Convinced Eddie gets absolutely turnt at weddings.
Even worse, he’s a serial wedding crasher. If there’s a wedding being held at the local hotel, he’s there in his best rented tux.
The staff know him well, and yet, have no way of stopping him. Somehow, he always gets it in.
Every time, he’s the first person in line at the open bar, and the second to dance with the bride.
He even shamelessly cuts into the daddy-daughter dance. Dripping in charm, brandishing an overly confident, “S’cuse me, sir. I’d like to dance with your daughter for this song.”
Usually it’s then that he’s made.
The fathers always allow it, too nervous to ask who the man is, thinking they’ve probably met him before but can’t recall. The brides, on the other hand, always regard him with utter confusion, but dance nonetheless. He’s far too charming for his own good.
After he explains how he heard ‘this was the hottest party in town,’ they always end up respecting his audacity and telling him the open bar runs until late.
At your wedding, he’s only got one must-have song on the list. And that’s December 1963 (Oh What A Night!) by The Four Seasons. That’s his favorite wedding song. It’s a little unconventional given his typical taste, but it almost perfectly encapsulates his history and his feelings for you.
The second he hears that opening drum beat, he pulls you away from your conversation, calling out a half-hearted apology to your grandma. “Sorry, nana! Need’ta dance with my wife for this one!”
You laugh as he drags you onto the tiled floor, his shoulders shimmying to the rhythm. In perfect sync, he sings along to the lyrics, serenading you with boundless enthusiasm.
“Oh, I,” he whines the high notes, bobbing his head as he twirls you around, “I got a funny feelin’ when she waaaalked in the roommmm. And my, as I recall, it ended much too soon!”
Your laugh turns into a scoff of shock when he leans over to a man you don’t recognize—probably a plus-one—dancing near by, yelling, “I came in like thirty seconds the first time! You get it!”
“Eddie!”
Pulling you in until his arms lock around your waist, he grins wildly. “What? Look at him, he gets it!”
He continues on, wholly unbothered and with hearts in his eyes. “Hypnotizin’, mesmerizin’ me! She was everything I dreamed she’d be!”
Struggling to temper your amusement, you shift your gaze to the mortified, red-faced man trying to dance away from your husband. “I’m so sorry! He’s a bit drunk!”
“Drunk on you,” Eddie excitedly purrs, dipping you low.
Once you’re upright again, you lean in to kiss him, but he spins you out before twirling you back in. The moment you fall against his chest, he picks up your fist and uses it as a makeshift microphone.
“Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right! What a lady, what a night—ooo, pretty ring!”
You throw your head back, giggling until your eyes squint and your cheeks hurt. “Thanks, my husband got it for me,” you say, biting your lip, attempting in vain to stop smiling long enough to tease him.
“Lucky guy,” he responds, backing away from you to do a two-step to the horn solo. With a flourishing spin, he grabs you once more, winding you around the room. “Just between you and I… you deserve a bigger ring.”
You chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, this was all he could afford.”
“Maybe… But I heard through the grapevine there’s a nice, shiny tennis bracelet in your future. Somethin’ about pickin’ up extra shifts and sellin’ his body—I don’t know! Only heard from a friend of a friend.”
Before you get the chance to tell him he doesn’t need to do all that just for some measly diamonds, he’s shrugging his shoulders to the beat, gearing up for the big finale.
“Oh, I felt the rush like a rolling bolt of thunder! Spinnin’ my head around and takin’ my body under! Oh, what a night!”
summary: a mission goes wrong and one blurred night changes everything, but adrian can’t stay away this time.
warnings: mentions of violence, blood, fluff, angst, eventual smut, mask kink, friends to lovers, sexual tension, slow burn, very light touching, minors dni..
a/n: ik I said I was going to do another clark kent fic but I've been obsessed
--
The motel room hums with sickly yellow light, the kind that makes everything look jaundiced. The air conditioner coughs in the corner, blasting more dust than cold air, and the neon sign outside bleeds red through the blinds, pulsing against the wall like a slow heartbeat.
Adrian is pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, boots thudding against the sticky carpet. He hasn’t shut up since you stumbled inside.
“…and, like, technically this is still safer than an ER, because doctors ask questions and then we’d have to kill them, and that’s a whole hassle, and, y’know, murder paperwork sucks. I mean, not that I wouldn’t fill it out, I totally would, I just—”
His voice is quiet, muffled through the mask. You catch every third word, maybe less. The edges of your vision are blurring, tunnelling, and his ramble starts to sound like radio static.
You blink, try to keep him in focus. He’s still pacing. Hands gesturing wildly, words spilling too fast for your brain to catch up.
“…plus, blood is like… mostly water, right? People exaggerate how much they need it. You’ve got tons. You’ll be fine. Like, eighty per cent fine. Seventy-five. Okay, maybe sixty-five, but…”
You let your head fall back against the peeling wallpaper. Your body feels heavy, too heavy. The burn in your side flares with every breath.
You barely register the moment it changes. One second he’s on the far side of the room, muttering to himself about blood loss percentages, and the next he’s there.
Kneeling between your legs.
The first aid kit is open on the bedspread, its contents spilt in a half-circle around his knees. He’s close, so close, gloved hands already tugging at your shirt to press gauze against the wound. His movements are clumsy, rushed, but focused now in a way that makes your stomach twist.
And then he does it.
He yanks the mask up, just far enough. Just above the nose. Enough to show his jaw, his mouth, the sharp line of stubble. Enough to speak clearly.
You’re suddenly aware of everything: his breath, hot and uneven, ghosting over your skin. The way his lips part as he concentrates. The faint quiver in his mouth when he curses under his breath, low and raw, like he doesn’t realize you can hear him.
“Jesus… you’re really, fuck. I should’ve noticed sooner.” His voice is clearer now, cutting through the fog in your head. He presses harder on the gauze, and you bite back a groan. His mouth twists. “Sorry, sorry, I know. Hurts. It’s supposed to. But you can’t just… sit there looking like you’re fine when you’re not. God, why didn’t you...why didn’t I—”
His words dissolve into a jumble again, but this time you catch them, every syllable tumbling out.
“Shit, you’re pale. You’re too pale. Look at me. Please.”
You do. Against your better judgment, you do.
His visor hides his eyes, but the rest of him is too exposed. His lips are soft and trembling, his jaw tight, breath shaky as he tapes the bandage in place. The intimacy of it makes your pulse stutter. He doesn’t even realize he’s too wrapped up in panic, in guilt, in muttering to himself about all the ways he’s already fucked this up.
You want to tell him to shut up. To keep talking. To kiss you. You don’t know which need burns hotter.
He presses the bandage down firmly, gloves slick with your blood, and finally stops rambling long enough to say one thing, clear and low, the words scraping like they cost him.
“You can’t scare me like this.” And for once, he sounds deadly serious.
You reach up, tentatively, and touch his arm. His body jolts at your contact. He clears his throat and mutters, “Don’t do that, you’ll distract me. Or… actually, maybe do, because if I can’t focus on patching you up, I might spiral even worse. Spiral worse is… not good. Bad. Very bad.”
You wince as he leans closer to smooth the tape, his chest brushing yours, the scent of sweat and smoke hitting you full force. “You’re insane,” you murmur.
“Yep. Certified. Gold star. But that counts for something, right?” His lower face curves into the faintest smirk, lips pressed into a line of concentration and something else, something you can’t name, but it makes your pulse hammer.
The room grows smaller as the neon flickers, buzzing in tandem with your heartbeat. You realize you’ve been holding your breath. He’s so close, so impossibly close, kneeling between your legs, mask lifted just enough that his jaw and mouth are exposed, hands firm but careful on your ribs. And somehow, all the panic and clumsy jokes and chaos of his voice makes him… dangerous in a way that’s not about guns or knives.
He notices you watching. His hands pause, tape halfway across the gauze. “You’re staring,” he mutters, almost embarrassed, almost defensive. “You shouldn’t be staring. That’s… that’s inappropriate. Totally inappropriate. I mean, technically, maybe this is slightly okay because… life-threatening situation and—god, stop staring. Focus on breathing, not… stuff.”
You bite your lip, hiding a laugh as your hand twitches toward him. “This is ridiculous..” you whisper again softly as you take the view in.
“I know..” he whines, voice cracking, as if shouting might absolve him. “I’m aware! I’ve been aware for, like, three seconds too long! Why didn’t I notice sooner? You’re hurt! Really hurt! I’m supposed to fix this! And I—ugh!”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath now, a chaotic mix of guilt and panic.
His hand brushes against yours on your side, and he freezes like it was electricity. His thumb hovers, just barely brushing your knuckles. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension between you, the impossible closeness of it.
“Stop moving,” he mutters suddenly, voice low now, intense. “I can’t… tape it if you squirm. I swear if you move.. ugh.. this is literally life or death, and I’m not handling it well, okay?”
You stay still, too aware of him kneeling there, hands firm on your side, mask lifted just enough to see his lips move when he speaks, the faint curl of stubble along his jaw catching the neon glow. You realize, half in shock, half in something dangerous and burning, that this—this proximity—is something you didn’t expect, something you didn’t ask for but can’t pull away from.
“You’re… really close,” you whisper, eyes darting all over his exposed face.
He freezes. The tape in his hands shakes. His lips part, and for a split second, you see panic, guilt, and something else flash across the curve of his jaw.
“I—yeah. I know,” he mutters, voice quieter now.
And somehow, in the dim motel light, amidst the smell of bleach and dust, amidst the chaos and the blood, the way his mask is lifted just enough to reveal his mouth, the frantic flailing of his hands trying to fix something he can’t fix fast enough, it becomes unbearable.
I feel like Bucky is the type of guy who'll kiss every inch of your face once you wake up very slowly.
Like his arms were around you all night, holding you to his chest so he can feel you, so he can feel the perfect way you fit against him, so he can smell your unique scent.
When you start waking up slowly he'll hold you closer, and you'll snuggle more against him.
“Mornin’...” Bucky would say with a very sleepy voice, barely making the words between his lips get out.
At his sleepy voice you'll secretly smile and mutter back to him. “Morning babe. How did you sleep?”
“Perfect,” he'll murmur while kissing the top of your head. “I always sleep perfectly when I'm with you, doll.”
Here Bucky starts showering you with kisses. He'll hold your face between his two hands and kiss your forehead, nose and cheeks before he smiles at you and go for your lips, taking them in a lazy morning kiss.
That kiss sometimes ends in more heated things but this time he just drew back and looks at you, his eyes were full of adoration for you.
With the way he's looking at you, and the way he is still sleepy, hair messy, makes your heart beat fast.
“Gonna make breakfast for us doll, ok?” Bucky will murmur before giving you another kiss.
“Yeah, ok.” You'd say, a huge smile on your face.
So shirtless, Bucky will go to the kitchen to make breakfast for both of you, leaving you in bed trying to calm your heart down before you get a heart attack.
I'm sorry but to me, that man is sweet not a freak😔
content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k
The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.
You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.
The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.
Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.
You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.
“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”
You didn’t turn around.
“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”
You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.
“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”
You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.
Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.
“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.
He grinned.
“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”
“You were supposed to be on my six.”
“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”
You took a step forward.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.”
“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”
He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.
You didn’t.
“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”
He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.
“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”
You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.
“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”
“I’d rather chew glass.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”
Your hand twitched toward your blade.
He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”
He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”
You shoved him.
It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.
Then smiled.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”
You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.
His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.
Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.
“That all you got?”
You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.
You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.
His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.
“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”
His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.
“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”
You shoved him—hard.
This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.
He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.
That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.
He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”
Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.
“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”
He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”
“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”
“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”
Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.
“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”
You scoffed, but his grin widened.
“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”
You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.
“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”
Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.
“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”
“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.
“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”
Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.
Then you spit.
Right into his face.
It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.
Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.
His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.
You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.
His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.
“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”
He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.
“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”
You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.
“Don’t. Speak.”
His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.
“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”
Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.
You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.
You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.
The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.
From want.
And it hit you like a slap.
No.
No, no, no.
Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.
And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—
You were getting wet.
You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.
“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”
You froze. Heart lurching.
“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”
You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.
“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”
You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.
“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”
“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.
He ignored it.
“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”
You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.
He chuckled darkly.
“Temper, temper.”
Then you bit him. Hard.
Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.
You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.
“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.
Ben didn’t blink.
“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.
Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.
His eyes lit up.
“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”
You slapped him.
The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.
And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.
“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”
He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.
His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.
“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”
You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”
He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.
His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.
“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”
You turned your face away.
That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.
Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.
He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.
He heard it.
“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”
You clenched your teeth.
“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.
“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”
He pressed his hips against yours.
You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.
And still—your jaw locked.
He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.
“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”
He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.
“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”
His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.
“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”
You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.
“You want me to say it?” You whispered.
He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.
You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.
“No.”
His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.
“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”
You kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.
And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.
His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.
“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”
You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.
He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.
Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.
“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”
“You already have,” you spat.
His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Then he went for your pants.
And froze.
You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.
“Fuck this shit,” he barked.
Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.
You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.
“Hargrove—” you started.
He didn’t listen.
Didn’t care.
His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.
“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”
Then he dropped to his knees.
You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.
And then—his mouth.
“Oh fuck—”
The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.
Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”
You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.
“Don’t flatter yourself—”
But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.
“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”
Then he really started working.
Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”
His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.
You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.
He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”
You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.
“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”
And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.
You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.
His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.
And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.
“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”
He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.
“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”
His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”
But you didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”
“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”
You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.
“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”
That was it.
He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.
The world flipped upside down.
“Hargrove—what the fu—”
Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.
Your throat convulsed.
He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.
“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.
“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”
He wasn’t pulling back.
Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.
And then?
His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.
You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.
Your whole body spasmed.
“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”
He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.
“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”
His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.
His eyes rolled back.
“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”
You tried to move. Couldn’t.
Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.
He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.
And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.
But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.
He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.
Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.
His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.
And he loved it.
You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.
“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"
He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.
“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”
You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.
“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”
He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.
“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”
Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.
His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.
“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”
He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.
You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.
“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”
His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.
He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.
“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.
Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.
“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.
You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.
He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.
“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”
One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.
You locked eyes. He was gone.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.
Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.
No rush. No brutality.
Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”
Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.
And then he started to move.
Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.
Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.
He slapped your thigh—hard.
“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”
You blinked, dazed.
He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.
Another sharp slap to your thigh.
“Look. At. Me.” he growled.
You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.
“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”
He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.
“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”
You whimpered, and his mouth curled.
“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”
Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—
And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.
“No.”
He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”
He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.
“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”
Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.
“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”
Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.
And that made him feral.
“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”
Your eyes fluttered again.
He tutted.
“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.
“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”
You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.
His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.
“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”
You moaned, head tipping back more.
He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.
“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”
Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.
He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.
“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”
Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.
“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”
His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.
“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.
You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.
He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.
“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.
You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.
He stilled.
You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.
“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”
Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.
He grinned.
“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”
You clenched your teeth, panting.
“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”
He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.
“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”
Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.
And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.
“…Ben.”
His name. Your voice.
Everything stopped.
His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.
“Oh, fuck…”
He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.
“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”
You said it again, even softer.
“Ben…”
And he shattered.
“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”
His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—
He snapped.
“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”
His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.
You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.
And still—
He didn’t stop.
Not even for a second.
He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.
You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.
“Ben—”
“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”
He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.
You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.
Your head tipped back again.
Eyes closed.
Your fatal mistake.
He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.
You cried out.
His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.
“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”
You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.
His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.
“You look at me when I fuck you.”
He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.
“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”
“Ben—fuck, I—”
He spit the next words like a threat:
“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart—
I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”
Your whole body spasmed.
His voice dropped, feral.
“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”
You choked on a moan.
He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.
“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”
He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.
Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.
He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.
Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.
Then—
His pace broke.
He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”
His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”
Your answer was a sob. One word.
“Inside.”
And he stopped cold.
You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.
His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”
He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.
“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”
You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”
He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.
He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.
“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.
“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”
You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.
“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”
He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.
“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”
He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.
“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”
You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.
He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.
“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.
Your legs spread wider.
He grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Then his hand hovered over your lips.
“Open wide,” he said, voice low.
You did.
He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.
“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.
You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.
He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”
Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.
“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”
You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.
He groaned loud. “Good girl.”
And then—
He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.
Because you had.
author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life.
i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it.
i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet.
let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request.
all the damn love.
Most works are 18+/or aimed at that audience. Please take note of warnings within individual stories. (Do not copy, translate, x-post onto other platforms)
(Updated August 17th)
Ones Shots, Series and Ficlettes/Drabbles
One shots:
Just Competitive (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Ride the Rhythm (Drummer!Bucky Barnes x GF! Female Reader)
Too Nice to Stay Inside (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader – AA Spring Bingo)
That Was Mine (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader – AA Spring Bingo)
Bad Idea, Right? (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Cry for Me, Sweetheart(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)
Cost of Access (Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Entrepreneur!Female Reader)
Hands Dirtier Than Yours (Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Security Clearance(Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Former SHEILD!Female Reader)
We Couldn’t Stop(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers, AA kinky)
It’s What I’m Here For (Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Female Reader, AAKinky Bingo)
Stranger No More (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)
Closed Door Meetings (Future-Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Media Relations!Female Reader)
Sharp Enough To Ruin You (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, AKinky Bingo)
Kuritsa(Winter Soldier!Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Female Reader)
Freed (Wakanda!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)
Yours To Keep (Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader- Req)
Trapped Together(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)
Not So Surprising After All (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)
This Is The Last Time / Part 2(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader- Req)
No Competition(Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHEILD agent/trainer! Female Reader- Req)
Under the Brookly Star(Young!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)
You Said Just The Tip (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Just the Tip)
Mine. Always(Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Female Reader)
Sweet As Sin(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Vet Visit (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
When All Is Said and Done (PostEndgame!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Female Reader)
Midnight Stranger(Dark!Buck x Female reader, December Daze Challenge)
Under His Skin(Agent!Bucky Barnes x Agent!Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
Merry Christmas, I Miss You(Bucky Barnes X Female Reader)
Mess is Best(Dad!Bucky Barnes x Kids x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
Ask Santa Nicely(Dark!Dom Bucky x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
White Wine In The Sun(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
Stay Still(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
Through the Cold(Avenger Bucky Barnes x Agent!Female Reader, December Daze Challenge)
Series:
Dangerous Note AU – Updated Every other Thursday
(Mob!Bucky Barnes X Club singer!Female Reader)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18 / Part 19 / Part 20
Stolen Devotion - In progress
(Stalker!Bucky X Female reader)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part4 / Part 5 (Coming Soon)
Favour – Completed
(ClubOwner!Bucky Barnes X Female Reader, BBarnes 108th Bday Bingo)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Drabbles:
Knees on Tiles (Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Female Reader)
Denied and Dripping (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Nothing but His Mouth (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Muffled (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Tailpipe Heat (Biker!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Curl Up on the Couch (SoftDom! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Make Me Say Yes (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Sticky Summer Cuddles (Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Perfect Sensation(Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Thick Arms, Slow Grind (Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader)
Birthday Drabbles (Dad!Bucky x Female Reader – Established Relationship feature kids!)
Morning Drabbles (Bucky x Female Reader – Established Relationship)
summary : welcome to the buckyverse— a collection of bucky barnes au fics written by insane fucking idiots that spent the past two+ weeks gooning in a discord chat. please enjoy!
warnings: minors do not interact. be sure to read all content warnings listed on each fic prior to indulging. please remember that fiction cannot hurt you! if you don't like what you see, please exit. as always, you are responsible for your own media consumption.
all writing and work belongs to their respective writers. as a collective, the writers tagged in this post do not give their consent for their work to be redistributed to other platforms to be reposted, translated, or re-worked by any means. we do not give consent for our work to be used in any form of artificial intelligence (ai) training.
*also known as bouncy white ass
❝ p*rnstar ❞ by @superbassbuck — 08.30.25
⇢ cam!bucky x reader
you’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. you’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen.
luckily for bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
❝ cabernet ❞ by @blowingbarnes — 08.31.25
⇢ virgin!bucky x reader
you decided to raid your mom’s wine cabinet and your feet took you to the fire escape right outside of bucky’s room. when everyone is home.
❝ intoxicated ❞ by @its-in-the-woods — 09.01.25
⇢ stalker!bucky x reader
old habits are hard to break. when bucky finds himself in a new place, looking to start over, he reaches for an old comfort. he thinks he won't cross that line again, won't become infatuated with you. but what happens when you want him too?
❝ white coat syndrome ❞ by @firingstars — 09.02.25
⇢ doctor!bucky x patient!reader
a phenomenon exists where a person’s blood pressure will rise when measured in a clinical setting, but is recorded as normal when measured at home or elsewhere. you’ve never been the type to feel anxious in medical establishments, but with your pcp retiring and transferring your care to her trusted colleague, you end up visiting your new doctor’s office more times in the last three months than you’ve ever had in the past year.
❝ hot to go ❞ by @opheliabbarnes — 09.03.25
⇢ firefighter!bucky x reader
what melts the cold firefighter? hint, it's not the fire.
the brush of a sundress against his arm. maybe even a pool cue hitting his chest repeatedly, held by a woman half his age. it's being seen, not looked at. it's a warmth that doesn't burn, but just thaws, enough to show love can be found in the most unexpected places. the sound of a story about something small and fussy and loved.
❝ the merger ❞ by @chateaubarnes — 09.04.25
⇢ ceo!bucky x reader
thunderbolt records is the number one music label in the country, and bucky barnes is its founder. you, his loyal assistant, have worked under him for years, doing your best to hide your growing feelings for him, which is made harder due to the fact that he spoils you with lavish gifts constantly for a job well done. you try to brush it off as nothing more than a generous boss showing appreciation for his staff, but when the presents keep piling up on your desk, you finally decide to confront him. what you expect to be a simple, professional conversation takes an unexpected turn when he looks you in the eye and says: “you’re my girl. i don’t need excuses to spoil my girl.”
❝ five-oh! ❞ by @barnesonly — 09.05.25
⇢ cop!bucky x reader
small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.
❝ smoke screens and sweet saccharine things ❞ by @flockoff-featherface — 09.06.25
⇢ mob!bucky x reader
bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.
❝ sugar tits ❞ by @54nboo — 09.07.25
⇢ chef!bucky x waitress!reader
chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her.
❝ interrogation tactics ❞ by @heldbybarnes — 09.08.25
⇢ mean!bucky x reader
bucky doesn’t want mission intel—he wants your secrets. tied up and trembling, you confess every filthy thought as he edges you mercilessly, smirking, “guess you don’t want it that bad.” one orgasm is all he gives you—and you thank him for it.
❝ touchdown ❞ by @earthsmightiestbenders — 09.09.25
⇢ football!bucky x reader
The Liberty Knights—Brooklyn Western Academy's all-star football team—are on a winning streak. Not that you care. Except that you're forced to be at every. single. game. It doesn't help that your lab partner—Bucky Barnes—is the number one linebacker in the state. And that you have to play the school song after every touchdown he makes. And maybe you can't help but stare at his ass when he's bent over…
❝ wild about you ❞ by @wildflowersandvibranium — 09.10.25
⇢ zookeeper!bucky x reader
what’s wilder than a zoo, filled with twenty 2nd graders? the unexpected sparks that arise between their teacher and the charming zookeeper.
❝ operator, put your clothes back on ❞ by @rosesaints — 09.11.25
⇢ phone sex operator!bucky x reader
thank you for calling the stark naked hotline, where discretion is guaranteed and satisfaction is expected. our operators are trained to meet your every need—conversational or otherwise—and our private line is always open, especially after dark.
this isn’t your typical customer service experience. but then again, bucky barnes isn’t your typical employee.
alternatively: press 3 if you’re already wet.
❝ cherry on top ❞ by @iamthatonefangirl — 09.12.25
⇢ enemies with benefits!bucky x reader
you and bucky barnes have always been… complicated, to say the least.
but it’s really not complicated at all: you hate his guts with a passion, and he hates yours.
maybe that’s why you started sleeping together—to take out your hatred on one another in the most efficient way plausible.
it’s just the cherry on top that he’s hopelessly in love with you.
❝ the vocal economy ❞ by @houseofhyde — 09.13.25
⇢ rockstar!bucky x popstar!reader
after a chance encounter at paris fashion week, you find yourself entangled in a web of sex, lies, and watchful eyes alongside the drummer beloved rock band the howling commandos. a problematic boyfriend is a rite of passage for every pop-girlie… but bucky barnes is not your boyfriend, he’s your drug. no matter how hard you try, can you truly quit him?
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, degrading, fingering, virginity loss, stalking, size difference kink, very cringe usernames.
word count: 9.7k
a/n: first post for bwa's buckyverse collab! so happy to have created this lil group of bucky writers to come together and make a series of bucky fics for you guys. credit to @barnesonly for reader's and bucky's username. if you find them cringe, blame her. /j
synopsis:
You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen.
Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands.
After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked.
He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand.
His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.”
And then it happens.
With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white.
You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking.
You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops.
Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!!
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.
A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy.
Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest.
Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come?
Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before.
Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.
And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen.
Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?
Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.
Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight.
Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.
You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh.
You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours.
And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline.
Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.
Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.
Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.
The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve.
Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail.
You always were.
At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do.
So why the hell weren’t you doing it?
He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.
He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips.
Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal.
“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said.
And God was that line especially meant for you.
It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.
With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.
For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.
Bucky never followed anyone else.
He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen.
Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.
In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.
So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.
Or… you wanted him to find you.
The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.
Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.
Finally, he could see you.
His number one fan. His pleasure ring.
He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you.
There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight.
His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away.
He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.
All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention.
It was cute.
But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.
God. He would’ve loved to see that.
His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next.
Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach.
There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated.
Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful.
But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame.
His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it.
“Shit,” he grunted.
There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.
He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head.
Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip.
He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt.
A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick.
“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.”
Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile.
Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’
And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.
His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation.
Like you wanted him to see.
His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.
His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.
He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…
You were here. In his town.
“Fuck—”
The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.
He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face.
You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you.
He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?
A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.
Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!
He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.
His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me.
You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner.
Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky.
His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more.
He needed you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?
He already knew it, of course.
He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly.
He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.
Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3
Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?
Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it.
He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.
Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky.
Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3
His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.
He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away.
But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back?
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here.
His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.
In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.
Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.
And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him.
It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.
The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.
He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message.
He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
But then your text bubble popped up first.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!
And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.
His hand froze over the keys.
What?
That’s it?
You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun?
He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all.
A minute passed. Then another. And another.
He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.
All he wanted was you.
Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.
He would find you.
And once he did, you would be his.
It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights.
Bucky was restless.
He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere.
Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs.
He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.
Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing.
And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with.
But that wasn’t stalking.
That was devotion.
He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.
Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons.
They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them.
Try these! They taste just like cotton candy!
You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.
You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.”
You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.”
You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.
You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder.
You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Uh… can I help you?”
His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.
“...Pleasure ring?”
Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear.
“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.
You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?”
The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.
He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him.
“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”
The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat.
He was watching you that closely?
He noticed?
How did he even find you here?
“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered.
You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach.
Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you.
“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?”
You sucked in a breath.
The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead.
“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.”
The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer.
Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in.
You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.
“Are you nervous?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle.
“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing.
“How true does that still ring?”
Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.
But you knew better.
“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…”
His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”
You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.
“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?”
Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…
It made the idea of staying here feel like hell.
“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.”
A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours.
“Lead the way, princess.”
This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.
He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met.
“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.
“There are so many things I want to do to you.”
By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest.
Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door.
The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.
He looked around and let out a low and amused hum.
This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right?
“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.
When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.
“Go on.”
You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.
You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.
“You gettin’ shy, doll?”
Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.
Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.
Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.
“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.
“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?”
“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.”
His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.
“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”
You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”
He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.
“How did you find me?” you asked softly.
He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”
Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.
“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”
You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.
“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours.
“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”
His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were.
“I-I… didn’t know—”
“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…”
He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only.
You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.
But it didn’t.
It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy.
“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?”
You nodded. “I-I am…”
“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”
You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk.
Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating.
Could you really take him? You weren’t sure.
But God, you wanted to try.
So you nodded.
An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips.
“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”
“O-okay.”
His lips pressing against yours.
It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.”
Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you.
He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.
He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?”
Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy.
He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.
“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch.
You blinked up at him, startled and confused.
He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.
“Bucky…”
“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.
You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation.
He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”
His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.
“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”
He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”
You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.
“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”
Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.
“Good girl.”
You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.
“D-do you… want me to keep going?”
A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”
Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly.
“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”
Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.
Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”
Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.
“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”
“C-crawl..?”
His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”
Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees.
Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest.
Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move.
“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.”
You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry.
“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked.
You can only shake your head no.
He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.”
How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward.
“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”
“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”
You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.
“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.
His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”
He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you.
“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”
Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.
“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”
You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”
His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”
You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth.
“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”
Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.
“W-what…?”
“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down.
His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”
“Bucky…”
He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”
He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”
His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.
The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.
“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.
The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.
“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”
You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”
“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger.
“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”
He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.
“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”
You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside.
You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!”
“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”
He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you.
“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…”
When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.
You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully.
“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—”
“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”
He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.
“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.”
The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.
He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”
Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.
“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”
You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”
He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist.
“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.
“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…”
A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.
“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.
“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”
Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable.
“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”
You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.
“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”
That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.
“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”
You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”
That was it.
A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”
With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.
“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”
Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”
“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.
His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.
“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?”
“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you.
“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed.
The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.
Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”
You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.
“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”
You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.
“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”
Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words.
“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?”
“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.”
Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment.
He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.”
You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.
Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online.
He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.
Your moans.
His grunts.
He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.
You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.
Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen.
You clicked it.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one?
Warnings: drinking, smut 18+, p in v, handjob, fingering. Not much plot. Pre-established relationship.
Summary: You decided to raid your mom’s wine cabinet and your feet took you to the fire escape right outside of Bucky’s room. When everyone is home.
The heat sat heavy over the city that night, thick and unmoving. Every window in the Barnes household was cranked open, every fan running, but the air was still humid enough that sweat clung to your back beneath your thin cotton dress.
You shouldn’t have had that much wine. You knew that the second your cheeks started to glow hotter than the air outside. But you’d been restless all evening, and restless thoughts always landed on Bucky Barnes. His smile, his eyes, the way his hair had that little floop.. and then his hands, his lips, his-
By the time you found yourself climbing up the old fire escape, your sandals clinking on the iron, your giggles muffled in your hand, you didn’t care about propriety. You didn’t care that it was after midnight. All you knew was you needed him.
You tapped lightly at his window.
Inside, Bucky was sprawled shirtless on his bed, trying to sleep with the sheet kicked down around his waist. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw you crouched there. “Jesus Christ!” he hissed, rushing across the room to tug the window open. “Are you crazy? My ma’s home!”
You tumbled inside, landing on your knees with a giggle, your hair messy from the humid breeze. “Missed you,” you whispered, eyes hazy and dreamy, like you couldn’t focus on anything but him.
Bucky’s heart thudded so hard it almost hurt. He shoved the window down, locked the door, and turned to you, running a hand through his hair. “If Ma finds you in here, she’ll—she’ll skin me alive.”
But then he saw your face. The flush on your cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, the way you swayed a little like all you wanted was him to steady you.
And he did.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly, hands gripping your shoulders as he tried to guide you toward the bed. “You’ve been drinkin’, huh? Shouldn’t be wanderin’ around at night like that.” He quickly closed and locked his bedroom door, both of your voices barely above a whisper.
“I missed you,” you breathed, tilting your chin up, eyes wide and glassy. “Kept thinking about you.”
Bucky’s chest seized. He was eighteen, cocky enough to swagger around Coney Island, bold enough to fight guys twice his size—but right then he felt like a boy teetering on the edge of something terrifying and wonderful.
“You can’t just—” he started, but then your mouth was on his.
The kiss was sloppy, desperate. You tasted like red wine and summer heat, and when you fisted his hair and pulled him down against you, he groaned low in his chest, already hard in his shorts.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed when you pulled back. “You—you can’t just crawl in my window like this. I’m not made of stone.”
“Good,” you murmured, tugging him toward the bed.
His knees hit the edge of the mattress and he almost toppled. You followed, laughing softly as you climbed beside him and pulled him to be half on top of you. His breath hitched audibly, eyes darting anywhere but you.
His elbows dug into the mattress on either side of your head, holding himself above you, heart pounding like it would crack his ribs. You wriggled beneath him, hips pressing up, and he gasped when your hand slid between your bodies.
“Wait—” His voice cracked as you palmed him through his pants. His body jolted, hips jerking helplessly against your touch.
“Feels good?” you whispered, eyes wide, playful but nervous too.
Bucky groaned into your neck, face burning. “God, yes… just—”
But then you slipped your hand into his waistband, fingers curling around him for the first time, and whatever protest he’d had died instantly. His whole body shuddered, forehead thudding against yours, a broken sound caught in his throat.
“Jesus,” he muttered, teeth gritted, breath ragged as you stroked him clumsily. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”
You kissed his jaw, his cheek, whispering, “You’re so warm, Buck. Never felt anything like this.”
His hands fisted the sheets beside your head, trying to hold still, but his hips rocked helplessly into your palm. He kissed you hard, panting against your lips, whispering your name like it was the only thing he knew.
He finally caught your wrist, gently pulling your hand away before he lost himself too soon. His eyes were dark, wide, but tender. “Let me—I wanna…”
Slowly, fumbling but mesmerized, he pushed your dress straps down your shoulders, kissing the newly exposed skin each time. His fingers trembled as he slid the fabric down, inch by inch, whispering apologies for how clumsy he was.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice cracking when your slip pooled around your waist and you lay bare beneath him. “So damn perfect.”
He kissed down your collarbone, down your throat, whispering soft nothings against your skin, until his hand slid lower. Hesitant at first, then bolder when you whimpered and shifted for him. His fingers found you, tentative strokes, and you gasped so loud you had to slap a hand over your own mouth.
“Good?” he whispered urgently against your neck, lips brushing your ear.
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut, hips rolling into his touch. “So good… don’t stop.”
He kissed your neck as his fingers worked you carefully, watching your face like he was memorizing every expression. Every little gasp made him shiver, every moan made him whisper, “God, you’re drivin’ me crazy, sweetheart… you’re so soft, so warm.”
When he finally slid a finger inside, you clutched his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. He groaned, kissing you deep, moving his hand slowly like he was terrified to hurt you.
“Just wanna get you ready,” he whispered, lips trailing over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Wanna make it good for you.”
Your thighs trembled around his hand, the pleasure clumsy and overwhelming, and he kissed you through it, whispering over and over how much he loved you, how beautiful you were.
Bucky’s hand was shaking where it rested on your thigh, his other buried between your legs, fingers moving carefully as you gasped against his mouth. He kissed you like he could swallow the sounds, desperate and sweet, whispering apologies between each kiss.
“God, you feel so good… never touched anyone like this before,” he admitted, lips hot against your neck.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, clutching his shoulders. “I want you, Buck.”
He froze, forehead pressing to yours, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “Sweetheart… if we do this—there’s no takin’ it back.”
“I don’t want to take it back,” you murmured, pulling him closer. “I want my first time to be with you.”
Something raw passed over his face—half fear, half devotion—before he kissed you again, harder, and fumbled at the buttons of his pants.
By the time he was pushing his trousers down and fumbling out of them, you’d helped shove your slip lower, heart thudding in your ears. He settled above you, bracing himself on his elbows, and the old springs groaned so loudly you both froze.
Bucky muttered a strangled laugh into your shoulder. “We’re dead. She’s gonna hear every damn squeak.”
You giggled, tugging him down anyway. “Then be slow.”
He groaned like you’d just sentenced him. “Sweetheart, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”
“Sorry—God, I’m sorry, does it hurt?” His voice was panicked, tender.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Just… slow.”
So he went slow. Inch by inch, stopping when you hissed, kissing your face like he could ease the sting away. When he was finally buried inside you, his whole body shuddered.
“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, forehead pressed hard to yours. “You feel… you feel so good. I don’t know if I can…”
“You can,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Move, Buck.”
And he did—tentative thrusts, clumsy, every shift making the bed creak and squeal beneath you. The two of you stifled laughter into each other’s mouths, gasps and giggles tangled together as he found a slow rhythm.
Each careful roll of his hips grew steadier, every kiss hungrier. The heat and closeness blurred everything until all you knew was him—his weight, his trembling hands, the whispered sweetheart, sweetheart against your lips.
his breath hot on your throat. “Don’t think I can hold on—”
“Don’t stop,” you begged, clutching him tighter.
His forehead dropped to yours, his words tumbling out between ragged breaths. “Gonna marry you one day. Swear it. Put a ring on your finger so everybody knows you’re mine.”
Your eyes fluttered, a gasp breaking from your throat at the sheer certainty in his voice. “Bucky…”
He kept going, like he couldn’t stop himself, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “Gonna give you a little house somewhere—just us. Fill it with kids. You’ll be barefoot in the kitchen, laughin’, cookin’, and I’ll come home from work and you’ll kiss me just like this—” He kissed you again, sloppy and desperate. “Gonna keep you knocked up, sweetheart, round with my babies all the time.”
The words should have sounded outrageous, but the way his voice cracked, full of awe and hunger, made you shudder beneath him.
“Yes,” you whispered, clutching him tighter. “Yes, Buck, I want that too.”
His hips moved harder, bed squealing beneath you, his lips dragging over your neck. “Gonna make you mine forever. My girl. My wife. My everything.”
You gasped at the picture, shuddering beneath him. “Want that,” you breathed, clutching his face so he’d see you meant it. “Want to be your wife. Want to have your babies. I’ll give you as many as you want.”
You moaned his name, dizzy from the heat, from him, from the pictures he painted so vividly—your future bound together, his body inside you now, his children in you someday.
When it finally broke, it was messy and overwhelming. His body shuddered above you, a strangled groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into you. The sound of the bedframe squealing nearly sent you both into hysterical laughter, but then pleasure crested for you too, your cry stifled against his shoulder.
it's been the longest winter of your life, the longest time of your life, and when you decide to try and reunite the group for a weekend trip in the woods, Adrian is the only one on board. he already calls you every day, a weekend alone might not be the worst thing in the world. maybe. [MASTERLIST]
pairing: adrian chase x f!reader
tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, friends to lovers, weekend getaway, nip slip, light angst to mega fluff, caught masturbating, handjobs, blowjobs, adrian's a munch, facesitting, unprotected sex, happy ending, lowkey caught
word count: 7.1k+
a/n: it's been a long two years. bye love u.
Nerves rattle your prickled skin as you trudge up to the old cabin, feet crunching days old snow. It wasn’t that you were necessarily scared to be in a cabin—alone, in the woods—with Adrian, just that you were scared to be in a cabin, alone in the woods—with Adrian. In the best of times, the team was a family of shelter dogs learning how to play for the first time, and sure, he was by far the least intimidating, but you were skittish anyway. Shelter dog and all that.
Things had gone mostly radio silent since Leota’s press conference, small concessions like a coffee with Chris here, beer with Harcourt there, phone calls and phone calls and phone calls with Adrian always. That was something you could count on, and as the weather chilled he ended up being the only one to jump aboard your pathetic reunion plans. Nothing seemed to be going right for anyone, and as the frosted door handle shot ice up your wrist, this seemed like just another thing gone wrong.
The cabin is quiet, lofted ceilings echoing your entrance, resounding silence feeling sinister in the quieting sunset. You’d discovered this defunct safe house a few years prior, coordinates on some outdated documents from an agency that ceased to exist in the revitalization of ARGUS and scuffle of superhuman bureaucracy. Once or twice a year you’d drop in to make sure it was, in fact, still safe. Sometimes you needed the weekend. When the world felt disorienting, this could right the ship.
You roll dusty sheets off and away from the furniture, revealing plump Tuscan Revival couches with tasseled pillows and wrought-iron tables inlaid with beige mosaics. It was a lovely little ritual, uncovering this time capsule, hearing the generator hum to life, figuring out the water pump yet again.
Stepping into the hot shower was a well earned reward, steam clouding the room, settling the tension in your shoulders. You cut past the sick swirl of disappointment in your stomach, knowing the team seemed disinterested in what felt, to you, like a huge gesture. The sensation curdled into a kind of warm seasickness when you thought instead about Adrian, the hours upon hours you must’ve spent listening to him on the phone.
“You call your mom this much?” You’d asked him once, eyes skirting a book you’d read before.
“No, why would I?” He laughed, “I see her at dinner every day.”
It wasn’t exactly a surprise, he did work a meager food service job and you’re certain those paychecks went straight to the Vigilante arsenal. Still, the shameless admission got your attention back to the conversation.
“Aw, wait, you live with your mom?”
“Yes.” Point blank, almost mocking as he continued, “All my Vigilante stuff is there. What, am I supposed to transport heavy artillery to an apartment? That’s real smart thinking.”
“No, no.” You chuckled, “It’s sweet, actually, but is it the safest thing for her?”
“Did you hear me? Heavy. Artillery.” He raised his voice, leaving a beat between words, “I think there’s something wrong with your connection. I’m gonna hang up and call you back.”
“No—”
The memory made you laugh out loud in the shower, and you floated in and out of similar distinct conversations. The first time he made an objective statement about your good looks, when he seemed to know exactly what book you were reading for the fifth time, the surprise breadsticks left outside your bedroom window and the phone call that followed, feigned ignorance. You didn’t even have to pay attention half the time, but the longer your call history got, the more attentive you became without really meaning to. There was communion, companionship, conversations about nothing and here you stood, stomach flipping in anticipation over a weekend face to face after so long apart.
You were counting on the others to ease relations, neither you nor Adrian could be called socially adept in any scenario—he too chatty, you too sparse. Still, it was nice he came through, you supposed, no matter how harrowing his full attention may end up being. Nerves shake away the nice memories, and you turn the heat up, zoning out in the scalding stream until it turns cold.
Water pools on the floor as you step onto the stone tiling, terry cloth bathrobe loose around your shoulders, shaking moisture from your hair like a wet dog. You toss your dirty t-shirt on the puddle, scuffing your feet on the sleeves to dry them before daring to step foot on the decades old carpet. Who knew what kind of random viscera you’d pick up walking around here with damp feet.
The hallway upstairs looks out over the living room, and you lean on the loft balcony rail, head on your forearms. It was still quiet, snow falling in gentle wafts as the last slats of sunlight overlaid the house in golden stripes. A still moment like this was always inevitably interrupted by Adrian calling, and you instinctively turn your phone in your hand. You weren’t sure when he meant to arrive, and the safe house cell jammers kept you from even checking in.
What used to be peace now felt like loneliness without his voice as the punctuation.
—
You make your way to the bedroom closet where you’d left your bags, singing under your breath. It was probably overkill, the amount you’d packed, for just a weekend, but there was something about dutifully filling the dresser each time. A little sense of permanence where you’d scarcely ever find it, making this place something of a secret home.
You’re just squishing down the last of your shirts when a voice startles you.
“Wow, you’re being so responsible.”
You spot movement behind you in the mirror of the closet door.
“Jesus Christ, Adrian.” Turning to face him, you pull the lapel of the robe shut, crossing your arms, “Why didn’t you announce yourself sooner?”
He slides off the bed to walk over, shrugging, “You’re always telling me to stop interrupting you, I dunno. Hey, that was a nice little song you were singing. Cascada?”
“What? No, not every song is Cascada.” You search his face for any sign of faltering, some guilt, anything other than his immovable ease. There was nothing, just a pleasant smile and an indestructible sparkle in his eyes.
“You like Cascada, though.”
“Sure, but like, just the one song.” Running a hand through your damp hair, you catch a couple knots and turn away from Adrian to work on them in the mirror.
“Should I get into pajamas too?” He puts his hands on his hips, nodding in your direction. “I did only pack my sleep boxers, though.”
“Sleep boxers?” It was a lot easier to look at him through the mirror, to pretend your attention was split. You’re not sure you had the bandwidth to handle full force Adrian right now.
“Uh, yeah, sleep boxers. You think I fight crime in the same underwear I go to sleep in? That’s gross.” He tugs off his long sleeve polo, undershirt jumping up his torso, having come untucked as he stretches to wrest the buttoned collar over his head. Your eyes flit to the curve of his pelvis in the mirror, and you yank too quickly on a knot, hissing to yourself.
It did annoy you that he could be so ridiculous and still look...like that.
“I—just leave the undershirt on. It’s not strip poker in here.”
He laughs, a hand over his belly, “That would be some high stakes, one round and you’re donezo.” A pout overtook his lips, “Peacemaker would love it.”
You turn to leave the bedroom, shoving your hands in the pockets of the robe, “Yeah, well, they’re all too busy, apparently.”
Adrian trails behind you, “Have you heard from anyone lately? Adebayo let me bring her dog a hat last week, but there was yelling and she wouldn’t let me inside.”
“I—” You freeze in your tracks, and Adrian brushes against you as he stops short. You knew things were bumpy with her and Keeya, but they seemed to be on the right track when you’d seen her last. But then, when was the last time you’d seen her? You shake your head, continuing down the spiral stairs to the living room, “I haven’t seen anyone in a few weeks. Economos texts me which, is nice, but he’s obviously stuck at Belle Reve.”
“Tell me about it. He hasn’t answered five of my calls in the last two weeks.”
“Oh,” There was a sting, knowing Adrian’s attention wasn’t entirely yours, that perhaps Economos was a better sounding board for his nagging, if you were still trying to convince yourself that’s what it was, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m learning all these cool new things, and if you don’t answer, and Economos doesn’t answer, I’m just memorizing facts for what?”
“For the betterment of the self?”
“Yeah, right.” He laughs, and you spin on your heels at the base of the stairs to flick the mop of curls on his forehead.
“Whatever, at least your hair’s evolving. Looks good.”
“It does?” His heel slips off the last step, and you reach out for each other, your hand finding the base of his bicep, his hand clasped on your shoulder.
Adrian’s lifts his gaze from the floor to you, his mouth stretching from a startled ‘o’ to an incredulous smile, “Woah, imagine I just died.”
“You wouldn’t have died.” Taking your hand away, you roll your eyes.
“How would you know? Half a million people die from head height falls every year around the world.”
“Seems like bullshit.”
He raises his hands defensively, “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“See, now me shooting you? Much more plausible.”
“Me? What’d I do?”
You give him a firm shove square on the torso, “I’m just messing around. Come on, I need a drink.”
—
Six beers and one pair of sleep boxers later, you’re both stretched out on your respective love-seats, three decks of cards dumped in a pile on the coffee table between you.
“Do you have uhhh 8?”
“Go fish.”
“Fuck.” Adrian has his wrist propped on the edge of the coffee table with his cards splayed, he’s laying on his back, and he strains to reach into the pile with his free hand, “We should just go back to playing War, Go Fish is just a game of chance.”
The night hadn’t been as awkward as you anticipated. You jumped between card games, Adrian rattling on about his coworker’s recent promotion, his latest busts, and all the times his mom asked to meet you. Two or three times you’d overheard her in the background of your phone calls, “Is it that girl?” She’d say, sweet motherly voice, and Adrian’s impatient response, “Yes, mom, stop.”
It was flattering to be “That Girl” to his mom, even if you were far from it currently and unlikely to ever be so. Adrian never talked about sex in his own words, only parroted anecdotes from Chris, who was apt to embellish. Even if, big if, there was some part of you that was curious about him from a non-platonic angle, it didn’t seem like that part of life crossed his mind. At least, not in regard to you.
The best you could hope for, the best you could achieve, was right now. Tipsy on a comfortable couch, the ego boost of winning something low stakes, and Adrian’s eager attention.
“War took two hours, no. Any queens?”
He grumbles, handing over three cards and following your hand as you lay out another set of four.
“Sevens?”
He hands over a card, “Maybe the team didn’t want to come because they didn’t want to just drink beer and get smoked in card games.”
“Hmph.” The statement burst your content bubble, and you throw your hand of cards in the pile, “If this is so boring for you, you can go back to Evergreen.”
Pushing up on the heel of your palm, you take your beer to the kitchen and slide onto a barstool. It’s lukewarm by now, but you take a swig and try to ignore the resurgence of disappointment. Try, at the very least, to let yourself settle into apathy.
“What? No!” Adrian leaps over the armrest of the couch, “I’m not bored, I just know those guys can be sore losers, sometimes. But not me, this is fun.”
“Look, Adrian, you don’t have to lie.” You rest an elbow on the back of the stool, spinning to face him. “Things are bad, I think, for everyone. I thought, maybe, this would be what we needed to get everyone back on their feet. Beer, stupid card games, time together. But you’re the only one who showed up, so, you’re just stuck here with me and really, you don’t have to be.”
“The last thing I am is stuck, I have all weather tires, and I called out of work to be here.” He speaks plain, as always, and you feel like a prick for putting your own insecurities on his intentions.
You’ve seen, more than once, how willing he is to build bridges with people who’ve pulled the rug out from under him. It’s a betrayal on your part to presume he’d ever be disingenuous with his interest, with his time. He won’t hold it against you, which only serves to turn your hurt to shame.
“I bet the other guys would be here if they could. Like, Economos, yeah he missed five of my phone calls but then he sent me pictures of five cool birds he saw.”
You mull in silence. You didn’t want to feel placated so easily. It was confusing and frustrating that you could bare a bit of your heart and have him treat it so kindly.
“I guess...maybe, I’m just more lonely than I thought without them.”
“Yeah, it was nice to be part of a bona fide superhero team. I gotta be honest—and don’t tell Peacemaker I said this—those corporate weirdos in the Justice Gang just seem like freaks.”
“Isn’t he like, trying to join them?”
Adrian laughs, leaning toward you and bracing himself on the stool next to you, “He has an audition in six months.”
“Audition?”
You both laugh into each other, your hand coming up to cover your face, Adrian readjusting his glasses as they slide down his nose.
Everything feels easy in this moment, whatever small hurt that blurred your brain has instead faded to a light delirium. Beer and nerves and the sight of Adrian’s wide smile all that you seem to need.
He straightens up, clearing his throat, trying to hide his grin, “I didn’t think I would ever say this, but it’s good Peacemaker isn’t here. I think he’s great in pretty much every single way, but he doesn’t respond well to playful banter like you and me.”
You sat in the statement for as long as was reasonable. ‘Like you and me.’
How nice, you thought, to have a mutual dynamic. So often you were just bouncing Adrian’s words back at him, deflecting his attempts at deeper conversation with cavalier witticisms and sometimes downright mocking. It was a pleasant surprise to know it’d become its own entity between you two, unique marker of the friendship you had apparently built. For a long time, you only ever thought of your connection to Adrian as part of the larger team that was the ‘11th Street Kids.’
You were grateful that missed phone calls weren’t ever held against you, that he showed up when it counted, that he seemed entirely unfazed by the moments when you really just had nothing to say at all. This was your easiest relationship to maintain, but you never wanted to use that as an excuse to take him for granted. It was some kind of accomplishment, you realized, having a relationship with him that existed independent of anyone else.
“I’m still gonna give him shit next time I see him.” You run a hand through your hair, hopping off the stool, “Wanna get back to the game? We can play War if you really want to.”
Adrian’s eyes flit to your chest, “Your robe is open. Is that on purpose?”
You cross your arms over your chest, “No!”
He looks from your chest to your face and back again.
“Why on Earth would I have my tits out right now? Stop staring.”
“I don’t know!” He takes a step back in defense, eyebrows raised, eyes closed.
You hasten to re-tie the robe, pulling the lapel as shut as you can get it, “That was real egregious, Adrian.”
“Hey, I’m a feminist! Your boobs are totally sick and all but it’s no different to me than when Pea—”
“You know what, on second thought it’s like 2 am, that’s call time for me. Goodnight, Adrian.”
“Wh—”
“Goodnight!”
You’re already to the base of the stairs by the time he opens his eyes again.
—
You were far from tired, the thick red comforter swishing against your body as you try and fail to settle into the mattress. The silk pillowcases frizz up the back of your hair, and the fan whirs off beat above you. The robe lay discarded beside the bed, abandoned in favor of a soft tee and basketball shorts you’ve had since high school.
You’d taken a moment in the mirror after shucking the robe, pondering your figure. Could your tits be called sick? You never would’ve used that word, or, really any word. Sometimes you looked in the mirror and made note of a deepened smile line, a rough patch of skin at the crown of your cheekbone, the ebb and flow of muscle tone over your time in and out of the field. Flattery descriptions of a body that did its job never seemed useful to you.
Sick, though, that was kinda nice.
Kinda nice coming from Adrian, his innate ability to speak to what he believed to be objective fact. Nuance and subjectivity weren’t his forte—anything he said was the universal truth as far as he was concerned. So, great, cool, your boobs were sick.
His voice wouldn’t leave you alone when you slid into bed. The brief, flickering giddiness before he realized it was just a slip up, the weight of his eyes as they pulled to your chest.
This lifestyle wasn’t conducive to long term connections. Sure, you could pull up to a bar and take care of yourself with some stranger, but to be seen in that way by someone you had an established relationship with was entirely alien to you. To look in the mirror and know Adrian’s truth was that you were attractive, that you had worthwhile tits, and more than anything that these things never seemed to eclipse your foundation, it left you with a strange marriage of discomfort and satisfaction.
You’d seen the way Chris’ attraction to Harcourt colored their dynamic in the team, and even though she’d come around to some sort of acceptance, it was still a steady through-line nobody could ignore. The last thing you wanted was for some overt sexual fascination to change the way people treated you.
It was a fear that one day they could, but a comfort that Adrian, at least, never would.
Hours passes in similar form, tossing and turning in half-sleep, listening to the faint music from the living room. Beer bottles clink every once in a while, and when the beer bottles quiet they’re replaced by the early birds waking up outside your window.
Sunlight can’t penetrate the thick Venetian curtains in the room, but you’ve given up on real sleep at this point.
Rolling out of bed, you duck behind the curtains and stare into the winter dawn. The snow is a pale blue, trees fading into the distance. There’s a robin perched on Adrian’s car, its orange belly bright against the powdered roof, head tilting before it flits off into the tree line.
The allure of fresh coffee pulls you from the bedroom, and you drag your feet down the hallway, admiring the steady snowfall from the lofted windows, a hazy glow cascading over morning shadows.
And then, less than a whisper from the living room below, “Fuck.”
You duck down to peer through the railing, squinting as your eyes searched for the source of the muted muttering below.
