EdgySunflower

/Slytherin/ 25/ Bucky, Loki ,& Draco/

[ak-vintage]

Latent Instincts - Chapter 1

Pairing: Alpha!Dr. Robby x Omega!Travel Nurse Reader

Summary: Eager for a change of scenery following a messy break-up, you accept a travel nursing contract in the emergency department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. You think this new job will be a soft place to land. However, you quickly find that you may have bitten off more than you can chew when you meet Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the protective, stubborn Chief Attending with misplaced Alpha instincts who treats the entire ED like his pack.

Robby never thought he would want an Omega, and frankly, it’s been a long time since he has been stable enough to care for one properly. You certainly aren’t looking to jump into anything after the disaster that was your previous relationship. There are plenty of reasons why the two of you ought to give each other a wide berth.

The only problem is…you can’t seem to stay away from each other. No matter how hard you try.

Chapter Summary: On the first day of your contract with PTMC, you meet Dr. Robinavitch, an Alpha with dark, sad eyes and a tarnished reputation who is struggling to lead his pack.

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Omegaverse AU. Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. Moderate/heavy angst. Depictions of depression, anxiety, and PTSD. Robby is not in a good place, y'all. (Nothing explicit or violent, but still 18+ like the rest of my blog.)

Chapter Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Next Part

Robby’s relationship with the Pitt is…complicated.

Sometimes, the Emergency Department of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feels more like home than his own house. All of the most significant moments of his life over the last 20 years have occurred within the sterile white walls of his ED. His promotion to attending. His career-defining relationship with Montgomery Adamson. A significant portion of Jake’s childhood. Countless lives saved, residents mentored, students guided…

In spite of living in his Mexican War Streets rowhouse for more than a decade, however, it’s nothing more than a glorified landing pad – perfectly comfortable but impersonal. It boasts an oversized bed with an orthopedic mattress and a shower with killer water pressure, but there’s also a refrigerator that rarely sees more than a case of beer and leftover takeout containers, a television that never turns off, and a distinct lack of photographs or pieces of art on the walls. So there are some days when Robby arrives for work and feels less like he is about to clock in for a 12-hour shift and more like he can finally breathe again.

Other days, the Pitt is a prison.

Every exam room a cell, every corridor lined with a memory Robby wishes he was strong enough to suppress. Or perhaps callous enough to forget.

The pandemic, of course. Endless weeks, months seen through a foggy plastic face shield, trapped behind layers of scrubs and gloves and sanitary gowns, strung tight enough to snap, haunted by the endless noise of heart monitors and pulse-oxes and ventilators.

The helpless sound of Adamson’s lungs seizing, his heart stopping. The brittle silence that followed.

The crash and burn of his dalliance with Heather Collins. The death of Jack’s wife. The wide blue eyes of his star resident, his protégé, his heir apparent, frantic and desperate and rimmed with unshed tears as Robby shoved the contents of his locker into his arms and banished him from his sight.

And then there’s the blood. The chaos. The impotent, sickening agony of Pittfest. Cold crimson pooling, dripping, spilling onto the floor as poor Leah bled out under his trembling hands.

No.

Robby pauses and draws a deep breath through his nose, eyes falling shut, steeling himself before the memories can overtake him.

Flashbacks, his last therapist had called them. A characteristic symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.

As if he didn’t know. As if such a thing was a revelation to him. He’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake. He knows what PTSD is.

Robby is never sure precisely which version of the Pitt will greet him as he swings through the public doors and breezes through security with a nod to the officers stationed there. It’s the walk through the waiting room that usually tells him. He likes to take a quick pass through the press of bodies there, to scan the crowd and feel its energy, to use it to gauge what he might encounter on the other side of the triage doors. Today, the energy is restless and tense. It’s busier than usual – not holiday busy, thank god, but certainly more than an average Monday morning at 7 AM.

On Mondays, the GP offices re-open, marking the start of the new week. If a patient has waited until Monday to seek medical attention for whatever ails them, they tend to seek it with their own providers. Though he supposes having a GP at all is becoming less and less common.

Regardless, Mondays are typically more…the q-word than this.

