.

The hard press of something against your belly.

Your eyes widen abruptly.

In a last, desperate attempt to put at least a little distance between the two of you, you press your unsteady palm on his right pec, pushing just slightly. The Soldier instantly goes rigid, eyes flicking down to frown at the contact.

“You need to let me go.” You breathe out shakily.

The words are careful, measured. The same way you spoke to him when you adjusted his restraints, or changed a dressing after a particular brutal mission.

“No.” He replies. A single syllable that feels like a final verdict.

Your stomach drops.

“Someone’s going to come.” You swallow, your voice lacking conviction even to your own ears. “They’ll want to secure the area, they’ll... punish you.”

He doesn’t answer.

Minutes pass and the weight of his erection gets more insistent, just like his eyes on yours.

Finally, several footsteps echo somewhere far away, heavy and fast, causing you to perk up at the movement beyond the door—boots, murmured voices, the faint hiss of radios. Relief flares in your chest so intensely it makes you dizzy.

“They’re here.” You whisper, teeth biting the inside of your cheek to maintain your calm front.

His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt, just to remind.

“Stay.”

Then, the voices outside grow clearer.

“… Not worth it.”

“… You saw the damage on the glass...”

“… Calm now.”

Your breath hitches.

A familiar voice cuts through the thick metal door.

“Hold position,” one of the handlers barks. “No further advance.”

A pause.

“But sir—”

“He’s not agitated,” he grits out. “Vitals stabilized the moment she stepped in. You go in there, you change the equation and we are all dead.”

Another voice speaks up, uneasy. “What about the Doctor?”

Silence.

“If the Asset kills her,” the man states flatly. “Then she’s no longer a stabilizing factor. That tells us everything we need to know.”

Your blood turns to ice.

The handler goes on, cruel in his indifference. “She’s a variable, and variables are not meant to last.”

Your lips part but no sound comes out.

The Soldier’s grip shifts, pulling you impossibly closer, his body angling subtly between you and the door, as if protecting you from them.

“You’re safe.” He says.

The way his lips gently close around the lie has you shivering.

Your eyes are imploring as you weakly try to convince him again.

“I need to leave.”

The Soldier exhales sharply from his nostrils.

“No.” 

Both of your palms lie against his chest, pushing, testing. “I have to—”

His arms squeeze once again your waist, this time with enough strength to trap you against his firm body without hurting you. 

Ownership without chaos.

“Mine.” His voice repeats low, eyes glancing down at your lips with a glint dangerously close to panic. “Don’t go.”

The back of your eyes sting with fresh tears.

This is the breaking point you hadn’t let yourself imagine. The certainty of your fate seeps into your bones like cold—cruel and deep—as the minutes drag on and no one intervenes. No door opening, no voice calling your name. No order shouted to stand down.

HYDRA had made its decision.

They had weighed your life against his compliance and found you expendable.

At that point, the fight slowly drains out of you as the truth takes root in your heart, the way your body finally sags in surrender in his arms being interpreted by his fractured mind as acceptance.

“They’re not coming. They won’t help,” you mumble. “Even if you hurt me.”

You almost regret letting those words in the open when the small twinkle of hope dancing in his eyes dims abruptly. You try to hide in dejection, but the Soldier won’t allow that. Carefully, he places a shaky finger under your chin, tenderly lifting it until you are facing him again. His gaze searches yours with disturbing intensity, scanning for distress, for injury... for something he refuses to acknowledge.

“Hurt?”

“No.” You sigh tiredly. You peek at him through your lashes with your lips trembling in fear as your next words come out in a hushed whisper. “But you could.”

Confusion dawns on his handsome face, like the concept doesn’t fit with the way the world works in his head.

“I won’t.” 

Your gaze drifts past his shoulder to the sealed door, to the place where armed men stood listening and chose not to act. Where your life quietly stopped being worth the effort.

Your voice shakes. “Then… if I wanted to leave… would you let me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Both his hands leave a trail of goosebumps as they slide from your hips to your wrists, thumbs pressed into the soft skin there, grounding himself.

“No.” He says with finality. Simple and honest.

His head leans down until his forehead finally meets yours. “I need you.” He repeats softly, as if that justified everything.

His breathing finally slows once he realizes you aren’t trying to pull away anymore. Your body turns pliant in his hold, hopeless and devoid of any belligerency as your eyes flutter shut with exhaustion. Your nerves are stretched thin to the point of numbness, yet your mind keeps screaming at you that you should be terrified.