Adrian’s silhouette was faint, facing away from you and carved out by the thin highlight of damp biceps, a knit throw obscuring his waist. You can see the slow up-down underneath, one of his legs pulled up and to the side, his knee resting on the lip of the coffee table.
You grip the railing on either side of your head, crouching on your tip toes, stunned by the sight. His moans die as they reach his throat, but the choked whimpers shoot warmth through your body. It felt good—right—to be seeing him like this. A small intrusion, but harmless if he never knew, harmless if you kept it to yourself. Burned the image into your brain, kept it tucked away in your chest, in your stomach, between your legs. You fixate on the way he presses a hand through his mess of hair, the curve of his hips, up, into his hand, and the way he sounds when he says—
...Your name.
You slip and drop to your knees, bones knocking on the iron, and Adrian shoots up on the couch, sitting against the back and looking around. Fuck, alright, well, it’s fine. That’s one slip for each of you this weekend, one’s allowed. Tit for tat, might as well have some fun with it.
“Having fun?” You stand up and cup your hands around your mouth, leaning forward on the railing.
“Fun? No, what, you just startled me awake, you’re lucky you’re not an intruder.” He yawns and stretches on the couch, reaching for his glasses as you climb down the stairs.
“Yeah, talk about lucky.” Propping an elbow on the banister, you stare at him in the dark. There’s a bulb of sweat rolling down the side of his face, his curls stick to his forehead, and the blanket bunches over his waist. He knots a hand further into his lap, throwing his other arm back over the couch.
“Quite a sight first thing in the morning, I thought you might’ve been in trouble, what with the way you were calling my name.” You prod, relishing the flipped script, markedly one of the first times you can recall having him at a disadvantage. He was bad at being dishonest, cues of truth writ in his body language.
“No I wasn’t, I said...” He trails off, working his mouth into a few different rhymes and abandoning each one, “Hey, you should’ve knocked.”
He felt awkward for once in his life, and you swallowed the power like a stone, smooth and hard and weighty in your abdomen as you poked at him, “Oh yeah? On what wood?”
Excitement swirling in your head, you cross the living room to kneel in front of him, resting back on your heels, edge of the coffee table pressing into your spine.
“I—whoa,” His arm falls from the back cushion as his eyes follow you, vice grip on the blanket loosening, “Is this on purpose?”
You nod, and Adrian pushes up on his knuckles, posture straightening against the cushion, the pale glow sculpting every tendon in his neck.
Pushing up on your toes, you knit your fingers into the blanket and tug it down his lap.
He watches with innate curiosity, but you shy away from the eye contact, leaning down to his thighs to press kisses to either knee. His breath catches, and he re-situates a hand on the couch, fingertips digging into the suede upholstery.
“It’s okay, Adrian.” You grab his hand, bringing it to your lips and pressing his thumb against your bottom lip, teeth parting as his other fingers situate against your chin and he pushes into your mouth. The pad of his thumb presses into your tongue, and he shudders as you bite down, scraping back over his skin.
Before you can move, Adrian hunches forward to meet your lips with his, swallowing your mouth in a furious kiss. It’s messy, teeth bumping, noses smashed, but it settles into a firm wash of sloppy tongues and exalted breath. His hand curls around the back of your neck, fixing into your hair, and he gives you a slight tug upward.
You climb into his lap, breaking the kiss to hover over him, admiring the glossy, far-away look on his face. The hand against your neck grazes down your back, playing at the hem of your shirt.
“Can I see your tits again?” He traces a finger from the base of your spine around front to your bellybutton, grabbing at your hip on the way.
“Go on.” You settle onto his thighs as he pulls the shirt over your head, his mouth ducking to envelope your nipple, free hand palming over the other. His tongue circles the prickled skin, groans vibrating from his throat, breath hot and sticky as he leaves behind wet kisses.
“Fuck, fuck.” Adrian mutters, sucking a hickey between your breasts, “Thank you, this is so—”
“Sick?” You finish for him with a laugh, and he slides forward, slotting your bodies together. A quiet yelp escapes your lips, and Adrian spatters kisses up your neck, whispering behind your ear.
“Helpful.” He kisses the base of your jaw, his hips hitching against you, hands firm on your hips, “I can picture you clearly now.”
You let your head fall back a moment, grinding down onto his pelvis, shivering as his mouth drags down your throat. If ever there was a second that you had him at your mercy, it was long gone by now.
“It really was an accident.” You slip a hand between your bodies, pawing the erection over his boxers, fabric slick with precum sticking to your palm.
“Oh, I believe you.” He spreads his legs further, sliding one out from under you, gently prodding you to get comfortable over his thigh.
Bracing yourself with one foot on the carpet, you drive your forehead into his, fingers wrapping around his erection as he encourages you to grind into him. Your nails dig into the couch behind him, the rhythm of your hand on his shaft faltering as heat builds in your cunt.
Adrian pries two fingers into your mouth, sliding to the back of your throat. Spit pools over your tongue, slicking up his fingers as he pulls them out and closes his hand over yours, forcing you to keep rhythm on his cock.
You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself fall into his shoulder, rutting against him until you can feel the fabric of your underwear soaking through. You bite down into his neck, and he cries out in surprise.
“Shit, sorry, did that hurt?” You pull back, running a thumb over the mark.
“Yeah,” He nods, but the grip on your hand tightens, “It was really hot, though. Just, lemme—” He yanks his shirt over his head, hand coming back to grab at the back of your neck, guiding you back in, “There. Full access.”
You kiss at his cheek, nipping the corner of his jaw, pausing your own pleasure to focus on how taut he grows under your hand. His Adam’s apple hums beneath your lips, and as you regain a steady rhythm both his hands find home on either side of your face, bringing you back to his lips. His thumbs crest over your cheekbones, tongue breaking into your mouth, all spit and hungry kisses and the firm knotting of fingers and strands of hair.
Squeezing the base of his shaft, you swallow down his heady moans, bringing your hand up to the underside of his tip, thumb flicking over leaking precum to slick up the bulb of his cock. Adrian chases your mouth as you force yourself back from the kiss, and the desperate parting of his lips lights up your body with a giddiness you’re not sure you’ve ever felt before. You placate with a thumb in his mouth, yanking the boxers down and away as you drop to your knees.
His eyebrows knit as he closes his lips around your thumb and you close your mouth around him, sliding your lips down to his base and licking stripes back up the length of his shaft, salt and sweat on your tongue, free hand coasting up his abdomen. The muscles flex beneath your palm, and you moan onto his cock, bobbing slowly as he loses his composure entirely.
You can feel him struggling to hold back, letting your thumb fall from his mouth with a string of expletives. His hands stay at his sides, white knuckles cratering the suede fabric.
A pit forms in your stomach at the absence of his touch, the part of you that admired his attempt at chivalry was overwritten by furious need. Your cunt aches, a breeze in the cabin cooling the marks and moisture he’d left behind on your tits. Chill wanting eats at your entire body. You swirl your tongue over his head, feeling him up, hot flesh straining over tense muscle.
“Hey, um, I’m—if you, fuck.” Adrian sputters, and a hand comes to the side of your face, encouraging you to pull away.
You meet his eyes, sinking down.
Warmth floods your mouth, and you can feel his cock jumping with the succession of his orgasm, waves of cum hitting the back of your throat.
Adrian pushes you onto the floor between the couch and the coffee table, cloaking you with his body like a weighted blanket, kissing into your mouth with renewed vigor. He mutters little platitudes between each kiss as he works his way down your body, you’re gorgeous and fuck, that was hot and scores more that you’re too dizzy to comprehend.
He pulls at your shorts, kissing at your hips when you hitch up to get them off, hands grazing back up your legs after he’s thrown the shorts off into the abyss.
This is more attention than you ever anticipated getting this weekend, even if sex was on your mind from the outset. Adrian liked to look at you, he talked a lot, and it was the most pleasant surprise that this attentiveness extended to the way his lips lingered over your body, the way he splayed his fingers out over your stomach and cupped you with his free hand, circling your entrance before a quiet, accidental ‘please’ from you concentrated the full spectrum of his focus to making you plead.
He latches his mouth to your cunt, lapping up your slit, saliva pooling on his fingers as he works you inside. It’s slow, almost torturous the way he presses his tongue against you. Subtle flicks of his tongue that just nick the nerves of your clit have you impatient, arching up into him. You knot your hands in his hair and fruitlessly signal your desperation. All you feel is the hard resistance of his teeth as he smiles up at you, pursing his lips to suck kisses between your folds.
“Fuck, Adrian, I need more.” You choke out, the back of your head falling heavy on the floor, a dull ache pale in comparison to the antifreeze in your veins. The shitty carpet yanks at your hair, and you stop pushing at Adrian’s head, opting instead to tug on the curly strands. “Please.”
A soft hum escapes his lips, and he circles the tip of his tongue over your clit, moving down as he presses it flatter against you. He breaks to nip kisses on your inner thighs, hands squeezing up your calves, “Would you sit on my face?”
“Anything.” You’ve given up the pretense of casual by now, if this ends up being just a one time thing fuck if you aren’t going to get everything you want out of it.
Adrian lays with his head nearly against the base of the couch, everything below the waist hiding underneath the coffee table, “C’mon.” He pats the cushion, a satisfied, dopey smile on his face, “Rest your head.”
You lean up on your elbows, laughing, out of breath, “What a considerate lay.”
It’s impossible to stop yourself from bowing down to kiss him as you crawl over, hand soft on his chest, heart jumping as he covers it with his own. This feels like an intimacy you aren’t used to, and you both settle into minutes of kissing, letting yourselves build from slow, languid kisses to exchanging the same air until you’re both gasping and he’s prodding you up to his face.
Sinking onto his mouth, you stretch your arms out over the suede, resting your head against your bicep.
He curls his arms around the back of your thighs and forces your full weight onto him, rocking your hips back and forth over the wet pressure of his mouth.
Your thighs buckle, hands scraping at the couch for something, anything to grab onto, and finding a throw pillow to dig your nails into. You bite the curve of the cushion, taking Adrian’s cue to ride his tongue. Grinding onto him, he groans and you crane your neck to see him tentatively stroke his tired erection.
“Don’t—” You try to speak between moans, but Adrian makes up the difference when you slow your hips, his nose prodding at you, a mess of saliva and arousal and you’re powerless to comprehend anything but the knot of pleasure that ties itself around your organs.
Breathing shallow, stomach flipping, you choke on whimpers. Where you falter, Adrian flourishes, both hands firm again on you, elbows spreading your legs apart, fingers splayed on either side of your hips. He drives you down, and you couldn’t decipher what he was doing with his mouth if you tried, but you know it sends rockets through you one after another.
Cacophonous moans crash over one another as your orgasm erupts into a cascade of shocks through your body. You can feel Adrian humming against you, his hands combing over your abdomen. He slides them around your back, tracing your shoulder blades, soft caresses converse to the filthy work from his mouth. He supports your weight when you start to lean away from him, his forearms a warm pillar of relief, fingertips curling over the slope of your neck.
Your breathing hitches, and Adrian keeps you on his tongue until you’re squirming away from his touch, the sensation curdling in your body, only an ache between your legs now. You fall away from him to the side, a leg splayed over his torso while you regain your composure, gaze fixed on the wobbling ceiling fan.
Adrian wriggles out and up next to you, pressing chaste kisses to the side of your breast before he flops onto his back, your shoulders sticking together, “I’m probably going to be hard for like, the entire morning, now.” There’s disbelief in his voice, no indication that you should necessarily do anything about this for him, just amazement to have experienced it at all.
Turning, you crane your neck up to kiss him, swallowing the whimper of surprise that falls from his lips as your hand coasts down his body and back onto his shaft.
“All that and you think I don’t want you to fuck me?” You tut, squeezing at his base, thumbing his head, making quick work to get his cock as hard as you had before.
“I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” He stutters, frozen underneath you.
You laugh into his mouth, and he reaches a hand up to your jawline, smiling with you before giving a quick pinch to your chin. His body envelopes you, knee slotting against your cunt, his other leg hooking underneath to spread you open.
“Oh!” Adrian hovers above you with a hand on either side of your head, “Do you need a condom?”
Leaning up on your elbows, you peck at his mouth, “If you need one, but I’m not fussed either way.” Grazing your teeth along his jaw, you bite into the sinew of his neck and suck a harsh hickey into the skin, whispering against him, “You can cum inside me for all I fucking care, Adrian.”
He buckles toward you, erection brushing the curve of your stomach, that beautiful, glossy look in his eyes once again.
You skate an arm around to his back, guiding his weight onto you, hips hitching up as you reach down and grab him. You slide the slick bulb of his cock along your cunt to line it up at your entrance.
As he fucks into you for the first time, Adrian tries to meet you with a kiss, but the sensation is overwhelming for you both, moans mingling in the space of your failed kiss, his hand coming around to cradle the back of your head.
The pressure in your cunt is overwhelming, every thrust hitting you with renewed sensation. He ruts against you, free hand on your hip, whining into your mouth as you tug on his hair.
“God, Adrian, you feel fucking ridiculously good.”
“I like—fuck,” He kisses your cheekbone, muttering, “I like how my name sounds when you say it.”
Overwhelmed as you may be, in this moment you feel safe more than anything. His hand cradling the back of your head, lips making their way over your face, the eager acceptance of your need and moreover the gentle encouragement of your affection. You would be lucky to have Adrian’s attention all the time, to be the person he always looked at like this.
He broke the moment to replace his cradling hand with a throw pillow from the couch, arms hooking underneath your thighs to hike you off the ground and fuck you on his knees. His eyes rake down your body, fixating on the way your tits bounce and the pout of your open lips.
You admire the glistening sweat on his abdomen, the tendons in his neck straining, glasses askew on his face. It’s a struggle keeping your eyes open, every pulse of pressure driving your head back into the pillow, screwing them shut, but you furrow your eyebrows to meet Adrian’s stuttering gaze.
“Kiss me.” You plead, and Adrian darts down to satisfy you, moaning as you wrap your legs around his lower back, hands on his shoulder blades holding your bodies together.
It’s never been so intoxicating before, kissing someone. Sex was sex historically, and kissing felt like a necessary introduction to casual intimacy where history didn’t exist as a crutch. With Adrian, this was every pause at the end of a conversation, all the times you let your touch linger as you stitched him up, one and a billion more moments of his eyes on you and yours on his and the rest of the world blurry in what felt, at the time, like nothing more than your usual social confusion. For so long, clarity felt like something you would earn when you figured him out, a well deserved reward for making strides toward camaraderie.
And clarity did come.
With his mouth on yours and the feverish bucking of his hips, you found yourself crashing into another hot white light, sensation burning behind your eyes, fuzzing your brain. You clamor for him, for the heat of your bodies together, for the security of his arms around you as spasms courses through you in electric waves.
Adrian obliges, sliding his hands underneath your neck and behind your back as you arch upward into the orgasm.
“I—ah,” He slows, “I can cum inside you? Really?” The words fall out of his mouth into a jumble of syllables, and he jolts as you whine an affirmative into his mouth.
“Yes, Adrian, please, please.”
Fatigue is creeping into your body, the lack of sleep catching up to the moment. Your grip on Adrian goes slack, but as he careens into his orgasm you card fingers through his hair, offering soothing platitudes as he fills you. There you go, and good boy, Adrian, and you feel so, so nice.
He settles onto your chest, arm heavy over your stomach, leaning into your touch as you smooth your fingers over the back of his hair, working out dried knots in the curls.
“That was...” You pause, bringing a hand up to comb through your hair and Adrian high fives you.
“Badass, definitely.” He presses a kiss to your chest.
“Yeah.” You laugh, yanking the discarded blanket over your bodies, “Totally badass.”
“This was a good idea. We always have great conversations, and it was sweet that you wanted to do a whole weekend of them, but you certainly can’t do that over the phone.”
“Well, you can do a version of it.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as fun.”
“Definitely not.” Pausing, you look down at him, “Does that mean you, um, want to...hang out more?”
“I would love that, I’d also be down to have sex more.”
You scoot to meet his face, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, “Yes, I’m sure we can make that work.”
“Good, cause those are once in a lifetime tits, I’m not even sure my memory would do them justice.”
Laughing, you wipe exhaustion from your eyes, “I didn’t sleep at all last night, I’m gonna make coffee.”
Adrian sits up next to you, stretching his arms up, “I have sugar packets in my car. I’ll grab them.”
“Don’t worry about it, I have sugar and cream.”
“Mmm,” He grazes a knuckle over your cheekbone, shaking his head, “They just taste better in the packets.”
“Suit yourself.”
You both yank on clothing, and Adrian runs a hand over the indents left on your skin from the harsh carpet, shuddering at the texture.
As he trudges out the front door in a big winter coat, you hear a muffled, “Oh, hey guys!” from outside.
You tip toe to the door frame to peer out, expecting him to be greeting a squirrel or maybe a flock of birds by his car.
“Look who made it!” Adrian notices you as you notice them.
The entire team, sans Economos, sitting irate with their collars buttoned halfway up their faces.
Harcourt is the first to get up, “You guys having fun yet?” she says as she turns to offer Adebayo a hand.
Everyone stands in silence for a beat before Leota takes one step forward to embrace you in a loose hug, giving you a stilted pat on the back. She wipes her hand on her coat, forcing her lips into a smile.
pairing ; dbf!bucky x f!reader // universe masterlist .ᐟ.ᐟ
summary ; bucky tries to keep up with the trends for the sake of his daughter’s best friend. aka, his girlfriend.
warnings ; SMUT!! 18+!!!, unprotected p in v, creampie, est. relationship, bucky trying to be trendy, bucky in his late 40’s (reader is in their 20s), me interrupting i’m sorry 😔, riding, gentle sex, WHINY BUCKY, sub!bucky x dom!reader if you squint with a magnifying glass maybe a bit switch like actually, pet names, AFTERCARE KING JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES (mentioned), not proofread or edited that much whoops
drea’s notes ; WHINY BUCKY NATION WE ARE SO UP FUCK YEAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! the first installation of my dbf!bucky universe is finally here teehee!! this idea came to me in a dream (when i was on a bus listening to lana del ray on the way to visit my sick grandfather in the hospital in holland ANYWAYS) but it’s taken me so long to write. this was supposed to come out after the first actual thing of my dbf!bucky universe but it kept standing out to me than my original idea so here you guys go teehee please enjoy!!! universe playlist here .ᐟ.ᐟ
“Fucking shit..” an uttered murmur rushed out from his lips as his fingers trace the outline of the fabric.
Bucky was home alone— and thank God for that— because it’s embarrassing enough that he ordered it, let alone ordered it in a small because God forbid that he’s 47-years-old with little to no knowledge of how online shopping works.
No, he’s not suggesting that he’s embarrassed to have a girlfriend half his age. Bucky? No! Never! He shows you off to anyone who even breathes your way. It’s the fact that he tried that he’s so.. embarrassed about.
He lifts up the shirt by the collar to reveal the image of the graphic tee; the album cover of ‘Ultraviolence’, and the splay of Lana Del Ray’s name above it.
He recalls the time you hummed the tune of ‘Brooklyn Baby’ in the shower and it made him curious as he brushed his pearly whites. “Hey, what song is this?” He muffled with the foam of toothpaste in his mouth, looking at the shower curtains as if he could see you through the fabric. “Something… with baby… can’t remember, Lana Del Rey,” you shouted so he could hear it through the heavy stream of the shower, “but it reminds me of you. You can check my phone.”
And that, he does. He wiped his water-coated hand, then tapping on your phone twice, light beaming on to indicate that your phone had turned on. There it beamed out, the same picture of the one on Bucky’s way-too-tight t-shirt, and the title of the song, ‘Brooklyn Baby”. Bucky smirks, an exhaled laugh emitting from his mouth, toothbrush sticking out from the corner of his lips. Immediately, he takes out the toothbrush and spits the remaining mint in his mouth, “This reminds you of me because it has the word ‘Brooklyn’ in it?”
You hum as the foam of the shampoo lathers on your scalp, and you can’t help but giggle, “I guess so.”
Ever since then, Bucky— God bless his soul— has been researching all the things you like. What people your age liked, leading to the discovery of Lana Del Rey merch.
Bucky sighed, rolling his cerulean eyes with scrunched eyebrows as his fingers danced around his collar in contemplation. His tender lip was tucked under his teeth before eventually throwing his shirt off, landing somewhere on the mahogany planks beneath his feet. He didn’t spend long before engulfing his rugged hands inside the fabric of the cream-coloured shirt. To no surprise, he quickly became stuck in the shirt, the fabric on the brim of ripping into shreds if he moved in the wrong direction, as if it were second skin.
Bucky grunted accordingly, noise laced with annoyance. He just wanted to rip it off his body as if he were the Hulk.
Before he even had time to think, a jingle came from the other side of the wall— the jingle of keys. Then, the sound of shoes coming off, and ultimately feet padding on the floorboards, it was you.
“Bucky! I’m back— oh.”
You had stopped dead in your tracks, voice abruptly stopping as you noticed him standing in front of the coffee table that situated next to the suede-like couch. A smile developed on your face, eyes creased in the corners. “There you are. Thought you’d still be in bed, it’s only,” you quickly lifted your arm and with a clenched fist, brought back down to eye level, revealing a dainty watch— which he got you for your birthday, among other things (hehe if you catch my drift)— on your wrist, “like eleven in the morning.”
You shoved a paper bag near Becky’s chest, smile still full of delight, “thought I’d be nice and pick up a breakfast English muffin from the deli on fifth avenue.”
Bucky, opposed from the sulking mood he was in earlier, grabbed the bag from your hands before propping it down on the glass table with a grin on his face. He leaned down to your cheek, giving it a quick kiss, “thanks, baby.”
“Oh! No coffee though, machine broke or something.. yada yada..”
“Aw shucks!” Bucky groans with false irritation, softly chuckling at your muttered, real annoyance, “no worries, not really interested in coffee,” pressing another kiss on your jaw.
“Mhm, matter of fact, i’m feeling energetic right now,” he brought a hand up to rake through his thick head of hair, “I even went for a run.” Your mouth formed a tight-knitted line, nodding at his words.
“Really? You never go on runs anymore. That’s odd, why?”
Discernment ran thick in your tone as Bucky stumbles his way to you, bringing the ‘Urban Outfitters’ packaging that came with the shirt. “This is why.” His prosthetic gestures towards the packaging and the shirt, forcing your eyes to linger towards his chest and oh-so-beefy biceps, “got a text that said it would arrive between ten and ten thirty.”
You half-heartedly listened to his last comment, still mesmerised by the shirt that hugged everything so tightly, it almost made you jealous. A quick-witted hand softly pressed against your philtrum, hiding the smile on your face. It wasn’t kept very hidden as the glimmer in your eyes and the crinkle that appeared next to them made it quite obvious that you were. You then pulled through with a hearty chuckle, tears welling up in your eyes— you were actually cackling.
It made Bucky’s blood run cold, the colour draining from his face. “W-what?” He coughs, his face turning to the side, “do you not like it? I knew this was just stupid. Stupid tight shirt.” He fussed, hands fisted throwing them down to the floor as he fussed.
After wiping away the tears that nearly ruined your makeup, you step forward into Bucky’s touch. “No Buck, quite the opposite,” you beamed, “I love it. You look so performative right now, I need to take a photo—”
“Why are you saying that like it’s a good thing?!” He yelps in disbelief, worry in his deep blue eyes, now staring directly at you as you rush into your purse to find your phone.
“Baby, relax. It is a good thing. A compliment.”
“In what world is ‘performative’ a good thing? Let alone a compliment!” He sighs, still staring at you, fumbling your way into the bag. You gasp as you finally find your phone, smirking as you press on the camera app.
“Bucky. In my world. Now smile for the camera! Say cheese!”
A reluctant smile quickly grows on his face, the happiness unable to reach his eyes. After putting your phone down from an excruciatingly long second of snapping a quick flick of the sight before you, a pout forms on Bucky’s lips.
A giggle rolls off your tongue at the faux sadness in Bucky’s expression. “Oh, honey!”
It didn’t take long for Bucky to break his act, the glee taking over the gloom in his eyes as his arms slither down around your waist.
“So you don’t like it?” The unseriousness in his voice generating a snicker, the puppy-dog expression in his eyes making you kiss the tip of his nose.
“You’re adorable,” you smiled fondly, pushing him onto the couch.
He grunts softly as his backside hits the plush of the couch, softening the blow. His eyes remained on yours, his grip tightening on your wrist. Bucky pulls you in, guiding you as you straddle his thighs. Your hands follow as they rub Bucky’s aging shoulders. A moan spews from his lips, his eyes shut tight, and his head leans back. The needy sight before you so gentle and erotic, you detect the soft spiral of desire loitering in the depths of your lower stomach, spreading to the depths of your heat.
“Mmm,” he groans, vibrating deeply from inside his chest, “what do you think you’re doing, babygirl?”
Hands stayed lurking roughly on his chest, at some point giving his brawny chest a squeeze, earning a whimper from him, “you did something that made me happy,” you announce, cutting his soft cry with a deep kiss, you inhaled the surrounding air sharply, “now, ‘wanna make you feel good,” your voice cutting with arousal, “is that alright with you?”
Bucky winced, hands sliding down to the round of your backside, cupping his hands there and giving your butt a firm squeeze, which was enough of a confirmation for you. A sly grin cautiously creeping up in your face as you slip down in between his man spread, delicate hands never breaking contact from his torso.
You kiss down his clothed thigh, leaving a trail of pecks down his leg, licking a stripe of exposed skin where his shorts cut off just above the knee. Your head quickly rises back to his groin, chin resting on the visible hardness of his cock.
Bucky squinted in pleasure as you made contact with his manhood, a hand reaching for your face. His thumb rubbed a gentle stroke on your cheek, hand jerking down to your jaw to do the same thing, as well as to the bottom of your pudgy lips. His digits made their way to the entrance of your mouth, you opening up as you made impact with the saltiness of his skin.
Willingly, you gawked your head forward, his thick fingers hitting the back of your throat as you continue to writhe and suck his fingers, “fuck..”
You buzzed at his reaction, quickly removing his hand from your mouth making a ‘pop’ sound, with a string of saliva still connecting you to him. Delicate fingers crawl their way to the waistband of Bucky’s shorts, eventually halting at the ‘Calvin Klein’ branded waistband of his boxers that peeped when the graphic tee bunched up. Your fingers slowly danced with the waistband, pulling them down.
Finally, Bucky’s thick cock springs out, not before the bulbous head got caught with the stretchy band. The tip reddened with anger and fury, leaking with pre-ejaculation.
“Looks like someone can be worked up so easily. Tsk, so impatient,” you giggle, making it clear to you what effect you had on him. Bucky groans through gritted teeth, slowly gathering up your hair into a fist.
A quick, feisty but small lick comes into contact with the tip of Bucky’s cock. Bucky hissed the thick, surround air, throwing his head back, head softly impacting the throw pillow behind it. “Fuck— baby.. please don’t do that.”
An amused gasp tumbles from your throat, repeating your action again, intentionally ignoring the man. It didn’t take long for your lips to engulf the pink tip, tongue wrapping around the rim. Bucky’s hips hike up, pushing his cock further into your mouth, laying flat against the warmth of your tongue.
