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x-press-it · 3 days ago

Text

Doll

Some names bruise deeper than others 🎞️🖤🌹✅

Soft!Bucky Barnes x Tech Girl!reader

Summary: Bucky’s been flirting with the team’s tech girl for weeks. She’s sharp, funny, always a step ahead of him—and their slow-burn flirtation has become the highlight of his days. They tease, they banter, they orbit closer. Until one word—just one—shatters everything. He doesn’t know why. Not at first.

What follows isn’t an apology. It’s a lesson in patience. In gentleness.

This is a story about trauma and tenderness. About how the wrong word can reopen old wounds—and how the right actions can help them start to heal.

Content Warnings: Heavy angst with happy ending. Pet names (Doll, Sweetheart.) Mention of alcohol and smoking (sort of). Mentions of car accident, loss, grief, emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, references to non-consensual dynamics (no explicit scenes), trauma processing, dissociation, and complex PTSD.

This story handles survivor experiences with care, but please prioritize your own well-being if these topics are sensitive for you.

If I forgot some, please tell me, I'll add them.

Reader Notes: No Y/N, no physical description of the reader, but the protagonist has an established backstory, which is why this is written in the third person rather than the second.

English isn’t my first language so there might be typos/weird sentences…

Notes: Teased it in my last sneak peek.

I wrote this because I needed to.

In so many stories, Bucky uses the pet name “Doll”—and every time, it pulls me out of the moment. For a lot of people, it’s harmless or even sweet. But for some of us, it’s a word that’s been used to belittle, to erase, to control. To make us feel small. Breakable. Replaceable.

This piece was born from that. A quiet defiance, maybe. A reclamation.

I wanted a version of Bucky who doesn’t just avoid that word—but understands, why it hurts. A version who listens before he touches. Who knows that softness is stronger than rage, and that surviving isn’t something broken—it’s something sacred.

I’ve woven some of my own past into this story, in small, careful ways. Not enough to spill it all, but just enough to be honest. If any part of this resonates with you—you’re not alone. You’re never alone. And you deserve the kind of love that asks nothing of you.

Stay safe.

Edit: Did a few light touch-ups here and there for flavor after a few hours of sleep ^^"

Need some music? I’ve got you.

Word Count: 11.5K

Late afternoon settled over the compound—heavy, and still. The kind of slow quiet that only came once training sessions ended, when the sun dipped just enough to bleed through the glass-paneled corridors and dust danced in the light, glittering. Most people were elsewhere—burning off steam in the gym, sneaking snacks from the kitchen, or finally, blissfully, leaving work behind in the common room.

But not her.

She was still tucked in her little office, a soft pocket just off the main hall that people playfully called the tech wing. The glow of three monitors flickered against her face, casting her features in shifting blues. Empty mugs—too many—stood forgotten near the edge of the desk, the scent of something like plastic burnt in the wiring lingering faintly in the air. Her fingers flew across the keys, quick and precise, trying to breathe life back into a line of code that refused to behave.

A soft electronic beat pulsed low through her speakers, something calm, ambient, the kind of music that filled the silence and kept her focused.

Then—three knocks.

Firm. Intentional. Steady.

She didn’t bother to look up.

“If it’s about your playlist, Mr. Stark,” she called, a little dry, “I’m still not giving you clearance to hijack SHIELD servers just to blast AC/DC in the showers.”

Silence.

Then a voice that didn’t belong to Stark—lower, raspier, but with a curious kind of softness too. Like it wasn’t used to being gentle but tried, just for her.

“Wasn’t planning on singing in the showers,” it said, a touch of humor curling around the words, “but now you’ve got me thinking about it.”

Her hands stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head toward the door.

Leaning against the frame, like the space had been made for him to fill it, was James Buchanan Barnes. He had a tablet in one hand, the other casually shoved into the pocket of his jeans. The sleeves of his dark blue Henley were rolled to his elbows, exposing the metal gleam of his left forearm and the soft, warm skin of the right. His hair was messier than usual. Shadows clung to his jaw, under his eyes. He looked tired.

Tired in the way people looked when sleep didn’t come easy. Tired but in that unfairly handsome in the late afternoon light kind of way.

“You're not Stark,” she stated, finally.

He smirked, faint and crooked. “Glad you noticed.”

He lifted the tablet a little, like a peace offering. “I think I broke this. Or it broke me. Not sure which came first. Either way, it’s not working.”

She blinked once, lips twitching despite herself as she gestured for him to hand it over with an extended hand in his direction. “Let me guess. Forgot your password again after the last security update?”

“You change the rules every month. Feels like sabotage... or emotional warfare.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was a glint of mirth in them.

“It’s protocol, Barnes. Not everything’s a conspiracy. And no, you can’t pick ‘password123’ again.”

He stepped into the room like he belonged there, slow and easy, closer than necessary.

Close enough for her to catch that faint mixed scent of leather, metal, and the trace of gunpowder that seemed woven into his skin. But there was something else too, something warm. Something that didn’t belong to the soldier, but to the man underneath. The man who looked at her like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

He set the tablet gently in her open hand, fingers faintly brushing against hers, then didn’t move away. He stayed there, hip leaning against the edge, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze lingered on her—quiet, watching, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

“Gotta make sure you keep your job,” he said, voice low and a little too smooth. “Figure if I keep breaking shit, you’ll have to keep fixing it.”

She arched a brow. “This your idea of flirting?”

He tilted his head. “Is it working?”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head as she started navigating the menus of the tablet, fingers brushing the screen, tapping through the security prompts.

“You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Lucky me, doll.”

Her hands stopped mid-type.

The word—that word—hit like a knife between her ribs.

The smile she’d almost given him fell away. Her whole body seemed to still, breath caught somewhere just out of reach. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the screen, as if it had turned to stone beneath her hands.

Like she was watching things only she could see. Things replaying in her mind.

Like if she didn’t move, maybe the past wouldn’t catch up.

“Don’t,” she finally said.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Bucky’s brows knit, confusion creasing the space between his eyes as the teasing ease dropped from his voice. “Sorry?”

Her gaze met his. Steady. Flat. But underneath the emotionless surface was something sharp. Cold steel lined with something rawer, still bleeding.

“Don’t call me that.”

There was silence—thick, uncertain.

He straightened, just barely, but enough to show the shift in the air hadn’t gone unnoticed. He didn’t understand it yet—but he felt it. Like a tremor before a quake.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, quieter this time. Almost careful.

She gave a nod. A small, controlled gesture. But it wasn’t agreement. It was containment. A leash on a storm.

“I’m not a doll, Barnes.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was an edge to it, like glass stuck in an old wound, reopening it from the inside. “I’m not some… pretty thing you can pick up and carry around when you’re bored and drop when you’ve had enough. I’m not yours to name like a toy. So don’t call me that.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched, and for once, James Buchanan Barnes—the man made for war, the ex-assassin, the soldier who never seemed rattled—looked like he realized he’d just stepped into a minefield.

“…Okay,” he said at last. Rough. Honest. A little wrecked around the edges. “Okay. I won’t.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy. Suspended.

Not awkward. Tense. The kind of silence that presses on your chest like guilt. Like grief. Like something fragile had cracked between them and neither knew how to glue it back together.

She didn’t look at him again.

She turned back to her work, face set in lines too still, too clean. No more teasing smirk. No more jokes. Just methodical typing, every keystroke measured like it mattered more than him standing there.

A wall had gone up.

Solid. Impenetrable.

Laced with barbed-wire—built not just to keep him out, but to make sure he felt it if he ever tried to cross.

Bucky lingered there just a heartbeat too long. Long enough to feel the absence of whatever had been there before, curling around them like smoke.

“…Right,” he murmured, shifting his weight like it suddenly didn’t sit right in his own skin. “Thanks for helping.”

No answer. Just the faint tap of her fingers on the cool surface and the cold glow of the screen.

She typed until the lockout cleared, then set the tablet on the desk quietly. No flair. No flourish. Just another problem solved.

“Here. Done.”

Flat. Dismissive.

Already, her hand was moving back to her keyboard. Like he’d never stepped inside. Like his voice, his smirk, his mistake, had never touched the air.

He watched her, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Something that twisted low in his stomach. Coiling like a cold snake.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe a sarcastic you’re welcome, maybe a glare—but this quiet dismissal? It made his skin itch in a way any mission, even the most crazy and suicidal ones, never had.

He picked up the tablet slowly, fingers brushing the spot she’d just touched, like it might give him back a piece of the warmth he’d just lost.

“…Alright. I’ll, uh. See you around.”

Still nothing.

And maybe that was the worst part.

He turned—quiet, always quiet—but it felt different this time. Like he was walking out of a room that had shut him out before he ever left it, like whatever had been forming between them had just died on the operating table.

He reached the door.

Paused.

Something tugged at him—not her, not a sound, just something. Regret maybe. Or the echo of her voice, her words, in his bones.

Hand on the doorframe, he looked back over his shoulder. Just once.

She hadn’t moved. Still typing, still half-hidden, shielded behind her monitors, like they could make her invisible. Like it was safer not to be seen.

“…I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said, softer now. The kind of softness that came from standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t realize was breakable. “I’m sorry.”

Then he left.

The door shut softly behind him.

Only then did she stop typing.

Her fingers hovered uselessly above the keys, shaking, and for a long second, the only thing that moved was the slight fall of her chest as the breath she’d been holding slid out in one long, deflating exhale.

The screen in front of her was still glowing, lines of code sharp and insistent—but she didn’t see any of it.

Instead, her mind replayed every word. Every look. The sound of his voice when he said that word.

And then—after she’d lashed out—how his mouth had tightened. Not anger. Just shock. Confused. Hurt.

Because it wasn’t him she was angry at. Not really.

It was everything else. Everything before.

The way it had hit too close to old wounds, too identical to how she had felt all those years ago. All the names she’d been given without permission, the way she’d once been someone’s possession instead of a person. The way she’d let it happen, because it was what was expected of her. But also just to feel loved. Just to feel seen. Just to feel alive again… not just a fucking walking corpse…

And now Bucky—of all people—had said it, not knowing what it unearthed in her. Not knowing how deep it could cut.

And it wasn’t fair, not to him. He hadn’t deserved the frost she’d wrapped around her voice like a knife.

But the words had come out anyway.

And now all that was left behind was the low, dull throb of guilt.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, the stiff material creaking beneath her, and closed her eyes like that might somehow keep the ache from spreading.

“…Shit,” she whispered, barely audible.

Her eyes lingered on the closed door.

She had overreacted. He probably hadn’t meant it like that. And he deserved more than a sharp silence—sharp enough to slice back. Meant to hurt. Meant to make him feel it. To make him bleed the way his words had. It hadn’t been fair. But in that moment, she’d wanted it. A blade to skin with his name on the steel, deliberate, designed to cut deep.

And then she was moving—almost without thought, her body pulled forward like a string had yanked tight in her chest. She pushed up from the chair like staying still might break her open.

He’d looked hurt. Not wounded like in a fight. Hurt, like he’d been trying and she’d shut the door anyway.

Not defensive. Not cocky.

No.

He looked guilty.

Just sorry.

She stepped into the hallway with quick, urgent strides, rounding the corner like she could still catch him.

And she did.

But he wasn’t alone.

