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xoxolaw · 2 months ago

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+ DISCOVER YOUR SECRETS

in which seong-je happens to discover secrets about his school's student council president who happens to have a spotless personality.

Geum Seong-je x reader

secret 5 :- the club

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 final

Whatever was going on between Seong-je and Y/N, it was hard to say. It was just doing things without saying anything. Seong-je was having the most fun he has ever had. And Y/N was deliberately not running away the fire that was approaching her.

At first she genuinely hated him, but that cocky personality of his, complemented hers perfectly. She found him really interesting. For Seong-je it was him who was looking at her from afar, catching her in moments that were only meant for her.

But, he had no idea of the ways Y/N was watching him. She saw him fight, even when he didn't know she was there. She saw him take naps at random places, do things that he found fun. And during the moments when he caught her, she didn't feel annoyed... Rather excited.

---

Seong-je leaned against the shadowed wall of the club, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. He didn’t light it for the buzz tonight. He just needed something to hold onto—something to anchor him while his eyes remained glued to the unlikeliest sight on the dance floor.

Y/N.

The student council president, Kanghak High’s queen of control and composure, stood under the strobes of neon red and violet like she belonged to the night itself. Her hair was down—actually down—and her school blazer long gone. A sleeveless black top clung to her in the low light, revealing the clean, smooth line of her shoulders, and her hips swayed to the beat of a bass-heavy track in a rhythm he had never imagined coming from her. Not even in his wildest, most taunting fantasies.

She didn’t see him yet. That made it better. That made it real.

He watched the way her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if she was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere freer. Every movement was unshackled, instinctive, like she’d let go of a part of herself he’d only caught glimpses of in piano rooms and boxing rings.

And somehow, it hit him harder than any fight he’d ever thrown himself into. Not because she was beautiful—though, damn, she was—but because she was real. Raw. Alive in a way she never let anyone see. This was her final secret, wasn’t it? Her rebellion.

"You just keep getting more impossible," he murmured to himself, lips curling into a grin.

He flicked the cigarette to the ground.

Time to join the chaos.

Y/N didn’t feel the heat of his presence until he was already behind her.

A hand brushed past her lower back, not quite touching but close enough that her body knew before her mind did. When she turned, startled, the breath she’d caught in the drop of the beat slipped right out again.

Geum Seong-je.

Of course.

He wore black windbreaker, his smirk was the same as ever—lazy, sharp, dangerous. His gaze roved over her like he was watching the world burn, and for once, she didn’t flinch away. She let him look. Let him see.

“This,” he said, stepping closer until the words grazed her cheek, his voice a low rasp beneath the music, “is the last place I expected to find you. And yet, here you are.”

Their eyes locked.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her heartbeat pulsed hard beneath her skin, not from the bass that trembled through the floor—but from him. His proximity. His audacity. His knowing grin that barely masked something more volatile underneath.

And then—she smiled. Just a little. Not her practiced one. Not the one she wore at school, tight and rehearsed. This was real. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Are you going to keep standing there like some villain in the shadows,” she said, voice brushing right against his chin, “or are you going to dance?”

Seong-je’s grin widened. His hands were already lifting—one finding her waist, the other lightly wrapping around her wrist. “Was waiting for an invitation, President.”

The beat dropped. The lights shifted—swirls of violet and red casting them in flickers of flame and smoke.

She didn’t pull away.

His palm pressed more fully into the curve of her hip. Her hand slid to his shoulder, fingers brushing the chain around his neck. Their bodies aligned, hips brushing, chests nearly touching. And then they moved.

It wasn’t smooth at first. It wasn’t choreographed or pretty like something out of a movie. It was instinct. Push and pull. A silent dare. He leaned in close; she tilted her chin defiantly. Her breath fanned across his collar; he laughed under his breath.

“You're full of surprises,” he murmured, voice heavy with heat.

“You’re just slow,” she shot back, but the words lost their bite when his hand slid to her back, anchoring her to him as they swayed. Her head tipped back slightly, and the exposed line of her throat shimmered under the lights.

He stared.

This girl—no, this woman in front of him—was not the version he’d built in his head. Not just the icy council president. Not just the perfect student. She was rhythm and rebellion and fire beneath skin, and every second he touched her made him want to dig deeper.

Their thighs brushed. Her fingers curled tighter on his shoulder. The song changed, slower now, deeper, pulling them into a new rhythm.

And then—God, she looked up at him.

Just a glance. But it was all it took.

She leaned down.

Their lips collided mid-motion, teeth brushing, breaths catching. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t planned. It was the kind of kiss that came from waiting too long and feeling too much. A low, rough sound left his throat when her hand tangled in his hair, yanking him closer. She tasted like adrenaline and something impossibly sweet. He chased it.

The dance floor melted away.

The press of their mouths deepened, her lips parting with a breathy sigh, his tongue sliding in—searching, coaxing, claiming. Her body arched into his. He groaned into her mouth, his grip tightening at her waist.

She was burning. So was he.

And yet—somewhere in the haze, Y/N pulled back.

Her lips were swollen, her chest rising and falling fast. Her pupils wide, almost black, locked on his.

“We can’t do this here,” she whispered.

Seong-je’s jaw clenched. He nodded once, wordless. His hand laced through hers—firm, no room for debate—and pulled her through the thrumming crowd. No one tried to stop them. No one could.

They reached the rooftop in silence.

The air was sharp with city wind, the night pressing in thick above them. Lights from passing cars flashed across their faces. Music still pulsed faintly below, but up here, everything felt quieter.

She leaned back against the railing, crossing her arms—not in defense, but tension. Heat still lingered on her skin. Her lips parted, but no words came.

So Seong-je closed the distance.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice rough now, hoarse, “you don’t get to throw a bomb like that and act like nothing happened.”

She didn’t move as he caged her in, palms on either side of the railing behind her. “You were watching me,” she said, almost a laugh. “All this time.”

He smirked. “You looked like a fire I wanted to run straight into.”

“And you did.”

He chuckled. “I always do.”

A beat passed. Their breaths mixed in the cold air.

Y/N’s voice came quiet. “I don't frequent clubs... Today happened to one, and here you are.” She glanced down. “Coming here. Dancing like that. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the only thing that’s mine. That doesn’t have expectations wrapped around it.”

Seong-je’s gaze sharpened.

“I thought it’d bother me more,” he said after a long moment, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “That I didn’t find it first.”

Her breath hitched.

“But seeing you like that…” he continued, dragging his fingers along her jaw, “It’s the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N let her head fall back against the railing. “You only like the chase, Seong-je. The secrets. The surprise of finding out I’m not who everyone thinks I am.”

“Maybe,” he said.

She looked at him—wide-eyed, vulnerable.

“And maybe,” she continued, her voice tightening, “you’ll get bored. Maybe when you finally know everything—when there’s no mystery left—you’ll lose interest. You’ll find the next game.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he surged forward, capturing her mouth again in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was a promise and a challenge all at once.

His hands slid under the hem of her top, fingers splaying across the skin of her lower back, yanking her flush against him. Her legs brushed his; their hips collided. His lips moved over hers like he needed to memorize every inch of her mouth. Her moan slipped between them when his teeth grazed her bottom lip.

“I won’t stop,” he growled against her skin, dragging his mouth down her jaw, her throat. “Not when you look at me like that.”

Y/N gasped as his hands roamed—rough, seeking, needing. She arched into him, clinging to the front of his shirt.

But then—

“Seong-je—wait.”

He froze.

Her palms pressed to his chest. Not pushing him away completely. Just… stopping.

“I want this,” she whispered, searching his face. “But I need to know what it is. What we are.”

He exhaled hard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… is this just fun for you?” she asked. “Like everything else you do? The fighting, the skipping class, the chaos—”

He stared at her.

“—And me?” Her voice cracked. “Am I just another fun distraction?”

He stayed silent for a heartbeat too long.

Her eyes began to dim.

But then—

Seong-je stepped forward and grabbed her face between his palms.