Your head bobs down, the tip of his cock finally reaching the back of your throat making tears gather in your eyes. Bucky can’t help but to laugh at the view, leaning down and tucking a strand of hair that got away from his touch. You ferociously gag as it only made him go further up in your mouth, Bucky smirking profusely as he leans back down on the couch.
You slide up from his length, disconnecting your mouth from him making a soft ‘pop’ sound. Bucky groans, the coldness hitting him like a train. “Baby, what are you—”
You cut him off, as your hands smack flat against this thighs, lifting you up. Your hands seperate from his thighs slowly, teasingly, as a finger lingers on his knee. Swiftly, your legs tangle around his hips, squirming the balls of your feet onto his back. “Decided I didn’t really feel like sucking dick right now.”
Bucky’s hand instinctively goes on your waits bringing you closer, “yes, of course, sweet girl. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”His cock presses up against your clothed heat, the friction too much for Bucky who’s panting becomes heavier. His kind reassurance just makes you hornier, biting your lip as he looks up at you with deep concern in his eyes.
You lean in, your lips trembling with tiny kisses against the curve of his neck, biting his earlobe as you reach it, light breathing rumbling in his ears, “‘cus I just wanna ride you right now.”
His head then cocks at your face, eyes slightly widened and mouth agape, “um— yeah— yeah, fuck yeah— please.”
Your smile is innocent, yet your thoughts are so sinister. Indulgence leaks through the cracks of your teeth as your eyes deepened, pussy squeezing as Bucky’s eyes narrowed. His neediness creeps through his body, from his toes to his head. The blush in his face only deepens in crimson. The eye contact is intense, raw, deep (bucky can have me raw and deep— i’m sorry, please ignore me), your lack of movement only making Bucky squirm underneath you.
“Touch me, baby. Please— fuck— please touch me,” Bucky moans, the lack of contact making his hips stutter against your warm heat.
“I can’t say no to that, can I?” you tease, your wetness leaving a damp spot on your shorts. Bucky looks at you with hunger, his hands already hooked on the hem of your shorts, pulling them down. You lift yourself up, allowing the shorts to be carefully slid down your delicate legs. Frustrated, Bucky yanks off your panties, his eyebrows a furrowed mess.
“They’re getting in the way,” he muttered, nearly incoherent. It occurs to you a second later what he had said, and with that, your smirk grew even sneakier on your face. Your fingers fumbled around with the base of his cock, lining him up from the warmth of your entrance.
His tip kissed your opening, eliciting an enticing moan from your mouth. Your squeals only made Bucky more impatient, a hand lingering down to your thighs, making its way to your heat and cupping it in his hand.
“Bucky— fuck!” you can’t help but yelp as your sensitivity gives in to his touch. A sly finger drags down your folds, spreading your wetness further.
“So wet,” he was mesmerised, “just f’me?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes! Just for you baby, only ever for you,” you murmured in intervals, his finger sliding up to your bundle of nerves. He rubs harsh, quick-witted circles on your clit, making you bite your lips harshly to suppress down your pornstar worthy noises.
Bucky is quick to notice your muffles, his free hand going to your jaw, his thumb caressing your bottom lip; His own lip quivering in a pout. “Don’t do that. Let it all out.”
That alone made you moan put load, another one already bubbling inside of your throat when he thrusts another finger inside of your needy pussy. “Yeah? You like that?”
“Uh-huh,” you mewled, hips grinding into his digits trying to build up even just a bit more of friction, “you know I do, always.”
Bucky let’s out a little ‘heh’, pants still heavy as ever. “Baby, please. Please just fuck me already,” you breathe, “not with your fingers. Your cock.”
Bucky grunted loudly, your words enough to make him cum, “Whatever you say, princess.” His tip manages to find its way back to your entrance with the help of Bucky’s hand. Your own shivering hands on Bucky’s shoulder, to gain some kind of support as you sink yourself down his length. A crooked smile is on Bucky’s lip as your own lips kisses his head, trying to relieve the pressure going down under.
Your shuddering whimpers fill the living room as you slowly begin to bottom yourself out on his cock, “Ngh— too big..”
“You can do it,” Bucky coaxes, a hand firm on your hip, his eyebrows knitted together with pure focus on sight below him, looking at how your inching down on his thick cock, “you always do it,” he moans, his head tilting back towards the back end of the couch.
A gentle screech rises above your throat when your ass reaches his thighs, signifying your closeness and how deep inside you he is. You stay there for a moment, eyes locked onto his ceruleans, clenching around him as if you’re studying—memorising— his texture for a quiz. You can feel every vein that runs up his dick. His thickness makes it uneasy for you to move, your head leaning into his neck, biting down hard on the flesh, triggering a ragged sigh. “I swear, baby, if you keep doing that I’m going to—”
He stops as you perform another squeeze, his cock hitting you in the right spot. He cursed under his breath, his touch softening as he reaches down to the shirt’s hem.
Your wink manages to catch him in the act, swiftly grabbing onto his hand, “no. Your pants, your boxers, everything can vanish— hah— for all I care. But this, this stays on.”
A whine emerges from Bucky’s lips, “Sweetheart— please! Please let me take it off. It’s squeezing me so tight, like you, but not in a good way. Please!” His rushed words and pleas make it hard to breathe. Your hips buck forwards, bringing him in deeper— if that was even possible.
“No.”
You kept firm, and all Bucky could do was nod, knowing that you wouldn’t listen and that he would just have to persevere through the uncomfortableness of the shirt. Though, it wasn’t hard to ignore as you, on his cock, was way too overpowering to be focused on a treating piece of fabric.
His hips pull back, giving you some leverage for a millisecond, and grinding them back in in one quick thrust. Screaming, his hand rakes up to the back of your neck, stabling your head as it tilts down. “Y’feel so fuckin’ good— shit— on my cock, princess,” he curses, continuously ramming into your hole, “so fucking tight, just for me.”
His hefty arms slithered around your waist, anchoring himself onto you and thrusts into you with rapid, deep flicks. “S-so good, Buck—fuck..”
Your words can’t seem to escape your lips the way you want to. Harder! Faster! Please!
It seems as if your words don’t even need to be said, as his actions quicken, his hips shoving further into your cunt.
In an abrupt movement, he stops, though still buried in your pussy. His hands move down to your ass, cupping the mound and standing up, keeping your weight afloat on his arms with ease as if you were a petal— thank God for the super serum.
“What—?” You groan, a flustered, yet confused demeanor deep in your tone.
“Bedroom.” He huffed, his tone flat against your ear, his voice ringing through you like an echo, “Can’t fuck my pretty lady on the couch.”
Those sweet words made your heart melt, and if you were touch hungry, you would’ve bickered and kept him back on the sofa to rearrange your insides right then and there.
“Bucky— ouhh—” you hissed, his bulbous cock still jammed inside you as you landed softly on the mattress, “I just changed the sheets!”
His head found its way to the crook of your neck, hips slamming in and out of your sensitive entrance. Bucky brings his mouth to your ear, kissing at your side burns, “Didn’t complain about it last night, huh?”
You don’t even try to argue, gawking your head down towards his face, meeting your lips in an engulfing kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth softly, as opposed to the scene down below.
His balls hit the softness of your ass, tightening with every slap he gets, “Baby— Bucky… fuck ‘mgonna cuumm—”
“Please do, please, princess,” he whines in your mouth as you clench your walls like a clamp, introducing the near of your undoing. His eyes flutter shut as his mouth slightly opens, his breath hitching at his throat.
He drives his hips in faster, chasing for, not only his, but, for yours as well. The sounds of hips slamming against each other, the wet squelches of your juices, and your synchronised moans and groans put some life back into the shaded bedroom.
Your moans gradually stop, eyes fluttering open and head tilting right into the mattress as you cum, your breath steadying yet still panting. You place open mouth kisses on Bucky’s face as your legs are spread wide against the side of his body.
“I’m so close,” he mutters into your mouth, hips an unsteady rhythm, “‘m’gonna cum in you, pretty girl.”
Your hips buck up, rhythmic against Bucky’s thrusts as he finally meets his climax, “So good, you did so good, handsome.”
His hand detaches from your hip, swooping it closer to your face. He grabs your chin and brings his face forwards, and presses your lips together as he stills in your cunt. “So did you, princess. Amazing as always.”
He smiles against your face as you hum, his one arm— the vibranium one— moves you so that you’re on top of him again, cock still inside, weight balanced on top of him. Your legs intertwined with each others, the roughness of his body hair tickling against yours. A soft whimper comes out of your lips as his length pulls away, a string of release connecting the tip and your entrance.
Bucky places you back on your side of the bed, an arm going below your neck to give you a pillow of bicep. A hand creeps towards his face, his cheeks rising as a smile forms. “You’re perfect.”
You don’t say anything in response, but he knows what you want to say to him. “I love you so much, you know that?”
“I love you and that tight little shirt that’s squeezing you so tight.” You give him a peck on his curved lips, “but, I think it would fit me more.”
“I knew you were gonna say that!” He kisses your temple, his lips brushing against your sweaty forehead, “Always stealing my clothes. I don’t mind though.” He ‘complains’, shutting his eyes.
You both lay there in tranquility for a moment. He shuffles around a bit more, “Do you need anything, babygirl? Water? Food? Shower?”
You smile at his question, heart fluttering and melting away further as if it were ice cream, “Water, then come back and sleep. Wanna rest for the rest of the day… Please Bucky.”
“How can I ever say no to your pretty face?”
drea’s notes ; last post before 100 followers???? YAY GUYS finally the first installation of dbf!bucky’s stargirl universe teehee!! i hope you guys enjoyed. i’m sorry for the rushed ending this was only supposed to be little blurb, something a little under 500 words then i got carried away. also i tried dabbling in using upper caps in my fics to see how it is im kinda liking it but i might stick to all lowercase idkkkk ANYWAYS PLEASEE LMK WHAT YOU GUYS THINK HEHEHE i love you all sm<3
Gif from Pinterest, dividers by @saradika-graphics
Perv!Eddie Munson x Best Friend!Reader
Summary: In an effort to hang out and maybe make some prank phone calls, Eddie shows up at your place late at night. But his intention of climbing in through your window is halted by the shocking sight of you, vulnerable and partaking in some intimate self-care.
Word Count: 3.2K
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, voyeurism, mutual masturbation, phone sex kinda, perv!eddie, panty stealing, mention of sex and cream pies, voice kink kinda, R is described to have an ass that has a little motion to it
Song Rec: Touch Myself cover by Genitorturers
A/N: Guys, I hope I didn’t peak with Ringing Pavlov’s Bell lmao. Also, vote on this poll pls!! Also also, as you can see, I'm trying to level up my fics. Based on this ask.
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Eddie climbs up the side of your house one-handed, taking extra care to make sure he has a good grasp on the vine-covered trellis before moving any higher. It takes a lot of work, and he’s slower than usual, but he needs to show you his surprise.
Cursing his leather jacket’s lack of deep pockets, he maintains a white-knuckled grip on the device. But it’s all worth it when he thinks about how you’re going to fucking flip when you see it.
Earlier today, Wayne greeted him when he got home from the garage. Not unusual, but what was unusual was the box on the table in front of him. As Eddie got closer, he noticed a large, brick-like item in his uncle’s hand.
“Holy shit, is that—”
“Yeah,” Wayne croaked, cutting him off gruffly. “‘Least it would be if I could figure out how t’work the damn thing.”
Eddie’s eyes were wide, his mind racing with a million thoughts as he watched the man glance from the cellphone to the manual nearby.
“How the fuck did—”
“Ed!”
Heeding the sharp warning, he rephrased.
“Sorry. How the shit did you get that? Aren’t they like four thousand bucks?” he asked, sliding into the seat across from the older man.
Wayne rolled his eyes at his nephew’s correction, but passed the phone into his waiting hand nonetheless. “Won it in a raffle at work. City-Suits won’t give the line a raise, but apparently, they’ll blow thousands of dollars on useless shit,” he muttered angrily.
An evil grin curled at Eddie’s lips as he eyed the expensive prize. “Oh, I don’t think it’s totally useless…”
As Eddie pulls himself up onto the roof, just outside your bedroom window, he giddily thinks of all the prank calls you and he are going to make. No one in the town is safe tonight.
But his fist freezes in mid-air, just a few inches short of the glass. His whole body goes rigid, and his heartrate spikes so high, he’s surprised he’s not keeling over from cardiac arrest. Then, he remembers himself.
“Shit!” he hisses, ducking beneath the sill. When he doesn’t hear a scream or a string of shocked expletives, he rises slowly to take a peek.
There, in the dimly lit room, you lay on your bed in what has got to be the most compromising position he’s ever seen you in. And he was there at the pool a few summers ago, when you did a massive cannonball into the water, sending your top flying off on impact. That was the last time you ever wore a bikini—he’s been cursing the day ever since. Due to one stupid knot, the rest of his summers were frighteningly dull.
But this moment might top that—
Because only five feet and one glass window away, you’re half-naked from the waist down and writhing with your hand shoved into your thin, purple underwear.
Eddie’s breathing turns shallow, and his jaw feels incapable of shutting as he ogles you stupidly. Practically frozen in place, he observes the way you squirm on untucked sheets, the way sweat beads at your hairline—small droplets glinting in the low lamplight.
And just like that, his cock twitches to life, hardening faster than he’s ever felt it; leaking and throbbing furiously beneath the restrictive denim. But despite the discomfort, his trance remains unshaken.
Your bare legs tremble with every bulging movement of your hand beneath your panties, and he licks his lips, imagining the cause. The way your fingers are probably catching your clit at the exact right angle, sending shockwaves through your limbs.
The closer he gets, the more the window fogs from the warmth of his breath. Any urgency to hide is zapped from him the moment your mouth opens. He strains to hear the sighs you let out—the moans. But the glass is too thick. Or you’re too quiet. Either way, he feels like he’s going insane, not being able to listen to the noises you make.
Blunt nails dig into his jean-clad thighs as he refrains from losing himself. This all feels so wrong, but he doesn't know what to do. He can’t knock on the window now, he can’t embarrass you like that. Because he knows you. He knows you’d be humiliated. He knows you probably wouldn’t talk to him for a month out of sheer mortification. And he can’t go a month without you.
But he also doesn’t think he has enough willpower to drag himself away from this damn window. To work his way down that damn trellis. And act like he didn’t see a damn thing when you come into the garage tomorrow, excited to greet him like you always are. You, perfectly innocent and none the wiser. Him, wrecked and changed forever.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when he sees your back arch into the mattress, hips lifting in a messy, gyrating rhythm, like you’re meeting imaginary thrusts. Like you’re desperate for more. When your lips curve around a familiar shape, a singular word he recognizes but can’t, for the life of him, make out, he loses the fight.
About to yank the window up, he freezes, then decides to set the heavy cellphone down on the roof.
After all, Wayne will have his ass if he breaks the device. He can just imagine it slipping from his grip as he struggles to climb through your window. It’d go tumbling down the shingles, bouncing off the gutters, and plummeting to the ground below. He’s heard that these things are supposed to be sturdy, but he doesn’t know how sturdy.
As he looks around for a safe spot to hide the phone, a thought occurs to him. And surprisingly, it’s not motivated by the throbbing ache in his pants. Well, not fully.
Instead of charging in, guns blazing and risking a years-long friendship, he figures he should call first. It’s only polite.
Pulse thrumming in his throat, he dials your number—the one he knows by heart. Shrill ringing pierces the air—even permeating the thick glass—spooking you. He watches as you wrench your hand from beneath your panties and glance at the bedside table, to the source of the interruption. He ducks low again, making sure he’s not in your peripheral view.
With the cellphone waiting in his hands, he studies you, sees the cogs turning in your brain as you hastily consider your options—the same ones he ran through seconds earlier:
You need to pick up the phone, because, despite your vulnerable, frazzled state, it’s late, and you can’t have your parents waking up to the ringing of every landline in the house.
It’s the perfect catch-22.
And people say he’s stupid.
You fail senior year three times and it’s a thing. You pass it once and everyone forgets. Whatever—
When you pick up the handset, Eddie grins. Gotcha.
He watches you inhale deeply, attempting to calm yourself. Then you press the phone to your ear and he does the same, mirroring your movements.
A soft sigh floats through the receiver, and the sound burrows deep into his mind, sending fractured signals down his body that leave his cock flexing. And he almost cheers at the frailness of the breath—the way he gets to watch its birth from your lust-bitten lips, the way he reaps the benefits so intimately.
Your voice is strained and scratchy from all the open-mouthed gasps, but sweet all the same. “H-Hello?”
Eddie grinds his teeth, biting back the eagerness creeping up his throat. “Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, tone low and husky.
He nearly cracks a tooth when your thighs clench. Waves of filthy thoughts race through his mind, but he has to play it cool. He has to act normal. He has to act like he’s not right outside your window, painfully hard from watching you finger-fuck yourself.
“Eddie?” you half-whisper, brows pinching tight in confusion. “What’re you calling this late for?”
A shiver wracks through his body at the sound of his name on your lips so soon after your wandering hands went exploring. Shifting his focus from your face, he slides his gaze down your figure, zeroing in on your glistening fingers.
Suddenly, he feels parched.
With a gulp, he ignores your question, opting instead to spend his energy fighting the wolfish grin from seeping into his voice, and instead, replacing it with remorseful innocence. “Sorry, did I wake you? Didn’t mean to interrupt your beauty sleep…”
It takes everything in him not to laugh when a look of panic sparks at your features.
“N-No! No, um, I was just—” You lift your head up, looking around the room until your gaze fixes on something just out of his view. “Painting my nails,” you hurry, but it comes out more like a question than a statement. “So, what did you—”
“What color?” Eddie rasps curiously, biting his lip.
Your face drops, and your stuttering breaths get louder as they crackle through the receiver. “Sorry?”
As if it has a mind of its own, his free hand hovers over the bulge in his pants, giving an experimental squeeze. He inhales sharply, quietly. His eyes close in ecstasy, but only for a split-second, before opening once more. Because he needs to see you.
“What color are you painting your nails?” he purrs, tone dripping in a smoky desire. Though to you, it probably just sounds like dreary sleep, stuck in his throat.
Sliding along the length of his shaft, he palms himself with precise pressure as he watches you shudder.
Your fingers toy with the waistband of your pretty panties, all frilly lace and deep violet.
“Purple,” you sigh with a slow blink, letting your hand slip beneath the thin fabric.
“Hm. Cute.” His hips twitch, jerking from the pleasure coiling tight in his gut. He watches as your knuckles stretch the material of your underwear once more, moving up and down a few times before starting a repetitive, concentric motion.
The sight of you actively touching yourself to his voice has a steady stream of precum pumping out of his tip, thoroughly soaking a splotch into his boxers. Soon, he’s sure his jeans will bleed a darker shade of black. All for you. He’ll become a sticky mess, all for you.
It doesn’t help that he finds himself ruminating on how wet you must’ve gotten your fingers just now, dipping them low into your entrance and spreading the arousal up to your clit.
Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him.
A tiny voice in his mind bellows, belligerent and questioning how he’s going to come back from this. How he’s going to look you in the eye tomorrow, now knowing what you sound like when you fall victim to your basest desires.
But then a pitchy hum dances through the line, and he can no longer hear the voice. He watches your legs spasm as you squirm helplessly, like your hands are not enough.
God, Eddie wishes he could help you. He nearly draws blood, biting his lip, wishing on every star in the sky that he could open this damn window. That he could enter your room and you’d only cry out for him, begging him to touch you. That you wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t scream for him to leave.
He wishes you’d moan his name right to his face. Wishes you’d peel your panties off and open your legs like a wordless invitation. You’d send that famous pout of yours his way, the one you do so well, the one that drives him crazy. The one he can’t resist.
He’d give you exactly what you need. He’d fill you up and devour every last mewling whimper right from your parted lips. And once you let him in, he wouldn’t abandon your warm cunt for all the money in the world. At least not until he got to leave your velvety walls dripping in his cum. Leave you with a piece of him. A promise of more. A pledge of devotion.
Eddie’s shoulders hunch, matching your convulsing movements as you struggle to remain quiet.
“‘S it light purple or dark purple?” he questions gruffly, eager to hear your voice—to hear the strain.
You throw your head back against the soft pillow behind you, your face crumbling in pleasure, like the right amount of lightning has struck the sensitive little bundle of nerves between your quivering thighs. “D-Dark.”
He bites back a groan, surprised his laser-focused stare hasn’t burned a hole through the glass yet.
“Like violet?” he huffs out, his gaze refusing to leave your delicate panties, or the actions happening underneath.
“Mhm,” you mewl, trapping your lower lip between your teeth.
His jaw drops in awe as the spasms seem harder to control, and the silence more difficult to hold onto, with lewd moans fighting their way up your throat, crawling agonizingly slowly from deep inside you.
“Y’alright, sweets? Y’sound a little breathless,” he utters, steady and calculating—a stark contrast to the harsh, hurried grip he has on his cock.
You nod your head fervently before remembering the phone pressed to your blazing cheek. Humming a few seconds too long, you’re unable to stop the vibrato from guiding your voice into the pits of desperation.
“Y-Yeah, ‘m fine. Just— I’m, mm-painting my toes.” Your tone jumps an octave on the last word, matching the full-body jerk that leaves you quaking. “Can’t fuckin’ breathe with my knee in my chest,” you pant, forced anger saturating every last syllable as your back arches.
He chuckles, amused by all your fabrications. For someone who’s squirming in bed like they’re running from their own fingers, you lie surprisingly well.
It takes everything in him not to let the moan breach his lips when he watches your hand rip from your panties, reach for the decorative throw pillow beside you, and shove it between your thighs, aiding your grinding hips.
Quickly losing rhythm, he clings to the last shred of sanity he can find, hoping to stave off the fiery heat just a bit longer. He’s not done with you yet.
But apparently you’re done with him, because your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body convulses rapidly before stopping suddenly, every part of you stiffening like a marble statue depicting the bowing ascent into pleasure-filled ecstasy.
Though you’re still, it looks like calamity is bubbling just beneath the surface. One, two, three more weak ruts of your hips against the pillow seems to officially send you hurling over the edge, dragging Eddie along with you.
Warmth blooms low in his gut and spreads across the front of his pants as his cock throbs angrily, shooting ropes of cum that are immediately stifled by the limitations of the tight fabric. His body jerks, matching your movements. Like you, his pleasure boils over, freeing him of any inhibitions. A groan tears from his chest, but you don’t hear it. Your cries drown out his noises.
“S-Shit, unh, Eddie!”
He shudders at the way his name rides on the back of your moans, but you quickly cover for yourself.
“Sorry—fuck, I,” your hurried, huffing breaths interrupt your words, “I spilled the polish. I’m— I gotta go, Eds.”
Inhaling sharply, Eddie allows himself just a bit more teasing. “Can’t wait to see your pretty nails tomorrow, sweetheart.”
Your responding whimper is cut short when you quickly hang up the phone and flop back onto your bed, pillow still hugged tightly between your trembling thighs. For a while, you just lay there with your arm draped over your face.
Outside the window, Eddie watches your rapidly moving chest eventually even out into soft, controlled breaths. He’s about to leave—the cooling mess in his pants starting to give him the bad shivers—but right as he begins inching backward, you sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed.
His eyes go wide when he sees the dark patch on your panties. As you stand and make your way to the middle of the room, his eyes then practically pop out of his head when you shimmy the underwear down your legs, carelessly tossing it in the direction of your laundry basket.
He gulps at the sight of your bare ass, vibrations rippling through flesh as you walk toward your bedroom door. But before you exit the room, you swipe a pair of panties from the top drawer of your dresser.
Once you disappear into the dark hallway, leaving your door closed—presumably to stop any light from filtering through—Eddie snaps into action, yanking the window upward and throwing himself through.
Tumbling to the floor with a quiet thud, his head pops up, looking over the edge of the bed, across the way at the still-shut door. With the cellphone safe in hand, he scrambles up to his feet, trying desperately to ignore the scent of you in the air. It’s partly your perfume lingering on every item in the room, partly the sweet smell of your arousal permeating the stillness of the night.
Glancing down at the wet spot on the throw pillow, he bounces slightly, frowning in agony—it’s taking incredible restraint not to steal the stupid thing. Because fuck, he could do so much with that. He could rest his head on it, sleep peacefully to the scent of you. He could bury his face in the stain while he ruts his hips into his lumpy mattress. Hell, he could even grind his bare cock on the pillow itself.
But it’s too big of an item to steal. You’d notice. Especially because you were just using it, and for all he knows, this is a regular occurrence. This might be your special humping pillow. He doesn’t judge—he’s got his special jack-off hoodie. Actually, it’s your hoodie that you ‘lost’ a few months ago. It just barely smells like you anymore, but it still does the trick.
Sighing, Eddie shakes his head, deciding to stick to his original plan. He hurries over toward the basket in your closet but stops short just before he arrives. There, on the ground, is the pair of panties you were wearing only moments ago. He plucks the still-warm material off the ground, holding it up to the light.
Your juices have thoroughly soaked the fabric, and he looks inside at the gusset, nearly moaning at the glimmer of slick shining up at him.
“Fuck yeah,” he mutters, pumping his fist. However, right as he moves to greedily sift through more of your dirty laundry, he hears the flush of a toilet from down the hall, then the click of a door.
His adrenaline spikes, and he speeds back across the room, cursing himself for not just blindly grabbing whatever he could get his hands on from the full basket. Slipping out the window with ease, Eddie shoves the waistband of your panties into his mouth to free one of his hands, allowing him to softly, but swiftly, shut it behind him.
He makes quick work of descending the trellis before ever witnessing you re-enter the room. As he jogs down the street to his van, he grins victoriously.
He may not have been able to hang out with you tonight, but he definitely got something far better. A win is a win.
A/N: Pls lmk if you liked this fic!!!! Y’all’s reactions let me know what I should do more of. Also, I’m like a dog and if you guys give me snausages (compliments), I’ll do tricks (post fics) for you.
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader! x Bucky Barnes
Summary: You, Bob, and Bucky have fallen into a routine together as they continue to come to your room to sleep in your bed. But when tensions begin to rise, what happens when all control gets thrown out the window?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Hints of Angst, Mentions and Descriptions of Scarring, Reader, Bob and Bucky of course are close now in this, there’s a bit of a time jump between Paper Crown and This lol
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Threesome, Oral Sex (male and female receiving), Fingering, Praise Kink, Reader gets held down (not to pin down…You’ll see lol), Handjob, Spitting/Drooling, Dirty Talk, Nipple Play/Breast Worship, Body Worship, Handjobs, Begging, Crying (but like in a good way), whispers The Guys Kiss, I’ve somehow managed to make a super sensual threesome? And I mean, I don’t know how the hell I did it lol but…Here we are I guess, Aftercare
Author’s Note: I have never written something like this before so this was totally out of my territory, but my god was it fun. I hope it meets expectations, I tried my best, this was so hard to write and I’m nervous as hell to put it out lol.
Word Count: 9,375
Previous Part
Ever since that night you had first shared a bed with Bob and Bucky, it became routine. A rhythm you didn’t question, a secret ritual that grew deeper with every passing week. Your room became their refuge, your bed was their anchor, and you–caught between them–were their quiet obsession.
It didn’t matter anymore whether they were having sleepless nights or not. They came to your room because they wanted you. They wanted to hold you, to press their bodies against yours, to feel you curled and warm and inescapably theirs. They snuggled into you greedily, wordlessly, until you were nothing more than the soft, pliant buffer between two restless giants who seemed incapable of letting you go.