Natasha Romanoff leaned against the wall like she owned it—casual, elegant, unshakable. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, and something he said made her smirk, the kind of smirk that knew things—intimately. Bucky tilted his head toward her, his expression soft. At ease. Like nothing had gone wrong today.

A low, honest laugh escaped him. The kind of laugh she hadn’t heard from him directed at her, ever.

She stopped walking.

Just… stopped.

From this far away, the words were a blur, but the picture was clear enough. Natasha’s hand drifted lightly to his arm, and Bucky didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. His lips tugged into a crooked grin similar to the one he had given her earlier, before she had slammed her armor into his face.

It made something twist sharply in her stomach.

They looked right together.

Easy.

Whole.

And suddenly, she felt like a jagged edge in a world of smooth pieces.

Natasha could take a nickname like “doll” and spin it into something smart and flirty. She could disarm it. Own it. She didn’t carry the same kind of ghosts. She didn’t freeze up. She didn’t bleed out over nothing.

Her jaw clenched. Her hand curled into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm like maybe pain would keep the rising tide at bay.

“Never mind,” she muttered, her voice hollow.

She turned.

And this time, she walked slower—like her bones were heavier now, filled with something bitter and sinking. The fight had drained out of her legs. The words she’d meant to say sat unsaid in the back of her throat, sour and sharp.

She didn’t look back again.

But the image of them—smiling, close, fitting—stayed with her, burned into the backs of her eyes.

She returned to her office like she was retreating, not walking. Like the door would protect her from the ache clawing up her spine, in her chest, at her heart.

The code still sat unfinished on her screen. Her chair waited, still turned from when she’d pushed out of it in a rush.

But the warmth was gone.

The quiet playlist felt different now—too quiet. Too cold. Too impersonal.

And the taste in her mouth?

Still there.

Still bitter.

Still lingering.

Bucky was still laughing at Natasha’s comment.

Or at least, it looked like he was.

The sound was there—low, familiar, warm enough to pass. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not the way it should have.

Like his body knew how to go through the motions, but his mind had lagged behind.

Still caught somewhere else.

On someone else.

Like he’d brushed past barbed-wire, and the sting lingered at the back of his mind.

The next laugh came quieter than the one before—softer, thinner, as if whatever had sparked it was already fading from his grasp. A moment, gone before he could hold it.

Just a quick movement.

His gaze drifted, pulled by something he hadn’t meant to notice.

Just a flicker.

The ghost of a shadow at the edge of the hall.

A retreating blur of familiar fabric. The shape of her hair catching the light before vanishing around the corner.

He squinted. Tilted his head. Leaned slightly, like maybe—just maybe—that would call her back into view.

But there was nothing.

The hallway was still.

Silent.

His body—his whole weight—shifted. He turned, instinctive and slow, like his chest was tugged by a thread he didn’t fully understand.

But—

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice cut through the haze, sharp enough to pull him back. “You see a ghost or something?”

He blinked, the mirage fading like smoke, turning his focus back to his friend. “What?”

“You looked like you saw a ghost,” she said, raising one brow. Her gaze flicked toward the hallway, curiosity tugging her attention for half a beat—like she was trying to catch whatever he’d seen—before sliding back to him.

She leaned in, casual and unshakable, crossing one leg over the other like she had all the time in the world. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Too fast. A deflection polished by habit.

He shook his head, like he could physically toss off the tight pull still lingering in his chest. “Thought I saw someone, that’s all.”

“Mmm.” That sound told him exactly what she thought of that answer.

Nat never bought his I’m fine, especially not when he served it up that quickly.

Her eyes flicked to the tablet tucked under his arm, and her mouth curved into a smirk—sharp, knowing, amused.

“Wait… Let me guess.” She pointed at the device like it held a piece of juicy gossip, a secret she was dying to unwrap. “You went to see the tech girl, didn’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw ticked despite himself. A flicker of a reaction, small enough most wouldn’t notice—but Natasha did.

“I needed my password reset,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” she teased, her tone sugar-sweet with a razor underneath. “Password resets and awkward flirting?”

“There wasn’t—” He exhaled hard through his nose, shifting his grip on the tablet. “It wasn’t flirting.”

Natasha gave him a look that practically screamed sure, sweetheart.

“You flirt with her every time you walk into her office,” she said, arms folding. “And she flirts back.”

“She didn’t this time,” Bucky muttered.

Soft. Quieter. Like the words hurt to say out loud.

That paused her.

The teasing faltered, just enough for something else to slip through—curiosity, maybe. Concern. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Tilted. Recalculating. Like she was reevaluating the board mid-game.

She didn’t press.

Just leaned in and tapped the tablet with one perfect nail. “Careful, Barnes. Those quiet ones? They’ll wreck you if you let them.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

His eyes had already wandered back to the hallway.

Back to the place where she’d been.

Or where he thought she’d been.

And the space was empty.

Too empty.

Like something had been there a moment ago—someone—and now it was gone.

Like something delicate had cracked open in his hands—something that had trusted him to hold it gently.

And he'd shattered it, without meaning to.

And now all that was left was the echo.

He didn’t even know what he’d done—how he’d broken it.

Just that it had once been his to protect.

And he hadn’t.

It’d been days, and the moment still lingered like a bitter taste in Bucky's mouth.

Sharp.

Metallic.

Like blood he hadn’t meant to draw.

He’d catch himself thinking about her in the most random moments—mid-mission briefings, quiet breakfasts, even when he was watching something dumb on TV just to fill the silence. It crept in without warning: the way her whole body had changed in an instant. The way her eyes had gone blank. Like a switch had flipped.

One word. That’s all it took.

Doll.

He hadn’t even meant anything by it. It had slipped out, natural as breathing. A soft note in a playful conversation that had felt—up until then—familiar. Safe. Like something they were building, brick by careful brick.

He’d called a hundred women “doll” in his life—before. Before everything. Before he forgot how to be a person. Before he became a weapon, a tool. The Winter Soldier.

But she… she’d looked like he’d hit her, like he’d stabbed her in the chest. Like he’d peeled open something she’d been trying to keep buried.

And he couldn’t stop replaying it. Couldn’t stop feeling it. That flicker in her eyes, the way she pulled inward like she was bracing for a blow.

So that evening, when the compound had gone quiet and her shift technically ended half an hour ago but a soft glow still shone under her office door, Bucky made his way down the hallway.

He carried two glasses and a bottle of honey whiskey he’d picked up days ago. Not for himself. He didn’t even drink much these days.

She’d mentioned it once. A passing comment to one of her colleagues in the cafeteria while stirring sugar into her coffee—something about how she liked to unwind with a glass after a long day. She’d smiled when she said it. Not one of those polite workplace smiles, but a real one. Tired around the edges, but honest.

Unarmored.

It had stuck. Lodged itself somewhere under his ribs, like a fragmented bullet, and refused to leave.

He stopped in front of her door, heart tripping over itself in a rhythm that felt unfamiliar. The light beneath the frame didn’t move. No shadow. No footsteps. Just stillness.

He knocked, soft. Two taps with his knuckles. No metal. Just skin and hesitation.

“Come in,” she called, distracted.

The door slid open, and Bucky stepped inside. The soft click of it closing behind him felt final. Too final. Like walking into something he couldn’t walk back out of.

Her office was dim, lit mostly by the eerie glow of her monitors—three screens reflected in her glasses, alive with what looked like moving lines of code that made no sense to him.

She didn’t look up at first.

He stood there, silent. Just watching. The way her brows knit together, how her lips pressed into a thin line when something didn’t behave the way she wanted. She was always beautiful, but like this? Focused, brilliant, unaware of him?

It made his throat ache.

When he finally took a step forward, she glanced up. And there it was—that beat of hesitation. Too long to ignore. Like she didn’t know who he was to her anymore. Like she didn’t know who she was to him.

Her fingers didn’t stop typing, not completely.

“Locked yourself out of your tablet again?”

Dry. Not cruel. But void of the warmth they used to pass back and forth like a shared cigarette.

Bucky lifted the bottle slightly, the glasses clinking gently in his other hand. “Nope,” he said, voice as easy as he could make it. Like he wasn’t standing there with a fucking apology trembling in his chest. “Thought I’d come bury the hatchet.”

She raised a brow, skeptical. But she didn’t tell him to get out.

“I mean,” he added, moving up to the edge of her desk, “I can’t have my favorite tech person mad at me. Who the hell would I go to next time I need something fixed? Tony? He’d make me do a favor first. Probably something humiliating.”

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it was like watching a smile die in real time. It didn’t land the way he wanted. Not all the way.

His own smile wavered. Just a flicker—but enough. The tightness between his brows gave him away. And she noticed. Of course she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way his shoulders were too stiff beneath the hoodie he wore like armor. The way his fingers curled too tight around the neck of the bottle like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

He was trying. Really trying.

And for a moment, that office wasn’t filled with the hum of computers, or the glow of code—it was just them. Standing in the space between what they had been, and whatever came next.

And it hurt.

Damn, it hurt.

And that nagging thought she’d had since she saw him with Natasha—he’s probably into her, that makes more sense—started to crack just a little.

Because this wasn’t a man who’d brushed it off.

He looked like he’d been carrying the scars he made on her barbed-wired armor around every single day since.

Worn them like a weight. Quiet. Invisible. Heavy.

Licking them like a wounded animal.

When she didn’t immediately reply, Bucky didn’t push. He just set the two glasses down gently on the desk and unscrewed the cap, the scent of honey and oak drifting into the room like a peace offering.

“I, uh… sorry, I didn’t bring ice cubes,” he added quickly, pouring the amber liquid into the glasses without looking at her. “Figured it probably wasn’t the best idea with all this tech stuff around. And, y’know, didn’t have enough hands anyway.”

He let out a breath—short and low—like maybe he'd practiced that line in his head and still hated how it sounded.

He offered a small, sheepish shrug, like he wasn’t sure if he was being charming or just awkward. Maybe both.

Maybe he didn’t know how to be either with her anymore.

The bottle gave a soft clink as he set it aside. He slid one glass toward her without forcing it, without asking if she wanted it. Just… placed it within reach. Like a gesture more than a drink.

A way to say, I’m still here. If you want me to be.

He leaned against the edge of her desk, turning his glass slowly in his hand, eyes down on the rippling whiskey like it might give him the courage to finish the thought.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about the other day,” he said, quieter now. “I know I probably stepped on a landmine without realizing. And I didn’t come here to make you explain it. You don’t owe me that… or anything for that matter.”

He finally looked at her again, blue eyes steady but softer than usual. Still haunted, maybe—but this was a different kind of ghost behind them.

Not the kind that came from bloodshed or war.

The kind that came from hurting someone you care about and not knowing if you’d ever be let close enough to make it right.

“I just… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said simply.

No excuses.

No charm.

Just truth.

And it hung in the air like a thunderbolt.

She sighed. The kind that slipped out before she could catch it, heavy with everything unsaid.

Everything she'd swallowed down for days.

All the old pain she thought she’d buried deep enough to forget.

Bucky glanced up at the sound, gaze searching her face like he was bracing for another verbal grenade. But she didn’t detonate this time.

Instead, she leaned back in her seat, finally dragging her eyes from the screen to him. Her fingers curled around the glass, still warm from his hand, and she stared at the whiskey for a beat before lifting it to her lips.