He offers nods and half-smiles to the colleagues he encounters on his way to the lockers. Lupe at the reception desk, Ellis doing hand-off with McKay outside Central 10, Kim chatting with a patient in a wheelchair, Esme pushing an environmental services cart in the direction of the South corridor.

If he focuses hard enough, he can sense each of them. There’s the bite of antiseptic, the sterility of the ultra-filtered air, the muted dullness of medical-grade scent blockers and the metallic tang of too many suppressants in too many bodies. But underneath all of the olfactory noise, there’s his people.

One in particular catches his attention as he makes his way toward the Hub, a head of silvering curls accompanied by the faintest whiff of leather, patchouli, and gunsmoke. Subdued, nearly deadened by the white, cotton-backed patches on his wrists and at the base of his neck, but so familiar, Robby feels confident he could pick it out of a crowd of thousands.

If Jack had been on shift the night before, perhaps there is hope that the state of chairs had misled him. Perhaps his ED is in better order than he thought.

One peek at the board, however, squashes that hope in less than a second.

Okay, Robby thinks to himself, allowing his backpack to slip off his shoulder and rest on the counter in front of him. Prison it is.

“There you are,” he groans, pinning Abbot with a frown. “This board’s a nightmare. Surprised I didn’t find you on the roof this morning.”

The other Alpha doesn’t look up from his computer screen and instead continues to chart as he offers Robby a quirk of his lips. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s pleasant, and it’s enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.

“If you’d been paying attention, brother, you’d know I haven’t taken a trip up that way in months,” he replies easily.

Robby’s frown deepens, and he picks up a tablet from the charging station. “Months? It can’t have been that long.”

“Just haven’t felt the need.” A quick, decisive couple of keystrokes, and Abbot logs out of the terminal. “I can flirt with the abyss in plenty of other ways. Think there might be something to the idea of tempting fate too many times.”

The declaration startles a snort from the older man, and he shakes his head, pulling his glasses from his jacket pocket and sliding them up his nose.

If such a thing were true, Jack Abbot would have been dead a hundred times over. As would Robby.

He proceeds to log in to the tablet, but he doesn’t make it far before taking note of the burn of narrowed eyes on the edge of his periphery. Glancing up, he finds his friend staring at him with an unreadable expression on his lined face, arms folded thoughtfully across his chest. There’s tension in his jaw, and a mild flare of frustration colors the air around him.

“Walk with me,” Jack says, ticking his head further down the corridor, toward the relative privacy of the far east end of the department.

“Hm?”

His eyebrows arch, pointed and insistent, and he gets to his feet. He doesn’t check behind him to see if Robby follows.

Robby follows anyway.

The two walk in silence until they reach the narrow stretch of tile where the employee lockers have been tucked away, wedged between Behavioral Health and Trauma 2. Jack pauses there, leans back against the cool metal, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants.

“What is it?” Robby asks.

The other Alpha is blocking his locker, his sharp hazel gaze steady and knowing. “What’s this I hear about you dropping the therapist Caleb recommended?”

The question lands like a boulder to the older man’s chest – heavy and forceful enough to knock the wind out of him for a beat or two. It’s a shock to the system, and while some days, it’s easy enough for Robby to laugh off such expressions of concern, to deflect and project and crinkle-eyed smile his way out of confrontational conversations, today, it takes him by surprise.

So instead of meeting the question with laughter, he greets it with scorn instead.

“What? How the fuck do you know that?” he barks, brow pulled low. He hasn’t had the opportunity to put on his hospital-issued scent patches yet, and it’s apparent by the way the burn of Alpha anger crackles through the air.

Jack, unsurprisingly, does not cow in the face of it. Instead, he simply stares, quirks a single brow, and waits for a real answer.

“Jesus Christ.” Robby crosses his arms over his chest, looks down at his feet and shakes his head. “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

At that, the other man rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, it wasn’t her. Or Caleb, for that matter,” he adds, before Robby can protest. “But if you want to keep your…experiments with mental health treatment a secret, you’ve gotta stop bitching about it to the good doctor every time he comes down for a psych consult. The nurses hear everything – you should know that by now.”

Ah. Well.