And you reveled in it.
The nights were always the same at first–your body pinned in the middle, their limbs tangling with you until escape was impossible. Bob always curled into your front, his heat oppressive, his chest rising and falling against yours like he was syncing his heartbeat with your own. His arm would drape across your waist, sometimes sliding up to caress your side in absentminded strokes, like he couldn’t bear to leave even an inch of you untouched. Bucky always pressed against your back, his arm always slipping beneath your pillow to claim your free hand, his vibranium arm cinching around your waist, his legs hooking around yours as if they were providing an extra way to keep you locked into place.
They didn’t hog you. They shared you–though the way they did it made your heart pound with a secret, shuddering ache.
You could feel the craving in them, the way they chased every spread of your touch, the way they pressed closer every time you gave them so much as a sigh or a gentle graze of your fingers. It was hunger disguised as comfort. And though you told yourself this whole arrangement was about soothing them, you knew there was something more behind it all. Something heavier. Something dangerous, taboo even. Because there were slip-ups–those little trespasses into intimacy that none of you admitted to.
Bucky would slide his vibranium fingers beneath the hem of your top, letting the cold plates skim the strip of skin just above the waistband of your shorts. The shock of it always made you flinch, and it always drew his name from your lips in a hushed murmur. He’d play dead then, his chest steady, his mouth pressed to the back of your neck like he hadn’t moved at all. But you felt it, and you knew it was a way to claim you with every pass.
Bob on the other hand was less discreet. He would shift until his palm rested against the swell of your breast, not squeezing, not daring to move, but holding–like a man who couldn’t resist the instinct any longer. His breath gave him away, heavy and uneven, his chest straining against yours as if he were inhaling you, dragging the essence of your being into his lungs. Sometimes his mouth fell open against your chest, drool seeping hot into your shirt, shameful and unguarded. It should have been funny, but to you it wasn’t, it made your thighs press tight beneath the blankets, seeking friction and relief from the molten ache that curled in your stomach and sat low in your core.
And then there was the way they would nuzzle against you. Bob, with his face buried in your breasts, his exhales hot, his body trembling faintly as though he could dissolve into you. Bucky, pressed into the nape of your neck, sometimes tucking his scruffy chin there, sometimes burying his nose deep until you felt his breath seep through your shirt and into your skin. Sometimes you swore you felt his soft lips graze you–ghostly, fleeting–like he couldn’t stop himself and that was the only way he could give himself a taste of you.
Both of them tried to hold themselves together. They tried to be good for you and for each other. But you weren’t blind, and you certainly weren’t numb. You felt things building up between the three of you, thick and heavy like humidity in the midst of a storm.
On the worst nights–when you couldn’t sleep, when every brush of their fingers had your skin alight–you tortured yourself with thoughts that made your pulse hammer in your ears.
What if you tilted Bob’s head up and kissed him awake? What if you curled your hand into Bucky’s chocolate brown hair, and dragged his face down to yours and claimed his mouth? Would they unravel? Would they fall on you like starving men at a feast, finally admitting what their bodies already screamed each night? Would they understand that you didn’t want one–you wanted both?
The thought consumed you, tore at you even, and left your body aching and clenched tight. But then came the guilt. Was it greedy to want them both? To want to hoard them when they could find their own partners without the complications? Was it selfish to crave their hunger, and to ache for them in ways that went beyond the quiet respectability of comfort?
Maybe.
But the truth was undeniable. They were already yours. They were technically already sharing you, already touching you in ways no one else dared, and they were already burying themselves into your body as if you were a sanctuary for their deepest desires. And their hands were the ones that betrayed them in the darkness to expose these things to you. Twitching against your waist, your hips, your thighs, gripping when they thought you were asleep. Flexing like they were already picturing more.
Sometimes you woke to find them still there in the morning–splayed out but tangled, your legs still hooked with theirs. Often you woke to their whispers. Quiet talks in the early hours when they thought you were lost in your slumber. They spoke about their past, about missions, about the little nothings that came easier in the hush of the night. Sometimes you caught your own name on their tongues, but you never got the whole sentence and you never got enough to piece things together, though it was enough to make your stomach clench and your heart skip, wondering what they said about you when they thought you couldn’t hear.
They grew closer because of that. It seemed like the more nights they shared with you, the more in sync they became with each other. Where once they had clashed, now they moved like men bound by something deeper than camaraderie. And the team noticed. They noticed how the three of you gravitated toward one another, how you volunteered for missions together, how you lingered in each other’s presence like it was second nature.
Yelena had asked you once, blunt as always: “Is there something happening between you three?” And you had responded of course.
”We’re just close. We’ve bonded a bit.” It was the truth, but not entirely. Because you didn’t tell her how your stomach flipped when Bob would dig his face into you. You didn’t tell her how your body quivered when Bucky’s mouth brushed the back of your neck. You didn’t tell her about lying awake, with your thighs clenching tight because of the ache that pulsed between them. And you certainly didn’t tell her about the taboo and dangerous thoughts that plagued your mind.
You didn’t tell her you wanted them both nor did you tell her that you wanted to be theirs. But deep down, you knew that truth wouldn’t stay buried for long.
————————
The night it all came to a head started differently than most, which should’ve given away that something was going to happen that wasn’t in your regular routines.
You had decided to take a quick shower before bed, a deviation from your usual rhythm. Normally you washed up right after dinner, steam curling from under the bathroom door while everyone else lingered around the kitchen, and Bob and Bucky had their late-night snacks. But tonight the promise of a boiling hot shower right before slipping beneath the covers felt too tempting. You wanted the heat of it to soften every knot in your muscles, to let your skin prickle warm so that when you finally wedged yourself between Bucky and Bob, you’d feel boneless, cozy, maybe even at peace.
The shower was indulgent, with scalding water pounding down onto your body until your skin practically sizzled. By the time you stepped out, your hair was damp at the ends and the towel around you was snug and soft, fresh out of the dryer. The steam had made you feel dizzy, and your body was humming with the residual warmth that was left from the water. You could’ve sworn you burned yourself, but at that point you didn’t really care, you were relaxed and loosened up and that’s all that really mattered. You padded barefoot down the hall, already feeling the anticipation build in your chest, already picturing yourself pressed between the familiar shapes of Bob and Bucky’s bodies.
But when you pushed the door open to your bedroom, you startled.
Because they were already there. Not burrowed down in your bed as they usually were, not drowsy or half-asleep from waiting. They were sitting up, with their phones in hand, with some space between them as if it was some sort of reserved spot for you. It struck you then–how comfortable they had grown in your room, how it wasn’t even yours alone anymore. It was a shared territory, a quiet claim all three of you had staked without saying aloud.
”Jesus, guys, you’re already here?” You blurted, clutching your towel tight against your chest, making sure it was secure and tight around your breasts and body. Their heads snapped up at the sound of your voice.
Bucky’s hazy blue eyes flicked over you shamelessly, roaming down the towel’s edge, lingering a half-second too long on the bare length of your legs, seeing some stray drops of water trickling down the skin there, in his head he pictured himself chasing them with his tongue, cleaning you off until you were dampened with his saliva. His phone lowered, almost completely forgotten, though his lips curved like he was going to disguise his staring with words.
Bob, on the other hand, looked like you had struck him with a brick. His pale, lightly freckled face flushed almost instantly, color rushing high into his cheeks, his whole body jerked slightly as he ducked back into his phone like it was going to save him from drowning in his own thoughts–the thoughts that made him wish he had the courage to truly fulfill them. The glow lit the red blush across his skin, obvious, and betraying.
“You’re–uh–you showered?” Bob mumbled, voice cracking faintly, though his eyes stayed glued to the device in his hand. Bucky didn’t bother hiding the rasp in his tone.
”Didn’t know you would be showering this late…” He smirked, words casual enough to pass, but his gaze gave him away–intent, unblinking, as if the conversation was his excuse to keep feasting on the sight of you.
“Yeah well, I decided to change it up.” You replied, feeling an additional layer of heat crawling up your neck. As you shuffled to your dresser, you tried to shake the nerves, pulling open the drawer with one hand, with your towel clutched stubbornly with the other. You tagged out a pair of black underwear, and though you tried to move smoothly, you could see the way Bucky’s gaze darted down, and you caught the flicker of interest before you quickly layered a pair of shorts on top, shielding it, adding a baggy t-shirt that clearly wasn’t yours to the pile.
”I’ll be back in a second, gonna change in the washroom,” You muttered. But as you crossed the room, the towel loosened just slightly with each step, a narrow gap opening at the fold near your hip. A flash of your upper thigh–skin damp, gleaming faintly from steam–caught the low light of the bedroom. It wasn’t intentional, but it was like the air itself went taut as you left the room.
For all of Bucky’s years being a super soldier, and for all the work Bob had been putting into mastering his new enhanced sensations, both men were on high alert, like their instincts had snapped to attention. They could hear it–the rush of your blood beneath your skin, the soft patter of your bare feet in the hall, the fluttering uptick of your heartbeat still racing from being caught off guard by their presence.
They were practically predators shackled by their own restraint, and you were the flame that threatened to undo it all. Bucky dragged a hand over his mouth, adjusting himself slightly on the mattress, shifting like he might dispel some of the ache that was lodged heavily in his gut. His gaze slid sideways, finding Bob, who sat upright now, his face nearly a cherry-red, jaw clenched hard, the tremor in his hands giving him away.
”Will you get a hold of yourself?” Bucky muttered, low but sharp, his blue eyes narrowing.
Bob’s head snapped toward him, his voice coming out in a hissed whisper, cracked with emotion, “Well I’m so-sorry. I’m not like you where I can hide my emotions and act like nothing affects me…” The words tumbled fast and defensive out of his mouth, but his ears burned brighter as he ducked his head again, his knuckles turning white around his phone from the grip he had on it. Bucky rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose, jaw tight with effort.
”You have to be more subtle, for god’s sake. That’s all I’m saying.” Bob scoffed.
”Ye-Yeah, subtle. Says the guy who looks at her like he’s gonna jump her bones if she moves wrong.” He bit, the comment landing straight against Bucky’s chest. For a moment, silence stretched between them, sharp and heavy. But neither of them pushed further. They didn’t need to. They both knew the truth–they both knew what lived in the marrow of the other’s bones. Their feelings for you weren’t secrets to each other; they hung ing the air every night, unspoken to you, but undeniable to them.
And yet, it had never been a competition. There were moments, yes–flares of jealousy when your hand lingered longer on Bob’s arm than Bucky’s, or when Bucky’s stories coaxed laughter from you that made Bob’s stomach twist with envy. But it never tipped into rivalry. They had drawn an invisible line together: no moves, no confessions, no breaking whatever fragile miracle this arrangement was.
Even if it left them wrecked with longing, and even if it meant swallowing the anguish of wanting more than you gave.
“I don’t look at her like that,” Bucky mumbled finally, bringing his attention back down to his phone, voice flat, and unconvincing. Bob dropped the subject soon after, slumping back against the headboard, his lips pressed tight.
It only took a few minutes before you returned, the faint squeak of the bathroom door swinging shut behind you from down the hall as you padded back into the room, toweling the damp curve of your neck, a few stray droplets of water slipping down your skin, glinting in the low light of your room.
And then Bucky noticed it.
The shirt was his. One of his old, soft black training shirts, the neckline sagging loose, the hem hanging well past your shorts. It looked so normal when you had pulled it out he didn’t even clock it, but now that it was in his face it was undeniable. He froze for a fraction of a second, his chest seizing with something molten, his mind racing to make sense of how it had ended up in your drawer. Maybe it had got mixed up in the laundry–but why didn’t you give it back to him? Truly he didn’t really know, and maybe it didn’t matter, because all he could think was how the universe had practically shoved the sight in his face, daring him to look, daring him to feel the way he did, to let his heart slam against his chest, and to have his palms heat up with a sheen of sweat just because he could.
You tossed the towel aside, the shirt clinging damp to your warm skin in spots, the fabric darkening slightly from where your body had been left dripping. Bob couldn’t help but stare at the way your breasts looked beneath the shirt, without the support of a bra they hung naturally, and he could see–even in the dim light–the way your nipples pebbled and stood out from the fabric. He cleared his throat slightly, attempting to ease the pressure that was building in it.
“Alright, shift over you two,” You sighed, your tone nonchalant, like nothing you were doing was fraying the seams of their control, like you didn’t feel the electricity thickening in the air, “Give me a little bit of space. I gotta get in.” They moved instantly, like men obeying instinct, sliding toward their sides of the mattress. Both of them powered off their phones in near-synchronized movements, placing them on the nightstands beside them, as though ritual demanded order before you joined them.
You crossed the room in a soft shuffle, your fingers brushing the switch to turn off the light. Darkness enveloped everything but the faint spill of moonlight slicing through the gap in your curtains, silver painting across the floor and the sharp edges of shoulders beneath the blankets. You dug your knees into the mattress, crawling up and dragging the comforter down so you could climb in.
Once you settled between the both of them you laid flat on your back, feeling the heat from Bob immediately surrounding you, and spreading your vanilla-honey scent along the space, letting the scent settle in the air. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. Both Bucky and Bob could hear it distinctly, but you decided to try to play it off like it wasn’t happening at all, shifting in your spot before turning your head to look at Bob, seeing the sheen of sweat reflecting in the moonlight, his light brown hair sticking slightly to his forehead.
“Are you okay Bob?” You asked gently, reaching up to push his hair out of his face. He shuddered beneath your touch, gulping down the saliva that built in his mouth.
”Ye-Yeah…Running hot as usual.” His eyes flicked to your hand like you were placing some sort of blessing onto him, as you ran your thumb beneath his eye, giving him a small nod.
”Okay, just checking…” He breathed in slowly as you turned onto your side, assuming your usual position. Bob took that as his cue to shift down the mattress, hunching into you, his boiling-hot cheek pressing against your breasts, his arm sliding over your waist so his hand could settle on your back, surrounding you in the dampened heat of his body.
“Bucky?” You whispered–soft, coaxing, like you were calling the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place. You heard the mattress creak behind you, then felt him move in, inevitable as a tide: the warm weight of his vibranium arm slid over you, resting just on your rib cage, his metal palm spreading flat against your stomach, as his flesh hand slipped beneath your pillow to find your free one, his fingers threading with yours until your knuckles fit his like a lock answering its key. His chest pressed to your back like a solid wall, his nose tucking into the crook of your neck as he drew a long breath–like he could steal your calmness if he breathed deep enough.
And then your legs found theirs–three sets tangling, calves hooking, knees nudging, shins slotting until it felt like one entity settling itself to sleep, a tangle of limbs and breath and quiet hunger. Bob nuzzled deeper into your breasts, his nose scraping the thin cotton, seeking the soft heat beneath. You started carding your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, trying to smooth him–but he was too tense for a man who usually melted at the first pass of your nails on his scalp. Behind you, Bucky’s mouth ghosted against your neck–a hovering heat that made your pulse trip hard and fast beneath your skin.
The room pulsed with the sound of breathing–theirs and yours–as you felt your thighs clenching together, shifting a bit for some sort of relief from the building tension that began to coil within your stomach. The silver wedge of moonlight across the room made everything feel clandestine, consecrated in a way.
And you knew something had to give.
You felt nauseous from the mixture of heat and arousal flooding through your body–like you were already getting drunk on the closeness. Bob’s hand dragged slowly up your back, his fingers bunching the fabric of your shirt in tense, desperate squeezes. At the same time, Bucky’s vibranium arm shifted higher, hovering dangerously close beneath the swell of your breasts before he pulled it back with gritted restraints letting it return to your ribs like he hadn’t almost made the move that would’ve unraveled everything.
Your brain was stirring, hazy and frantic, impossible to steady. The air was thick, and stifling, and you couldn’t bear to keep yourself in check anymore. You shifted back pressing into the heavy front of Bucky’s sweatpants. The hiss of air he released burned against your neck, his hand tightening bone-crushingly around yours beneath the pillow.
Bob groaned low in his chest and moved in too, his hips pressing forward until you were caged in, crushed deliciously between them both. The thundering of his heartbeat slammed against your chest, frantic, mirroring your own. You clenched your thighs, your breath breaking as Bucky gave a careful roll of his hips in response to your movement. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t subtle. It was deliberate, a signal, an acknowledgment of the fever building between all three of you.
Your fingers tightened in Bob’s hair, pulling just enough to make him gasp against your chest, and immediately you loosened your grip, realizing what you had just done.
”Shit…Sorry…Sorry,” You whispered, feeling the shame and hunger tangling together. Bob lifted his head, his blue eyes glassy and wet. His throat worked as he shook his head.
”It’s ok-okay.” His voice cracked, desperate and earnest. You felt your hips press back again, harder this time, and Bucky’s groan rumbled into the crook of your neck. In front of you, Bob decided to chase your movement again, placing pressure against you, feeling both their erections straining against your body. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tilted your head back with a huff of breath releasing from your mouth.
”…Are we too much?” Bucky’s voice broke low and husky in your ear, laced with both restraint and wicked teasing. His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “Too restless?”
You shook your head hard, words tumbling out of you like a confession. “Don’t tell me you two don’t know what you’re doing to me…This is all intentional.” Bob made a strangled noise and clutched at the back of your shirt. His free hand slipped lower, fingertips brushing the hem before teasing their way just beneath, touching bare skin for the first time, causing you to arch forward. Bucky’s mouth ghosted over your neck, smug, unhurried.
“We’re only moving against you,” He murmured. “Just trying to get comfortable.” The sheer lie of it had you shuddering, thighs attempting to rub together for some sort of relief. Bob kept his eyes on you in those moments, seeing the way your lips parted slightly, like you were already overwhelmed.
”If yo-you only want one of us…”
You cut him off instantly, fierce, urgent. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I–” Bucky ground his hips into you suddenly, stealing your breath, making your words splinter. “I… want both of you.” The silence that followed felt seismic. Bob’s wide, glimmering eyes darted sideways, meeting Bucky’s. His lips parted like he was pleading silently for permission, for reassurance. Bucky studied him for a moment, then gave a sharp little nod.
“Are you sure? Because if we start this–if we really do this together–there’s no going back.” Bucky asked, his voice low, and steady, like he was the only one that was level headed in that moment. You exhaled hard and shakily, tilting your head toward him, baring your throat like an offering.
“You think I haven’t thought about it? I can’t choose between you. I don’t want to…I want the both of you.” Bob’s trembling hand slid fully beneath your shirt, splaying hot over your stomach, desperate for more contact, feeling Bucky’s vibranium palm coming up to rest over the tops of your breasts like a shackle locking you in place.
“I wa-want you in any way you’ll let me have you,” Bob whispered hoarsely and wrecked. “If…If I need to share, then so be it.” There was a beat of silence, thick and heavy, every breath tangled together. Your eyes stayed locked with Bob’s, his pale lashes damp from nerves, his chest rising fast against yours. You whispered into that tension, voice low and deliberate.
“Bucky…Are you in?” Bob didn’t even blink. His wide blue eyes were still on you, shimmering with unspoken pleas. But behind you, you felt Bucky still, his breath dragging deep as if he needed to ground himself before answering.
“I’m in,” he said finally, the rasp of his voice carving a shiver down your spine. Then he shifted, pressing closer against your back, his vibranium palm flexing against the swell of your breast, “But before we do anything, we’re setting rules. We communicate. All of us. We’ll use the traffic light system–it’s simple. Green means keep going. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop. No questions asked. You two understand?”
Bob swallowed hard and repeated it back, “Gr-Green…Yellow…Red. Got it.” Your heart hammered in your chest. You squeezed the hand Bucky still had tangled with yours under the pillow, glancing over your shoulder at him.
“Okay.” You replied. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, warm and firm.
“This only works if we talk to each other. Especially you. You keep us in the loop, or we stop. Neither of us want to risk hurting you–accidentally or otherwise. Clear?”
You nodded, breathless, your whisper carrying like a prayer. “Okay…Can we start?” Bob’s eyes darted between you and Bucky, a silent tether linking the three of you.
Then, almost in unison, both men breathed, “Yes.” Your hand slid up to cradle Bob’s flushed cheek, the rasp of faint stubble scratching slightly against your palm. His lips parted like he was waiting, trembling on the edge of something bigger than himself. And you tipped forward, closing the distance. The kiss was slow at first, achingly gentle. Bob sighed into your mouth like the world had just given him permission to breathe. His trembling eased beneath your touch as you moved your lips against his, sweet and reverent, tasting the nervous heat of him. His hand cupped your back, shaking, desperate to keep you tethered to him as though one wrong move might send you slipping away.
When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, Bob’s eyes were glassy and worshipful, his lips damp and pink from your kiss. You eased onto your back between them, offering yourself openly, letting them both claim space. Bob bent almost instantly, his mouth tracing down your jaw, then lower, peppering wet kisses down to the side of your neck, sucking gently on your pulse point before lingering there completely, his breath scalding against your skin.
And with that opening, you turned your head toward Bucky.
His mouth met yours like it had been waiting for years–rougher, hungrier, his teeth grazing and biting at your lips, his stubble scraping heat into your skin. His kiss stole your breath, forcing you to grip him–your hand rising to hold his cheek, anchoring yourself against the sharp edges of his desperation.
At the same time, your other hand fisted in Bob’s shirt, dragging on the fabric like you needed him closer, deeper. They were overwhelming you, devouring you from both sides, hands exploring every inch they could touch. Bob’s hand traveled higher beneath your shirt, his knuckles grazing your ribs until his palm rose to cradle your bare breast. The contact wrenched a gasp from you–sharp, helpless–a sound that vibrated against Bucky’s mouth. His kiss faltered; he drew back a fraction, pupils blown wide as he watched Bob’s hand squeezing you. Then he sat up entirely, breath rough.
“Shirts off,” He said–quiet but undeniable. He wanted to have access to you as well, and that would be the only way to get it.
He stripped first, the black cotton rucked over his head in one practiced pull. Moonlight caught on the planes of him: the layered strength of chest and shoulders, the map of faint nicks and healed scrapes, and wounds where he didn’t get so lucky in a fight, then there was the puckered seam where flesh met metal at his shoulder. Bob fumbled his own tee over his head, cheeks blazing, chest flushed pink and freckled. There were scars on him too–thin white lines like old storm tracks: one across his upper ribs, one near his hipbone, another small crescent beneath his collarbone, they were few and far between but they were noticeable.
Your breath went soft as you pushed upright–caught between them still–and reached first for Bucky. You kissed the scar where the vibranium met skin, slow and careful, pressing your mouth to the uneven ridge as if you could soothe its history. His inhale stuttered, the metal fingers of his left hand flexing tight against the sheet.
Then you turned to Bob, bringing him close by the back of his neck. “Can I?” you whispered, your mouth hovering over the pale crescent at his collarbone.
“Y-Yeah…Yes please,” He breathed. You kissed each little ghost-line on him, tenderness poured into every touch; his eyes shone, throat clicking as he swallowed around a sound that wanted to be a sob and a moan at the same time. Feeling your lips against his skin, the way your tongue traced the lines made his body shake–so much so that he needed to grab your hand gently to silently communicate that you needed to stop before he got overwhelmed.
Once you settled, they helped ease your shirt off your body, before laying you back into the pillows like a precious offering to them. Four hands rediscovered you at once–Bucky’s cool metal and warm flesh, Bob’s hot, shaking palms–both of them cupping and kneading your breasts with a devotion that made your spine bow. You turned your head and traded mouths–wet kisses to Bucky that scraped your lip on his stubble, then back to Bob, who met you with open, quivering hunger. Once, as they hovered over you, their mouths brushed each other–an accidental press born of eagerness. They paused, breath mingling, the moment humming bright and charged; neither flinched. Bucky’s lips ghosted a line along Bob’s cheek like acknowledgement, and then both of them were back on you, letting the electricity of that fleeting contact feed what they gave you.
You could feel Bucky’s vibranium hand slipping lower. The cold plates tracing the curve of your waist before nosing beneath your shorts, easing inside until the backs of his knuckles kissed the soaked cotton clinging to you. You arched into him with a broken sound, thighs twitching, hips rolling without shame.
“You still green?” Bucky rasped at your ear, flesh hand catching your chin and holding you there so he could search your eyes.
“Yes,” You whispered, fierce and breathless. “Green. Please.” He didn’t make you beg twice, as he slid his fingers beneath the elastic to feel your wetness. His fingers parted you–deft, and unhurried–coating themselves in your arousal that was pulsing there for both him and Bob, before slowly pressing two of his cool fingers into you, curling them at the same time as they entered you. You went taut under both of them, a sound climbing out of you that made Bob’s eyes roll closed.
“We’ve go-got you,” Bob murmured, and then he was lowering his mouth to your breast, lips sealing around your nipple. He suckled greedily, drool spilling warm over your skin, his tongue circling, flattening, flicking until the pleasure sharpened white-hot. His hand cupped your other breast and kneaded as if to quiet his own shaking by keeping you held. He was messy with it–sloppy, and open-mouthed–spit shining everywhere he’d worshipped.
Bucky kissed you as he worked his fingers, swallowing your gasps and feeding them back to you, deeper and darker. His thumb smoothed your jaw, angling your face so he could take more, so he could kiss you rougher, tongue pushing past your lips with claiming heat. He pulled back just enough to look down at your mouth, his thumb pressing at your lower lip until it fell open. He tilted your jaw higher, eyes fixed on the wet shine that coated your mouth. Then he leaned in and spit into it–hot, deliberate, claiming. You swallowed on instinct, a broken whimper catching in the back of your throat. He chased it with a kiss that was anything but gentle–filthy and consuming, his tongue licking into you while his fingers inside you sped up, plunging harder, curling deeper, his palm grinding against your clit until sparks hissed through your nerves. Bob turned feral against your chest, your moans and whimpers egging him on. He nipped and bit–careful but hungry–his teeth catching the slick, peaked bud before he soothed the sting with a swirl of his tongue.
Saliva smeared everywhere he worshipped; his chin and lips were glossy, breath hot as he murmured into your skin, “So good…So beautiful–God, you’re pe-perfect–” The praise ran together, tangled and adoring, punctuated by soft, shaky groans as he palmed the weight of your breast like he could keep you steady through the shock of pleasure.
Bucky’s mouth dragged across your jaw, words rough and reverent between kisses. “That’s it, pretty thing. Take my fingers–fuck, you feel unreal. You like how I open you up? You’re making such sweet fucking sounds for us.” He drove his hand faster, the slick, obscene rhythm slapping wet into your core. You could feel your eyes water as his fingers curled inside you just a little more, grinding against the spot that made you writhe around, trying to pull away from the feeling because it felt like you were going to pee.
Then you shatter. The climax slammed up from your heels–sudden, punishing–your body bowing off the bed. You grabbed at Bob’s hair with a sharp cry, fisting the soft strands and dragging him into your chest as your other hand clawed into Bucky’s shoulder, nails raking over warm skin and the hard rim of metal. The gush came hard–hot pulses flooding your panties, spilling around Bucky’s wrist. He growled like you’d just crowned him, grinding his palm tighter, pushing you through it with merciless, exquisite pressure.