Just a small sip. Just enough to chase down the lump in her throat.

“Thanks,” she murmured, the edge in her voice softened now. “For this.”

He nodded, barely a shift of his chin, like he was afraid moving too much might make her retreat again.

Like he knew exactly how delicate the moment was.

How close it hovered to unraveling.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, but her voice was steadier. Quieter, too.

“I, uh… I overreacted,” she said. “You didn’t know. It’s just… that word. It reopened something. Old wounds.”

Her fingers tightened a little on the glass, then relaxed again. She still didn’t offer more, didn’t owe him more. But even that sliver of honesty was already a lot.

More than she’d given most people in years.

And Bucky, who’d been holding his breath like a soldier waiting for the next bullet, exhaled.

“Okay,” he said gently. “I get it.”

There was a silence, but it was a softer one now. No tension. Just the space between two people who were cautiously lowering their armor again.

Piece by piece.

Careful. Quiet.

“I won’t call you that again,” he said, voice quiet but steady—an understanding, not a question.

Because yeah, he cared.

And maybe… maybe he always had.

“Good,” she said simply, eyes steady on him now. “Don’t.”

There wasn’t a tremble in her voice, but there was weight.

Years of it, maybe.

A decade buried, folded behind a single word.

And it landed like a stone in his chest.

He nodded once, slow and sure.

“Okay,” he said. No argument, no pushback. “I won’t.”

Another silence bloomed between them. But this time it wasn’t uncomfortable—it just was.

Like static in the room that hadn’t quite found a frequency yet.

Like grief and grace trying to coexist.

And maybe, in that fragile quiet, something had started to mend.

Not fully. Not yet.

But the first stitch had been made.

She sank into her chair a bit more, eyes drifting, unfocused, as if pulled into some memory only she could see. The kind that still had claws, and fangs, and spikes—that still drew blood when she looked too long. Her thumb slowly traced the rim of the glass, absent and automatic—something to do with her hands while the rest of her tried not to splinter under the weight of it.

Bucky didn’t move, just stood there, sipping quietly, like he understood she needed the silence more than the sound. Like he knew how not to crowd someone who was fighting ghosts of their own.

Because he did.

When she blinked herself back to the present, the first thing she noticed was that he was still standing. Still watching. Still there. The sight of it twisted something in her chest—something sharp and untrusting.

She frowned softly. “You’re making me feel like I’m being interviewed by HR.”

He arched a brow, puzzled, until she reached over and tugged a second office chair with her foot. The wheels squeaked softly against the tile, loud in the quiet room, like a tiny protest from the world outside their tension.

“Sit down,” she said, nudging it closer to him. “You’re giving me a neck cramp.”

He huffed something between a laugh and a sigh—like even that simple sound carried a weight he didn’t know what to do with—and took the seat, lowering himself into it like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to make himself comfortable here. Like comfort was something he had to earn in her kingdom now.

She watched him over the rim of her glass again as he took another sip. Watched the way his fingers curved around the drink like it was something to hold onto. Watched the crease in his brow that hadn’t left since he walked in. Like he hadn’t let himself breathe since the last time they spoke.

Something about the way he sat, the way his shoulders held tension even now—like he was still waiting for her to push him away—made it harder to dismiss him.

She could feel her brain trying to pick apart the code. To debug the situation. Trying to determine: Is he doing this because he genuinely cares? Because the thought of hurting me kept him up at night?

Or was it just another tactic, another mask? Something polished. Practiced. The way others had smiled at her before they stole something they had no right to.

Or worse—maybe he wasn’t just trying to take something. Maybe he wanted to keep her. Add her to whatever collection he had, like a thing that looked good beside all the others.

Conquests. One-night stands. Girls. Women.

However he was calling it.

His eyes met hers just then—maybe he felt her watching.

Or maybe he was always watching her—just not head-on. Quietly. Like he didn’t want her to notice.

Like a habit he couldn’t shake.

But he didn’t look smug. Didn’t look like a man who thought he was halfway to a victory.

He looked… guilty. And maybe a little sad. Like something inside him was unraveling in slow, silent threads.

That was harder to fake.

She took another sip and quietly asked, “So… why come back? You already said sorry.”

Her voice wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Careful. Like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt.

He didn’t answer right away.

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge—but not the sharp kind. Not the prove it kind. The kind that said: I want to believe you. Please don’t make me regret it.

Bucky stared at the whiskey in his glass for a beat, rolling it gently in his hand like he was looking for answers in the amber. Then he exhaled through his nose—slow, the kind of breath you let out when you finally stop pretending something doesn’t hurt.

“Because I meant it,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. “And because saying it once didn’t feel like enough.”

She didn’t move, didn’t look away—just let him speak. Let the words fill the spaces left by all the things unsaid.

“I keep thinking about the way you looked that day. Like I’d flipped a switch in you. One word, and you just… shut the door.” His jaw tensed. “I didn’t know. I couldn’t have, but I still did it. And I hate that. I hate that I did that to you.”

Her throat worked as she swallowed slowly, but she stayed silent, giving him room.

Maybe because part of her wanted to believe this wasn’t just him trying to make peace for his own gain. That it wasn’t some move to ease his guilt or smooth things over just enough to get what he wanted.

Maybe because something in his voice—the strain of it—sounded like it came from the same kind of broken she knew too well.

He continued, fingers tightening just a little around the glass. Like he needed the sting of it to stay grounded.

“It’s not just guilt. It’s not just wanting to make things right so it doesn’t feel awkward the next time I need something fixed.”

A faint, dry smile tugged at the corner of her lips at that, but she stayed quiet.

Not because she didn’t want to speak—but because if she did, she wasn’t sure what might spill out.

“I kept thinking… if it hurt me that much to see you like that, to know I caused it—then it’s not just some fleeting thing, or whatever.”

He looked up at her again, eyes clearer now, like something inside him had clicked into place.

“I care about you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t come with a grand gesture or heat behind them.

Just quiet truth. The kind that ached in the silence after.

The kind that left no place to hide.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, the drink forgotten in his hands.

“And I know we don’t know each other that well. But I want to. I want to figure this out—whatever this is.”

Her chest tightened, a flutter blooming somewhere between fear and hope—two old ghosts that never showed up alone.

Fear, because she’d been here before.

Hope, because somehow this felt different.

It always feels different, doesn’t it?

But this… this carried a tremble, like her ribs were bracing against something breaking open.

A part of her already wanted to run.

Another part had never wanted someone to stay so badly.

Bucky looked down again, then back at her, softer now.

“So yeah. I brought the whiskey to say sorry. But I stayed because I’m not ready to give up the way you smile at me when you’re in a good mood. Or the way you tilt your head when you’re trying not to laugh at something dumb I said.”

His mouth twisted into the faintest smile, but it was lined with something older than regret—like he was letting her see a crack in the armor he always wore.

“I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you, even if I never really had you to begin with.”

She studied him for a long, quiet moment.

Eyes narrowed. Teeth pulling lightly at her lower lip, the rim of her glass cradled like it might hold her together. Still, she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Her gaze was pinned to his like a lifeline, her brain still trying to catch up to the weight of his words.

She was weighing them—each syllable scraping softly against the bruised corners of her trust.

And he didn’t try to smooth over the silence this time. Didn’t offer more to cushion the blow.

Just let her take her time, the flicker of a frown still ghosting between his brows—quiet, pained, like he was already bracing for her to push him away. For her to close the door for good this time.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she gave the faintest little nod, like she’d just negotiated something with her own heart and barely won.

Slowly, she extended her right hand toward his—flesh, not metal. Human.

Trembling, just a little.

Open.

Tentative.

“Apology accepted,” she said, voice soft, brittle at the edges like it had cost her more than he’d ever know.

He blinked, caught off guard—like part of him had already accepted that she wouldn’t.

Then he reached out without hesitation, fingers curling around hers—not possessive, not desperate, but careful. Gentle.

A handshake, yes—but not formal.

It felt like something sacred.

Like a wound being touched for the first time and not flinching.

Like trust.

Then her lips tugged into the faintest smirk as she added, “But next time, I expect ice cubes.”

Bucky gave a quiet huff of a laugh, deep and rough in his chest, and without letting go of her hand, he met her gaze and said, serious and low, “There won’t be a next time. I won’t hurt you again. Not if I can help it.”

And her smirk faltered, melted—softened into something unguarded and warm. Something real.

She held his eyes a second longer, like she was memorizing the way he looked when he promised something with his whole chest and nothing to hide behind.

Then she pulled her hand back gently, the ghost of his touch still clinging to her skin, and leaned into her chair with a slow sigh that carried too much.

Her glass caught the light as she took another sip, something inside her loosening—just a bit. Just enough.

Outside the office, the compound had gone quiet for the night.

Only the low hum of life carried through the halls—voices behind closed doors, footsteps, laughter too distant to reach them.

Everyone else had already folded into comfort and routine.

But in this small pocket off the main hall, in the quiet breath of the tech wing, something else had taken root.

Something raw. Unspoken.

Understanding.

And maybe, the first thread of something that could hold.

It didn’t happen all at once.

But slowly—over shared tech fixes and clinking glasses of whiskey—with the whiskey stones she bought him a week after their little peace talk (“so you don’t have to carry ice around like a caveman,” she’d teased with a grin that caught him off guard and made him stare a beat too long before looking away.)—something shifted.

One afternoon, she helped him pair a Bluetooth speaker. He could’ve figured it out eventually, maybe, but he didn’t try that hard. Not when it meant sitting next to her on the small couch of her office, her leg brushing his every time she leaned forward, her breath close enough to fan over the side of his neck. The speaker crackled to life with one of his playlists—some old blues mixed with newer instrumentals—and she smiled like she hadn’t expected his taste to be so… gentle.

He didn’t say it, but that moment stuck with him. Her presence curling into the corners of his space, not intruding—just being. Like it had always belonged there.

She helped him figure out an app on his phone once too. Something dumb Tony had insisted everyone use to sync schedules across the team. They’d sat side by side on the couch in the common room—half solving the tech issue, half just… talking. Laughing.

And somewhere in the middle of her showing him how to swipe notifications without accidentally opening seventeen windows, she’d leaned into him. Just a little. Unthinking.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. He just… let her.

And it felt nice.

Safe.

Like falling into something warm and steady, that smelled faintly of aftershave and motor oil. A kind of safety that didn’t come from walls or weapons, but from someone.

There was no big declaration. No flashy move. Just a moment—quiet and utterly unspectacular—when he looked at her across her desk one day and asked softly, “You wanna have dinner with me sometime?”

She blinked, unsure she’d heard him right. “Like… dinner dinner?”

He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled beneath the stillness of the room. “Yeah. But not restaurant dinner. Something real. Just you, me, and good food. You don’t have to dress up unless you want to.”

“Do it for yourself,” he said, and his voice had dipped—playful, but still sincere. “Not for me. Though—”his smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, eyes a little darker now, “I’d probably stare either way.”

And now, here she was.

Standing in front of a house he’d texted her the address to, her hands light against the hem of her simple black dress. Something soft. Something that made her feel good. It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t a mask. Just her. A version of herself she was still learning to like.

She’d fixed her hair loose around her shoulders, makeup just enough to bring out her features—but nothing too precise. She’d adjusted the neckline three times in the reflection of her car window, cursed her reflection once, and still nearly turned back twice.