“Y/N,” he said, voice shaking now, “even if I did start this for fun, that stopped the second I saw you look at me like I mattered.”

Her lips parted, but he didn’t let her speak.

“I don’t care how many secrets you’ve got left. You’ll never be unfun to me. Never boring. Never less.” His voice dropped. “Even if you show me everything, even if I know you so well I could draw the map of your soul blindfolded—”

He kissed her again. Hard. Desperate.

“—I’d still want more.”

She melted into him then. The weight of it all crashing between their bodies. She kissed him back like it was the first and last time. Fingers in his hair. His hands under her thighs, lifting her onto the railing. Her knees locked around his waist, anchoring them together.

They kissed until her lips ached, until their breathing turned ragged and every inch of skin buzzed. And just when it teetered on the edge of going further—

She pulled back again. Slowly.

Their foreheads pressed together.

“Not tonight,” she said.

Seong-je nodded. He didn’t protest. His thumb rubbed soft circles against her waist. He could feel her heartbeat beneath her skin, and it matched his own.

Silence lingered.

But it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Full of everything they’d said. Everything they hadn’t. Everything they were still becoming.

---

Whatever it was between Seong-je and Y/N, it had no name.

But in that moment—beneath the stars, with their hearts still racing and mouths bruised from the truth—it didn’t need one.

They had each other. The fun. The chaos. The fire.

And maybe, just maybe, something that would burn long after the thrill was over.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

Damn!! The mini series is over!! I hope everyone reading this enjoyed it! I will be posting this on Wattpad as well ^-^. The username is the same as here. So if you want to check it out, you can <3

And if you want to request something, feel free to do so ^-^

#geum seongje x reader #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #weak hero webtoon

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breederking · 4 months ago

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I was six months pregnant, my belly a proud and round declaration of the life growing inside me. The skin stretched taut, a canvas of blue veins and a hint of the baby's limbs moving beneath. Yet, amidst the anticipation of fatherhood, I was consumed by an unrelenting craving for cock, a hunger that only grew with each passing day. My body a blend of masculine and feminine, my soul unshackled by the confines of biology. Despite the swell of my belly and the fullness of my breasts, the need to feel a man's touch was as much a part of me as the child I carried.

One evening, the ache grew too intense to ignore. I found myself at a local bar, a place where the air had the scent of lust and desperation. The kind of place where men went to satisfy their baser instincts. My eyes scanned the room, searching for the one who would quench my thirst. They settled on a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his gaze a silent promise of the depravity I sought. His eyes traveled over my swollen frame, lingering on my bulging belly, the unmistakable evidence of my feminine anatomy.

He approached, his stride confident and predatory. "You're pregnant," he stated, his voice gruff with a hint of wonder. I nodded, my own hunger clear in my eyes. "And you still want this?" He gestured to the tent in his pants, his cock straining against the fabric. "More than ever," I replied, my voice a seductive purr.

He led me to a backroom, the air thick with the musk of sex. The walls were stained with the sweat and passion of countless trysts, a testament to the depravity that had occurred within. He pushed me against a wall, his hands roughly groping my breasts, kneading the sensitive flesh until I moaned with need. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, eliciting a jolt of pleasure that shot straight to my clit.

With a swift movement, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, releasing his thick, erect cock. It bobbed before me, a beacon of carnality. He grabbed my face and brought it closer, the scent of his arousal making my mouth water. I took him in, feeling his length and girth fill my mouth as my tongue danced around his shaft. The taste of his pre-cum coated my tongue, sending waves of pleasure through my body.

I could feel his cock swell even further as I deep-throated him, my throat muscles working to accommodate his size. His hands tangled in my hair, guiding my movements, setting a rhythm that made my own t-dick throb with envy. My pregnant belly pressed into the wall, providing a delicious counterpoint to the pressure building in my mouth. The man's breath grew ragged, his hips bucking as he fucked my face.

With a grunt, he pulled away, leaving me gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting my mouth to his glistening tip. He bent down as he pulled his pants back up, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss. The taste of him mingled with my own saliva, a heady mix that only served to inflame my desire. His hand slid down to my crotch, cupping my bulging stomach before slipping into my underwear. His fingers found my clit, already swollen and sensitive, and began to rub in tight circles.

I moaned into his mouth, my hips pushing against his hand. His touch was firm, demanding, as if he could feel the pulse of the baby within me and sought to synchronize it with the rhythm of his fingers. I reached down to stroke my clit, feeling the slickness of my own arousal coating my member. The sensation was foreign and exhilarating, a stark reminder of the duality of my body.

He pushed me onto a nearby table, the cold surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my skin. He spread my legs wide, his eyes feasting on the sight of my distended belly button and the plump folds of my cunt. He leaned in, his tongue tracing the outline of my labia before diving deep, tasting me with an eagerness that bordered on worship. I bucked against his mouth, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

His tongue flicked over my clit, teasing and taunting it until I was on the brink of climax. My hands gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white with the effort to remain still. He knew just how to manipulate my body, pushing me to the edge before pulling back, only to start again. Each time, the need grew stronger, the tension coiling tighter in my core.

With a final, forceful flick, I came, my body shuddering with the intensity of the orgasm. He looked up at me, a smug grin playing on his lips. "Ready for more?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. I nodded, unable to speak through the haze of pleasure that clouded my thoughts.

He stood and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a chiseled chest and a trail of hair that led down to his navel. His pants and underwear followed, and he stepped out of them, his erection bobbing with the movement. He was everything I craved, and I needed him inside me, claiming me, marking me as his.

He approached the table, his cock swaying with each step. He didn't bother with foreplay, didn't bother to ease in. Instead, he positioned himself at my entrance and thrust in hard. The sudden intrusion made me gasp, the feeling of being filled so completely almost too much. But I was wet, so wet for him, and my body stretched to accommodate his girth. His hips slammed into mine, the sound of our flesh colliding echoing through the room.

The man didn't hold back, pounding into me like a jackhammer. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through my body, making me arch off the table. The sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my tight cunt was exquisite, the friction against my swollen clit driving me wild. My belly bounced with each impact, the baby inside me a silent participant in our depraved dance.

I could feel the walls of my pussy stretch around him, the added pressure from my pregnancy making the sensation even more intense. His balls slapped against my ass, leaving a warm, wet trail as he fucked me mercilessly. My clit was rock-hard, bulging from between my thighs, dripping a mix of my juices and his precum onto the table beneath me.

My breasts, heavy with milk, bounced in time with his thrusts, the sensation of his chest hair brushing against my sensitive nipples sending waves of pleasure crashing over me. I reached to pinch them, rolling the tips between my fingers, the pain a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure. He took one in his mouth, sucking and biting as he continued to fuck me, his teeth grazing my sensitive flesh.

My moans grew louder, my body no longer my own, a mere vessel for the carnality that consumed me. His cock pistoned in and out, the friction of our bodies a symphony of raw, unbridled passion. His hands roamed my belly, feeling the baby's movements beneath his touch, the alien sensation only fueling his lust. He leaned in, his breath hot against my neck, and whispered, "You're so fucking tight. Do you like how I'm stretching you?"

I nodded, unable to form words through the delirium of pleasure. Each stroke inside me seemed to resonate with the life within, the baby's kicks synchronizing with the rhythm of his thrusts. The man groaned, his grip tightening as he quickened his pace. The sound of our flesh slapping together filled the room, a testament to the intensity of our union.

The man's cock felt like it was splitting me in two, reaching depths I never knew existed. His balls slapped against my ass cheeks, a stinging reminder of his virility. I could feel his shaft pulse, growing thicker as he approached climax. My own arousal mounted, my body desperate for release.

He grabbed my hips, pulling me closer, his strokes growing erratic. His eyes locked onto my belly, watching the bump's movements with a mix of fascination and hunger. I felt his cock swell, his breathing ragged as he reached the peak of his pleasure. With a roar, he emptied himself inside me, his cum mixing with the slickness already coating my walls.