“Look at that,” He rasped, awe and filth braided in his voice. “Soaking for us–you made such a mess, didn’t you? We want all of it…” Another rush spilled; your thighs trembled uncontrollably, lips parted on a wrecked moan, as you pleaded for Bucky to calm down, which he respected immediately, pulling his soaked fingers out, bringing the glistening metal up to his mouth so he could suck on them. You let out a little moan, as he smirked, giving you the remnants that coated them, so you could get a taste of your sweet release. Bob tore off your nipple with a wet pop, panting, eyes blown and shining.
”I want to ta-taste you,” He whispered, voice cracking and pleading.
“Fuck…Please,” You breathed, still shaking, “Your fucking mouth feels so good everywhere Bob.” You whimpered, feeling your face being tilted to Bucky, feeling his lips claiming yours again–slow but greedy now–while Bob slid down your body, his hands settling on your hips. You lifted for him on instinct as he tugged your shorts and ruined panties down. The fabric peeled away sticky and shining; he stared for a heartbeat, swallowing hard at the sight of you slick and open, thighs quivering. Then he eased your legs over his shoulders, the broad heat of him bracketing you, forearms sliding under your thighs to draw you down to his mouth.
The first lick unspooled you. Bob flattened his tongue from your weeping core to your clit in one worshipful stroke, humming at your taste like it knocked the breath from him. He lapped again–slower–collecting your mess with greedy patience, swallowing audibly, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed wet kisses into the soft flesh of your inner thighs. Then he settled in and ate.
He was messy with it, reverent and untidy: tongue tracing lazy figure-eights through your slick, tip flicking teasingly at your entrance before plunging inside to drink, nose nudging your clit just enough to make you gasp. His hands tucked under your ass, thumbs spreading you to give his mouth better access; every inhale was a shaky prayer.
“So sweet,” He panted against you, breath skittering over pulsing nerves. “So–so good. Mine to taste–ours.” Bucky stayed at your mouth, devouring the little sounds you couldn’t hold back, his flesh hand on your throat–gentle, possessive–thumb stroking the rapid flutter there.
“Tell him how you want it. Tell him to clean you up, Y/N…” He murmured, his mouth hot at your ear.
“B-Bob,” you gasped, head tipping back as his tongue flicked your clit, “Please…Don’t fucking stop…Keep going. Keep licking me, oh my god.” He moaned into you and obeyed, lips sealing around the swollen bud. He suckled, drool mixing with your slick until everything was heat and shine and need. You writhed shamelessly, hips rolling against his face; he followed each chase with a low, eager sound, letting you use his mouth until his chin was drenched, as Bucky’s lips found yours again to muffle your noises. Heat snarled low in your belly again. You needed more–you needed all of it. Your hand slid down Bucky’s stomach, finding the waistband of his sweats. He sucked a breath through his teeth but didn’t stop kissing you; his hips snapped forward once, betraying his control. You worked your fingers beneath the elastic and found him–thick, hot, heavy–your hand curling around the velvet weight of him. He dropped his forehead to yours with a quiet, vicious groan.
“Fuck–yeah…Just like that,” He hissed, voice shredded. “Squeeze me. Use that pretty hand. You gonna make me drip while he eats you? Filthy little angel.” You stroked him slowly at first, savoring the glide, the way his pulse throbbed against your fingers. He rutted into your fist helplessly, breath ragged, dirty praise pouring into your ear between grunts. “You’re so fucking good at that. Look at you–mouth open, thighs shaking–Bob, look at her. She’s perfect, aren’t you, baby? Tell me whose mouth that is.”
“Y-Yours–Bob’s,” You whimpered, the claim breaking as Bob’s tongue flattened and dragged, then circled, then sucked again, “Both of yours…” Bucky’s laugh was low and wrecked.
“That’s right. Ours.” Bob found a rhythm that obliterated speech–two slow, worshipful sucks followed by quick flicks of his tongue, then a gentle graze of teeth that had you crying out. He murmured apologies against you when you jolted–a sweet, frantic sound–and soothed it with a wide, wet kiss before sealing his mouth over your clit again. One hand left your ass to slide a finger inside you–cautious at first, then deeper, curling forward. The angle paired with his suction tore a hoarse gasp from your chest. Bucky watched your face the whole time, reading the precise second that pleasure started to crest. He tightened your grip on him with his hand over yours, guiding your strokes.
“That’s it…Give him everything, Y/N. Make a mess on his tongue. You’re safe–we’ve got you.” Bob groaned like a man starved and dove, sucking harder, tongue fluttering fast against the bundle of nerves until your vision spangled. The coil snapped. You shattered a second time–loud, reckless–flooding his mouth as you seized around his finger. He moaned into you, swallowing greedily, chasing every spill with eager licks. Your hand convulsed around Bucky, and he snarled, thrusts stuttering in your fist as he bent to kiss the broken sounds from your mouth.
He didn’t stop talking you through it–praise and filth poured like honey and gasoline: “There it is–good girl, give it to him. Look at you–fuck–soaking him. That mouth is yours, baby. Take what you need. You’re so beautiful like this–cry for us–just like that.” Bob didn’t stop until your thighs trembled and tried to close around his ears; even then he softened to tender licks, cleaning you reverently, kissing the inside of one thigh and then the other like benediction. He looked up the line of your body–face shining, lips swollen, eyes wrecked and adoring–and pressed a final open-mouthed kiss to the slick swell of you before resting his cheek against your thigh to breathe.
“Fu-Fuck…You’re so am-amazing.” Bob said, completely out of breath, pressing a soaked kiss to the inside of your thigh. Bucky nuzzled your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple–the gentleness being a devotion all its own. His cock throbbed hot in your hand; you gave him another slow stroke, and his breath hitched against your skin.
“Color?” He asked softly, even now. You found his eyes–blown, tender, blazing, feeling the tears that had slipped out of the corners of your eyes cooling against your skin.
“Green,” You whispered, smiling, wrecked. “So green.” Bucky smiled at your answer–wrecked and glowing–and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, gentle in contrast to the feral edge that had gripped the room. You slipped your hand out of his waistband, skin tingling from the velvet weight you’d been stroking, and let your palm rest over the iron slope of his stomach. At the same time, Bob kissed back up your body, climbing with reverence. His lips trailed from your hip, wet marks scattered like holy offerings up your ribs until he reached the soft rise of your chest. He licked and kissed until his mouth found the hollow of your throat, where he lingered, panting.
“Sh-She tastes so good,” He breathed raggedly, almost like a confession. His voice cracked on the words, and his lips were wet when he lifted his head. Bucky’s gaze cut down to him, sharp and molten. Then, without hesitation, he leaned across you, catching Bob’s mouth with his own. You froze, wide-eyed, watching as their lips pressed–hesitant at first, then firmer. You saw the flick of Bucky’s tongue, the way Bob gasped into it before kissing back fully, as if he’d been waiting for permission all this time. It wasn’t just hunger; it was trust, comfort, intimacy so thick you could taste it in the air. When Bucky finally drew back, a slick thread stretched, and snapped between them.
“Tastes way better from your mouth than off my fingers,” Bucky rasped, his smirk curved against Bob’s swollen lips. Bob’s pupils were wide, chest heaving.
“Fu-Fucking fantastic…” He muttered, dazed. His eyes swung back to you, shining like you’d rewritten the laws of his world. “You’re fantastic,” He whispered, leaning in to kiss you too–softer, shakier, filled with awe. His mouth was still damp from Bucky’s; the taste was dizzying, like the three of you had finally become one.
They shifted with you down the bed, arranging so there was room near the headboard, Bob brought the pillows down so you’d have head support as you were still trembling.
“I need you two to fuck me…Please…I need it, I need you both to give it to me.” Bucky groaned low in his chest, peeling off his sweatpants and underwear in one rough motion. His cock sprang free–thick, long, flushed dark at the head, already wet at the tip. Veins traced the length, pulsing under your gaze. He stroked himself once, jaw tight, before moving around and positioning himself between your thighs. Bob moved to your head, kneeling by the pillows. He caught your wrists gently and held them up against the sheets, his lips brushing your temple, your forehead, your mouth.
“We-We’ll take care of you…” He murmured, his voice trembling as he kissed you sweetly while Bucky aligned himself, then he pushed in. The stretch stole the air from your lungs, your mouth falling open against Bob’s. Bucky hissed a curse, bracing a hand on your hip as he sank deeper, inch by inch until he bottomed out. The weight of him filled you so completely that tears sprang to your eyes. He stayed there, his hands slipping down to grip your thighs, to coax them higher up on his torso, as he groaned.
“Fuck–you’re perfect. So tight, so warm, taking me like you were made for it,” Bucky rasped, starting to move. Each thrust was a deliberate grind, filling you up and dragging against every sensitive place inside. His dirty praise poured over you: “That pussy’s gorgeous, gripping me so fucking sweet…Look at you, angel, taking all of me.”
Bob kissed your lips through your moans, swallowing the broken sounds. He brushed damp hair back from your forehead, whispering, “You’re doing so good…Yo-You’re so beautiful like this.” His hands kept yours pinned softly against the pillow, but when you writhed, he let you squeeze his fingers.
The harder Bucky fucked you, the rougher the sounds spilled out of you. And when you palmed at Bob through his sweatpants, desperate, begging, he froze. “Are you sure?” he asked, wide-eyed, torn between restraint and want.
“Please,” You moaned, breathless, “I want your cock in my mouth–please, Bob.” He trembled as he pushed his sweats down, underwear following. His cock curved heavy and flushed, glistening at the head. He returned to your side, and you turned your head, opening for him. The first lick of your tongue against his tip made his eyes roll back; the moment you took him into your mouth, he gasped brokenly. Your moans vibrated around his length, muffled by the thick slide of him on your tongue as Bucky’s thrusts picked up speed.
Between the two of them, you were undone. Bucky pounded harder, his hand pressing against your stomach to put more pressure on your g-spot, causing you to gasp.
”That’s it…You’re gonna squeeze the fucking cum out of me already.” He grunted, making you whimper around Bob’s cock, letting the vibration make him shudder.
When Bucky came, it was with a guttural snarl, and with his hips grinding deep. Hot pulses of cum spilled inside you, filling you until you felt the rush spill back down around his cock. You clawed your nails into Bob’s thigh at the overwhelming sensation, muffled cries choking around his cock as you writhed between them. Bucky slowed, pulling out carefully. You pulled off Bob with a wet gasp, spit shining your lips.
“Bob…I need you too.” You whispered hoarsely, glassy-eyed and aching.
They switched seamlessly and Bucky caught your wrists, pinning them down gently but firmly above your head, his vibranium arm a cool shackle that made you tremble, as you watched Bob take up the space between your thighs lining himself up, and trembling as he pushed in–slower, careful, eyes locked on yours. The stretch was softer this time, tempered by patience. He bent low, kissing your chest, nipping at your breasts before suckling the skin at your sternum.
“Yo-You feel like heaven,” He whispered, voice breaking. He rocked into you with a tender rhythm, hips rolling in deep, slow strokes that had you arching up for more.
Bucky leaned close to your ear, smirking as he held your arms down. “Best of both worlds, pretty thing. One to fuck your brains out…One to make love to you. And you get it all.” The words had tears pricking your eyes as Bob worshipped you with every thrust. You writhed beneath him at the gentleness, every languid stroke dragging you open like you were made of silk. The heat of Bob’s body pressed close, his breath heavy as his hands slid down, broad and trembling, to cup your hips. He guided you into his rhythm, each roll deep and unhurried, the kind of pace that seared into memory more than frenzy ever could.
Bucky’s voice broke through the haze, grounding you. “Still green, right?” His vibranium arm kept your wrists secured above your head, but his flesh hand softened against your cheek, thumb brushing away the damp trails of tears cooling there.
You nodded fiercely, a broken little “Yes–green,” spilling out of you. He leaned down and kissed the tears, tasting the saltiness against his lips, as if collecting proof of how much you felt, how much you gave them. Bob’s thrusts stayed sweet, and tender, until you arched your back into him with a desperate sound. He groaned low, pressing deeper, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.
“God–you’re incredible. Every part of you. You’ve taken us so well. You have the pe-perfect body…And the perfect heart. We don’t deserve you.” He whispered, praising you, the words rolling from his lips like prayer as he moved back to look down at you. His right hand slid lower, his thumb circling your clit with a slow, and gentle pressure, making your hips jolt upward into the weight of him. The combination had you keening, chest rising high.
Bucky shifted, finally bending down between you and Bob, his stubble scraping heat into your skin as he drew one peaked nipple into his mouth. His tongue flicked and swirled, the suckle firm, wet, and claiming.
The sensation was unbearable in its sweetness: Bob’s cock stroking your deepest ache, his thumb coaxing sparks at your clit, while Bucky nursed and licked at your breasts like he wanted to brand you with his mouth. The pressure twisted sharp and molten in your belly, pleasure snarling into another peak before you could stop it.
You cried out, back bowing hard against Bucky’s restraint, your wrists straining against his grip as your climax took you. Bob groaned at the sight, his thumb speeding up, coaxing every drop from you as your walls clenched desperately around him.
“Cum for us again. You’re doing so good…So fucking good. You’re perfect, you’re perfect–” Bob babbled, lost in worship as you pulsed around him. Bucky moaned against your breast, his mouth smearing spit and praise across your skin.
“That’s our girl…So pretty when you break.”
Bob’s hips grew erratic as he fucked you through your orgasm, your thighs trembling against his waist. His eyes locked on yours, glassy with devotion as he whispered, “I could stay like this forever–inside you, making you feel loved.” He pushed your legs higher, bending them toward your chest to sink deeper. The stretch was intimate, overwhelming, and it made the pleasure burn brighter.
He kept moving, slower now, his thrusts tender but deliberate. Each one pressed the words from him, helpless and honest: “You’re ours…Yo-You’re everything.” His voice broke on a strangled moan as his pace faltered. He spilled inside you with a gasp, hips shuddering against yours as his release filled you, hot and deep, pulsing with every twitch of him inside your clenching body. Bob collapsed forward, his chest blanketing yours, face buried in your neck. His breath was ragged, damp hair sticking to his forehead. Bucky finally let your wrists go, his hands smoothing over your arms as if to erase every restraint. He kissed along your jawline, your temple, and down to the place where Bob’s damp hair met your skin, his lips catching both of you in the same tender press.
The three of you stayed like that for a while. Their hands stroked your sides, your stomach, your hair–soothing you down from the dizzying heights, steadying every aftershock. You touched them back in kind: fingers threading through Bob’s sweat-damp hair, your other hand curling around Bucky’s bicep, feeling the strength flex beneath your palm.
A small laugh broke from your throat, weak and breathless. “We…We need a shower. All of us.”
Both men groaned soft in agreement, pulling back just enough to catch their breaths. None of you wanted to untangle from the moment, but eventually, with lingering touches and reluctant kisses, you managed to pull on whatever clothes were closest–Bob tugging on his sweats without a shirt, Bucky dragging his tee back over his shoulders, you slipping into one of their shirts, your body still damp from sweat and sex.
The three of you padded quietly down the hall, giggling faintly as if you were teenagers sneaking from your room, trying your best to stay quiet so nobody else caught wind of what was going on. When the bathroom door shut behind you, the clothes peeled away as quickly as they had gone on and steam filled the air as the shower came alive, water pouring hot and heavy.
Inside, it was nothing but hands and mouths and whispered care. Bucky stood behind you first, guiding you under the spray, rinsing your hair while his metal hand massaged your scalp, gentle and precise. Bob pressed to your front, kissing your wet cheeks, your jaw, lathering your skin with soap as if handling something sacred.
They took turns kissing you, kissing each other, water streaming down your joined bodies. Soap slicked over scars and muscles, over soft places and hard planes, every inch tended to like ritual. You rinsed Bob’s hair, dragging your nails lightly through his scalp until he shuddered, leaning his forehead to yours. You washed down Bucky’s chest, your palms tracing scars wherever you found them as he let his eyes fall shut, sighing against your temple.
There were no more frantic thrusts, and no more fever of desire. It was just three bodies moving in slow rhythm, the water beating down like absolution, the steam thickening every touch into something holy. They murmured to you in turns–praise and promises, little thank-yous whispered into your skin.
When you finally shut the water off, the three of you stepped out together, dripping and laughing softly, grabbing towels in a tangle. You dried each other clumsily, kisses brushing damp skin, before padding to Bob’s room with the easy intimacy of people who had finally crossed every line they’d once feared.
And when you collapsed into his bed, bare and clean and boneless against the fresh sheets, there was no hesitation. You curled between them, their arms wrapping tight around you, and this time there was no question–no disguise. They were yours, and you were theirs.
The medical trial was supposed to make me better, and, I don’t know, I feel like maybe I could help. I thought you said that you didn’t know anything about it. No, not much. I just remember they said it was for people who wanted to make something better of themselves.
Series Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.
Word Count: 13k
Warnings: suggestive intimacy in blood-sharing context (graphic); dark folklore; occult themes; blood drinking and blood loss (graphic descriptions); violence (graphic, physical harm, mentions of family murder, killings); intergenerational trauma; gentle possessiveness; hurt/comfort; cults; ritualistic abuse; redemption themes; brutal death of minor characters; supernatural horror elements (vampires, blood rituals); town lore; human sacrifice; mention of non-consensual mind influence/compulsion; descriptions of grief and past trauma (reader and Bucky); mentions of manipulation and implied non-consensual blood rituals; implied and referenced death; feelings of isolation, depression; shape shifting; stalking; vampirism; distorted religious or spiritual elements; mentioned emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; gore; blood and injury descriptions; abduction; imprisonment and restraint; mentions of war; implied generational abuse of power; psychological horror, dread, fear, and body horror elements; protective!Bucky; Bucky is feral
Author’s Note: We’ve reached the final part, lovelies. I’m excited, but also lowkey terrified to hear what you think. This story has been such a weird and beautiful little journey, so different from what i usually write, but i let myself follow the pull of it. And I do feel so glad that I did. But this genuinely wouldn’t exist without those few sweet sweet comments I received from you people, cheering me on. Your support meant everything. You believed in this story before I fully did, and for that, I’m endlessly grateful. Also, I didn’t mean to make this last part so long lmao, that was unexpected. Thought chapter two was gonna be the longest. Anyway, thank you for letting this quiet, strange vampire story live in your head for a little while. I’d be so happy to hear what you think of this final chapter ♡
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
He drags you through the streets.
The air is too still. The fog hugs the ground and slides against your ankles as if it’s trying to warn you, or claim you, or both. The houses on either side are watching. They are dark-eyed, hollow-mouthed, shutters hanging warped. No curtains sway. No footsteps echo from porches.
You do not scream. You are already inside the scream.
Your body is a bag of bones tied together with twine, dragging behind him. Your feet stumble. Your head is heavy, swimming in the lingering aftertaste of fear and the pungent copper scent of blood - your blood, leaking a bright red story down your skin at your wrist. Mr. Grisham’s fingers - those sharp nails - opened you as if it meant nothing, as if he was used to it, as if it was tradition. The blood is warm. Then cold. Then warm again.
You think it’s still coming.
It feels like something has started.
And you cannot stop it.
He takes you to the town square.
But this is not a town square.
This is a mouth.
A stone-circle mouth ringed in iron and shadows and the kind of darkness that doesn’t ask permission to enter your lungs. Old lamp posts stand nearby and they flicker weakly, making the sky seem to darken again.
You’ve walked past this place a hundred times. You’ve glanced at it from the cracked windows of your grandmother’s car. You never noticed it watching you back. You never heard the way the lampposts whisper to each other when you aren’t looking. Never saw the dirt breathe.
It’s breathing now.
The ground in the center is darker, the dirt nearly black, and it smells wrong, like turned earth and stale blood, like rainwater that has gone sour. It is carved open with a symbol - a kind of spiral that spins even when you aren’t moving. You swear the air jolts around it. The center is smeared and flecked. The type of dark that remembers things. The kind that eats names. Ash gathers in the grooves like dust in the lines of a palm. Someone’s story was told here. Again and again. You are only the next paragraph.
They bind you before you can say no. Before you can say anything.
Coarse rope chafes your wrists like it wants to become part of you. The fibers are greedy. Scratchy. It hurts. Your blood sinks into them like it remembers this place. Like it’s been waiting to come home. And then you are tied to a post driven deep into the center of the circle.
Your breath fogs the air. Your hair sticks to your cheeks. Your pulse is a frenzied beat in your ears. The silence swells with too many eyes.
Long and trembling shadows are thrown over the space, slipping across the floor, across the faces of the people that gather in a circle around you.
Like shadows made flesh. Like grief wearing a thousand faces.
Faces you know.
The lady from the bakery, her apron gone, her hands already smeared with something dark, eyes dull. She used to give you apple pie when you were small. The teenage boy who once offered to carry your groceries, standing at the edge with a dead look in his eyes. The barista with the lopsided braid, eyes flat, mouth thin. The girl who said she liked your earrings, licking her lips in a sinister way. Mr. Henley from the gas station, who clutches a candle that hisses each time the flame gutters.
Now their faces are mirrors and none of them show your reflection.
Mr. Grisham stands at the front, his smile long gone, replaced by something hard and expectant.
They watch you with hunger and resignation, a sick familiarity that makes your stomach churn. This isn’t the first time they have done this. It won’t be the last.
They are chanting.
The sound hums against your skin, underneath. Like bees behind your ribs. Like the edges of your thoughts have started to unravel and you’re not sure what’s real anymore. You don’t know the language but your blood does. It sings. No - it answers. It responds. Your skin prickles. Your breath quivers, frost-laced and fleeting.
You try to move. But the ropes hold. The post holds. The town holds. Your hair is tousled around your face. And you smell them, the old tang of dirt under fingernails, the faint scent of smoke that hangs over everything in this town, over every single structure that is older than your bones, older than your grandmother’s bones.
You remember her hands. The way they would pull you back when you got too close to the woods. The way they trembled when you opened the cellar door. The way she used to tuck you in like she was trying to save you from the dark - like she knew what it wanted. Like she was bargaining with it. And the way her mouth used to move, whispering to corners that should have been empty.
You remember her wobbly smile in the photograph, the scarf tied too tightly around her neck, the way her eyes never truly found the camera after 1945.
You see her. Picture her. Here. In this same place, this same circle. Her eyes too wide. Her wrist bleeding, a cut that dribbles red onto the dirt. You see her mouth moving, whispering something to herself as the people around her chanted, as they took what they needed from her. Year after year. And she gave. Until she couldn’t.
And now they’ve come for you.
The granddaughter. The inheritance. Your blood is theirs now. Your body a vessel. Your scream another echo in the long memory of this place.
And somewhere, beneath the chanting, beneath the ropes, beneath the hunger of the town - you feel it.
The ground is listening.
And something underneath it is waking.
“She’s the last of them now,” a woman says, her voice brittle. Splintering through the darkening fog like something dropped. The candle in her hand shakes in anticipation and hunger. “After the old one, it had to be her.”
The words fall around you and you want to run.
But you are the offering.
You are already tied.
And they are already surrounding you.
“And he’s already interfered,” Mr. Grisham spits, words sharp as the nails that opened you up. “Putting vervain in her system so she cannot be called proper. Always a problem, that bastard.”
Your heart trips, drops.
You swallow, your throat dry and tight.
They are talking about Bucky. Your neighbor. Your shadow. The man who has always been here, standing in the corners of your vision, in photographs where he does not age. Always looking and observing and watching and waiting for something and you never knew what for until now.
Subtly, you lift your head, aching, trembling, searching. You try to find a glimpse of him among the townspeople, desperately letting your eyes sweep, but you come up with nothing.
He isn’t here. Only the circle. Only them. Only you.
“Barnes thinks he can save them all,” someone else scoffs, spitting into the dirt, eyes never leaving you. “Thinks he can change what’s owed. He’s always been an idiot. Thinking he can undo the blood-tie.”
“He’s being handled,” Mr. Grisham eases, and the confidence in which he speaks makes you shudder. It’s like he is offering comfort, like he’s laying a hand on a child’s shoulder. But it burns.
A laugh, low and cruel, sounds out behind you. A sound that is wet and broken and disgusting. “If he’s not dead already. Got him good yesterday.”
A sharp breath hitches in your throat. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just silence. And it already lives behind your ribs. It steals the names of people you love.
The ropes pull tight when you move. They want you still. They want you compliant. Blood seeps from your wrist, slow and rhythmic. Eager. A conversation between your body and the land.
The red droplets land on the dark soil, each drop sinking into the earth with a soft, sucking sound, as though the ground is drinking from you already. And it sighs as it does so.
You hear it. You feel it. The soft, gurgling of earth waking from a long sleep.
They are preparing something. A bowl is placed beneath your hands. It is wide and blackened, a cradle of past lives, a mouth of metal that has only ever known blood.
Mr. Grisham steps forward. The sleeves of his shirt peel back and reveal pale and veined arms. Thin. Driftwood cracked by salt.
He hums under his breath, low and tuneless, and the others echo him softly. It doesn’t sound like music. It sounds like breaking. It sounds like bones being remembered. The sounds that leave them don’t seem to fit into human mouths.
You try to speak. But your tongue is thick with iron. Your throat is stuffed with wool and fear. Your mouth holds your scream behind trapped doors. Your mind is buzzing and your blood is pulsing hot against the rough ropes. The copper of it stings, and you taste the salt on your lips, feeling like it’s already being taken from you.
You watch, dizzy, as Mr. Grisham pulls a small, curved blade from his pocket. It glints under the low light, a gleam of silver that makes the darkness behind your eyes roar. It howls when he pulls it free and the sound rattles your teeth and buries itself in your spine.
You feel your body shaking, your breath skipping, but the ropes hold you still. They are stronger than you. The town has made sure of it.
There is no apology when he cuts. The blade finds your palm and opens it. Slow. It hits deep. Heat floods. Light flashes behind your eyes. Pain blooms - not like a flower, but like a wound that has been waiting its whole life to open. You feel it like a white-hot scream that gets stuck in your throat.
The blood trickles in heavy and steaming drops into the bowl. It feels like it’s being pulled from you, as if the air is drinking it, as if the earth is shifting under your feet. It exhales in relief.
The chanting grows louder.
Mr. Grisham smears your blood across your forehead, across your chest - lines and symbols that burn against your skin as if they’ve always been there, waiting just beneath your skin for a moment to rise. They soak into your pores until you feel like you are disappearing inside them.
The others kneel. They dip fingers into your blood in the bowl, as if it’s paint. And they start tracing it across the spirals carved in the dirt. Coating the loops with your life.
Lines awaken. The earth vibrates. You think it speaks. You don’t know what it says.
You can smell it now. All of it. The old blood. The old secrets. The promise these monsters made rotting at the edges of its own hunger.
The ground trembles beneath you. Something is shifting. Stirring. It doesn’t want you. It needs you.
The darkness tightens its grip. The air is syrup. Metal clings to your tongue. Your thoughts fray. Your name feels wrong in your mouth.
Your mind is splintering.
This town is a mouth, always hungry, always waiting. The people are its teeth. The land is its belly. Its history the acid. It takes, and it takes, and it takes.
From your grandmother.
And now from you.
You were foolish to think you could stay.
You were foolish.
You wonder how many times she stood in this circle. How many times her blood painted these lines. How long she whispered spells into the dirt that did nothing to help her. How her broken smile broke further and they modeled her silence into tradition.