And you are, to a degree. Some part of you is acutely aware of the danger of being cuddled by a war criminal who could snap your spine with his pinky. The vivid sight of the door falling, the lethal efficiency of his movements, the violence he unleashed on anyone who wasn’t you... they are still too fresh.

But wrapped up in that fear is a feeling you tried to push down for weeks. Something... you should be ashamed of.

Safety.

The Soldier has never hurt you. Not once. Not with his hands, nor with his voice. Even in his worst moments, he always stopped when you spoke, always turned back to the sound of your voice like you were his beacon in the middle of a sea-storm.

You had told yourself, at first, that it was conditioning. Then you tried to convince yourself it had to be pity. How could you not feel for a man stripped of his name, his memories, his choices? Used and discarded by the same people who had stolen your life without an ounce of guilt. It was natural, you reasoned, to feel compassion. To want to be gentle with someone so thoroughly brutalized.

That explanation held, for a while.

But pity didn’t explain the way your breath caught when he stood too close. Or the way you’d begun to notice the lines of his muscles, the quiet intensity whenever his eyes met yours; the strange, restrained grace in the way he moved when he wasn’t being weaponized.

Pity didn’t explain the way your body had responded to the kiss in the medical bay without thought.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

Isolation and trauma pushed a mind desperate to find meaning—or comfort—anywhere it could. You were kidnapped, imprisoned, stripped of agency. Of course you had latched onto the one person who didn’t treat you like an object.

Of course you’d mistaken that for something deeper.

And yet.

You carefully lift your head, truly pausing to study his face. The Soldier is observing you again, always watching, expression unreadable but focused, memorizing the shape of your eyes, and the curve of your lips... as if expecting for his handler to come and shake him awake.

He is beautiful—in a stark, broken way.

That frightens you as well.

Your eyelids flutter close, a lonely tear slipping free despite your best efforts to calm yourself.

Maybe you should have fought harder, screamed for help while he was still trying to break the door. You should have tried to run while you still could. But the ugly, inescapable truth is that the sole idea of being dragged back into HYDRA’s hands is more terrifying than standing here with him.

He is a prisoner, and so are you. You are the same, in that way: both trapped, owned, and reduced to functions. The only difference is that he is dangerous enough to be feared, and you aren’t worth even a spare glance. The Soldier is the only one who has ever made room for your humanity in this hell, even if he does it in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons, with a possessiveness that bleeds into obsession. That doesn’t mean, however, that you want to pursue this feeling. You know deep down in your guts that this bond is too fragile, built on circumstances that can shift without warning. One day, something might break, and you could be on the wrong side of it.

It’s only when his chest moves with a ragged breath that you notice the hard clench of his jaw. Your hand instantly reaches out to gently caress the tense muscle, yet your fingers still when the heat radiating off the solid wall of his chest becomes unbearably abnormal.

“What—” You whisper, the concern for him breaking through despite your despair. “What happened? It’s okay, you’re okay.”

His long locks tickle your skin as he tucks his chin, nose leisurely nuzzling the skin of your cheek, then tracing its way down to the slope of your neck. He stops right where your pulse thunders, inhaling your smell with a hungry grunt. 

Your body locks the moment his tongue takes a slow lick of your skin, a moan vibrating in his ribcage at your taste.

It can’t be—

His metal hand moves before you can elaborate. Big, cold fingers curl bruisingly around your wrists, a yelp falling from your lips as he pins them flat to his chest. His other hand stays heavy on the curve of your waist, flexing and digging into your skin as you squirm without success.

“S—Soldier.” Your voice breaks. “I think—you need to let me go now and—and go back—”

You don’t get the chance to finish, because he is pushing you back against the console, firmly enough to convey who has the upper hand. He towers over you, pining you with his weight against the edge that digs painfully into your back. 

“I need—” He groans against your throat. 

Your desperate attempt to free yourself dies as his tongue invades your mouth. Your fists weakly thump against his chest, but his flesh hand grips your chin with tight precision, forcing you to relax into the animalistic kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lips. His metal arm is unyielding around your torso, keeping you nice and still as his hips jerk forward, humping your covered mound in search of some kind of relief.

“Please, help me, need you, only you please.” He quietly whines against your lips, a mess of spit connecting your lips as he pants in your open mouth.

“Wait—” Your fingers curl against the rough fabric of his shirt. “I don’t—”

You choke on your next words as his hand lands on your thigh, squeezing the flesh hard. 

“We stay quiet.” He commands roughly. “So they don’t hear and—they can’t use you like those women.”