“Of course.” Sighing heavily, the chief presses his fingers to the pressure points on either side of his nose.

“So. What’s the deal?”

Robby looks away with a dismissive shrug. “Just wasn’t a good fit.”

“The others ‘weren’t a good fit,’ either,” Jack counters. Pushing himself away from the lockers, he takes a step closer, ducking his chin as he looks up into Robby’s eyes through his graying eyebrows. “Starting to sound like a bunch of excuses to me.”

This is one of Robby’s favorite traits of Abbot’s. The man is a dog with a bone – focused, determined, stubborn as hell. It had made him a great soldier and an even better doctor. In the friendship department, however…

He scoffs a laugh, the sound humorless and hollow. “Yeah, well, maybe if I could find somebody who didn’t look at me like I’m about to walk into oncoming traffic every thirty seconds, I could actually get somewhere.”

Fuck, Robby hates therapy. The way the therapists always start out with this blandly pleasant expression on their faces, blank and generic and disingenuous. The inane questions they ask, the probing and the poking and the prodding into his every thought and feeling and memory. And of course, like clockwork, the longer he talks, the more honest he allows himself to be, the more offput they all seem to become.

Truthfully, he can never make heads or tails of it. The only conclusion he has managed to come to over his many months of test-driving various providers and modalities is that therapists have no idea what to do with him.

Sometimes, it’s concern he senses, the scent of it warm and lactic – something that might have once been comforting but these days feels cloying and discomfiting. Other times, it’s more like fear, and that’s even worse – astringent and sharp and evoking in him the immediate need to soothe, to comfort, to shield and protect.

How can he be honest with someone who fears for him? His pride won’t allow it, nor will his instincts.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself when he inevitably calls the therapist’s office and informs them that he won’t be continuing his care.

“Well, are you?” Abbot asks bluntly.

Robby blinks. “Am I what?”

“About to walk into traffic.”

For a moment, he is speechless, stunned into silence by the baldness of the question. However, it doesn’t take long for aggravation to rush in to replace the shock, and then Robby is turning on his heel to return to the Central Hub. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Make time, Robinavitch.”

The words are cold and commanding, the other Alpha sounding every bit the retired Army captain he is, and Robby stops in his tracks, hackles up immediately. There’s a rare challenge in his tone, in his scent.

“Really?” The word comes out like a growl, and he has to swallow thickly to rein in the sound. “That’s how we’re playing this today?”

Behind him, Abbot sighs. The sound is heavy with exhaustion, the first hint of fatigue he has allowed himself to show in spite of just coming off of a 12-hour shift. “Take a breath, quit stinking up the place, and just listen to me for a second, will you?”

Although he is far from the only other Alpha in the ED, Abbot is singular in that he is the only one who could get away with talking to Robby like this. Whether it’s his own rank in the department, or his strength of will, or his seasoned age that makes it possible, he isn’t sure. Jack likes to think it’s a testament to their friendship, to the respect that they have for each other. Regardless, the scolding is enough to stop Robby in his tracks, to force him to turn back around and meet his gaze.

Encouraged by the silent capitulation, Jack spreads his hands wide, putting on a show of making himself open and approachable.

“Let’s take therapy off the table,” he agrees. “Clearly, it’s not doing anything for you. And I know better than to offer the medication route.”

Robby grits his teeth. “Because they make me feel like a fucking zombie, man. I’d rather fuck a cactus than take any more pills.”

Jack’s open hands become a gesture of surrender. “I know, I know. I got it – no pills.” He pauses, then takes a handful of steps to close the distance between them. Voice dropping low, close and confidential, he adds, “But there is one treatment you haven’t tried yet.”

For a moment, the older man frowns in genuine confusion. The way Jack looks at him… There is significance there. There is weight and meaning. Admittedly, embarrassingly, whatever silent message his friend is attempting to convey is lost on him.

He opens his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue, a plea for the other Alpha to please be so kind as to spell it out for him because this attempt at discretion is quickly losing its practicality, but before the words can form, a delicate note of sweetness reaches his nose.

Omega.

His jaw snaps shut, nostrils flaring, tongue feeling wet and swollen in his mouth as he instinctually starts analyzing the scent. There’s a medical compulsion there, of course; you could tell a lot about a person’s biology from their scent. More than that, however, the impulse was…primal.