You wonder if she screamed.
You wonder if the town let her.
You close your eyes. Because there is nothing left to see. Because the world has narrowed to pain and pulse and the burn of blood sliding down your skin. Because watching it happen would make it undeniable.
And you cannot bear it. The feeling of your blood being taken, being used, being poured onto the floor to feed something you don’t know about.
And the earth takes from you as though it has waited a long time for this. For you.
And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you see it. The town. Shrinking. Waning. Thinning. Like it’s dying and knows it and wants to be reborn.
Waiting for you to breathe it back to life.
You hear them whisper about how the land will keep them safe, will keep them fed, will keep them here, as long as the blood is given. Their voices slick with honor, oily with hope.
The cords around your skin draw taut, fighting your every retreat. Your wrists ache. The ropes groan under your panic, your refusal, your too-late awakening.
But the knots are smarter than you. Older than you. Tied in ways passed down through decades of betrayal.
You feel drop after drop leave you. Every heartbeat, every tremble, every unspoken goodbye falls into the black bowl beneath your palms and the earth accepts it like a gift it always knew was coming.
Your knees buckle. Your vision goes darker. The world tips, spills, blurs - candles hunching, the circle swimming in shadow.
Their faces melt into one shape, one endless mouth, one empty hunger.
And underneath it all you hear the land swallowing.
You hear the promise your grandmother made before you were born, whispered into the dirt. You feel it echoing through your veins, blazing through your bones.
You are the payment now.
You are the offering.
You are the last of her blood.
And the ground is so, so hungry.
But so are they.
They circle you closer now. They open their mouths, but not to speak. Only to breathe you in.
Your blood is steaming in the cold. It smells like legacy.
Candles stutter, their flames spitting shadows that dance around you in an unnatural way. Smoke curls upward in thin trembling lines, catching the glooming light and cutting the darkness into pieces.
The salt circle glows in the low lamplight and your blood is persistent in its soft ticks, darkening the dirt where it meets the earth.
You taste the steel of your fear.
“Now, we seal the pact,” a voice rises, bone on bone. “Another year.”
You are bound and you are bleeding and you are trembling because you know. You know this will never end. Not unless it burns.
Mr. Grisham steps forward.
His boots grind against the dirt and each footfall sounds like finality. The edge of his coat brushes against your toes. The fabric smells like graves.
You try to flinch back, but the ropes know better. Blood is crusted beneath the fibers. The wood at your back is etched with the pain of the woman who came before. Your grandmother. You feel it pressing into your spine. It matches the terror in your chest.
His fingers find your chin. They are cold. They are cruel. Nails sharp enough to prick your skin. He tilts your head up with the tenderness of a man undoing a clasp - not to save you, but to open you.
The stars blur above you, swim like silverfish under black glass in the blackest lake. You are dizzy with loss. You are drunk on misery.
His breath hits your face and it smells of earth and something sweet, rotting, like apples gone soft. The kind of sweetness that comes after.
His teeth shift. What was human disappears. White becomes blade. Smile becomes sentence. Pointy and twinkling.
And still, you do not scream. You can’t. Terror has tied itself around your lungs, a second set of ropes. You are locked in your body. Your mind already slipping where your body can’t reach.
He leans in and you feel his fangs against your skin. Testing, pressing, the soft tease of a predator savoring the moment. He finds your pulse. The erratic beat beneath your jaw. The rhythm of your refusal. The place where the blood is closest, where the skin is thinnest, where life sings too loudly to be ignored. Where it moves so sweetly beneath the surface.
“Shh,” he whispers when you whimper. Like a lull. Like a lover. Like a lie. “Just a little more.”
And all you can think about is your grandmother. Her fingers on your cheeks, warm and worn and desperate. The way she used to sing to you with a break in her voice. The way she never said goodbye, only be careful. The way she looked at you the last time you saw her, eyes too wide, mouth too tight, heart already breaking.
Because she knew.
She knew what this town would take from you.
She knew what they were waiting for.
She knew the pact they had made.
And still, she loved you.
Still, she let you go.
Still, she sent you home.
And then there is a roar.
A sound. A shift. You can’t even tell anymore.
But you can sense the rip in this town's soul. A growl that begins in the gut of the earth, and travels upward, through the soles of your feet, splitting your bones like soft wood, a warning born from something older than language.
The ground trembles.
The fog trembles.
You tremble.
And then, suddenly, Mr. Grisham is gone.
Just gone.
Your head collapses forward, the ropes the only thing keeping you upright. Your breath comes in wet, staggering gulps, your hair plastered to your temples.
You hear a thud. A crunch. A snap. Flesh ripped. Bone cracked. Something unmade.
You blink. Once. Twice. Fast, too fast.
And then he’s there.
Bucky.
But not the one you know. Not the quiet man next door with the odd undertone in his voice and the too-still eyes. Not the man who gave you silence when you needed it most, who fixed your fence and porch and never asked you what you were running from.
No. This is a monster. This is a nightmare drenched in blood and fury and purpose. His hair is soaked and matted to his forehead, dripping red.
His skin gleams, streaked in gore, in grief.
His eyes - they glow. Blue. Blazing. Wolves and hurricanes and war songs live in his gaze. They burn through the fog, through the dark, through your fear.
His chest heaves, shoulders rolling. He looks wild. And you see them again. His fangs. Glinting in the flickering candlelight as he snarls. They look even more dangerous than those of Mr. Grisham.
Everything about him is inhuman.
In his hand, he is holding a stake. Old wood. Cracked down the center. Its tip stained with someone else's ending. The grain of it is splintering where his grip is too tight.
In his other hand hangs Mr. Grisham. Or what’s left of him. Fist tangled in the back of his collar like he’s nothing more than a doll with its stuffing torn out.
Bucky slams him into the ground so hard the air skips a beat. Stone shatters. The earth flinches.
“If any of you,” he growls, voice like gravel soaked in blood, low and vicious, his eyes bright and cold and feral, “even think about taking another drop from her-”
He steps closer, dragging Grisham like a rag beneath him. The man lets out a protesting hiss, but he seems too weak to do anything else at the moment. “I will rip your heads off,” his fangs shine, his eyes flash, “and burn what’s left.”
The words crack through the air and slam into the circle with imminent force. And it is vibrating with energy, the fog swirling around his boots, the scent of blood dense and choking. You can hear the shuffle of feet as the townspeople draw back, fear coursing through them like a chill passing through withered leaves.
Bucky spins the stake, casual and deadly, lets them all see. Lets them know what he’s ready to do. The wood creaks beneath his grip. It wants violence. And he is the hand that will give it.
“Anyone want to test me?” He asks it soft. Like a whisper pressed to a throat. Like a promise.
The flames send ferocious shadows shiver across the space - long, strange, writhing things. The wind hisses through the square, clutches at the ropes that hold you, pushing at your skin, dragging at your bones.
And behind it all, you are still bleeding. Bound. Barely upright. Your breath comes in sharp little sobs now, and you can feel the ache where Grisham touched you. Where his fangs kissed your skin, where your pulse still flutters in terror, where your blood wept just a tiny bit before Bucky tore him away.
You’re leaking from too many places. You can’t feel your hands. You don’t know if you’re breathing right. But you can still see him. Bucky. Standing between you and the end.
Mr. Grisham is spitting curses now, and bares his fangs again, getting up, a hiss rising into a sharp, furious sound, and Bucky steps forward, deliberate.
You can only look on with wide and fearful eyes.
You see the blood on his hands, fresh and dark, and you realize it’s not his.
They sent people to stop him.
They failed.
Grisham lunges.
And Bucky moves.
So fast the air snaps around him, so fast you barely see it before the other man is flung back against the wall of a building. The entire wall shatters. Wood splinters. Dust and debris rain down. The sound is an echo. He doesn’t get back up.
Bucky faces them. Blood on his hands. Yours and theirs and others, older still. “Anyone else?” he says, quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means something terrible is about to happen. The stake in his hand rises.
The others hesitate. You can feel their apprehension. Like breath held too long. A circle of moth-bitten coats and worn boots, candlelight lapping the shadows off their faces.
They raise their hands. Palms open. Like peace. But their eyes are sharp. Their mouths sour. They are wolves pretending to be men. Pretending to be afraid.
Bucky sees it too. Of course he does. His eyes cut through the circle, through them all.
And then, just for a moment, they find you. And something shatters inside him. His jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch. And then it’s gone.
Ice. Again. Armor.
He steps into the salt circle. Boots smearing the symbols with disdain, intentionally grinding your blood into the dirt. He smudges the lines with the heel of his boot, breaking the pattern.
The crackle of it, salt underfoot, pact undone, is louder than any scream.
The candles of the townspeople gutter low, almost out, smoke licking along the floor in thin gray rivers.
They are watching him.
Watching him as if he’s a wild dog they’re trying to coax back into the pen, voices low, hands raised, but eyes hard.
You are shivering. You are aching. Losing too much blood. But you are not alone anymore. Not forgotten.
And you might even feel something like hope deep inside your chest.
But even that tastes like blood in this town.
“James,” one says, the postmaster, voice shaking, knuckles white around his hat. As if his words are still worth something. “son, you have to understand-”
Another steps forward. A woman. Palms raised in peace, but her fingers are dipped in your blood and Bucky’s eyes are already on them. He draws in a sharp breath. “Bucky, look at us. Look at the color coming back. The roses are blooming again. You know what that means.”
And she’s right. The roses are blooming. The shutters are sharper. The trees stand taller. The wind has stopped moaning.
And the ground beneath you, the dirt that drank from your wrists, that sucked your blood down like a lullaby is glowing. The grass between the stones is greener.
“You don’t see it,” Grisham coughs from the ground somewhere further away, clutching his rips, his mouth wet with copper and rage. His voice is a harsh rumble. “You never see it. Look at the town, Barnes - look at the trees, the brick, the lamplight - it’s working. We’re almost there. We only need a little more.”
Another man steps forward. His eyes are stern. His voice is low. “If we don’t finish the pact, we’ll fade. You know this. We all know this.”
“We’ll die,” someone else adds. “All of us. We need her blood to wake the town.”
And you feel it now. The way the world is furling tighter around your body. The way it pulls at your blood, like the town is sniffing, snuffling, sucking, its great invisible tongue licking up the drops that hit the earth.
Your body aches. Your wrists are soaked. Your spine is one long scream. And still they want more.
“It’s just a drop,” the boy offers, though he looks unsettled. It is the one who carried your groceries once. He won’t meet your eyes. “One drop on each tongue. Just like with her grandmother. She won’t even feel it.”
Just like with her grandmother.
Like she was a thing. Like she was theirs. Like you are, now.
They are all nodding, desperate, eyes glowing, like bloodthirsty, ruthless things that have forgotten how to hide.
“You fools-” Mr. Henley’s voice cracks. The candle he holds spits sparks, the wax dripping like sweat down his wrist. “If we don’t feed, we die.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re not afraid of death. They’re afraid of hunger. They’re afraid of watching the lights dim. Afraid of being nothing again.
Their eyes are glowing. Too bright. Too sharp. Too selfish. Ravenous.
And all you can do is watch, your breath caught, every heartbeat clanking in your bones, eyes blown as the shadows pour across the faces you have seen in windows, in shops, in the post office. The same people who smiled too widely and blinked too slowly and asked you too many weird questions.
They were never people. Just wolves in aprons. Just monsters with good posture.
Their hunger is showing now. And it’s all for you.
You try to move. Try to flinch. Try to scream.
But your body is heavy. Your blood is slow. Your throat is closing around your own name.
And Bucky just stands there, in front of you, blood sinking into the stake in his hand, dark against the wood. The runes underneath you glow faintly with every drop that falls.
His eyes are cold, the blue of deep water, unflinching.
He does not move.
He does not listen.
The fog shivers, pulling back, revealing the houses, the storefronts, the crooked streetlamps that haven’t flickered in months. You see the dirt roads winding away, empty, silent, the darkness closing in on all sides.
Waiting for them to fail.
Waiting to take.
And you think of your grandmother, the lines in her face, the fear in her eyes, the way she never talked about this town, and also said too much about it. Things you never understood back then. You think of the pictures in the attic, the happy girl who grew old and tired while the others stayed the same, the pact renewing over and over, your grandmother aging, aging, aging while they drank her down.
Fear and rage curdle together in your mouth. Your tongue pulses with words you can’t speak.
“Please, Bucky-” someone whispers, desperate, like they still believe he can be reasoned with. That man’s eyes dart toward you, but Bucky steps to the side to block his view further. “Don’t do this. We already lost hope when her grandmother died. But then she came. And we knew we’d be saved.” The man gestures toward you behind him. “Don’t let that go to waste.”
A few others begin to chime in from the shadows - soft voices, too soft, their edges sharp with lust and shamelessness. “She’s stronger than the old woman ever was,” one croons, almost gleefully.
“This one won’t burn out so quickly,” says another girl, with a grin that doesn’t reach her eyes.
And for a second, just a second, you see the town like they do. Not home. Not history. A mouth. Open. Gasping. Starved. You are the final meal.
Bucky doesn’t hear them.
Or at least, that’s how it seems. His eyes are blue fire, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle ticking, his fangs still out and promising violence.
He looks at them as though they are already wasted.
He’s a statue of rot and wrath, blood still seeping down his arms, the stake still clutched tight in one hand, his chest still heaving like something barely caged.
And his eyes are not listening. They are ice. They are oceans. They are war.
“You’ve taken enough from her.” It’s not a shout. It’s a verdict. It jingles through the air, through you. “You’ve taken enough from this family.”
Grisham lunges again.
Because of course he does. Because monsters always mistake kindness for weakness. Because dying things flail.
But Bucky is faster. There is no time to scream. No time to think. No time for prayers.
Only the crack of bones. The wet, slick sound of a spine snapping.
And then Grisham is on the stones. His mouth open. Just like his chest. Eyes frozen. Neck bent and skin greying in a way that means it’s over.
The town screams. Someone runs. Bucky is there before the scream finishes. The stake finds a heart. Another body drops.
Grey. Ash. Gone.
You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You cannot look away.
You are shaking, shaking, shaking - but not only from fear. There is something else now.
Something louder. Your heart is a hammer. Your agony is a flame. Your blood is waking more than the town now.
It’s waking you.
A man tries to take his chance and he comes at you like lightning. Claws. Pointed teeth. A scream shriveling in his throat before he ever reaches you.
And then the stake drives through his spine like thunder trying to outrun the storm.
His body jerks midair. Chokes. Collapses. A wet sound. A final breath. A stain on the dirt.
You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. There’s no room for fear when you’ve drowned in it already.
You see them for what they are now. Truly. No more paper-thin masks, no more pleasant smiles at the post office. No more half-waves at the gas station, no more fresh scones and bloodstained hands.
You see their eyes glowing like coals, their teeth gleaming like blades. You see their fingers curled into claws. You see their mouths - wrong, thirsty, eager. Like an infection.
They look human the way mannequins do. Only if you squint. Only in the right light.
And every time one dares step close, he is there.
The world goes red. The air splits open with the sound of screaming.
And the mist pulls another body back into its mouth, wraps its pale arms around a cry and takes it to its grave without mercy.
You watch him. Watch the way his body moves like a curse uncoiling. The way he kills like he’s cutting out cancer. The way his eyes - those magnificent, glowing, glacial eyes - always, always return to you.
Even in battle. Even in blood. Even while ripping monsters limb from limb.
He is checking. Watching. Protecting. Promising.
They came to drink you down. To suck your blood into the soil like wine. To live another year on the ruin of your grandmother’s name.
But they will die instead. And they are. All of them.
You are shaking hard. The bones in your body are no longer yours. The ropes are the only thing holding you together. Your wrists are raw. Your throat is fire. Your blood is on the ground. And you’re too tired to scream. Too tired to do anything but witness the ending. The breaking. Of them. Of you. Of everything that ever pretended to be a home.
And still, he fights. Still, he moves like a shadow and strikes like a god. Eyes wild. Blood on his skin. Blood in his teeth. Blood in his fists. Blood in his hair. And not an ounce of it is yours.
His jaw is hard, his chest rising and falling with slow breaths that seem a little too controlled.
You swallow, but your mouth stays dry. You can feel the blood drying on your skin, sticky and cold. Your legs have gone numb where they are tied, the rope snatching onto the soft flesh of your thighs.
And not long after he started with the first, all the others were on the ground as well.
When the last one falls, body grey and hollowed, mouth open in a silence that will never speak again - he stands at the center of a ruined world.
A blood-soaked cathedral of ash and bone.
His hands drip red. His chest rises, falls, rises again. Each breath tight, clenched, controlled.
And then it’s quiet. The wrong kind of quiet. A silence that sucks the warmth from your skin.
You look around. A forest of fallen bodies. Limbs twisted. Spines shattered. Eyes open. Mouths caught in a final, forever scream. Their skin is turning grey. Veined like stone. Dead and dying and done. The earth is drenched. Blood and ash and ancient rot. The candles have all gone out. Smoke rises through the air like prayers that didn’t work.
You look at him.
At the monster in the dark.
At the man who makes war like a vow. At the man who lives in the house next door. At the man with eyes that looked at you with something like gentleness, something like safety. At the man who is tearing the world apart for you.
And somewhere beneath the collapse of fear and pain, beneath the exhaustion swallowing your limbs, beneath the roar of blood that’s not enough anymore, you feel a hunger of your own. Not for blood. Not for death. For him. For the darkness he carries in his hands like it’s divine.
Around you, the fences creak, the windows rattle, the trees shiver, restless, restless, restless. You feel it in your bones, the way the earth itself seems to sigh, a hush falling so heavy it feels like you are sinking beneath it, the weight of it pressing on your chest.
The pact is unfinished.
The land knows.
The town knows.
Paint starts peeling again, color draining in slow-motion - from the edges of doorframes and shutters. Grass curls in on itself, drying around the drops of your blood. The road cracks like dry lips.
The fog comes crawling back, on his hands and knees. It thickens and snakes and clutches at the bodies, pulling them slowly, inch by inch, toward the dark edges of the square.
Your vision swims. Black spots pop behind your eyes. Your body slumps forward. The ropes dig deeper, skin broken and screaming. Your blood buzzes. Hums loud in your ears, an empty echo where your strength should be. Empty. Empty. You are empty.
And Bucky turns. Fast. Faster than you are able to blink.
As if he feels you slipping. As if he heard the moment your breath caught and didn’t come back.
He is there in a second. Not walking. Not running. Just there.
The stake clatters from his hand, an afterthought, a forgotten weapon in a war already won. Blood on his skin. Terror in his eyes.
The monster gone. He is a storm breaking. A shadow unstitched from its master. A man, once, maybe, now undone. And before your breath catches, before your ribs remember how to cage your heart again, his hands are on your face. Your wrists. Your name in his mouth.
The mist parts around him, scared to touch him.
You’re crushed into ropes, unspooling from the inside out, bones liquefied with fatigue, blood whispering its goodbyes to your limbs.
He hits his knees so fast the earth gasps.
“Hey, hey-” he breathes, dirt streaking his jeans, eyes wild, terrified, so bitterly blue. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
His hands move too fast and too gently at the same time - the ropes snap like they were never real, like they never mattered, like they never tried to claim you.
And then you fall.
A wilted body. A dropped blossom. A candle collapsing into its own wax.
You fall into his arms, into his chest, into his breath, into him.
The world blurs. Black, red, white. Shadow, scream, silence. You are bleeding somewhere, everywhere. Your spine sighs. Your skin wails. But his hands are soft. Unbelievably soft. The kind of softness made for holding grief and not letting go.
“I’m getting you out,” he says, like a mantra. His forehead leans into yours. “I’m getting you out. I swear it. Stay with me- please- stay with me.”
You try. God, you try. But you’re slipping, bones sliding sideways, vision cracking, breath stalling. Your eyes flicker open just long enough to see him. Moonlight in his lashes. Blood on his lips. That wild, feral fear in his eyes. Not for himself. For you. For you.
Your head lolls against his shoulder. Your lungs struggle to pull in air, your body trembling, shivering, as if you are trying to leave yourself behind.
You breathe in heavily, blinking up at him, seeing the moonlight on his face, the way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his eyes are burning, burning, burning with something like fear, something like awe.
And then you remember.
The way they said the pact would fail, that the town would die, that everyone would fade. That everyone would die.
That he would.
And you reach up with weak hands, your fingers brushing his jaw, smearing your blood across his cheek as you grab him, pull him closer.
“Bucky- please- you have to-” you gasp, half choking, trying to keep your eyes open. “You have to drink. From me. Please- if you don’t-”
His eyes widen, then soften, sorrow carving lines across his mouth. “No,” he says, shaking his head mournfully. And you see it now, that hidden sorrow written into the lines of his mouth. The ache. The refusal. His hand finds yours. Places it against his chest.
You feel it. His heart. Dead, maybe. But beating. For you. His other arm tightens, the muscle in his jaw working. “No, sweetheart, no, I’m not-”
“You’ll die.” Your voice cracks, a dry rattle, your breath fogging against his neck. “They said- if the pact- if they don’t complete it- the town, you- you’ll all-”
“I’m not letting you give me that,” he says, breaking on the words. “I won’t take more from you than I already have,” he says, and there is a guilt, a sadness there that is so profound, it makes you choke on a sob. His voice is thick, so rough as it drags across your skin but warm, so warm, pressing his mouth to your temple. “I can’t- I won’t take from you.”
You clutch at him, your knees slipping further, legs giving out, but he is there to hold you, steadying you against his chest, his arms firm around you.
“Please,” you beg, tears forming and slipping down your face to mingle with the blood drying on your skin and cutting through the dirt. “Please, I don’t want you to die.”
You feel him shudder, his breath catching, his fingers brushing your hair back, sticky with your blood, tucking it behind your ear with infinite care.
“Sweetheart-” he whispers, and his voice is soft, but there is a growl beneath, a trembling quake. “I’m not-”
“Please-” you whimper, and you watch him struggle, watch him tear himself apart. “Please, Bucky. Just- just a little. Just so you can live.”
He is quiet.
A breath. A quake. The ground beneath you groaning as the town begins to notice.
He brushes your hair back with blood-slick fingers. Tucks it behind your ear like it’s the most important thing in the world “Sweetheart…” His voice is threadbare, shaking. A growl laced with grief.
But his gaze shifts to your neck. His pupils darken, but not with hunger, with something protective, something that is his nature and his curse and his need and he follows that single crimson trail on your throat, the first drop from where Mr. Grisham’s teeth grazed you before Bucky tore him away.
His jaw flexes as his hand cups your neck. His thumb brushes your chin. And he leans in like he’s going to kiss you. His lips skim your skin. You feel the warmth of him, the softness of his mouth. His fangs barely scrape against your pulse - not biting, but tracing, trembling. And then his tongue, warm and wet, laps up that single drop, that trail of blood. Slow and intimate.
No more. Just the one. But it is enough.
You gasp.
The world is in spirals. Your back arches, your vision tears open, stars exploding in the corners of your eyes. His arms hold you tighter. His breath jerks. His eyes are slammed shut. A low sound breaks from his chest, part animal, part ache. A sound not meant to be heard by the living. A sound you feel in your soul. He didn’t bite you. Didn’t drink you down. Didn’t take what he could’ve. Just the drop. Just enough. Just you.
And he holds you so tightly, cradles you against him, his arm there to steady your knees. Your head falls back against his hand and he tucks you into the crook of his neck, heat flooding your veins for one, blinding second as your blood meets his tongue.
Behind you, Gallows Fen is crying.
The buildings crack, paint peeling in great strips, windows shattering inward, the fog rising, swirling, pulling at the corners of the world. The earth shudders, the lights in the houses across the field flicker and die, the wind rising, dancing, flooding.
The color starts draining from the roses outside, petals falling, blackening, the leaves curling.
The town begins to fade.
The land begins to forget.
The pact is broken.
Incomplete.
Your pure blood on the ground dirtied by the vampire sacrifice Bucky made to save you.
He holds you tighter, and you hear his breath, hot against your ear, the rough edge of it like something unspooling in him, something loosening.
“It’s over,” he says. But it doesn’t sound like relief. His voice cracks in half as the words tumble out, like they’ve been hidden too long in a throat not built for saying things like freedom. Like future. “They can’t bind me anymore.”
Your lashes lift, your body barely yours, lips parting. He is too close. Too close.
The shape of him blurs - man and monster and myth all cracked open in front of you, the bones of him held together by threads you still don’t understand.
You study his face. It’s a memory you haven’t lived yet. His eyes are the color of a bruise healing under water - lightning and desolation and something far too old to name.
Your throat feels sore when you speak.
“Are you- are you still-” The question snags. Lurches. Your lips part around the word you can’t find, your mind trying to fit the pieces together, to make sense of what this means. You don’t even know what you’re asking. But he does.
His mouth flickers - not a smile. Not pain. Not only pain. A kind of mercy-killed hope. His hand cradles your cheek, his thumb brushing blood and tears and dirt away from your skin. “A vampire?” It’s a sigh. Something like a confession. “Yes.”
The word slices through the cold like it belongs to someone else. Like it’s hunted him, haunted him, refused to let go.
You flinch before you mean to.
A tremor tears through you, pinching your bones, your teeth chattering against the grief still lodged in your chest. A cold thing that cuts you open on the inside.
His eyes catch it like a thief. Hold it. Studying.
“Are you afraid of me?” So low. So careful. Troubled. Like he already knows the answer. Like it might kill him.
And you look at him. At the dried blood in his hair, at the softness curling around his eyes like fog around the moon. At the pieces of him that still shake. Still bleed. Still hold you like you are something worth bleeding for. Like you are worth saving.
“No.” A whisper. A breath. A vow. A single tear slips free and he catches it before it can fall, thumb trembling.
And it’s like something in him breaks open.
You feel it in his shoulders - the collapse. The quiet undoing of something that’s gotten way too old. A breath he’s been holding for a hundred years finally letting go. He exhales like the sky exhaling after the lightning. His mouth trembles faintly.
“I’m still a vampire,” he admits, voice rusted with something fragile. “But I’ll lose my immortality now.”
You blink.
Your head is spinning, your blood is singing, and something scratches at the back of your throat.
The words unfurl around you. You don’t know what they mean yet, not really, but they sting.
“I’ll still be this-” His hand gestures vaguely, bitterly, at the sharp edges of him. The teeth. The curse. The hunger purring in his blood. “But I’ll age. I’ll get old. Like I should’ve, a long time ago.”
Your breath catches on a hiccup, your blood still thrumming, your thoughts too slow, too full of him.
Of this.
“I’m not entirely human,” he says again, and it sounds like shame. His voice thickens, as if it hurts to speak. “I’m not entirely vampire, either.”
Something huddles inside you. Spent and indignant. Your chest aches. Your hands ache. Your heart aches. And you frown. The expression blooms on your face before you realize it - creases forming in your brow, lips parting, something small and sad tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“That’s supposed to be a curse,” he whispers, glassy eyes cast down, watching his fingers stained with blood and centuries and regret. And you can basically see his lived time drip off him. “To lose immortality. To be stuck like this. To age while still being… this.”
His fangs catch the light. Quick. Bright. Beautiful. He tucks them away again like they embarrass him.
And that’s when you speak. That’s when you say it. So soft he almost doesn’t hear you. “Don’t call it a curse.”