But she didn't.

The house wasn’t massive. Wasn’t even particularly Bucky, not at first glance. But there was something lived-in about it. Quiet. Cozy. Like maybe it had belonged to someone kind, once, and he’d borrowed it for the night because he didn’t want dinner to feel like a mission.

Still, her instincts hadn’t shut off entirely.

She’d texted her best friend the address with a joking "If I go missing, tell the Avengers Bucky Barnes killed me. JK. (Probably.)"—just in case. Old habits died hard. Trust didn’t come easy.

Now, she stood at the doorstep, breath catching somewhere between her ribs. She reached up and rang the bell.

The chime echoed inside—too loud, too final. Her heart did a strange little jump, not from fear but from something messier. Like her body was trying to brace itself against how much she might want this. Him.

She smoothed her dress again, hand brushing across her stomach. The nerves were stupid—unfounded. She knew she didn’t have to be nervous with him. He wasn’t the type to judge, not about things that mattered. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He made her want to melt. And she didn’t know how to armor herself against that.

Didn’t know how to be held without flinching.

Not yet. But maybe… tonight.

The door opened with a soft click.

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes, in clothes that straddled the line between effort and ease. Dark slacks. Button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, top buttons open like he couldn’t pretend to be someone else even if he tried. His hair was pulled back, low and neat—but a strand had escaped and brushed his cheek, softening the hard line of his jaw.

He was smiling—until he saw her.

Then he just… stopped, like he hadn’t seen her in years.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she had to look away.

His expression stilled—unguarded, open—like someone had unplugged his brain. No words. No movement. Just breathless, caught, like she’d just knocked the wind out of him and he didn’t quite remember how to exhale yet.

His gaze moved slowly, almost reverently—from her shoes, up her legs, the curve of her dress, to the exposed line of her collarbone. It paused, just briefly, around her mouth—then snapped up to meet her eyes, like he was afraid he’d lingered too long.

“You’re…” He blinked, shook his head just enough to break the spell. “Stunning.”

She rolled her eyes, but it was a flimsy shield at best. Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, one she didn’t try to hide as heat rose in her cheeks. She stepped past him, lightly brushing his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, smooth talker,” she muttered, but there was no edge in it. Only breathless warmth.

He laughed low in his throat and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. “Just being honest,” he murmured, and something in the way he said it made her feel like maybe he wasn’t just talking about her dress.

Then the scent hit her.

Warm. Inviting. Delicious.

Garlic. Herbs. Something roasted and slow-cooked with care.

It was the kind of smell that clung to the edges of a home—not just a kitchen. The kind that made your shoulders relax without you realizing. Made you forget everything else for a second.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the steps. “Dinner’s upstairs.”

She followed, heels tapping softly on the worn wood, one hand brushing the railing as if grounding herself.

“Just so you know,” she said as they reached the second floor, “I gave the address to a friend. In case you planned to, you know… murder me or something.”

He glanced back at her, amused, and she caught a flicker of something warmer behind it. Not offended—not even really teasing—just… touched. Like he understood exactly why she’d done it, and didn’t blame her.

“Smart move,” he said.

There was a beat of silence. Then that little crooked smirk crept in.

“But I’d have to find someone else to fix my tech if I did. You’re too useful to kill.”

She snorted. “Wow, what a romantic sentiment.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” he tossed over his shoulder, and pushed open the rooftop door.

And it was her turn to stop.

The air shifted—cooler, crisper. It curled around her like a soft breath, brushing past the nerves she hadn’t been able to shake and carrying them off like petals in the wind.

The rooftop was surrounded by half-walls, high enough to offer a sense of privacy but low enough to let glimpses of the city sneak through. But she barely noticed any of that.

Because this… this was all she could see.

Strings of warm LEDs hung overhead, like stars caught in a gentle net. They dipped and arced, soft light pooling like smooth gold over a small table for two. Candles flickered along the low ledge—some in jars, others floating in glasses—casting delicate shadows that swayed with the wind.

The table was already set. A bottle of wine waited.

Two plates. Two chairs.

And from the corner, a small Bluetooth speaker played low, calming music—instrumental, familiar, something soothing that settled into her chest like a lullaby.

She blinked, recognition dawning.

“Wait,” she said, glancing at the speaker. “Is that the one I helped you pair?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish now, the confident version of him slipping just slightly. “Yeah. Thought it’d be better than whatever playlist Stark tries to blast every time someone mentions the word ‘date’.”

She looked around again, her eyes wide—overwhelmed in the way that made your throat ache a little. Like something inside her wanted to reach out and hold the moment still.

“Bucky, this is…”

He scratched his jaw, his nerves suddenly so visible she wanted to cup his face and tell him he didn’t need to try so hard.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s… perfect.”

He smiled, and it was small, unsure—but real. One of those smiles that didn’t quite reach the surface until someone else pulled it out.

“Good. I wanted it to feel right. For you.”

And it did.

Not like some grand, glossy gesture meant to impress.

But like something carved gently out of quiet intention. Thoughtfulness. A space made with his hands—not just for her, but because of her. She hadn’t expected that, but it fit him so well now that she knew what lived under all that armor.

It felt like someone seeing you for who you were and saying, stay anyway.

He pulled out her chair, a little awkwardly, but with both hands—one gloved, one not. That contrast always made her heart stutter a little.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Her fingers brushed his ungloved hand as she sat—warm against warm, skin against skin—and the touch lingered longer than it should’ve.

She met his gaze, something soft and searching behind her eyes, as if she were still trying to convince herself that this wasn’t some dream she’d wake from.

That maybe, this time, she didn’t have to keep running.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Let’s.”

Dinner was amazing.

Not the kind of amazing that called for flashy praise or dramatic sighs—no. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of amazing that lived in the silence between bites, in the small hums of contentment shared without needing words. In the way her eyes kept drifting to him, like she couldn’t quite believe Bucky Barnes had made all this happen. Like something in her chest kept stuttering every time she remembered this was real.

At one point, she teased him—something about bragging over dancing and never following through—and without even thinking, he’d taken her hand. The soft music still whispered from the speaker, and they ended up swaying together, barely more than a slow lean into each other, like gravity had softened just for them. No steps, no rhythm—just the warmth of his chest against hers and the weight of her head resting lightly near his collarbone, like maybe this was the only place in the world where she felt truly still.

Eventually, the dance melted into something quieter.

They’d ended up on the bench near the rooftop’s edge, tucked beneath a soft throw blanket that smelled faintly of fresh laundry. She was curled against him now, shoulder pressed to his side, head leaning on the solid comfort of his arm. He was so warm. So steady. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything—just let her be. And somehow, that silence between them felt more intimate than any kiss.

Each of them held a glass of whiskey, the stones clinking gently when she lifted hers.

He caught the sound and gave her a small, crooked smile. “I still can’t believe you got me whiskey stones,” he said, voice low and rough-edged with amusement.

She tilted her head, giving him a smirk. “Told you I expected ice cubes next time. Had to make sure you’d be ready.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm against the cool night. They both took a sip, the amber liquid a soft burn in their throats, grounding them in the now.

A pause settled in—stretching long and quiet beneath the faint twinkle of stars. The city murmured far below, all its noise dimmed by the distance, like they were tucked inside a separate world entirely. A delicate pocket out of time, untouched and safe.

She shifted just slightly, tilting her head to look up at him from beneath her lashes. Her voice came quiet, fragile in its sincerity.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said. “It was perfect.”

He glanced down, and for a second his smile looked almost bashful, like the compliment hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

“Had help,” he admitted. “Natasha gave me pointers. And I, uh… I watched so many romcoms.”

She laughed into her glass, the sound breathy and light. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. If I see one more Christmas-themed love story with a baking competition in a small town, I swear I’ll lose it.” He grimaced in exaggerated pain. “I think I got diabetes just from the dialogue.”

She giggled, nudging his side with her shoulder. “Worth risking your life for me, huh?”

He didn’t answer with a joke this time. Instead, his smile softened. Quieted.

“Yeah,” he said, without a flicker of doubt. “I’d do anything for you, sweetheart—”

And then he froze. The word still hanging in the air like the tail end of a wish he hadn’t meant to speak aloud. His eyes snapped to hers mid-sentence, wide and uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

“Shit. Uh—sorry, is that okay? I didn’t mean—‘sweetheart,’ I mean. Not like… you know... ‘doll’ or anything.”

She blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden stammer, then gave him a look—half amused, half touched. One brow arched just enough to tease, lips tugged into a soft smile.

“Sweetheart’s fine,” she murmured, her voice dipped in warmth. “Actually… I kinda like it.”

And Bucky—God, the relief that washed over him was palpable. His shoulders eased just slightly, like he’d been bracing for rejection and found only kindness waiting.

“Good,” he said, voice soft now. More reverent than relieved. Like it meant something more than she realized.

She turned back, resting her cheek against his shoulder again, and he leaned in, gently tilting his head to touch hers. The stars shimmered faintly above, distant and unbothered, and the whiskey sat cool and heavy in their hands.

She exhaled, slow and deep—only now realizing how long she’d been holding her breath.

“About the ‘doll’ thing…” she said, voice barely louder than the breeze brushing their faces.

He didn’t hesitate. Just turned slightly, watching her with that careful, open steadiness he gave her when she needed space to fall apart.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Not if it’s hard.”

“I do,” she said. There was no waver in it. Just quiet determination. “If we’re gonna go further, you have to understand.”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded—slow, steady. And then his flesh hand came to rest on her shoulder. The brush of his thumb was gentle, grounding. Not pushing. Just a tether. A silent I’ve got you. A promise she could feel echo in the bones of her chest.

He knew this was going to hurt. And he was ready to hold space for every word of it.

She stared out at the night for a long moment, then looked down at the amber liquid in her glass before exhaling slowly.

“I’ve never talked about it before,” she admitted quietly. “Not to anyone.”

Bucky stayed silent, listening.

The city pulsed far beneath them, distant and quiet. She didn’t look at him when she began, eyes fixed somewhere past the stars—like the past had curled its fingers around her throat, and she had to look away just to breathe.

“Twenty years ago, I was with someone. We were young, in love. Thought we had all the time in the world. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, in that messy, sweet, figuring-it-out kind of way. We had plans, dreams… For almost five years, it felt like one of those movies you probably tortured yourself with to plan this date.”

He smiled faintly but didn’t interrupt. His presence wrapped around her like quiet armor.

“And then it all just… stopped.”

Her voice caught—just for a second. Just long enough to fracture the air between them.

“There was a car accident. He didn’t make it. I did.”

Bucky's thumb stilled for half a beat, then resumed that slow, soothing motion. Like he was reminding her she was still here. Still breathing. Still held.

“And I had to relearn everything after that. How to be alone. How to breathe when my entire world had been gutted.” She shook her head, lips pressing together like they were holding back a scream. “I was broken. Physically, emotionally. For a while, it felt like I’d died too, just… kept walking.”

The kind of pain that rewrites your bones—that was what clung to her voice. Her eyes. The slump of her shoulders.

A long breath left her lungs, like it had been stored there for years. She swallowed hard, lips twitching like she was deciding how much to say.

“Then, someone stepped in. A mutual friend. We grieved together. He helped me relearn how to laugh. And eventually, I needed to feel something. Alive. Touched. Human. So after six months, we started… sleeping together.”