The feeling of his hot seed filling me was almost too much. My orgasm crested, my cunt clenching around his shaft in spasms as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. He didn't stop, instead riding out his own climax until he was spent, his cock still twitching within me. He leaned over, his weight pressing down on my swollen abdomen, his chest heaving with exertion.

For a moment, we stayed like that, our breath mingling in the stillness. Then, with a grin that was almost boyish in its wickedness, he pulled out, leaving me gaping and dripping with his cum. "Fuck, that was good," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. I could only nod, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of our coupling.

He reached for a bottle of water on the floor, offering it to me. I took it gratefully, my throat parched from the exertion. As I drank, he traced a finger through the cum that leaked from my pussy, watching it run down my thigh with a look of fascination. "You're so hot," he said, his voice filled with awe. "Your body... it's a fucking work of art."

I set the bottle down and looked up at him, my eyes smoldering with lust. "You want more?" I asked, my voice a whisper. He nodded, his eyes never leaving my cunt. "Always," he replied, his hand moving to stroke his semi-hard cock back to life.

My belly was a testament to the life I carried, and yet here I was, spread open and vulnerable before a stranger, my body used for his pleasure. But it wasn't just about the baby; it was about me, about the person I was before the pregnancy, the cravings that had been buried under layers of societal norms and expectations. I needed this, the raw, primal connection, the feeling of being desired in spite of, or perhaps because of, the changes in my body.

The man took a step back, admiring the mess he'd made of me. The head of his cock was still glistening with my juices, and the sight of it made me want to beg for more. But I remained silent, my eyes locked with his, challenging him to take me again. And he did. He didn't bother with foreplay, his cock sliding back into me with ease. I gasped as he filled me up, his thickness stretching my walls even further.

This time, he fucked me standing, his hands gripping my hips so tightly that I knew I'd have bruises tomorrow. Each thrust was punishing, pushing the air from my lungs and making me cry out. My belly was a constant reminder of the baby, jiggling with each pound of his hips. His cock hit my cervix, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure through me. I held onto his forearms, my nails digging into his skin, as he fucked me like a wild animal in heat.

My cries grew louder, a mix of pain and pleasure, as his cock hammered into me. He didn't care if anyone heard us, didn't care if the whole bar knew what was happening in the backroom. All that mattered was his release, his claiming of my pregnant body. I could feel the baby moving, a strange dance in response to the rhythm of our fucking.

The man leaned in, his teeth grazing my neck as he whispered filthy things in my ear. "You're so tight, so fucking tight," he groaned. "You like it, don't you?" I nodded, unable to deny it. The pain was a heady aphrodisiac, heightening every sensation. His hands moved to my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples until tears welled in my eyes. The pain was exquisite, a sharp contrast to the fullness of his cock inside me.

He picked up the pace, his movements more erratic now, his breathing ragged with lust. I could feel the beginnings of another orgasm building, my cunt clenching around him, begging for more. His hips slammed into my pelvis, the impact sending ripples of sensation through my swollen stomach. The baby kicked, a silent protest to the rough treatment, but the pleasure was too intense to stop.

The room was a blur, the only things in focus the man's cock and the pain it brought. He was relentless, his thrusts growing more violent with each passing moment. My legs began to shake, my knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his lust. But I held on, my body craving the brutal pleasure he gave me.

My orgasm hit like a freight train, tearing through me with a force that made me scream. The man's grip tightened on my hips, holding me in place as he fucked me through it. My cunt spasmed around him, the muscles milking his cock for every drop of cum he had. And when it came, it was a flood, filling me so completely that I thought I might burst.

He pulled out, his cum leaking from my overstretched pussy and down my thighs. He stumbled back, panting heavily, his cock still hard and dripping. "Fuck," he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of amazement and satisfaction. "That was..." He didn't finish the sentence, just shook his head, his eyes never leaving my cum-covered body.

I slid off the table, my legs shaking as I tried to stand. He handed me a towel, his eyes never leaving my stomach, which was now smeared with our combined fluids. I wiped myself down, the fabric rough against my sensitive skin. He zipped up his pants, tucking his still semi-hard cock away with a satisfied smile.

We didn't exchange names, didn't bother with the pleasantries of a normal encounter. This was about raw, primal need, and we'd both gotten what we wanted. I pulled on my own clothes, my pants sticky with cum and sweat, and adjusted my bra to accommodate my sore, milk-filled breasts.

As we left the backroom, the music from the bar seemed to swallow us whole. We parted ways without a word, our eyes meeting for a brief moment, a silent understanding passing between us. I was his pregnant slut for the night, and he'd given me exactly what I needed. The craving was sated, for now. But I knew it would return, as insatiable as ever.

The man disappeared into the crowd, and I made my way to the bathroom, the stickiness between my legs a reminder of what had just occurred. I cleaned up as best as I could, the damp towels doing little to soothe my aching cunt. My breasts felt heavy and full, the need to be touched and emptied almost unbearable. The sight of my reflection in the mirror was a jarring reminder of my pregnant state, my stomach protruding and my t-dick a sad, limp mess against my thigh.

I returned to the bar, the hunger for cock gnawing at me once again. It was as if each encounter only fed the beast, making it grow more ravenous. I approached the bar, the bartender eyeing me with a knowing smirk. He'd seen it all before, the pregnant men who frequented this place, searching for a temporary escape from their reality.

The night grew late, and the bar's patrons grew more desperate. A burly man caught my eye, his gaze lingering on my belly. He approached, his hands reaching out to touch my stomach without permission. His rough fingers traced the outline of the baby bump, sending a shiver down my spine.

"You want another round?" he asked, his voice gruff. I nodded, my eyes never leaving his. The air between us crackled with electricity, and I knew what he really wanted to ask. "How about we go somewhere more private?" His hand slid lower, cupping my ass, the pressure of his fingers making me gasp.

We stumbled into an empty booth, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that was more about possession than passion. His hand moved to my zipper, roughly pulling it down, exposing my swollen cock. He took it in his hand, stroking it with a fervor that left me breathless. His other hand found my breast, squeezing the milk-filled mound until I whimpered.

Without warning, he bent me over the table, the wood digging into my stomach. His cock slammed into me from behind, no pretense of gentle introduction. The pain was instant and intense, a stark contrast to the velvety warmth of his shaft. I reached down to hold onto the edge, my knuckles turning white with the effort to keep from screaming.

He didn't hold back, his hips pumping into me with a force that made me see stars. Each thrust sent a bolt of pain through my abdomen, making me aware of the baby's presence in the most primal way. Yet, the pain was a strange kind of ecstasy, a reminder that even in this moment of raw, animalistic need, I was still capable of carrying life.

The man's grunts grew louder, his breath hot against my neck. He reached around, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to make the world spin. The pressure was terrifying and exhilarating, a heady mix that had my cock straining against the fabric of my underwear. His other hand found my clit, his thumb pressing down hard.

My body began to shake, the orgasm ripping through me like a tornado. I could feel the baby's movements, a silent protest against the rough treatment, but the pleasure was too much to ignore. The man's grip on my throat tightened, cutting off my air supply, until everything went black.

When I came to, he was still fucking me, his pace unrelenting. I gasped for air, my vision swimming as the oxygen returned to my brain. The edge of the table was biting into my belly, but the pain only served to fuel my climax. He didn't stop, his hand moving to my hip to steady himself as he pounded into me.

My moans grew louder, my body no longer my own as he claimed me. His cock was a steel rod, his balls slapping against my ass with every thrust. I could feel my orgasm building again, the pressure in my cunt almost unbearable.

With a final, brutal thrust, he came, filling me with his hot cum. He pulled out, leaving me panting and trembling, my legs barely holding me upright. He wiped his cock on my thigh, a gesture that was both degrading and strangely satisfying.

He leaned in, whispering in my ear, "You're a good breeding bitch," before disappearing back into the shadows of the bar. The insult stung, but the truth of his words sent a shiver down my spine. My pregnant body was a playground for these men, and I reveled in it, craving the feeling of being used and desired.