Your gasp is horrified, eyes going wide at the implication. “No!” You whisper-shout, petrified at the possibility of the agents potentially finding out and... 

“Please, please, don’t make me do it!” Your vision soon turns blurry again, and your eyes are hurting so badly. You are so tired of crying. “I can’t—”

The Soldier pulls back just enough to look at you, his hazy eyes reminding you of the ocean abyss as they fall on your lips, lewdly tracing the bare length of your throat until they land on your cleavage, his mouth parted in awe. The possessive hand on your thigh has moved up in the meantime, squeezing the flesh of your ass, his hold turning harsher the more he loses himself in the soft swell of your breasts, until a pitiful whimper catches his attention.

“Soldier, please.” You sob out as tears earnestly fall down your cheeks, your chest caving in at the sight of him, too far gone to comprehend your words.

“I’ll make it feel better, I swear. Just—please, only want you, want you always.”

He fucks you silently, with a primal, desperate urge to possess you. His strength is barely restrained as you desperately cling onto his shoulders. 

At first the Soldier can barely contain himself, narrowly missing your hole as his cock snuggles between your dripping folds. He pants into your mouth, forcing his lips on yours in a ravenous kiss as he indulges in the wet warmth that is your pussy. His hips frantically twitch against yours, dragging his length until it’s sufficiently coated in your slick.

Then, with a growl muffled against your mouth, he slides inside you with a harsh thrust.

You had fantasized about it before, in the dark—about how big he would be, how deliciously his cock could stretch you—until you realized where your mind had wandered, and promptly rolled onto your other side with a loud huff. As if that could be enough to chase those filthy thoughts away. Still, your mind could never prepare you for the fat, veiny girth that breached you after fighting off the compound-induced flames of sexual desire burning bright inside him for who knows how many weeks. There is no warning before his flushed tip catches on your hole; no patience in the way he forces himself inside you.

Your scream is stifled by your hand, your nails digging into the hard flesh of his flesh shoulder as his own groans are hidden against the slope of your neck.

“Mine.” He grunts in your ear, stubble rubbing your smooth skin raw. “Mine, only mine.” He insists, eyes wild and hips thrusting frantically.

You barely say a word. All you can do is take, each thrust giving you the impression that the Soldier is trying his hardest to carve the shape of his cock into your body, over and over again. Sliding in and out so fast and hard his balls slap filthily against your asscheeks, his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping them open for him to use you like his favorite toy.

“Say it.” You cry out a moan once his lips devour yours, your mind traitorously conjuring the image of that clumsy, grumpy man trying to express how much he wanted you back in the med bay.

Your back arches forward when he goes back to lavish your neck with scorching bites and fervent licks, your head limply falling back as his fingers gracelessly move on your clit, rubbing and flicking in a confused yet eager circling motion.

“Say it.” He snarls again.

“Yours!” You sob. “Fuck! Only yours—only you.”

The sheer intensity of your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, causing you to cling precariously onto his broad shoulders. Your body squirms and clenches around him yet the Soldier never slows down. He continues to rut into you furiously, the sounds of his cock slamming into your wet pussy, thrusting without restraint, are obscene. His delirious half-smile conveys a twisted sense of satisfaction at making you come on his cock, proud that he is the only one that will ever make you scream and cry out of pleasure. Because now your body would fucking know who it belongs to. 

Your mouth opens in a soundless scream as the Soldier loses himself in this sick, distorted fantasy, pushing you more firmly against that damn panel.

You mewl and pant and sniffle against your shoulder, sweaty and on the brink of exhaustion, when the little sparks of pleasure still lingering behind soon transform into an uncontrollable fire, until your body is twitching, hit by an even more intense climax. Your pussy squeezes him so tight the Soldier chokes on his own saliva, but you can’t stop spasming around his girth, sucking him deeper as your mind fractures.

You are left breathless, hands barely holding onto his back, and fuck, he needs to come now or you are going to pass out and you cannot allow that. Not when HYDRA could potentially be lingering outside, waiting for the perfect moment to swarm this place once the Soldier calms down.

Your mouth promptly finds his, your hands clutching his cheeks as you share a passionate, hot kiss that finally throws the Soldier over the edge, muffling his pitiful whines against your tongue.

His head spins when your hand shoots down, gently fondling his balls as you drag your lips down to suck on his neck, causing only more cum to spill out. A whimper falls from your lips as the thick fluid fills you unforgivingly, until it becomes too difficult to hold inside, pooling at the edges of your folds and dripping onto the once pristine floor. Your walls pulse with every throb of his cock as his thighs shake, warm ropes of cum still painting your insides relentlessly. A broken moan escapes him at the thought of finally leaving a part of himself in you.