Her voice was soft, steady now, like she was reciting a memory she’d rehearsed a thousand times in her head. But every word still carried weight, dragging behind it invisible chains.

“It was supposed to be casual. No strings. I just needed to feel alive again. I had just lost the man I thought was the love of my life. I wasn’t ready for anything else. Didn’t know if I ever would be, even. And I thought he got that.”

Her fingers tightened around her glass. The stones inside barely moved, held fast despite the tremble in her grip.

“But he didn’t. He’d been in love with me for years—long before the accident. And I didn’t know he saw that moment as his opening.”

She let that settle between them like ash from a long-dead fire.

“He started telling me he loved me. Every time. Over and over. And I didn’t answer, not at first. But after a while… I felt guilty. I was confused. And tired of hurting. So one day, I told him I loved him too.”

She shifted slightly—not to move away, just to ease the tightness in her chest, like the weight of what she carried had started pressing too hard against her ribs.

“It wasn’t a complete lie. I did love him, in a way. Like a friend. Like someone who helped me through hell. And I thought… maybe that could be enough.”

She stared up at the stars now, her voice flat but fragile. Every word like ice pressed to skin.

“Problem was, my parents were moving to another country. I had been staying with them during my recovery, and now I needed to choose. Either go with them to a place where I barely knew the language, or find a place to stay…”

She closed her eyes for a moment, lashes trembling.

“So I moved in with him.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Colder.

“And that’s when the nightmare began.”

Bucky said nothing. His hand hadn’t left her shoulder. But he was coiled beneath it all—tight and still, the kind of stillness that came before a storm. She could feel him tense, holding back—every instinct in him probably screaming to ask what happened, to hunt someone down, to protect her retroactively—but he just waited. Gave her space. Gave her control.

She took another sip of her whiskey, needing the burn this time. Then she looked down at the stones inside and clenched her teeth.

“He got possessive. Intense. I was still grieving. Still tired. But he didn’t care. He always wanted more. And I just… let it happen. Sometimes he’d coax me into things. Other times, I just… lay there. Looking at the ceiling. Making grocery lists in my head while I waited for it to be over.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, just barely—but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move. Just let her talk.

Just let her finally let it out.

“It lasted almost five years,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know how to leave. I had no energy. No will to start again. And society doesn’t exactly hand you a roadmap. I was almost thirty. Everyone else was getting married, having kids. And I thought… maybe this was it. Maybe this was what I was supposed to settle for.”

Her voice broke just slightly, then steadied—like a dam with a thin crack, barely holding back the flood.

“I worked. He didn’t. He drove me to the office and picked me up every day. Always there. Always watching. And then his best friend got married. And I just knew he was going to propose. I could feel it.”

She took another sip of whiskey, like it could burn the memory away—but it didn’t. Nothing ever did.

“I couldn’t breathe at the thought of being trapped like that forever. So I packed what I could carry and left. Moved in with a friend until I could stand on my own again.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Absolute.

When she finally looked at him, her eyes shimmered with tears, with the weight of what she’d shared. They weren’t dramatic tears—they were quiet, the kind that slip down your face when you’ve forgotten how not to hold things in.

“So yeah. That word? It takes me back there. To that grim apartment. Lying on my back. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering if this was all life had left for me.”

She let out a breath—shaky but freeing, like she was finally letting the ghosts out with it.

“I’m not there anymore. But it lingers. Like the bitter taste of ash.”

She let the silence drag for a few seconds, then added, quieter than before—like the words might shatter if she said them too loud:

“And it changed how I saw men.”

He still didn’t move. Still let her talk, knowing it wasn’t over. He didn’t dare rush something that had taken her years to hold together.

“Because before things turned bad, he was sweet. Funny. A good friend. The kind of guy you trust without even thinking about it.”

She exhaled a short sigh through her nose—the kind that sounds like regret. Like someone blaming themselves for not seeing the wolf hiding beneath a familiar smile.

“So now… when someone approaches me, I can’t help it. I overanalyze everything. Every word, every look, every shift in tone. Waiting for something to crack.”

She gave a weak smile—not quite bitter, not quite sad. More like it had just worn out.

“I didn’t do that with you. Not at first. Not until you called me... that. Then I froze... lashed out... to hurt you in return as a defense mechanism. Because it hit a place I thought I’d buried.”

A pause. Then, softly—too softly:

“But I know you’re not him. Or at least… I hope to whatever higher power you’re not.”

That last sentence hung in the air like mist—fragile and trembling. The kind of hope that comes from someone who’s been used too many times to ever trust their own instincts again.

Bucky looked down, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately. Just stared ahead into the night, whiskey untouched now, caught in the weight of everything she’d just given him—everything she'd carried alone for far too long.

And beneath it all, something dark and hot simmered in his chest. A fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It curled in his gut like fire licking at the edges of his restraint. Every word she’d spoken echoed like a wound reopening inside him—but he kept it there, buried. Contained. Because this wasn’t about him. Not now.

He could scream later. Break something later. She didn’t need rage. She needed someone steady. Someone who would hold her pain without adding to it.

So it took a long moment before he shifted, jaw still clenched, eyes burning with emotion as he set his glass down on the small wooden table in front of them.

Then slowly—carefully—he turned toward her.

His vibranium hand came up, gentle in a way that seemed impossible for something made out of such a hard material, and tilted her chin until their eyes met.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Roughened by emotion. Almost breaking.

“You’re safe with me. If you want me.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

“I’m not perfect,” he went on, quietly. “Not even close. I still wake up choking on my own nightmares, remembering things I did when I wasn’t even me. I still feel like I’m something broken. A weapon. A relic from a world that should’ve stayed buried.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, soft as a feather—like he was afraid she might vanish if he touched her too hard.

“I don’t feel like I deserve ninety-nine percent of what’s come my way. Including you.”

His voice dropped even lower, like it wasn’t meant for the world to hear.

“But I’d do anything for you. No strings. No expectations. Just whatever you need.”

A long breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers. Like he was anchoring her to this moment, offering her all the steadiness she never got before.

“I wish I could erase all those years. The ones that made you feel like that word could strip you bare. I’ve seen hell too. Lived it. Carried it in my bones.”

A self-deprecating laugh—low and worn, like it had been dragged through the dirt.

“Still do, if I’m being entirely honest.”

His fingers curled slightly at her cheek, as if grounding himself in the present—because if he let go, even for a second, he wasn’t sure where his mind might spiral.

“But you, you made it through your own. You clawed your way out. You’re standing here. Breathing. Laughing. Trusting, even just a little.”

He gave the faintest shake of his head, in awe—but there was grief in his eyes too. For all the years neither of them could get back.

“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

His voice broke slightly at the edges—too full, too raw.

“And I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone more.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile—small, almost fragile. Not bright, not giddy. But real. The kind of smile that only comes after surviving something you never thought you’d crawl out of.

There were tears in her eyes, unshed but shimmering in the moonlight. And it wasn’t sadness, not really. It was something softer. Something quieter. A deep exhale after holding in too much for too long.

Because he hadn’t turned away.

He hadn’t doubted her, or minimized her, or changed how he looked at her.

He’d just been there, listening with his whole heart. And when he spoke—it had been like sunlight through broken glass. Gentle. Honest. Whole.

Her throat tightened, and she had to clear it softly to ease it. Even then, it didn’t help much. Her heart was pressing up against her ribs like it wanted to be seen for once.

She set her whiskey glass down beside his on the small table with a quiet thud, then reached out and rested her palm against his cheek. The cool metal of his arm near her skin steadied her somehow—but the warmth of his flesh cheek beneath her fingers made her chest ache in ways she didn’t have a name for.

Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, and her gaze stayed locked to his—steady despite the emotion shimmering behind it.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you.”

His breath hitched—just enough to tell her this meant as much to him as it did to her.

“With the nightmares. With the strings. With everything you are. The good. The bad. The sweet. The bitter.”

Her voice trembled just slightly, like it might break if she tried to hold back anymore.

“All of it.”

And then she leaned in, slowly, her eyes fluttering shut as her forehead brushed his. She felt him lean in too, breath warm against her skin, his own eyes closing as their lips met.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss. It wasn’t hurried, or rough, or hungry.

It was slow. Deep. A quiet promise shared in silence, sealed with warmth and trembling reverence.

He kissed her like she mattered.

And she kissed him like he was home.

They stayed like that for a long time—lips barely parted, foreheads resting together, breath mingling between them. Like two pieces of something shattered long ago, trying to remember how they once fit.

The world didn’t rush them. The rooftop felt like a quiet sanctuary far above the heartbeat of the city. Somewhere soft and safe, tucked away between constellations and the low, distant hum of life.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

His arm wrapped around her, pulling her gently into his side. Her head came to rest against his shoulder again, her fingers still loosely curled near his chest, like she was holding onto the moment with everything she had.

Their glasses sat forgotten on the small table beside them, amber liquid catching the faint glow of the rooftop lights—a quiet testament to the things they’d let go of tonight.

The stars shimmered above, uncaring and eternal.

Below, the city breathed—cars passed, lights behind windows turned on or off, music drifted faintly from a nearby building—but up here, time had slowed to a hush.

Just the two of them.

A woman who had learned to live again.

A man who never thought he could be wanted.

Two souls stitched back together by quiet strength and patient hands, sharing warmth beneath the endless sky.

From a distance, the rooftop looked like just one more light among millions, glowing gently in the dark.

But for them, it was their own safe little world.

Notes: If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to comment and spread the love 😊 More on the way!

✨ Masterlist ✨

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crazykinkiwi · 3 days ago

Text

Mercy | Twisted Oneshots

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x captive!Reader

Genre: Dark fiction, Psychological horror, Yandere, Attempted escape

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings:

Dark content, non-con/dub-con implications, captivity, physical/emotional abuse, breeding, size dominance, psychological trauma, suicidal ideation, manipulation, violence, blood, chains/restraint, escape attempt, horror themes.

Please DO NOT read if you're sensitive to these topics.

AN: This piece explores very dark themes. If you're uncomfortable with yandere dynamics, abuse, or psychological torment, please skip this. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Masterlist

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment, your thumb was lazily dragging down the screen of your phone, mindlessly watching reel after reel—cats knocking things off tables, oddly satisfying slime videos, a few too many Gojo edits—and the next, a sharp pain had erupted behind your eyes. Like a migraine laced with something sinister. You winced, thinking maybe the blue light had finally caught up with you, so you tossed the phone aside and curled under your blanket, hoping a quick nap would reset your brain.

But what greets you when you open your eyes again is… not your room.

The ceiling is too high. Wooden, carved with an elegance that reeks of power. The sheets beneath your fingers are silk, not the cotton covers you remember. And your clothes—your eyes widen—you're not even in your pajamas anymore. A pale robe, almost translucent, clings to your skin like a second layer, soft and foreign. There's a strange floral scent in the air—lotus, maybe, or something sweeter, heavier—and your limbs feel like they’ve been asleep for centuries.

You sit up slowly, heart beginning to pound.

This isn't your room. This isn't your world.

The walls are rich with tapestries and scrolls, the designs swirling like they’re alive. The bed you lie in is massive, fit for royalty, the mattress sinking just the right amount. Still, none of it comforts you. The air itself feels off—thick with an energy that prickles at your skin. You feel watched. Haunted.