Another night passed, and the cravings grew stronger. My belly was now a beacon of temptation, a round and ripe fruit yearning to be plucked. I found myself in the alley behind the bar, a man's rough hands pushing me against the brick wall. His breath reeked of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, but I didn't care. I needed his cock.

He pulled down my pants, exposing my swollen cunt to the cool night air. He groaned at the sight of it, his eyes glued to the glistening wetness that had leaked out during our encounter. "You're fucking soaking," he murmured, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. He didn't bother with foreplay, instead plunging two fingers inside me, stretching me open for what was to come.

His thumb circled my clit, the pressure building until I was bucking against his hand, begging for more. He chuckled, a dark and sinister sound that made my skin crawl with anticipation. "You want it, don't you?" he growled. I nodded, unable to form coherent words. He pulled his hand away, leaving me panting and desperate.

Without warning, he shoved his cock into me, his girth splitting me in two. The pain was intense, a knife slicing through me, but I pushed back, eager for the feeling of being filled. He grabbed my hips, his nails digging into my flesh as he fucked me with a ferocity that bordered on violence.

My belly pressed against the wall with each thrust, the sound of claps echoing through the alley. The stench of piss and trash mixed with the scent of sex, a potent aroma that only heightened my arousal. His cock hit my g-spot, making me see stars, my cunt clenching around him in a silent plea for more.

The man's grunts grew louder, his grip on my hips tightening until I knew I'd have bruises. But the pain only served to make me wetter, my body betraying my mind with its insatiable need. His cock grew slick with my juices, sliding in and out with ease. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass, the promise of his release imminent.

He reached around, his hand wrapping around my throat once again, squeezing until my vision blurred. I clawed at his arm, my lungs burning for air, my cunt pulsing around his shaft. He didn't let up, the pressure on my neck increasing until I was sure I'd pass out.

And then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the alley, he came. His cum shot deep inside me, the force of his orgasm making me shiver with pleasure. He released my neck, his breathing ragged and his eyes wild with lust.

I slumped against the wall, my legs giving out beneath me. He zipped up his pants and left without a word, leaving me to wipe myself clean with a discarded napkin. The cum leaked out of me, a warm and sticky reminder of the encounter.

Days turned into weeks, and my belly grew larger, a testament to the life within me. Yet, the cravings didn't abate. If anything, they grew stronger. Each encounter was more depraved than the last, my body a canvas for their lust.

One night, I found myself in a hotel room, the walls papered with scenes of past conquests. The man who'd brought me here was older, his cock thick and veiny. He looked at my stomach with a hunger that made me feel like a piece of meat.

He pushed me onto the bed, his mouth moving to my breasts. He suckled at my nipples, drawing them out into hard peaks. The sensation was exquisite, the pain sending bolts of pleasure to my clit. His hand moved down to my stomach, his palm flat against the firmness of my abdomen.

"You're going to make a fine daddy," he murmured, his voice thick with lust, his hand caressing my swollen stomach with surprising tenderness. I moaned, the mix of pleasure and pain making my head swim. He was right; I was going to be a daddy, but for now, all I could focus on was the cock in front of me.

He climbed onto the bed, his knees straddling my thighs. His cock hovered above my gaping pussy, the tip glistening with precum. He reached down, his fingers sliding into my wetness, and I arched my back, begging for him to fill me. He took his time, teasing my entrance, my cunt clenching in anticipation.

With a groan, he pushed inside, his thickness stretching me further than I thought possible. The head of his cock nudged my cervix, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. He didn't stop, instead, he leaned forward, his weight pressing down on my belly as he began to fuck me in earnest. The bed creaked with the force of his thrusts, the headboard slamming into the wall.

My milk-filled breasts bounced with each pound of his hips, the pain in my nipples a delicious agony. I reached up, pinching them hard, the pain sending sparks of pleasure shooting down to my clit. He watched me, his eyes never leaving my face, his own need reflected in the depths of his gaze.

He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "You like it when I fuck you hard, don't you, baby?" I could only nod, my voice lost in the symphony of our bodies. He chuckled, his hips picking up the pace. "That's what I thought."

The room grew hazy, the only things in focus his cock and the pain it brought. My orgasm built, a crescendo of sensation that washed over me like a tidal wave. I screamed, my cunt spasming around him as he continued to pound into me.

The man didn't let up, his strokes growing more erratic as he approached his own climax. His grip on my hips tightened, his knuckles white with effort. His cock grew thicker, his balls slapping against my ass with each thrust.

With a roar, he came, his cum flooding my cunt. The warmth of his seed spread through me, mixing with the slickness of my arousal. He collapsed onto me, his weight a comforting pressure against my swollen belly.

For a moment, we lay there, our bodies entwined, our breaths mingling in the stillness of the room. Then, he rolled off, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He leaned over, his cock still hard, and kissed me softly. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with something close to reverence.

I watched him dress, his eyes never leaving my body. "You're beautiful," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "So fucking beautiful." And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sticky evidence of our encounter.

The weeks grew into a blur of men and cocks, each encounter more intense than the last. I didn't care about names or faces, only the feeling of being used, of being filled. My body was a temple to their desires, and I reveled in every moment of it.

My breasts grew larger, the skin tight and sensitive. I'd sit in the bar, my shirt open just enough to reveal the swollen mounds, watching as men's eyes would follow me, hungry. They knew what I offered, and I gave it willingly.

One night, a group approached me, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that was almost feral. They didn't bother with words, simply led me into the back, one hand on my belly, the other on my ass. They were rough, their touch almost cruel, but it was what I needed.

They took turns, one fucking me while the others watched, their cocks in their hands, stroking themselves to the sight of my distended stomach and the cunt that swallowed them whole. The pain was exquisite, each thrust sending me closer to the edge.

My orgasms came in waves, one after the other, my body no longer my own. They used me, their hands and mouths everywhere, their cocks a blur as they claimed me over and over. Each time one pulled out, another took his place, the rhythm never faltering. My cunt was a mess, stretched and swollen, leaking cum and juices onto the sticky floor.

Their grunts and groans filled my ears, a symphony of lust that drowned out any semblance of reality. The pain was a constant companion, a reminder that I was alive, that I was desired. Their fingers dug into my flesh, leaving bruises that would bloom like dark flowers on my skin. Yet, the pain was a siren's song, drawing me deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

My stomach was a battleground, each thrust pushing against the baby, sending it into a frenzied dance of protest. I could feel the pressure building, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to tear me apart. And still, they didn't stop, their hips pistoning into me with a fervor that bordered on obsession.

One man reached around, his fingers finding my clit. He pinched and rolled it, the sensation so intense it brought tears to my eyes. I was a ragdoll in their hands, my body moving as they willed it, my cunt clenching around their shafts like a vice. They talked to each other, their voices low and guttural, sharing my moans and whimpers as if they were a delicacy to be savored.

My climax was a thing of beauty, a supernova that exploded through me, leaving me a trembling mess on the floor. They continued, their cocks still hard, their eyes never leaving my bulging belly. The sight of my pregnancy seemed to drive them to greater heights of lust, their strokes growing more punishing as they approached their own releases.

When the last man finally came, his cum spurting inside me with a finality that left me feeling both satisfied and empty, they all stepped back, panting and sweating. They zipped up their pants, their gazes lingering on my naked form, their seed dripping from my body like a lewd necklace.

I lay there, spent and used, my legs splayed wide, my belly a testament to the life growing within me. They offered me money, a silent acknowledgment of the transaction that had just occurred. I took it, my hand trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure.

They left, and I was alone once again, the echoes of their grunts still ringing in my ears. I sat up, the sticky mess of cum and juices clinging to my skin. The taste of them was still in my mouth, a reminder of my depravity.

My belly was a constant presence, a reminder that I was different, that I was desired in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The cravings had become a part of me, a second heartbeat that I couldn't ignore.

In the dim light of the bar, I pulled on my clothes, the fabric clinging to my sticky skin. The bartender offered me a towel, his gaze knowing and compassionate. He'd seen it all before, the pregnant men and women who sought refuge here, their bodies a canvas for the desires of those who craved something more primal.