By the time he has finished emptying himself in your pussy, your body is lying drained in his arms. The silence after stretches for a few more seconds, until the Soldier finally breaks it, his nose tracing the damp skin of your neck breathlessly.

“Mine.”

They don’t call it a reassignment.

They call it a logistical adjustment.

You find out while standing in a narrow administrative corridor that smells faintly of printed paper, from a handler who doesn’t even bother looking you in the eyes.

“Given recent containment failures,” she reads from a folder, voice clipped and disinterested. “It has been determined that subject stability increases exponentially with your prolonged presence.”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your white coat. “I’m already his doctor. His only doctor.”

“Yes.” She sighs annoyed. “But you are not always with him.”

The meaning settles like a brick in your throat.

“You’re moving me.” You state, horrified. 

The handler finally glances up, eyes flat. “We are relocating you.”

Your stomach drops.

“To the same unit.” She continues. “Sleeping quarters, monitoring station, medical access—all integrated. You will remain within visual range of the Asset at all times unless otherwise authorized.”

You swallow. “And if I refuse?”

“You won’t.” She doesn’t even blink as her hand flips through the pages with boredom. “The subject becomes unmanageable without you. This arrangement minimizes risk to personnel and infrastructure.”

“What about risk to me?” You grit out.

She gives you a faint, irked exhale. “If the Asset harms you, Doctor, then your presence is no longer stabilizing. In that case, your loss will be… regrettable, but informative.”

You are escorted through corridors you had never been allowed to see before. Darker, silent. Past reinforced doors and biometric locks until you and the two agents reach a unit that feels less like a cell and more like a sealed habitat.

“He’s already inside.”

The door opens and you step in with a shaky exhale.

The room is quite large and anonymous, with padded walls, embedded sensors and a bed—reinforced, stripped of anything that could be turned into a weapon. 

The Soldier is standing in the center of the room, motionless, as if he’s been waiting. He turns the moment the door screeches, eyes immediately locking onto you.

Relief, raw and unmistakable, washes across his face.

“You’re here.” 

“Yes.” You whisper.

The door seals shut behind you with a sense of finality.

You flinch at the sound and that promptly gets him closer to you.

“Safe.” He nods.

You don’t know if the word is meant for you, or for himself.

Your eyes tentatively wander around the cell, taking in the absence of exits and the quiet hum of surveillance under every surface. 

They reduced you to a sedative with a pulse.

You set your bag on the floor slowly, knees shaking a little as you slightly bend down.

“This doesn’t mean…” You start, but don’t even know how to finish that thought.

The Soldier observes you with that same quiet devotion, head tilted sideways and jaw unclenched. His fingers catch your wrist when your hand trembles too hard to hide.

“Stay.”

You sigh. “Yes.” 

Understanding flickers, incomplete but earnest.

“Mine.”

That word should have terrified you. Instead, it wraps around the deep and aching pit in your stomach.

Your free hand comes to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. Up close, you can see the faint dark circles under his eyes, the scar along his cheek from his last mission that still hasn’t properly healed, because that damn compound is still roaring high and bright in his veins to allow the serum to act to its full potential.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t be afraid.” You add, voice barely above a whisper.

The Soldier has never been gentle with the world, but he made sure to carve a warm, comfortable place for you to exist outside of that brutality. And somehow, that terrifies you more than his violence ever has.

His fingers gently squeeze your flesh, slowly bringing your wrist to his lips, as if uncertain of how you would react.

“Mine.” He mumbles against your knuckles.

That’s the final truth you have to face. Not because you are naïve, or foolish, but because in a place that has taken everything from you, he is the only one who has ever chosen you.

Even if that choice comes wrapped in possession. Even if it means you would never truly leave.

Your shoulders sag with a dejected sigh, finally allowing your forehead to rest against his shoulder as the Soldier engulfs you in his arms. 

Two prisoners, standing in the aftermath of a shattered boundary.

Outside, HYDRA recalibrates, adjusts protocols, writes new rules that reduce your existence to an item in a report.

Here, the Winter Soldier reverently watches over the only thing that has ever quieted the static noise in his head.

And you, caught between fear and comfort, between horror and something dangerously close to affection, come to the dreadful realization that this is not a rescue story.

This is containment.

And this time, you are on the inside.