Your throat tightens as an unexplainable fear begins to bloom in your chest.

"This has to be a dream," you murmur to yourself, voice barely audible. “It has to be…”

A sharp gasp cuts through the silence.

You snap your head to the corner of the room. A woman in a formal kimono stands frozen in place. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, her hands trembling so badly you can hear the sleeves of her kimono rustling. Her lips part, but no words come out at first. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“M…mistress,” she finally stammers. Her voice is paper-thin, her bow so deep her forehead almost touches the floor. “You’re awake… you… you shouldn’t have…”

You blink. Mistress? You try to ask her what she means, but the words tangle in your throat.

The commotion must have alerted others, because more women come rushing in. They’re dressed similarly, their expressions matching the first—nervous, pale, careful. As if the very sight of you is both a miracle and a threat.

Their eyes flick between one another before one of them steps forward, bowing low. “Pardon me,” she says softly, barely louder than a whisper. Her hands reach out gently, taking yours. Her touch is cool and practiced, as if she’s done this a hundred times—but never with someone like you.

You’re too stunned to protest as she helps you off the bed. The fabric of your robe slides off your skin with every movement, light as air. The other maids trail behind like shadows, always three steps behind, heads lowered.

They guide you through halls that feel like they belong to another century. The floor is polished wood, the doors tall and heavy with carvings of ancient beings. Eventually, you’re led to a bath—a giant stone basin filled with steaming water, petals of crimson and gold floating on top. The walls are etched with dragon motifs, and the scent of rose milk fills your lungs.

“Please,” one murmurs, gesturing for you to undress.

You hesitate… but something about their anxious eyes keeps you quiet. Besides, it’s not like you have a better plan.

They bathe you with reverence, their hands gentle as they pour warm water over your shoulders, brushing your hair until it shines. The tension in your muscles starts to ease despite yourself. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the surreal luxury. Or maybe you’re just trying not to panic.

You close your eyes. Try to pretend this is just some lucid dream. That you’ll wake up in your bed soon, phone hot from charging beside you, and laugh at how weird it all was.

But when your eyes open again, you’re in another room.

This one is darker. Richer in tone. The kimono they dress you in is exquisite—deep red silk with golden embroidery along the sleeves, trailing like fire down your arms. It’s heavy, ornate, almost ceremonial. One of the maids lingers beside you as the others step away, and her fingers hesitate as they tighten the obi around your waist.

“Lord will be here soon…” she whispers close to your ear, her voice unsteady.

You turn your head. “Lord?” you echo, but she steps back quickly, bowing so low her forehead nearly grazes the tatami mat. None of them answer you.

They leave you alone in the room again.

You stand awkwardly for a moment, heart racing. Then you sink down to sit, trying to wrap your head around anything that’s happened. You pinch your cheek hard.

“OW—fuck!”

It hurts.

This isn't a dream.

You glance at the door.

No sound. No movement. The silence is oppressive.

You breathe in deeply, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Who the hell is this “Lord”? What is this place? And why does everyone keep calling me mistress—

The door bursts open.

You jolt to your feet.

Your breath catches.

Standing in the doorway is a figure you never thought you’d see outside the pages of a manga. Towering, broad-shouldered, his presence devours the room the moment he steps in. Black markings curl like living ink across his pale skin, decorating his chest, arms—all four of them. Two at his sides, two crossed casually over his broad chest.

His eyes gleam a deep crimson, gleaming like freshly spilled blood. His lips curl into a smirk, sharp canines flashing.

Sukuna.

Your knees threaten to buckle.

The real Ryomen Sukuna, in all his Heian-era, cursed-glory. Except this… this version of him isn’t behind a screen. He’s terrifyingly real. His aura alone is suffocating. He’s taller than you imagined, more monstrous—more god-like.

And he’s staring straight at you.

“Finally awake, little dove?” he drawls, voice dark and velvety. Amused.

Your mouth opens—but no sound comes out.

Sukuna’s smirk widens as he steps inside, shutting the door behind him with a deliberate thud. “I’ve waited long enough,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you like a predator assessing its prey.

“You’re finally where you belong.”

That was the last time you saw him.

Since that strange, terrifying encounter, Sukuna had vanished like a storm passing in the night—leaving behind only his weighty presence in every shadowed corner of the palace. His voice no longer echoed through the halls, and his crimson eyes were nowhere to be found. But his influence? It remained thick in the air, in the silence, in the tension that wrapped around your ribs like a rope with each breath.

You were confined to a lavish room, endlessly served and watched over like a fragile porcelain doll. His orders, the maids said. They never looked you in the eye, always bowing low, too respectful or too afraid—you weren’t sure which.

There was always someone there. Someone trailing after you, someone bringing meals before you even asked, someone ensuring your every whim was met—without explanation, without fail. Most concerning, however, was the doctor.

No matter where you went, he followed. Silent, expressionless, always checking your pulse, your eyes, your temperature—as if you were deeply ill. As if one wrong move would shatter you.

You didn’t understand. Not any of it.

But today… you’d had enough.

"This silence is driving me insane," you muttered to yourself, fingers curling into the silk fabric of your kimono. Your reflection in the polished mirror barely looked like you anymore—so regal, so restrained, so not you.

Your voice rang firm through the chambers when you made the demand:

"I want to speak to Lord Sukuna. Now."

The reaction was immediate. Shock, gasps, eyes wide with disbelief. A few maids dropped to their knees, as if your words were blasphemy. One brave servant stammered, “M-Mistress… surely you mean something else...”

“I said what I said,” you snapped, glaring at her. “Send word to him. I need answers.”

There was hesitation. Panic, even. But eventually, someone slipped away to deliver your request. And not long after, the order came:

You were to be escorted to his den.

The walk there felt endless. Every step echoed with tension, every hallway dim and lined with golden carvings of beasts that seemed to watch you pass. The aura was suffocating.

And then the doors opened.

Your breath hitched.

There he was.

Sukuna lounged on a massive throne carved from obsidian, bones, and some metal that shimmered like blood under moonlight. Two of his arms were crossed over his chest, but the third hand lazily cradled his face, and the fourth? It extended outward—pointing directly at you.

His lips curled into a wicked smirk as his voice broke the silence.

“Ku ku ku... I cannot believe my eyes…” His tone was playful, laced with something darker. “You’re actually here to see me. When every time before… I had to force you.”

You gulped, throat dry, but not because of his words.

It was his aura.

It pressed down on you like gravity itself had turned its hatred toward you. Your knees felt weak, breath shaky. His eyes—those blood-red, inhuman eyes—were boring into your soul, as if trying to unravel you.

But you couldn’t turn back now.

You clenched your fists tight, desperate to hold your ground. "I—I need to talk to you,” you said, then shouted. “This sounds stupid but I’m not from this world!!"

Silence.

Utter, chilling silence.

You looked up slowly, pulse thudding in your ears. His smirk had vanished. No more teasing. No more games. His expression now was… unreadable. Dangerous.

“That definitely sounds stupid,” he said at last, voice low. “This is why you shouldn’t have left your bed.”

“No, listen!” you cried, stepping forward. “This isn’t a delusion, I swear! I was in my world—just on my phone—and then there was this pain, and I woke up here. I don’t know how, but I’m stuck in this world and I—I want to go home!”

You poured out every detail, from the reels on your screen to the gut-churning confusion when you first opened your eyes in that unfamiliar bed. Your voice cracked from desperation. You didn’t care how insane you sounded—you just needed him to understand.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Unmoving. Silent. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

Then suddenly—something seized your waist.

You gasped sharply.

One of his massive arms had wrapped around you in a vice-like grip, lifting you as easily as one might scoop up a doll. You could barely breathe—his fingers pressed deep into your sides, almost crushing. The heat of his skin burned through the fabric of your clothes.

“W-What are you doing—!?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he yanked you onto his lap, your body landing hard against the firm muscle of his thighs. The proximity made your skin crawl and burn at the same time—his monstrous face now inches from yours. You could see every line of those black markings, the gleam in his fangs, the hunger in his gaze.

Then he whispered—low, guttural, final.

“Home?”

A pause.

“But little dove…”

His breath ghosted against your cheek.

“This. Is. Your. Home.”

You stared at Sukuna in disbelief, your heart pounding as you tried to process his words. Home? How could this hellish place, this nightmare made reality, possibly be considered home? You shook your head vehemently, tears streaking down your face.

"No! This can't be my home. I have a life, a family back in my own world. I can't stay here!" You choked on the word, revulsion and fear warring within you. "Why don't you understand...!!?"

"Of course I understand, little dove. And I don't give a fuck." Sukuna growled, his voice a cold, round, and deep rumble that reverberated through your fragile form. "You belong to me now. This is your home, your place, your purpose. Serving me, milking your plump tits for my pleasure, warming my bed. everything else is just a cruel lie that you've convinced yourself to believe."

Sukuna paused, sensing your desperate need to flee, to escape his cruel grasp and the twisted world he inhabited. A cruel smirk played across his lips, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement.

"Tell me, little dove," he purred dangerously, one hand drifting down to cup the swell of your generous breast, fingers sinking into the plush flesh. "do you really think you can run from me? From your destiny?"

You shuddered, immediately gripping his wrist, trying to pry his hand off your breast, but he barely seemed to notice your struggles, his grip unyielding. "Stop! I.. I just want to go back!! I don't want this..!" You slammed your other hand against his chest, hitting him again and again, but he remained unmoved, his heart beating with a slow, steady strength that mocked your weakness.

Sukuna's grip tightened, squeezing the breath from your petite lungs as his four powerful arms encircled you possessively. He could feel the frantic pounding of your heart, hear the desperate whimpers and cries spilling from your rosebud lips. It should have stirred some semblance of empathy within him, but instead, it only fueled his sadistic amusement.

He tilted his head to the side, his pink hair brushing against your tear-stained cheek as he leaned in closer, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. "No, little dove," Sukuna growled, his voice a menacing rumble. "Just because you don't want this doesn't mean you can avoid your fate. Don't you remember what happens when you try to avoid it? Avoid me? Or do I need to remind you hmm?"

One hand drifted down your trembling body, fingers sinking into the plush flesh of your thigh, while the other tangled in your hair, forcing your head back to bare the delicate column of your throat to his hungry gaze.

"You think you can run?" Sukuna chuckled darkly, his thumb brushing over the pulse point on your neck, feeling it race beneath your soft skin. "I will hunt you down, little dove. I will find you in the darkest corners of the earth and drag you back here, back to your rightful place at my side. Just like before."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Give up your futile resistance. The sooner you accept your destiny, the easier it will be for you. I can be cruel or I can be kind... but either way, you're mine."

You trembled uncontrollably in his ruthless grip, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The heat of his body seeped into your skin, his cruel words sinking into my mind like poisoned barbs. A broken sob tore from your throat as you shook your head frantically, hair whipping around your face. "No, please...I'm begging you...don't..." You choked out, but the words died in your throat as you felt the cold press of something hard and sharp against your spine. Your eyes widened in terror as you realized it was the tip of a blade, its edge biting into your skin.

"Hurts, does it?" Sukuna's dark chuckle reverberated through your aching bones as he felt you squirm and hiss in pain, your delicate body helplessly pinned beneath his immense strength. The sound of your fearful whimpers only served to fuel the sadistic hunger that constantly dwelled within him.