I cleaned up as best as I could, my movements mechanical. My stomach grumbled, a reminder that I needed food, that there was more to life than just sex. But as soon as the thought entered my mind, it was replaced by the insatiable hunger for more.

I stood, my legs wobbly, and made my way back to the bar. The night was still young, and my body craved the touch of another man, the feel of his cock filling me up, claiming me. The cravings were a monster, a beast that demanded to be fed, and I was its willing prey.

As the weeks turned into months, my belly grew larger, the baby inside me a silent witness to the debauchery that had become my life. Each encounter was more intense, each orgasm a step closer to the edge of sanity.

The men grew bolder, their hands and mouths more insistent, as if the very sight of my swollen stomach was a challenge they had to conquer. They took me in every position, every hole, their lust a mirror to the cravings that consumed me.

One night, a burly man with a beard that tickled my clit took me from behind, his hands splayed across my belly, feeling the baby move with every thrust. He was gentle, his strokes deep and slow, as if he were afraid to harm the life within me. Yet, the very act was a declaration of his dominance, his cock claiming me even as I grew larger with someone else's child.

I watched in the mirror as he fucked me, his eyes never leaving the reflection of my distended stomach. It was mesmerizing, the way his cock slid in and out, the way my belly rippled with each movement. The baby kicked, a silent protest to the intrusion, but I could feel its life force pulsing with the rhythm of our fucking.

Another night, a slender man with piercing eyes took his time, his cock sliding into me with an ease that made me moan. He was meticulous, his fingers tracing the veins in my throbbing clit as if he were playing a delicate instrument. His mouth moved to my breasts, his teeth grazing my nipples, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body.

He whispered sweet nothings, his breath hot against my skin, telling me how beautiful I was, how much he craved me. His words were a balm to my soul, a validation of my identity as a man even as my body bore the marks of my feminine past. His cock hit all the right spots, making me forget everything but the need for more.

My belly was a landscape unto itself, a map of desire that these men explored with reckless abandon. Each touch, each kiss, each bite of pain, brought me closer to the edge, the tension coiling in my core until I could take no more.

The first man was tall and lean, his cock long and thick. He took me from behind, his hands gripping my hips as he thrust into me, his hips slapping against my ass with a rhythm that was almost musical. The second man, shorter but equally well-endowed, knelt before me, his cock in my mouth. His taste was a heady mix of salt and musk, his girth stretching my jaw until I could feel the ache in my cheeks.

Their hands roamed my swollen body, caressing my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, as if they couldn't get enough of the softness that pregnancy had brought. The man behind me reached around, his fingers finding my clit, and I moaned around the cock in my mouth, my cunt clenching around his shaft.

Their cocks moved in sync, filling me in a way that was almost too much to bear. The sensation of being so completely claimed, so utterly consumed, was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Each stroke inside me sent waves of pleasure crashing through my body, the pressure building until I thought I'd shatter.

They switched places, the shorter man now behind me, his cock sliding into my wet cunt with a groan that vibrated through my bones. His movements were quick and erratic, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered obscenities into my ear. The tall man took his place before me, his cock now a delicious treat to feast on.

Their hands moved to my stomach, pressing down, their fingers sinking into the soft flesh as if trying to reach the life within. The baby kicked, a silent participant in this carnival of lust, and the men only grew more excited, their eyes never leaving the swell of my belly.

My moans grew louder, the sound echoing off the walls of the tiny room. They took turns fucking me, one after the other, their cum mixing with my juices, creating a sticky mess that coated my skin. My orgasms were a blur, one seamlessly blending into the next, each more intense than the last.

My breasts, heavy with milk, bounced with the force of their thrusts, the pain from the nipple clamps a constant reminder of the power dynamic at play. They took turns, one fucking my ass while the other pounded my cunt, the pressure from both sides making me feel like I'd split in two.

Their grunts and groans filled the air, a symphony of lust that seemed to crescendo with every beat of my racing heart. The bed was a sea of sweat and cum, our bodies slick and sticky with the evidence of our depravity.

The men didn't speak, their communication reduced to the primal sounds of sex, the slap of flesh against flesh, the wet sounds of penetration. Their eyes never left my stomach, their strokes growing more forceful as if trying to claim the baby growing within me.

As they fucked me, I could feel the baby move, a silent protest to the rough treatment. Yet the sensation only heightened my pleasure, the pain a delicious counterpoint to the ecstasy that washed over me.

Their cocks grew slick with our combined fluids, sliding in and out of me with an ease that was almost terrifying. The pressure was unbearable, and yet, I didn't want it to stop. I craved the feeling of being used, of being nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure.

My cunt was stretched to the brink, my ass still sore from the previous night's encounters. Yet, I took them both, my body begging for more, my mind lost to the haze of desire. They were rough, their movements almost violent, but it was what I needed, what I craved.

Their climaxes were explosive, their cum spurting into me, filling me up until I was sure I'd drown. The sensation was overwhelming, the warmth of their seed sending me spiraling into another orgasm, my cunt clenching around them like a fist.

When it was over, when the last man had pulled out and zipped up his pants, leaving me a trembling, sticky mess on the bed, I lay there, panting. My belly was a battleground, a testament to the men who had claimed me. The baby kicked, a reminder that this wasn't just about my own pleasure, but something far more primal.

My cunt throbbed, raw and swollen from the abuse, but the pain was a sweet agony that I welcomed. Each pulse was a reminder of the life inside me, of the power that surged through my veins. The men had left, their footsteps fading down the hall, but their essence lingered on my skin, a scent that was both intoxicating and repulsive.

I rolled over, my swollen breasts aching for attention. The milk was there, a constant presence that I both loved and hated. It was a reminder of my biological truth, a truth that seemed to fuel the men's desires even more. I cupped them in my hands, the flesh spilling over, the nipples tight and sensitive.

I played with them, my fingertips tracing the areola, the nubs growing harder with each pass. The pain was a delicious ache, a reminder that I was alive, that I was still a man, despite the changes my body had undergone. The cravings grew stronger with each passing day, the need for cock an insatiable hunger that I couldn't ignore.

I made my way to my bathroom, the residual stickiness of men's cum a constant reminder of my transgressions. The shower was a blast of cold water, a desperate attempt to wash away the evidence of my depravity. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, the scent of sex clung to me, a fragrant brand that seemed to attract more men.

My stomach was a tight, swollen globe, the skin stretched to the breaking point. I watched in fascination as my hand passed over it, the baby's movements a silent ballet beneath the surface. The sight of it, so vulnerable and yet so powerful, made me feel both invincible and utterly exposed.

The mirror reflected my swollen breasts, my nipples dark and erect, begging to be sucked and bitten. The rest of me was a mess, my stomach striped with bruises from eager hands, my thighs sticky with cum. Yet, there was a beauty in it, a raw, sexual power that was undeniable.

I stepped out of the shower, the towel a rough caress against my sensitive skin. My cunt was still open, the muscles stretched and tender. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand moving to my clit, the need for release a constant throb.

As I touched myself, the memories of the night's encounters played out in my mind, a pornographic reel of grunts and sweat, of cocks and cum. Each stroke brought me closer to the edge, the tension coiling in my belly, a silent scream for more.

My hand moved to my t-dick It was a sad, lonely little thing, lost amidst the swell of my stomach, but it was mine, a part of me that hadn't changed despite everything else. I stroked it, feeling the familiar ache of desire, the need for release that seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment.

My orgasm was a quiet thing, a tremor that rolled through me like a wave. My cunt clenched, a silent echo of the men who had filled me, and I came with a whimper, my seed spattering onto the floor. It was a pitiful release, a mere shadow of the ecstasy that came from being claimed by another.

But it was enough for now, a temporary salve to the ravenous beast that lived within me. I dressed, my movements slow and deliberate, the fabric of my clothes sticking to my damp skin. The cravings were never truly sated, always lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.