His eyes snap up. Blue fire. A storm startled awake.
You don’t look away. You can’t. There’s something rising in you now, a fury made of tenderness, a quiet grief for a man who was never allowed to die and never permitted to live. A man made of half-truths and fed to a town that never loved him.
Your eyes burn, your chest aching with something like grief for something you never knew. You don’t know why the idea of him aging, of time finally touching him, feels like something too delicate to look at.
“Isn’t- Isn’t that something good?” you ask, voice trembling. “To feel yourself getting older again? To be- to be real in the ways that matter?”
His mouth opens, but no sound comes.
You shift in his arms, weak and broken and bloodied and alive, your hand brushing over his chest again, your fingers slow, searching, settling.
“You might not have forever anymore, but time doesn’t have to feel limited, if you make it good,“ you offer, and your voice breaks. “I don’t want forever. I want real. I want you.”
He looks at you like you’ve just rewritten the story of his life. Like you’ve handed him something he forgot how to ask for.
And the pain in his eyes - the hope. It is so human you want to weep.
And you do. Just a little. Because he is staring at you like you are the first sunrise he’s ever seen.
And somewhere, under all the blood and the horror and the fading world, you believe him. You believe he’ll finally live. And this time, he won’t have to do it alone.
It all spills from you like a spoken wish that forgot how to end. Your voice is a quiver, a cracked bone in your throat. “I saw pictures,” you whisper, and it’s not really a sentence - it’s a memory, breaking open.
Bucky stills.
The world stills with him. He stares at you with open eyes.
The blood dries stiff on your skin, on his skin, in the dirt under your knees. The fog folds in closer, softer now, quieter, as if even the air wants to hear you speak.
“In the attic,” you go on, each word trembling like it’s walking barefoot through broken glass.
His breath hitches. Your pulse is drumming loudly. And you don’t stop. You can’t stop. “You. In uniform. In the ‘40s. And with my grandmother. You were-”
He closes his eyes. Like maybe if he shuts them tight enough, he can forget the taste of yesterday.
“She was the best friend of my sister. Becca.” His voice lands like an ache, like the ghost of something unfinished. “They were real close. We were just kids. She was always with us, sitting with my ma, helping Becca when she got sick. I-” His jaw tightens, eyes darting to the horizon as if it will whisk down and get him.
A shiver scrapes its nails down your spine. His eyes find yours again and they are so blue. Too blue. Pale-dawn-blue. Grief-drenched-blue. The kind of blue that forgets how to blink.
“But then she started seeing Grisham.” The name slithers through the cold like poison. You flinch. And Bucky’s arms move before he thinks, pulling you in. Gathering you. Holding the edges of you steady.
“I didn’t know what he was back then.” His voice turns into a gravel road, teeth and remorse embedded in every syllable. “She thought she loved him. And he- he used that. Fed on it. Fed on her.”
Your pulse skips. Your heart folds in on itself. Your hands reach for him without instruction, twisting in the torn fabric of his shirt, fingers curling over the proof that he’s here. That he’s real.
“I tried to stop him,“ Bucky continues, his jaw shut, his voice breaking. Cracking down the middle. “I tried to get her away. Warn her. Warn Becca. But Grisham didn’t want anyone in his way. So he-” He swallows. Hard. “-he made sure I had nothing left to fight for.” His eyes are hollow. The words tear out of him like pieces of himself.
And there it is. The kind of silence that could kill. The kind of silence that tastes like a downpour.
You can’t breathe.
Your hands tighten on his shirt, clutching the torn fabric.
“My family,” he croaks, and you hear the scream behind it, the scream he never let out. “My Ma. My Pa. Rebecca. Gone. All of them. Because I wouldn’t back down.”
You forget how to breathe. The words fall from him like they’ve been waiting decades to rot in daylight.
“Then he turned me. In 1945. Just before the war ended. Grisham made sure of it.” His voice drops into a well so deep you can’t hear the bottom. “I lost it after that. Wasn’t myself anymore.”
And you don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. You don’t want them right now. Because your heart is breaking inside your chest, your blood humming with the reality of his place, this curse, this life that has been holding you in its grip before you were even born.
The burden of it is already crushing you, already screaming in your bones, already painting pictures on the backs of your eyelids. Of all the centuries he spent bleeding behind his eyes.
You lift your hand.
Wipe the tear before it falls. His cheek is damp, his skin warm, too warm, the heat of shame and despair and something feral trying to stay gentle.
You see the cost of him, the centuries of hunger, the ruin Grisham left in his wake. The boy, the brother, the friend, the soldier, the vampire, the boy again. The boy who still carries every person he’s failed and lost like stones in his pockets.
And all the spaces in between. You see the grief of your grandmother burning in the wreckage of her smile. You see Bucky, trying. Always trying. Even when the world took from him again and again and carved him open and left him to bleed.
“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” you whisper, emotion in your voice. It hurts to say it. It feels too small.
But he’s already shaking his head, already falling apart in front of you. His hand is shaking against your cheek where he cups you, blue eyes shining wet. “No. No. God, no-” he breathes ruefully, and it sounds like breaking. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m so damn sorry.“ His lashes are trembling, his jaw clenching as though he is trying to swallow every word before it can ruin you.
You blink at him, frowning, lips parted.
His voice is a grave. And the words are knives. Every one of them soaked in a century of could’ve-beens. “I was too late the last time,” he chokes, and his hand tightens on your arm like he’s afraid of falling back through time. “They got greedy. Took too much from her. Drank her dry before I could stop it. Before I knew.”
You can’t speak. Can’t move. Because your heart is folding into itself, collapsing like a dying star. Your lungs are a ruined chapel. Your body a battlefield you didn’t know you inherited.
“They made her believe it,” he says. “After a while. That it was the only way. That the pact was holy. That her blood could save us. They broke her down.“
Your breath collapses, your chest folding inward, the grief sharp.
And you see your grandmother’s tired smile in your mind. Her silences. The terror you mistook for senility for such a long time.
“They didn’t have time to do the same to you.” His voice catches. “They were rushing. Getting sloppy. That’s the only reason I-” He stops. Shakes his head. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw and his eyes won’t let you go. Won’t blink. Won’t breathe. He looks like a man standing at the edge of a memory that never stops bleeding. “I saw you,” he admits. A breath. A truth. A tremor. His voice is distant now, quiet enough to belong to someone else’s nightmare. “Years ago. A few times. You were just a kid. Visiting your grandmother. She was already fading then. Already running out of time.” He closes his eyes. Swallows. “And I knew.”
You hold your breath.
A pause that hurts. He shakes his head. “They’d been circling. Waiting. Just waiting for her to die. And when I saw you- god-” His voice breaks open like a ribcage. “I knew you were next.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
He doesn’t stop. Can’t. His voice is all splinters now. “I tried to warn you. Tried to warn your mom. I- I know I scared her. I meant to. I thought if I was cruel enough - strange enough - she’d never take you back. And it worked, for a while. You disappeared. Years went by and I- I thought maybe you were safe.”
You bite so hard on the inside of your cheek, you don’t know if the metallic tang in your mouth is fresh or old blood.
“But then,” he goes on, eyes meeting yours again, soaked in sorrow, “you came back.”
You say nothing. Can’t say anything. The air between you is thick with ghosts.
He exhales like it costs him something. “The second I saw you, I knew what would happen. That they’d smell you. That they’d start circling again. And I told myself-” He bites down on the word. Tries again. “I told myself I’d do whatever it took to stop it. Even if it killed me. Even if you hated me. I just-” A single tear slides down his cheek. “I couldn’t let it happen again. Not to you.”
And for a moment, the world forgets how to move.
The silence is a cathedral. Every breath a stained-glass window.
His voice is a wound now. And you see him. Truly see him. Not the monster, not the myth. The man. The man who carries the graves of everyone he’s loved. The man who still chose to love again.
You see the long vigil he’s kept. The long battle he’s been fighting. The monster they made him become and the man who fought to crawl back out of it. For her. For you.
He reaches for you, voice nothing but ash and apologies. “I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve-”
But you wrap your fingers around his. And you hold on. Because somehow, impossibly - so has he.
“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, one hand lifting to his jaw, stubble scraping your skin, grounding you, anchoring you to something solid. “Bucky, it’s not your fault.”
His eyes open - slow, searching. “I should’ve-”
“No.” You press your forehead to his. Skin to skin. Sorrow to sorrow. “They did this. Not you.”
And he shudders. A small and helpless and broken sound caught in the back of his throat.
“I thought she was crazy,” you admit quietly into the space between his breath and yours. The guilt sits heavy around your ribs, pressing, pressing, pressing. “For so long. I thought she was just an insane old lady, with all her weird stories, and I- I didn’t listen.”
Bucky pulls back to look at you, sea-glass blue eyes softening, his thumb wiping the tears from your cheek, his touch achingly gentle.
“You weren’t wrong for not seeing it, sweetheart,” he promises softly, tenderly. “You were a kid. She wouldn’t have wanted you to carry that.”
And you crumble. Your chin trembles. Your body slacks against his as he pulls you into his chest, wrapping you in arms that remember how to hold it all. Your face buries into the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. Where he smells like smoke and pine and earth and old pages. Where he smells like home.
And when your head falls against him, your ear pressed to his chest - you hear it. The heart. The one that shouldn’t beat. But it does. Unsteady. Awkward. Newborn. The beat of dawn. The sound of something that once lived in darkness finally learning how to stay.
Your breath is thin when you say it.
“Take more,” Your voice strung up on pain and something heavily wanting. Your hand is shaking when it finds the edge of his torn shirt, fingers curling into the blood-stiffened fabric, pulling him closer, closer. Closer. “Bucky, take more of my blood.”
And the world stops moving. The fog stills. The trees forget to breathe. The wind folds its wings and disappears into the cracks between time.
Bucky doesn’t blink. He goes so still you think the world has frozen. His eyes, oceans inked with centuries, go darker. Bluer. Deeper. The blue of drowning. The blue of war. The blue of a moonless sky that forgot how to shine.
He swallows. His jaw flexes, the muscles there jumping.
“No.” A word like metal against glass. Firm. Sharp. But somehow gentle, wrapped in warmth and sadness. “No, doll. I’m not taking another drop from you. No one ever will.”
Your mouth opens around a plea. You don’t understand how a body can ache like this, how grief and tenderness can live in the same lungs. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out and still freezing. “Please- if it helps you-”
“No.” Again. A crack now. A fracture. A splinter of a man holding himself together with nothing but sheer will and trembling restraint.
“But-” you start, your breath hitching, your chest aching. You plead with your voice, your eyes.
He laughs. A broken thing. A breath that forgot how to be whole. His eyes soften, something almost fond there, almost in awe, but so so pained.
“Do you know what you did to me,” he murmurs, and the sound is made of velvet and smoke. His thumb brushes your jaw, smearing the remnants of war and wonder from your skin. “The first time I saw you again after all this time?”
You can’t speak. Your ribs are cages. Your heart a bird beating too hard inside them.
“I’d stopped feeding on people years ago,” he says, voice low, unsteady. “Taught myself how to live on less. On animal blood. Didn’t wanna hurt anybody anymore.” His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not even close. “And then you walked in. With your soft scent and those big eyes and I-” He closes his eyes, lashes trembling.“I almost lost it. I almost took you. Right there. Almost couldn’t resist. And I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I took too much. If I-”
The confession shivers through you. Something warm and wild flares beneath your skin. “It was the first time in decades I wanted this again.” His voice breaks on the word. “Really wanted. And it scared the hell out of me.”
You inhale. The air tastes like candlewax and blood, like ruined earth, like spring trying to scrape its way out of a corpse. Your breath stutters, your blood pounds in your ears, heat pooling in your chest, your skin alive, alive, alive.
“I've done some terrible things, doll,” he keeps going, and he sounds remorseful. “Things you would hate me for. Things you would feel disgusted with. But I’m not going to hurt you. Never. Not when you’re the only thing that’s made me feel human again. I saw you, and I knew I had to have you. But never in the way I was made to be. Never to feed on you,” he whispers and it is laced with everything left good on this earth.
He leans in. Forehead to forehead. Breath to breath. Every inch of him trembling.
Your body feels heavy and light all at once.
And you believe him. Even as your body forgets how to exist without touching his.
Behind you, the town keeps breaking. And it releases a breath so profound, as if letting it out after a hundred years of holding it.
Without the pact completed, the binding that held it in its half-life shatters. But it does not crumble into ruin. Instead, it exhales as the unnatural hold over it loosens. Colors bloom into the rotting wood, warmth seeps into the stones, the air begins to taste of dawn instead of blood.
It will live. But it will change. Will no longer be a prison of secrets and monsters. It will no longer hold the promise of immortality to the few who consumed your family line like wine.
The earth relaxes, the roots uncoil. The fog lifts like a curtain at the end of a show. The rot recedes. The stone breathes again. Color returns to the world like memory, slow and stunned.
It’s not dying. It’s changing. The pact is broken, but the land is remembering something softer.
The chains rust. The ghosts lose their names. The promise of immortality curls inward and dies like smoke.
And still, Bucky stays.
He is not fading. He is not vanishing. But something is different.
The light hits his skin and you see not a glow, but a flush. Faint. Warm. Alive.
Time has touched him.
He is a vampire.
But forever is no longer forever.
And still - he is watching you.
His eyes never leave.
And then he moves.
A breath. A decision made in silence.
You don’t know what it means, not yet.
Not until his hand lifts to his mouth without breaking your gaze. Not until his lips part. Not until you see the ivory gleam of his teeth - sharp, white, pointed, silver-slick in the moonlight.
And then he bites. Into his hand. Quick. Precise.
You see the skin split. You see the blood rise. A line of red. Dark. Thick. Like a gift.
You flinch, your breath failing you.
“Bucky-”
“Shhh.” His voice is soft now. Like the lull of a storm as it passes. “I know you’re hurting. Come here.”
You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. But he’s holding out his hand and it’s dripping and it’s beautiful and he’s bleeding for you and the world is suddenly too much and too little all at once.
Red droplets land on the stone beneath you both, staining the earth that once fed on yours. “Drink,” he says again, gentler than a whisper. “Take it. It’ll help you heal.”
Your lips part. Your breath quickens. Your heart hammers. You stare at him. At the blood. At the man. At his hand.
And the scent hits you. Sweet. Spiced. Strange, but so alluring. Metal with memory. Like copper and clove and childhood and loss. Like a warmth you forgot. Like a dream you shouldn’t remember. Something more intimate than anything you’ve ever known.
Your body vibrates with desire. It is still weak, blood loss dragging at you, but it knows him. Your body says yes before your mind has found its shoes. You’re crawling into him without realizing it. Hands shaking. Knees gone. Air missing.
You see the way his pupils widen, his eyes darken, the way his breath stutters. His offer feels so intimate and it seems to buzz in every fiber of him.
“I-” Your voice is dust and wind. But his blood is calling to you as though it knows your name.
“Please,” he whispers. His eyes pleading. “Let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”
Your hand moves without asking. You touch his wrist and he’s warm. Fingers trembling. He’s real. He’s not a myth or a nightmare or a bad decision. He’s here.
You don’t remember leaning in. You don’t remember lowering your mouth. You don’t remember your lips touching the wound. You only remember the taste. The way it floods your mouth. The feel of his skin on your lips.
And then it’s over.
Your pulse rises, and little hectic shivers rush down your spine all the way to your toes.
The you that lived five seconds ago is gone. You are reborn in fire and honey. You are him in your mouth. You are full of everything you never had until now.
His blood is too much. It’s too good. It’s like biting into radiance and heartache. Like swallowing a star. It coats your tongue and drips down your throat and shreds the pain into ribbons, and you’re drinking like you’ll die without it. Like you need to die for it.
It streams down your tongue so sweet and metallic and intoxicating. It is fire and gold and grief and desire. It is the sun setting on the last day of your life. It is the first breath after almost dying. It is him.
The pain flees. The cold is gone. Your bones pull together. Your skin stitches closed. The light in your chest returns, snipping, gasping, alive. The warmth that rushes through your veins chases every weakness away.
And he moans.
A low, strangled sound. Like something breaking open inside him. His head tips back, his eyes slam shut, every muscle in his body drawn taut with restraint.
“That’s it,” he groans out roughly, ending it with a soft sigh. “Take what you need, sweetheart.” It leaves him like a plea scratched into wood.
And you do. God, you do. You don’t know if it’s your need or his. You don’t know if it matters.
His hand finds the back of your head. Worshipping. Fingers sliding into your hair. Cradling you like something he cannot dare lose, guiding you closer, folding you against his chest. His breath is a stutter against your cheek.
You don’t notice when he moves backwards, when he sinks, when he pulls you into his lap, when your knees straddle his thighs. All you know is that you’re here now. All you know is this. You only feel the heat. His arms around you. Your heartbeat syncing with his.
You press your mouth harder to his wrist. Your tongue flicks against the skin like need and devotion. You suck, slow and soft and then deeper, like you could drown in him and not mind the dying.
Your name is folded on his tongue.
Bucky is shaking. His body is all tension and restraint. His spine curves forward, his mouth open, gasping nothing into the sky. A sound breaks loose from his chest, too raw to be anything but truth.
“God,” he chokes out, sighs, his hands trembling against your back and mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You feel it. Feel the break in him. Feel him coming undone under your mouth, like thread pulled loose by the gentlest hands.
Your hands fist him deeper, warm and soaked and smelling like the end of the world. Your body arches into his like a wish for mercy. Like your bones are trying to memorize his shape.
And when he tightens his arm around you, trying to keep your soul inside your skin, you whimper. A small, desperate sound. You don’t mean to. But it’s too much. He’s too much.
The world around you is pulsing with color. The fog is gone. The land is healing. And in his lap, in his arms, you are, too.
You can’t think. You can’t breathe. You can’t remember who you were before his blood touched your tongue. You can’t want anything but more. You don’t even remember your name. Everything is dissolving - sight, sound, shape - the forest peeling away like paint in rain.
The earth spins off its axis and still, your mouth stays pressed to his skin, drinking.
And it feels like being reborn. Your eyes are clenched shut. Your mouth is needy against him. You grip him like he might disappear, as though the storm outside your skin could still take him from you.
Your body arches against his without permission, without logic, without shame - like instinct. Like devotion.
The taste of him is everything.
And it is all that there is.
Molten heat and copper and lightning, sweet at the edges, old as stone. It floods your senses, floods your veins, climbs into the hollows behind your ribs and settles there, glowing.
You are drunk on it. On him. Him, him, him.
And he is falling apart.
His mouth is open, parted in a silent moan, head tilted back against the breaking sky. His breath is shredded, catching in his throat with every swallow you take.
A low, fractured sound slips from him - half-plea, half-prayer - his jaw flexing as he fights himself.
You feel the tremor in his thighs beneath you, his grip on your waist tightening as if he's trying to keep from vanishing into the ground.
“Christ, sweetheart-” his voice is gravel and need, barely there. And he buries his face in your neck. His mouth brushes your skin like heartbreak. “You- you’re gonna ruin me. You’re gonna take me to the ground.” His voice is torn in his throat. He sounds ruined. He sounds found.
Your breath hitches, but you don’t stop. Can’t. The taste of him is sunlight through ash. Your mouth moves again, gently, though greedily, your tongue catching another drop, and he chokes out a groan, low and desperate.
His hand is in your hair now, and he combs his fingers through your hair, keeping you in place. Holding you like you might dissolve. Holding you like he needs the anchor of your body to stay in his own skin.
“You don’t know,” he gasps, voice frayed open. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
You feel him bury his face in your shoulder. The warmth of his breath on your throat. The quake in his arms. “So sweet. So good - God, you’re so good to me-”
And his words are tumbling now, all scrambled at the edges, pulled from some place deep and hidden and starved. As though he’s losing his grip on restraint, on time, on the sharp edges of who he’s supposed to be.
And you want to say something. Want to tell him yes, you’re his, you don’t want to leave. But there’s no language left in your mouth. Only him. Only the taste of him. The heat of him. The terrible, beautiful truth of him.
He’s talking again but the words slide sideways, slipping through your ribs without sticking.
“I was nothing,” he admits on a breath. “Not then. Not for a long time. No name worth keeping. But then you came to town, and-” He pauses. He trembles out a breath. “And you’re so good. So kind. Too kind for your own good.” He swallows like it hurts. “You opened the window,“ he continues and his voice trembles like hands on a body for the first time. “You didn’t even know.”
And you want to understand. You want to catch the meaning before it disappears into the dark. But his blood is singing inside you. And it’s too loud to think. All you feel is the reality of it.
He’s yours. He’s been yours. He’s always been yours.
“You took such good care of me,” he breathes, shame and wonder in his voice like wine, like mourning. “Wrapped me up so sweetly.”
And you remember the scratches at your window. The wounded creature curled in the corner. Those sad coal black eyes. The ache in your chest you could name but no longer want to.
“It smelled like you,” he goes on softly. “It was warm. And I- God, I didn’t even know I could still feel warm. That’s just what you do to me.”
You press your lips to his wound like benediction. You don’t really understand what he’s saying. But you feel the gravity in his voice. The depth of it. The way his soul is slipping through the cracks to meet you.
“I couldn’t shift back. Not until morning. I didn’t have anywhere to go and all I could think of was you - so I came to your window.”
He clings to you, whispering into your skin as if he is bleeding into it.
“And you opened it,” he murmurs. “You took care of me when I didn’t deserve it. You - God, you were so gentle.”
You close your eyes, your lips brushing the edge of his wound again, barely aware of the warmth still blooming in your chest, curling into your fingers.
You don’t speak. Can’t. Because he’s still losing his grip on himself but holding you tight like a secret he’s never told anyone.
“You’re mine now,” he whispers. Intimate. Like the words slipped through a crack in his ribs and now they melt against your skin, pounding in the hollow of your throat.
And still, you drink. Because you want to. Because you need to. Because the world could fall to ash and you’d still be right here, with his blood in your mouth and his name echoing in your bones.
The wind howls in the trees. The forest snickers around you. But the world has gone small, compressed to the shape of this moment.
“I’ll take care of you now,” he says, and you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, just over your heartbeat. “I’ll keep you safe. Always. After everything you’ve given me-” his voice breaks again.
Your chest cracks open. And you believe him. You believe him with every pulse of your body, every drop of him sliding down your throat.
“We’ll grow old together, you hear me?” Another kiss. Another vow. This one just below your jaw. “I’ll be yours. Forever. I want to be. I want to be the one who holds you through the winters, who brings you tea when your bones start to ache, who carries it all so you don’t have to anymore.”
Your heart stutters.
You’re trembling. Trembling and whole and undone and alive for the first time in years.
But your lips don’t leave him. You don’t pull away. Because you're too full of him, too wrecked and mended all at once, too lost in this unraveling you never saw coming.
You don’t realize what he’s saying. Not fully. Not yet. But you feel it. Feel the promise in his voice. The ache. The vow. The eternity rewritten in the cradle of your body, in the warmth of your mouth on his skin.
You drink once more.
And you know. You know. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Not in this life. Not in the next. Only here. Only him.
And he whispers again, “That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. I’ve got you.”
And all you can do is believe him.
But not because he made you.
Because you want to.
Because somewhere beneath the blood, beneath the grief, beneath the centuries, beneath the bones of the land - he means it.
“The blood is the life, and if you’re not part of it, you’re not part of the world.”
OH MY GOOOOOOOOOD WHAT AN ENDING!!! I don't even know where to begin but wow, wow, wow! This was hands-down my favorite part of the series which is so hard because the entire this was just incredible in every single way.
Even in what should be a tragic, dramatic timing, you still managed to make it so beautiful, haunting, and somehow slightly erotic?? Part four solidifies my statement that this needs to be some kind of mini series or SOMETHING. It's just too, too great. (Saw you mention to another user about a book, and if you were to write this as a book, sign me up!!) The talent you have is immense.
AHHHH okay first of all, I'm SO sorry for the late reply!! Life got a little chaotic, but please know I’ve been holding onto your comment ever since I saw it because it absolutely made my day (and then some!!) 🥺💖
Reading your reaction genuinely gave me chills!! The fact that part four hit you that hard, especially after everything that came before, means everything to me. I was so nervous about how it would land, especially with the tone being such a strange, messy blend of pain, intimacy, and yeah, haunting eroticism is a pretty good way to put it 👀
And wow, saying it deserves to be a mini-series?? A BOOK?? You're spoiling me 😭 I can't even tell you how much that means. If I were to ever try and shape this into a proper book, I know I’d need to sit down and rethink so many pieces of it to make it deeper, richer, and more layered, but who knows! Never say never.
Thank you again for reading, feeling, and rooting for this story the way you did the whole time!! I don’t take it lightly. Your support is everything 💌🫶🏻🫶🏻
Never apologize for life. It happens and there is nothing we can do about it when it's not so great, unfortunately. Just know that you are not alone and are an amazing, lovely person who deserves all the good one can receive in the world. And your time WILL come. It really will.
Your writing is like Poe: haunting, beautiful, and leaves you questioning yet yearning for more while staying on your mind for years to come. It truly could be a book, or part of a book. You have an interesting mind and it's wonders where it can take you.
Thank YOU for writing something so beautiful as this. I don't get attached to stories, but I am definitely attached to this and its characters so much. Halloween is coming up and this is a perfect read or reread for anyone looking for something that fits the holiday season.
Gosh, this genuinely means the world to me. I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for such a kind, thoughtful message. This left me a little speechless because this truly touched me. The way you described the story, the characters, the feeling it gave you is the highest compliment I could ever hope for 💗
It means so much that you connected with this, that it stayed with you, that you felt something from it. That’s all I ever want out of writing, really. To know it made someone feel. I’m beyond honored that this story and these characters have a place with you.
And you saying it’s a perfect read for Halloween is such a gift because I do love Halloween and some creepy vibes 🤭 Thank you for seeing the strange little world I created and meeting it with so much grace, love, and encouragement. You have no idea how much that lifts me 🥹💗
Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.
Word Count: 92.2k
Warnings: enemies to lovers; slow burn; Bucky is harsh on reader for a while; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, blood; loss of parents; violence; injuries; fever; sexism; prejudices; knife throwing; theft; crying; classism; manhandling; self-loathing; talk of betrayal; talk of arranged marriage; suggestive themes; kissing; protective!Bucky
Author’s Note: This is the story that received the highest number of votes in last month's WIP poll. I inquired through another poll if you all preferred this to be a series or a one-shot, and well, here we are. I don’t know how long this will end up being, but I guess about 6-7 chapters. Hope you'll enjoy! ♡
Masterlist
Requests for bonus chapters are closed
♡ This series is complete ♡
~ Chapters ~
• part one
• part two
• part three
• part four
• part five
• part six
• part seven
• part eight
• part nine
• part ten
• epilogue
“And just as the Phoenix rose from the ashes, she too will rise. Returning from the flames, clothed in nothing but her strength, more beautiful than ever before.”
"we shouldn't have done that, but gods help me, i don't regret it"
pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!fem!reader (set in medieval times)
summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you're a princess promised to a prince you don't love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you'd risk everything just to be his.
a/n: hi sweethearts, this is my very first series! i have always loved anything set in medieval times (especially knights) and i hope you will love this series as much as i do! i really hope this doesn’t flop