Leaning forward, Sukuna's lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he whispered, "No more 'no's' or 'noo's', little dove. You've made a mistake, and now you must face the consequences. Now, be a good girl and hold still while I claim what's mine..."

With that, Sukuna claimed your lips in a brutal, punishing kiss, his tongue forcing its way past your soft lips to conquer the sweet recesses of your mouth. He drank from you greedily, uncaring of your muffled cries and whimpers, determined to mark you, to claim you, to make you his in every way imaginable. His grip on your body tightened as he forced his hungry mouth against yours, his tongue invading the warm cavern of your mouth, claiming every inch of you. he could taste the salty tears that had been spilling down your soft cheeks, could feel your delicate hands pushing weakly against his broad chest in a futile attempt to escape his brutal kiss.

He swallowed your muffled cries and whimpers, drinking them down like the sweetest nectar, reveling in the way your petite frame shuddered and trembled against his own. Sukuna's hands roamed your body greedily, squeezing and kneading the generous curves of your breasts, the soft globes of your ass, as if he were trying to mold you to his will.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and bruised, glistening with his saliva. Sukuna's chest rumbled with a dark, wicked chuckle as he take in the dazed, terrified expression on your face, your eyes glazed with unshed tears and confusion.

Trailing a single black nail down the delicate line of your jaw, over your pounding pulse, Sukuna leaned in to growl, "Crying won't save you. You've got this on yourself..."

His hand drifted lower, the black nail tracing the hollow of your throat, the soft swell of your collarbone, until it reached the neckline of your dress. With a cruel smirk playing across his lips, Sukuna hooked a finger beneath the delicate fabric and yanked it downwards, baring the creamy, unblemished flesh of your cleavage to his hungry gaze. Sukuna's eyes darkened with lust as he stared down at the revealed expanse of soft, tender skin, his mouth watering at the sight of the ripe, succulent curves. He leaned in, his warm breath washing over your newly exposed skin, the heat of it making your flesh prickle with goosebumps. Sukuna felt your body stiffen beneath his touch, heard the sharp intake of breath you took as you braced yourself for what was to come.

Sukuna chuckled darkly. "Don't be frightened, little dove. I know you can't resist me forever. Your body is already betraying you, craving my touch, aching for my possession."

To prove his point, Sukuna brushed his thumb over one of your nipples, now stiff and straining against the thin fabric of your dress. He could feel it pebble even further at his touch, your body's reaction a glaring contrast to your continued protests. His smirk grew wider. "You see? Your tits are so eager for my attention, so hungry for my mouth and fingers. They know who they belong to, even if you try to deny it."

Sukuna's hand slid further down your dress, his fingers dipping beneath the hem to stroke the soft skin of your inner thigh. He could feel the heat radiating from your core, the dampness that was already gathering there. His fingers crept higher, brushing maddeningly close to your aching, needy sex. "Stupid girl. Always denying what's good for you."

You shook your head weakly, your eyes filling with fresh tears as Sukuna's cruel words and even crueler touch left you reeling. "N-no, please...I don't...I won't..." You tried to protest, but your voice was hoarse and breathless, barely above a whisper. Your body felt heavy, leaden, pinned beneath the unyielding weight of Sukuna's massive frame. You could feel every hard, muscular inch of him pressed against your softer curves, the heat of his skin seeping into your own until it felt like your blood was boiling in your veins.

As his fingers crept higher, brushing maddeningly close to your aching, dripping sex, you couldn't help but squirm and writhe beneath him, your hips jerking instinctively as if trying to escape his touch. A choked moan spilled past your lips before you could stop it, the sound humiliating you even as it echoed in the charged air between your bodies. "D-don't touch me..." You whimpered weakly, even as your thighs fell open just a little more, your core clenching and fluttering around nothing.

Sukuna's lips curled into a cruel, wicked smirk at your desperate plea, your voice pitching higher as you begged him to stop. He could feel you squirming and writhing beneath him, your body helplessly pinned against his rock-hard muscles, your soft curves molding to the contours of his powerful frame.

But your pleas only seemed to amuse and excite Sukuna further. He drank in the sight of you, your tear-stained cheeks, your swollen and bruised lips parted around your frightened whimpers, your wide, terrified eyes. The picture of innocence and fear, and yet, Sukuna knew better. He knew the dark desires that lurked beneath the surface, the hunger that gnawed at your core.

One of Sukuna's large hands slid up your trembling thigh, his rough palm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His fingers brushed maddeningly close to your dripping sex, teasing you with a touch that was almost, but not quite, where you needed it most.

"Oh, but your pretty little cunt tells a different story," Sukuna purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "It's practically dripping, so hot and swollen and ready for my touch. Stop lying to yourself, you stupid girl."

To prove his point, Sukuna roughly brushed his Fingers over your aching, needy sex, feeling it clench and flutter around nothing, desperate to be filled, stretched, claimed.

"You can lie to me all you want, but you can't lie to your body. This slutty little thing is mine, and it's begging for my cock, for my touch, for my possession," Sukuna growled, his fingers delving between your slick folds, coating themselves in your dripping arousal. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick them clean, tasting your fear.

You shuddered violently as his fingers brushed against your drenched, aching sex, a humiliating moan tearing from your throat as your hips bucked involuntarily. Tears streamed down your face as you realized the extent of your treacherous body's betrayal, your core clenching greedily around nothing, desperate to be filled by the monster looming over you.

"N-no...it's not true..." You whimpered, even as your thighs trembled and fell open further, giving Sukuna easier access to your most intimate places. "I d-don't...I'm not..." But your protests sounded weak and halfhearted, even to your own ears. You could feel the shameful heat of your arousal, the way your body screamed for Sukuna's touch, for his possession, no matter how much your mind recoiled at the thought.

As Sukuna brought his fingers, glistening with your shameful essence, to his mouth and licked them clean, you turned your face away, unable to watch as he tasted your betrayal. A choked sob escaped your lips as the horrible truth sank in - no matter how much you fought it, your body was already giving in to Sukuna, already submitting to his cruel will.

"Listen to you, making such pretty little sounds. Your mouth says no, but this greedy cunt says yes, louder than anything else. Stop lying to yourself, little dove. Stop denying what your body so desperately craves." Sukuna curled his fingers inside your dripping sex, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your core. At the same time, he rolled and pinched your stiff nipple between his fingers, the cruel pleasure bordering on pain making your back arch off the bed.

He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling like a bowstring ready to snap. Sukuna knew you were close, teetering on the brink of that precipice. He wanted to throw you over it, to make you shatter in his arms, screaming your pleasure for all the world to hear.

"Cum for me," Sukuna commanded, his voice a low, dominant growl. " Cum on my fingers like the desperate slut you are. Show me who you belong to, who this hungry little pussy belongs to. Do it, little dove. Give yourself to me completely, and I might just give this needy cunt what it's begging for..."

You couldn't hold back the scream that tore from your throat as Sukuna's fingers stroked that sensitive spot inside you, your body writhing and convulsing beneath his touch. Your nipple throbbed almost painfully as he pinched and rolled it between his fingers, the cruel pleasure bordering on agony. Tears streamed down your face as you felt the coil within you tightening, your body hurtling towards a devastating climax.

"N-no...I d-don't..." you gasped out, even as your hips jerked and bucked wildly, grinding your dripping sex against Sukuna's stroking fingers. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched, gripping his digits like a vice as your pleasure built to a unbearable peak.

Sukuna's dominant command, growled in that deep, rumbling voice, shattered the last of your resistance. Your body betrayed you completely as you felt yourself tipping over the edge, plunging headlong into a mind-bending orgasm.

"AgHh~!!!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your sex clamped down rhythmically around Sukuna's fingers, your juices gushing out to soak his hand and the sheets beneath you.

"Such a good girl," Sukuna growled, his fingers still pumping lazily into your sensitive, dripping sex. "Coming so hard on my fingers like the desperate slut you are. I think you've earned a reward, don't you?"

With that, Sukuna abruptly withdrew his fingers from your trembling pussy, ignoring your whimper. Sukuna's hand drifted down to the waistband of his pants, roughly palming the massive, throbbing bulge that strained against the fabric. He could feel his twin cocks twitching and pulsing in anticipation, aching to be buried deep inside your tight, dripping heat. "I'm going to ruin this needy little cunt," Sukuna promised darkly, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I'm going to split you open on my thick cocks, stretch this greedy hole until you can't take it anymore. You want that, don't you, little dove? You want me to claim you, to make you mine forever?"

Sukuna's eyes flashed with cruel, sadistic hunger as he gazed down at your trembling, pleasure-drunk form. He could see the desperate, craving look on your face, the way your hips arched up towards him, seeking more of his touch, more of his possession. With a wicked smirk playing across his lips, Sukuna swiftly undid his pants, freeing his massive, throbbing erections from its confines. They sprang forth, long, thick, and hard, the swollen heads already weeping with need.

"Open your eyes, little dove," Sukuna commanded, his voice a sharp, dominant bark. "Look at what you've done, look at the monster you've unleashed. This is what you do to me, what you've begged for with this slutty little body. Now, take responsibility for your actions..."

You slowly opened your eyes, dazed and bleary from the intensity of your orgasm, to find Sukuna looming over you. As your vision cleared, your gaze was drawn to the massive, intimidating sight of his twin cocks, thick and pulsing with a life of their own as they stood proudly erect from their confines. They were enormous, easily the size of your wrist, the swollen heads an angry, almost violent purple. You couldn't help but imagine how they would feel stretching you impossibly wide, splitting you open and ruining your tight, virgin passage.

The thought sent a illicit thrill of fear and shameful anticipation through your body, even as your treacherous sex clenched and fluttered, already missing the absence of Sukuna's fingers. You knew you should look away, should recoil in horror at the sight of such brutal, punishing cocks, but you found yourself frozen, transfixed by their raw, animalistic power.

"N-no, please..." you whispered, even as your thighs trembled and fell open further, baring your dripping, aching sex to Sukuna's hungry gaze. "They're too big...I c-can't..." But your feeble protest sounded weak, even to your own ears. Your body wasYour body was telling a different story, your hips tilting up in a silent invitation, your dripping sex glistening and flushed, swollen with arousal. Sukuna's smirk widened as he took in your trembling, needy form, his cocks twitching eagerly at the sight of your helpless submission. "Oh, little dove. You can, And you will. Your greedy little cunt is dripping for it, aching to be split open and claimed, to be ruined for anyone else."

He took a step closer, the thick heads of his cocks now brushing maddeningly against your slick folds. You could feel the searing heat radiating from his massive shafts, the hard throb of the thick veins pulsing beneath the silky skin. Sukuna reached down, gripping your thighs and forcing them further apart, baring your most sacred place completely to his conquering advance.