The bar called to me, the neon lights a beacon in the night. It was my sanctuary, my playground, a place where I could be who I truly was without judgment or fear. The men would be there, their eyes hungry for the sight of my pregnant belly, their cocks eager to claim me.

And I would let them, eagerly, willingly. Because in the end, it wasn't just about the sex; it was about the power, the control, the raw, animalistic need to be claimed. It was about proving to the world, and to myself, that I was still a man, still desirable, still able to give and receive pleasure in the most primal of ways.

My belly had become a playground for the men who sought me out, a canvas for their lust. They'd touch it with reverence, their hands tracing the outline of the baby, their eyes glazed with desire. They'd whisper sweet nothings, telling me how much they wanted me, how my pregnancy only made me hotter. And I'd let them, because it was what I needed, what I craved.

The cravings had grown more intense, more demanding. I could feel the baby's movements, a constant reminder of the life within me. Yet, with each touch, each stroke of a cock, each mouthful of cum, I felt more alive than I had in months. My body was no longer my own, but a vessel for their pleasure, and I reveled in it.

One night, a man took me to the alley behind the bar, his eyes never leaving my stomach. He fucked me there, in the dirt and grime, his cock pounding into me with a brutality that was almost too much to bear. And yet, I begged for more, my cunt clenching around him, desperate to feel every inch.

He was rough, his hands leaving bruises on my swollen flesh, his teeth marks on my nipples a reminder of his claim. His cum spurted inside me, mixing with the baby's amniotic fluid, a strange and twisted communion that only served to heighten the intensity of the moment.

My orgasms grew more frequent, more powerful, my body a tightly wound coil of need. The men took notice, their lust for me growing with each passing day. They'd line up outside my door, their eyes hungry, their cocks hard. They knew what I had to offer, knew what I needed.

In the final weeks, my belly was a monstrous thing, a swollen mass that dominated every aspect of my existence. The pain was a constant companion, a reminder of the life I carried, the life that would soon be torn from me in a bloody, screaming mess.

Yet, even in the throes of pain, the cravings remained. I'd take them in every position imaginable, my body a ragdoll for their use. They'd fuck me until I couldn't walk, until I couldn't think, until all that was left was the pounding of their hips and the feel of their cocks inside me.

My breasts had grown even larger, the milk a constant torrent that spilled over with each squeeze. They'd suckle me, their teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, the pain only adding to the pleasure. And as they emptied me, I could feel the baby move, a silent protest to the men who used me so.

Practice contractions began, a slow, steady march toward the inevitable. I knew the time was near, the moment when my body would no longer be my own. Yet, even as the pain grew, the cravings didn't wane. I sought out one final encounter, my belly so large I could barely see my toes.

He was older, his cock thick and veiny, his eyes filled with a hunger that was almost frightening. He took me in the bar's stockroom, his hands gentle on my swollen flesh. He whispered sweet nothings, his touch tender, almost loving. And for a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe that this could be more than just a transaction.

He fucked me slowly, his strokes measured, as if he were afraid of breaking me. Yet, the pain was a welcome reprieve from the contractions that gripped me, the pleasure a balm to the fear that was slowly building. His cock hit my cervix, and I screamed, the pain and pleasure melding into one, unbearable sensation.

His cum filled me, a warm, sticky mess that only added to the discomfort. But as he pulled out, his seed leaked from my cunt, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction, a knowing that this was the end of an era.

My belly was tight and round, a symbol of the life I'd soon be bringing into the world. Yet, even in my final month, the cravings didn't relent. If anything, they'd grown more intense, my body demanding release with a fervor that bordered on madness.

I stumbled through the last weeks, my hips waddling with each step. The men who sought me out were more aggressive now, their hunger for my pregnant body a palpable force. They'd take me in the back of their cars, in alleys, anywhere they could get me alone.

One night, as the first real contractions began to squeeze my abdomen, I found myself in a grimy motel room with a man who was all too eager to indulge my needs. He took me on the bed, his cock thick and greedy, his eyes never leaving my stomach.

He whispered sweet nothings, his hands gentle on my swollen breasts, his mouth worshiping my stretched nipples. The pain was a delicious ache, the pressure from the contractions melding with the pleasure of his touch.

He slid into me, slow and easy, his eyes locked with mine. The head of his cock nudged against the baby, and I gasped, the sensation foreign and terrifying. Yet, my body responded, my cunt clenching around him, begging for more.

The contractions grew stronger, the pain stealing my breath. But he didn't stop, his thrusts growing more urgent, his eyes never leaving my stomach. With each push, he claimed me, owned me, marked me as his.

The room grew hazy, the pain a crescendo that seemed to consume me. My cunt was a vice around his cock, the baby moving in response to the pressure, a silent dance of life and lust.

He came with a roar, his seed flooding my womb, mingling with the baby's impending arrival. And as the final spasms of his orgasm rocked through him, my water broke, a gush of fluid that soaked the bed beneath us.

The contractions grew closer, the pain a living, breathing entity that consumed my thoughts. Yet, even as I writhed in agony, the cravings remained, a constant throb that demanded to be satisfied.

I begged him to fuck me harder, the pain a strange counterpoint to the contractions that ravaged my body. He obliged, his strokes growing more forceful, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he claimed me once more.

The room spun, the pain a red haze that consumed everything. Yet, amidst the chaos, I felt a strange peace, a knowing that this was the culmination of my desires, the ultimate claiming of my pregnant body.

As the man pulled out, his cum spilling from my cunt, I knew that my time was almost up. The baby was coming soon, and with it, a new chapter in my life, one that would leave these nights behind.

But for now, all that mattered was the here and now, the feel of a cock inside me, the power of being desired, even as my body betrayed me. I reached down, my hand finding my clit, the need for release a siren's call that I couldn't ignore.

With each contraction, I masturbated, my body shaking with the effort. The pleasure grew, a crescendo that seemed to mirror the pain, until I was lost in a sea of sensation. My orgasm was a scream, a desperate, animalistic cry that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

And as the waves of pleasure subsided, the pain grew more intense, the baby's head crowning, pushing against the walls of my cunt. The man looked on, his eyes wide with shock, his cock still hard, still eager for more.

But it was time, the moment of truth approaching, and I knew that this was the end. I pushed him away, the need for him gone, replaced by the primal urge to give birth.

The story of my pregnancy, of the men who claimed me, of the cravings that ruled me, was almost over. Yet, as the baby made its way into the world, I couldn't help but wonder if the hunger would ever truly be sated, if the cravings would ever truly leave me.

#ftm pregnancy #story #trans pregnancy

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shortnspidey · 4 months ago

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CHAPTER FOUR: UNSHACKLED

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 4K

SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes, caught in a political storm and haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, battles internal guilt and fragmented memories while finding solace in someone who sees beyond his trauma, intensifying his struggle between seeking connection and fearing the harm he might cause.

WARNINGS: Talks of past trauma, minor injuries, tiny bit of fluff, long overdue hurt-comfort

A/N: How are we feeling with all the Thunderbolts/Doomsday announcements?! I’m so excited!! Now without further ado, here's the next chapter! Hope you guys enjoy! <3

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Upon hearing the faint, rhythmic beeping of medical monitors, your eyelids fluttered open slowly, the light too harsh against the blurry haze in your vision. Your body screamed in protest, aching like every muscle and bone was protesting being awake. Despite the pain, you pushed through the fog, using every ounce of strength to prop yourself up on what felt like an unfamiliar cot.

The effort was too much, bad idea!

Almost immediately, the world around you tilted and spun violently, as if gravity itself had shifted in a cruel game of its own. "Woah, be careful," A voice, thick with an accent you couldn't quite place, called out sharply. You blinked rapidly, attempting to focus, and slowly, the figure of a young woman came into view. Her face was gentle, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern. She hovered close, almost like she was ready to catch you should you fall again.

You met her gaze, your mind still foggy, but there was something about her presence that felt oddly reassuring. She was probably around your age, her features soft but hardened with something unspoken, as though she had seen far too much already. "Where am I?" Your voice was rough, barely a whisper, as confusion still swirled around in your mind. "Wakanda," She muttered softly, her tone gentle yet confident. "You are safe." The words barely registered. Wakanda? The name triggered something deep in your mind.

Yet it quickly dissolved as your thoughts wandered back to the last thing you could remember. Bucky, Steve, your dad, that video, Zemo, a gun. The images flashed one after another, each one a sharp stab to your chest. "I... What happened? How—?" Your breathing quickened as you tried to clear your mind, pushing the fog aside to focus. "You have a minor concussion, a broken wrist, and a few fractured ribs," The girl interrupted gently, her eyes never leaving you as she assessed your every movement, waiting for signs of distress.

"But nothing more serious. You are lucky." Her words felt like a fragile assurance, but they didn’t ease the tension gnawing at your insides. Before you could stop it, the question spilled from your lips. "Bucky… and Steve… are they okay?" Your heart hammered in your chest, a mixture of hope and dread clashing inside you. Before she could respond, you saw a shadow moving in your peripheral vision. Instinctively, your eyes snapped toward it, and there he was—Steve. His figure stood framed in the doorway, and with just his presence, the tight coil of fear in your chest began to loosen slightly.

A wave of relief washed over you, but the exhaustion still weighed you down. Without thinking, you pushed yourself up from the bed, your legs unsteady beneath you, but you didn’t care. You limped toward him, the sharp ache in your side forgotten as you reached for him, enveloping him in a tight hug. "I've got it from here." His voice cut through the moment, low but commanding, as he spoke to the girl in the room. She hesitated for a second, but then, with a nod, she quietly left, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving the two of you alone. As you pulled away, the breath caught in your throat.

His face was now marred by a series of dark, blossoming bruises. You swallowed, trying to suppress the nausea that crawled up your throat. "What happened?" He offered you a faint, reassuring smile, the kind that didn’t quite reached his eyes. "My dad did that, didn’t he?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the bile rising in your throat as you forced yourself to speak the words. The weight of them settled heavily in the room, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. "Nothing I can’t handle," He muttered, but there was a tremor in his voice, a crack that betrayed the bravado. You wanted to believe him, but the doubt lingered.

You hesitated, eyes searching his face as a fresh wave of fear surfaced in your chest. The one question you’d been avoiding bubbled to the surface. "Zemo, is he—" Steve’s jaw tightened so sharply you thought it might crack. "He won’t hurt you or anyone else again." His words were low, firm, but something in the way he said them made you feel like there was more to the story. However, you decided to drop it for the time being. “Is Bucky okay? Please tell me my dad didn’t manage to get his hands on him.” You whispered, the tremor in your voice betraying you.

Your breath caught in your throat as the thought of Bucky lying hurt or worse at the hands of your father's blinded rage. A tight knot formed in your stomach as you waited for an answer, your chest tightening with every passing second. “You could see for yourself.” Without hesitation, you nodded, your body moving almost on autopilot. You allowed him to gently guide you, his hand steady on your arm as he carefully maneuvered you down the dimly lit hallway toward a room you didn’t recognize. Each step felt like an eternity, but you followed, desperate to see for yourself that Bucky was alright.

When you finally reached the door to the room, the sight before you felt like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from your chest. Inside, Bucky sat slumped on a medical bed, his posture defeated, as though the weight of everything that had happened, everything he had endured was too much for him to carry. His face was marred with deep, dark bruises across his jaw and under his eyes. His usual, sharp features were softened by pain, and the once unshakable Winter Soldier now looked vulnerable, shattered even. You winced, the sight of him so broken sending an ache through your chest.

But it was his left arm or, more accurately, the lack of it brought up more questions. Your mind screamed with confusion, and a sense of helplessness that only deepened as your eyes shifted around the room. In the center of the space, a cryo-chamber stood ominously, the metal casing reflecting the harsh lights of the room. It was a chilling reminder of what Bucky had been subjected through. Almost as if sensing the shift in your gaze, Steve's eyes followed yours, and without a word, he urged you forward toward Bucky, the weight of unspoken understanding passing between the two of you.

Only then did Bucky stir, lifting his head with a slow, painful movement. The moment his eyes met yours, your heart broke. “You sure about this?” Steve’s voice echoed through the room softly. Bucky’s laugh was a dry, hollow sound, a forced exhale that barely escaped his chest. "I can't trust my own mind," He muttered, his words heavy with exhaustion and defeat. His attempt at a smile faltered before it even began. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing," He paused, his gaze drifting to you, settling there, and something flickered in his eyes.

"For everybody." A cold shiver ran down your spine, and you swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. But you couldn’t ignore the part of you that still clung to the hope that there was something, anything that could bring him back, that could save him from the darkness of his own thoughts. “Steve," You found your voice, and it was softer than you had intended, trembling with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. "Do you think I can talk to Bucky alone?" Steve gave a subtle nod, his face unreadable as he silently left the room, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that echoed louder than anything. In the silence that followed, Bucky braced himself, his body tense, rigid.

He knew the look in your eyes too well, the look of someone who had every right to be angry, to lash out at him for the things he had done, the choices he had been forced into. And he was sure, so sure that as soon as you were alone, you’d finally do what he feared most. You’d strike him, unleash the fury he’d deserved for too long. But when you finally moved toward him, it was not with the anger and fury he anticipated. Instead, you sat down next to him, the space between you barely enough to count. The proximity made him stiffen, his heart hammering in his chest, the air thick with the tension of everything unsaid.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at you directly, so he stared at the floor, steeling himself for whatever was coming. But when you did meet his eyes, it wasn’t with hatred or disgust. It wasn’t even with pity. Instead, there was only softness, tenderness, a quiet understanding. And then, without hesitation, you placed your hand on his, on his flesh hand, the one that hadn’t been replaced, the one still capable of feeling warmth. Your touch was gentle, but it carried more than just comfort; it carried a message that Bucky wasn’t sure he deserved but needed more than anything.

You squeezed his hand lightly, a small, simple gesture, but it was enough. For the first time in years, Bucky didn’t flinch at the touch. His body, usually so conditioned to retreat from even the slightest form of contact, melted into your warmth. The walls he had so carefully constructed over time, built out of fear and trauma, seemed to crumble under the simplest act of kindness. He could feel the warmth of your hand seep into his skin, calming the storm that raged inside him. "Bucky," Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it felt like a lifeline.

His eyes flickered from your face to where your hands were joined, a silent question in them. He could hardly believe what was happening. How your simple touch was making him feel something other than numb. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, everything else faded away, the room, the pain, the guilt. It was just you and him. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe there was still a chance for something good to come from all of this.

"Bucky," You repeated again, softer this time. It was almost as if you were pulling him out of a fog, trying to anchor him to the present. His eyes were distant, somewhere far away, and for a moment, you wondered if he could even hear you. But then, after a long, aching pause, his cerulean eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the layers of guilt and shame that he couldn’t quite shed. The soldier, the man, and all the ghosts he carried within him, the pain was written all over his face.

And in that moment, you knew you had to say something that would shatter the walls he had so carefully built around himself. You needed him to hear you, to believe you, even if it was the hardest thing for him to do. "I want you to listen to me very carefully," You coaxed, your voice steady but laced with an emotion that made your chest tighten. Your hand still holding his, trembling slightly tightened its grip. It wasn’t a forceful move, but it was a silent plea, an unspoken promise that you would be there, that he wasn’t alone. "And I will say these words as many times as you need me to, until you believe me."

Bucky’s breath hitched as your words sank in, but still, you could feel the weight of his skepticism, the doubt that clouded his thoughts. He had heard too many lies, too many things that weren’t true about who he was. And yet, you pressed on, because you knew you had to. "None of what happened was your fault." The words hung between you, thick with an emotion that made it hard to breathe. Saying them was one thing. Believing them, hearing them from someone else was another. But you couldn’t hold back now. Not after everything he had been through.