"Stop denying your desire, my little slut. Stop lying to yourself and admit how badly you need to be filled, stretched, used. Your hungry little pussy is sobbing for my cocks, begging to be stuffed and claimed." Sukuna snarled, his voice dripping with cruel amusement as he watched you tremble and hesitate. "Relax if you don't want to break." With that, Sukuna's massive cocks jerked forward, the swollen heads nudging demandingly at your dripping slit. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as you felt the scorching heat of his flesh pressing insistently at your most intimate entrance. A choked whimper escaped your throat, your hips squirming and bucking weakly in a futile attempt to escape the overwhelming sensation. Sukuna growled, his voice a commanding bark that sent shivers down your spine. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading them wider as he pressed forward, He could feel your velvet walls stretching to their absolute limit, the delicate flesh straining and bulging obscenely around the girth of his shafts. The sight of your pussy lips flowering open, split wide by his cocks, was almost enough to make Sukuna cum right then and there.

Sukuna's hips rocked forward in a brutal, punishing rhythm, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with each savage thrust. He could feel your slick arousal gushing around his pistoning cocks, your juices dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.But even as he fucked into you with ruthless abandon, Sukuna could see the terror and pain etched into every line of your face, could hear the choked, muffled cries that fell from your bruised lips. And it only made him want to destroy you, to ruin you utterly, to fuck you until nothing remained of the innocent little girl you once were.

"Scream for me," Sukuna commanded, his voice a cruel, sadistic growl as he pounded into you with brutal force. "Scream and let the whole fucking world know who this cunt belongs to. Scream, and maybe I'll give this tight little fuckhole the release you've earned, you desperate little cock sleeve. Now, scream for me like the wanton slut you are!" Sukuna snarled, his hips slamming forward with brutal force, driving his massive shafts even deeper into your ravaged pussy. He could feel your body convulsing beneath his, your back arching off the bed as if electrified. Your eyes, glazed and unfocused, stared up at him with a mix of fear and reluctant pleasure, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks.You could feel each thick, pulsing spurt as it battered against your cervix, pushing deeper and deeper into your unprotected womb until you swore you could feel the liquid heat sloshing in your stomach. The sight only spurred on Sukuna's ruthless pounding, his cocks pulsing and throbbing inside your tightened heat.

"Fuck, this cunt was made for my cocks," Sukuna groaned, his grip on your throat tightening reflexively as he chased his release. "Gonna fill this slutty hole to the brim, mark you as mine inside and out..." With a final, brutal thrust, Sukuna buried his massive length to the hilt inside you, his swollen cockheads kissing your womb. A guttural roar tore from his throat as his orgasm crashed over him, his twin shafts erupting like volcanoes deep inside your core.

Sukuna's eyes rolled back in bliss as he emptied himself inside you, thick ropes of scalding cum painting your insides white. He could feel your stomach bulging slightly with the sheer volume of his release, marked by the obscene outline of his cocks pulsing beneath your skin. "Get pregnant!" Sukuna growled, grinding his hips against yours as the last spurts of his cum dripped into your thoroughly claimed cunt. "Fuck... Never ever think about going back to your world..."

.......

You woke up with a sharp jolt, cold metal biting into your neck.

The room was dim—only lit by the soft glow of flickering lanterns. Shadows danced across the ceiling, and for a moment, it almost felt peaceful… until the clinking sound reminded you.

Chains.

Heavy, cruel iron chains.

One thick collar encircled your neck, connected by a short length of chain to the cuffs clamped around your wrists. Another set bound your ankles, attached to the polished wooden foot of the bed. You couldn’t even sit up without the cold metal tugging hard at your skin.

You blinked slowly, body aching. Your muscles screamed. Your skin was marred with bruises and scratches—memories of the last time Sukuna had touched you. Not tender, never tender. He treated your body like something to break, to possess, to remind you that he could.

Your lips throbbed, swollen and split. Your throat was dry, and your stomach twisted painfully with emptiness.

How long had it been?

You didn’t know. Days blurred together in this cursed place.

The door creaked open, and you turned your head weakly.

A maid entered—quiet, cautious, eyes downcast like always. She approached slowly, trembling, and knelt beside the bed with a tray of food. Steam curled from the soup’s surface, and the bread looked fresh, but you didn’t move.

"Please..." she whispered, barely audible. "It's been three days since you last woke up. Please eat something..."

You stared at her.

But not out of sympathy.

You were too numb for that now.

She was just another pawn in his castle. Like everyone else. Like you.

“Get out,” you croaked, voice hoarse.

She flinched but bowed lower and scurried away, leaving the tray behind.

You didn’t touch it.

Not a bite. Not a sip.

Let it rot.

Let him rot.

If this was throwing mud at Sukuna’s orders, then so be it.

You didn’t care anymore.

Not after what he did.

Not after the way he broke you like a toy that wouldn’t bend to his will.

And perhaps—perhaps you hoped that if you wasted away here, starving slowly, he'd lose interest. Let you go. Kill you. But then—

The sound of footsteps—heavy, echoing—told you he was near before the door even opened.

Sukuna stepped inside, towering and regal and terrible in crimson robes, his presence crashing into the room like a wave of dread.

You turned your face away, defiantly silent.

But he was already at your side.

One of his arms reached down, calloused fingers brushing against your lips—right where they were swollen and crusted with blood. You hissed in pain, instinctively flinching, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed harder.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

“Are you trying to kill yourself, little dove?”

You bit your tongue to keep from trembling.

And then you answered, voice barely above a whisper.

"That's better than being like this... with you."

A thick silence followed.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, yet his hand didn’t retreat. Instead, his claws grazed your cheek now, so lightly it was almost tender—but his nails scraped your skin just enough to remind you that he could shred your throat with a flick of his wrist.

“I can make it easy for you,” he murmured.

That line sent a chill down your spine.

Your heart pounded so loudly you thought he might hear it.

He meant it.

He was offering death as casually as a gift.

But then his tone changed—just enough to make your blood freeze in a different way.

“…But I won’t,” he said, leaning closer, his breath hot against your face.

“You’re precious to me.”

Precious.

Like a cursed jewel.

Like a possession he didn’t intend to return.

His fourth hand gripped your jaw, forcing your gaze up. You didn’t want to look into his eyes. You didn’t want to see the madness there, the claim he believed he had over you.

“Don’t make me force-feed you,” he whispered. “You know I will.”

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was a reminder.

Of who held the chain.

Of who could crush you, and who chose not to.

You tried not to sob when he pulled back, your chest tight with emotion. Rage, fear, disgust—maybe a part of you screaming this isn't how it's supposed to be.

But his hand remained at your throat, warm and strong.

“I’ll give you an hour,” he said. “Eat. Or I’ll come back. And this time…”

He grinned, cruel and toothy.

“I won’t be so nice.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away—his laughter echoing down the hall as the door slammed shut.

You lay there, chained and cold, lips bruised and heart breaking. You stared at the untouched tray of food beside the bed.

Maybe death would’ve been easier.

But monsters don’t let you die that easily—not when you’re their favorite toy.

As always, you stood by the window.

The chain around your neck pulled tight with every breath, its iron weight an eternal reminder—you were never free. Your legs, still chained at the ankles, throbbed with old wounds. You couldn’t go far, but you stood anyway, every day, just to feel a breeze through the crack in the glass.

Your eyes burned. You’d cried too much.

And still, no one cared.

The door creaked again behind you.

You didn’t flinch.

Another maid. Another tray. Another hollow voice urging you to eat. You never turned your head. You never even looked anymore.

Until she said—

“Lord Sukuna is going on a hunt today…”

Your head turned.

Your gaze met hers—nervous, unsure. Why tell you that?

But then her eyes welled with tears, and her voice broke.

“Mistress… I’m sorry…”

She dropped to her knees before you, sobbing into her sleeves. Her hands trembled violently as she reached toward you, not with food—but something else.

You blinked.

Was this real?

You couldn’t feel anything. Not shock, not fear. Just an emptiness—until her next words shattered your silence.

“All these five years…” she choked out, “…I had to watch you go through this. Since that day… when Lord Sukuna first took you… burned your village… slaughtered everyone.”

You stood frozen.

Your breathing hitched.

You wanted to ask—what are you saying? But your throat felt stuck.

“No matter how many times you tried to run… no matter how many times you screamed for help… he always dragged you back…”

Her voice cracked. “He almost killed you, Mistress. I remember… that day, when you stopped breathing. You were… gone for two years.”

Your heart stopped.

Two… years?

“You weren’t waking up… your chest didn’t rise… I thought you were…”

She broke into sobs, covering her mouth. “But Lord wouldn’t believe it. He kept you in his bed, kept touching your face, checking your pulse, talking to your unconscious body like… like you’d just wake up if he stayed close enough…”

Your knees trembled.

Was this reincarnation?

Or resurrection?

Is that why your body never felt right? Why your memories of that time were nothing but a blur of fire, screams, and his voice?

“I had to watch all of it in silence… I couldn’t do anything…” the maid whispered through her tears.

And then… she looked up at you.

Her eyes—full of guilt. Of fear. But also… a flicker of resolve.

“Mistress… please let me help you.”

She reached under her kimono and pulled out something that made your eyes widen—

Keys.

You stepped back instinctively, the chain rattling.

“W–What are you doing?”

Her hands reached your legs.

“Freeing you,” she said, unlocking the iron cuff with trembling fingers. “Please… run. Run far away. Don’t look back.”

You gaped at her, your heart racing.

She backed away, not meeting your eyes, but her voice shook as she added—

“Before he comes back.”

Something snapped inside you.

It didn’t matter how broken your body felt. Or how bad your feet hurt. Or how loud the chains clinked with every movement. You were moving.

You jumped.

Out the window.

The drop was steep. Your body hit the earth hard. Sharp pain shot through your legs—but you didn't stop. Couldn’t.

The cold wind lashed your face, and the branches clawed your arms like hungry ghosts. The forest was thick, wild. Poisoned thorns scraped your skin, but you tore through them anyway.

Your bare feet bled with every step—leaving red stains across the moss and mud.

The iron collar and wrist chains clanked as you ran.

Still, you ran.

You didn’t care if the plants tore you apart.

You didn’t care if the cold numbed your lungs.

You didn’t care if you were breathing like fire and coughing blood.

Because ahead—just through the trees—

There was light.

A sliver of silver sun.

It pierced the leaves like hope cracking through a nightmare.

You burst through the underbrush, arms scratched raw, legs shaking—

But a wide smile broke across your bloody lips.

“I—I’m free!!!”

You gasped those words like it was the first breath of your life. Light burst through the trees, the sun bathing your blood-stained skin in golden warmth. Your smile stretched wide—your voice trembling with the joy of hope—

And then—

Thwip.

Spring.

Snap.

A sharp sound.

Too fast. Too clean.

You didn’t even realize it hit you until your knees gave out.

A fiery pain bloomed across your back, spreading through your spine like molten steel.

Your eyes widened.

Your smile faded.

Then—

You collapsed.

Face-first into the cold earth.

The world spun. Blurred.

You heard hooves. Multiple. Thunderous. The ground trembled under them.

A shadow fell over your body.

You turned your head, barely able to lift your chin—your limbs heavy like they were sinking into the soil.

Sukuna.

On horseback.

Dressed in obsidian black robes. His bow still aimed toward your twitching, bleeding form.

Flanked by soldiers cloaked in red and bone-white masks. None dared speak.

The wind blew around him, stirring his robes, his long hair flowing like a death flag.

He looked down at you—no anger. No rage.

Just silence.

That made it worse.

The weight of it. Like gravity itself turned cruel.

Finally, he spoke.

One hand still gripping the bow.

His voice low. Cold. Flat.

“Stupid girl.”

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