"You, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, are and will always be an innocent man who did nothing wrong." A small shudder ran through him, and his eyes flickered with a storm of conflicting emotions. There was disbelief, shame, but also something deeper something that looked a lot like hope, even though he couldn’t fully reach for it yet. The words, though true, seemed to weigh him down more than they lifted him, as if he didn’t feel worthy of hearing them. As if his past had branded him forever, leaving a scar that no one could erase, not even you.

And then, almost as if he couldn’t bear the tenderness in your voice, he spoke, his words raw, vulnerable, and laced with guilt. "You should hate me." The sentence hung between you both, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t a question. It was a confession, a truth he carried like a burden. His voice cracked, just slightly, betraying the jagged edge of pain buried within him. “I’ve done… things. I’ve hurt people, people I cared about…” His eyes dropped to the space between you, avoiding your gaze, as if ashamed to meet your soft, understanding eyes.

But you refused to look away. You wouldn’t let him shrink into the darkness again. "No, Bucky," You whispered, shaking your head, your voice firm, steady despite the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing over you both. "I don’t hate you. I could never hate you." Your voice was filled with an intensity that made your breath catch, the truth of it sinking deep into your own soul. "I will never hate you." Your eyes locked with his, your gaze unwavering, as if to silently say that you weren’t going to let him carry that burden alone.

Not anymore.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. The vulnerability in his eyes, the fragile hope that flickered there, was something you would never forget. He had never allowed himself to be this open with anyone, especially not when it came to the parts of himself he felt were broken beyond repair. But there you were, holding him together with your words, with your mere presence. "You’re not a monster, Bucky," You added softly. "And as long as I'm around, I won’t let you believe that."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, but full of everything that had yet to be said. Bucky’s gaze softened, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be forgiveness. Maybe he wasn’t as lost as he had thought. "Thank you." The words were soft, a little unsteady, but sincere. It was a rare vulnerability, the kind that was hard-earned and even harder to give.

As if guided by an unknown force, Bucky’s fingers tightly curled around yours, and for the briefest of moments, the world seemed to stand still. It was him who initiated the touch, a gesture that carried with it a thousand unspoken words, an offering of trust that he had withheld for so long. And as his hand gently pressed against yours, a flutter of warmth and something inexplicably light spread through you. However, the moment was short-lived. Bucky’s fingers slipped from yours, the warmth of his touch fading as he gently let go. It was a small, deliberate movement, but one that sent a subtle pang through your chest.

Before you could fully process the loss of that connection, Steve re-entered the room, his presence pulling you both back into the reality of the situation. “You ready, pal?” Steve’s voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken, in the way he looked between you and Bucky. His eyes caught the soft flush on both your faces, and you could see the flicker of amusement he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he quickly masked it with a more serious expression, as though he didn’t want to intrude on the delicate moment that had just passed between you two.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve, the briefest hesitation in his gaze, before he nodded slowly, deliberately. With a final glance in your direction, he turned away and walked toward the Cryo chamber, his footsteps soft but purposeful. As he approached, the chamber hummed to life, the metallic walls shimmering in the faint light. The cold, mechanical hiss of the doors opening seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, a sharp contrast to the warm, fragile connection that had just been forged only moments ago.

Bucky stood at the threshold for a moment, the weight of everything he'd been carrying settling into his posture. Then, without another word, he stepped inside. The gust of cold air enveloped him in a rush, the wind sharp and biting, but his expression remained unchanging, serene, almost tranquil. The whirring of the chamber grew louder, a steady, mechanical sound as the freezing process began. For a moment, you could almost see it in his face the way he surrendered to the cold, allowing it to swallow him whole. He looked at peace, the turmoil that had once defined him slipping away.

You couldn’t say how long you stood there beside Steve. Time felt like it had slipped away, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the Cryo chamber in the background. After all, Steve had just gotten his best friend back, only to lose him again, only this time to a sleep that might stretch on for days, months, or even longer. The silence between you stretched, thick and palpable, until Steve finally placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. The gesture, simple as it was, anchored you in that moment. With a slight nod, he led the way, and you both exited the room, walking in silence down the hallway.

As you moved further down the hall, the glass gave way to a breathtaking view that overlooked all of Wakanda. The vibrant landscape stretched endlessly below, the jungle below alive with color and the city shimmering in the distance. For a few moments, you both stood there allowing the weight of everything to settle over you. You watched the horizon, lost in thought, until the sound of footsteps broke through the stillness. Your gaze instinctively shifted, meeting the piercing eyes of King T’Challa as he approached. His posture was regal, confident, yet there was a kindness in the way he regarded you.

"Miss Stark," He greeted, his voice as smooth and measured as ever. You straightened, instinctively reaching out to shake his hand. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before moving to Steve. Steve didn’t even flinch, his eyes still fixed on the view outside. "Thank you for this," Steve muttered, his voice low and earnest. T'Challa nodded. “Your friend and my father, they were both victims. If I can help one of them find peace…” You watched as Steve’s gaze finally shifted from the window, locking with T’Challa’s.

"You know if they find out he's here, they'll come for him." T’Challa’s response was calm yet held purpose. “Let them try.” In that moment, you realized that this place was not just a refuge for Bucky, but a place where, perhaps, even the most broken of souls could find peace. "So you're a fugitive," Your voice cut through the quiet. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic, but the uncertainty clawed its way to the surface. "Where does that leave me?" The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t think anyone would answer.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel the tension knotting in your stomach. There was no chance of reaching out to your father now, not after everything that had happened in Germany and Siberia. No, you were alone now. You had known that this moment was coming, but now that it was here, it was more terrifying than you could have anticipated. One of your greatest fears, the thing you had tried so hard to avoid, was finally real. You officially had no safety net left. "Hey," Steve coaxed almost as if sensing your inner turmoil.

“You’re not alone, as far as Ross' concerned you weren't involved in any of this." His words were meant to soothe, to ease the panic that was slowly suffocating you, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could muster any response, the familiar voice you'd heard earlier pierced the silence. “Y/N Stark, NYU transfer studying abroad for the remainder of the semester.” You whipped around to the sound of her voice, as everything started to slowly click into place. You hadn’t been able to see it before, but now, with clarity, you realized who she was. Shuri, princess of Wakanda.“I never had the chance to apply to NYU.” Your voice came out in a disbelieving whisper, your mind still trying to piece together how this all fit.

“You’re not the only one who can hack into other people's phones,” She declared smugly, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her lips. Oh, you liked her already. She handed you something, and you took it instinctively, your hands trembling slightly as you unfolded it. Your eyes scanned the words, disbelief taking root in your mind. An official acceptance letter from the Department of Psychology at NYU. Your dream school. It was almost too much to process, too perfect, too unreal. But the reality of the letter was in your hands, in black and white.

“They won’t come looking for you,” She insisted, her voice firm, reassuring. For the first time in a long time, you were speechless. This wasn’t just about a school or a chance at a degree. This was about a future, one that no longer seemed impossible, one that you hadn’t even dared to hope for in years. Your Mind-Weaver was still just an idea, a prototype in desperate need of a better name. But now? Now it didn’t feel so far out of your grasp. “After all, we’re going to need your assistance,” Shuri coaxed, her smile warm and purposeful. “When you aren’t studying, that is.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Anything. Name it.” The words came out before you could stop them. It was the least you could do after everything they had done for you, after how they had practically saved your life. “When Sergeant Barnes wakes up, he’s going to need a new arm,” She stated matter-of-factly, her gaze steady as she looked at you. “Care to live up to your reputation?” The weight of her words settled in your chest, but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the crushing pressure of your last name holding you back.

In that moment you weren’t “Tony Stark’s Daughter”. There was no legacy to live up to in that moment, no expectations suffocating you. You were you. And you could feel the spark of hope flickering inside of you, growing brighter with every passing second. As you turned to face Steve, the look on his face was more than just reassurance. Maybe this was exactly what you needed, what you had always needed. To be somewhere you could be yourself, without the weight of family history pressing down on you. Maybe, just maybe, Wakanda was the place where you could find peace.

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