It was unfamiliar, he noted – not one of his staff. Unfiltered – perhaps a low-dose suppressant, but no blockers, no patches. A patient, mostly likely. Or a family member.

He draws another breath through his nose and allows his eyes to fall shut.

Red roses. Citrus. Something green and fresh, like cut stems and summertime. It’s not to his particular taste, a bit too…perky, perhaps? But pleasant all the same. It’s just enough to smooth the edges of his aggravation, to soothe the barbs of his defensiveness. He feels his shoulders softening, dropping from around his ears. His fists unclench, and the tightness in his chest eases.

The realization shoots down his spine like a bolt of lightning, and Robby’s eyes fly open.

“You’re out of your mind,” he rasps, soft and dangerous and final.

Jack Abbot, however, must have seen the refusal coming. He is there, hot on Robby’s heels as the latter takes off down the hall, determined to put some distance between him and the mere implication of what Jack is suggesting.

“There wouldn’t be any shame in it,” he insists. He keeps his voice quiet, but it doesn’t matter – the two of them are still attracting looks, and the ED is a hotbed for gossip. Robby focuses his gaze on the Hub, clinging to the hope that if he can just get there, something, someone will need his attention badly enough that he can discontinue this conversation and then hopefully shove the roundabout proposal deep into the far reaches of his mind where it won’t be able to surface again.

But still, his best friend is stubborn.

“Look, I hate to break it to you, Mike, but you’re not special,” he hisses. “You are far from the first Alpha to ever struggle with their mental health. Seeking an Omega for emotional support is just about the oldest move in the book.”

At a nearby terminal, Robby notices Princess freeze in place. She does him the courtesy of keeping her eyes on the screen in front of her, but her fingers still, hovering over the keyboard as she subtly pauses in her charting.

Fucking hell.

Robby comes to an abrupt halt, Jack nearly colliding with his back. Quickly, wordlessly, the older man turns, wraps his fingers around the other’s elbow, and ushers him into the closest empty exam room.

Only once the door has clicked shut behind them does he meet Jack’s flinty stare.

“This isn’t the fifties anymore, Jack,” Robby growls. “I don’t need a sweet, submissive little Omega at home just waiting for me to take out my aggression on them. I am not that kind of Alpha.”

And he isn’t, truly. He knows that he might not always be the most reliable judge of his own behavior, but he has been around enough regressive asshole Alphas in his life to know that for all his many, many faults, he has never fit that particular mold. Even as a young pup, freshly presented and bursting at the seams with needs and instincts and desires he had had no idea what to do with, he had felt certain that the path of the stereotypical Alpha was not one that interested him.

It had taken him years to find his own way – to figure out what might suit his natural inclinations, what might sate the need to protect and provide in a way that didn’t involve settling down right after undergrad, bonding with the first Omega that could tolerate him, and keeping them round with his pups. It wasn’t until the start of medical school when he got his first taste of a different sort of pack, one based on competence, mutual respect, and a formal hierarchy that spoke to the deep-seated thing inside him that so desperately needed to understand his place in the world.

In that sort of pack, Robby had excelled. And now he is the Chief of Emergency Medicine at a Level 1 trauma center. Every day, when he walks through those doors, he gets to be a teacher, a mentor, a guide. He is an advocate and a protector. A leader – valued, admired, respected.

What more could an Alpha want?

“I know you’re not,” Jack sighs. There’s frustration in his tone now, his annoyance souring the stale exam room air. “I never said you were.”

Robby’s neck flushes a deep red. “Well, it sure as hell sounded like it!”

At that, Abbot’s hand shoots out and grips him by the shoulder. His palm is warm and broad, fingers firm and insistent as he compels the older man to meet his gaze. “Will you stop posturing at me and give me a chance, here?”

Goddamn it.

He is posturing isn’t he? Drawn up to his full height, shoulders wide and intimidating, throwing the stink of rage and dominance into the atmosphere so carelessly that he knows he’s going to need to have Esme put a portable air filter in here if any of his Omega staff are going to be able to work in here at all today. Not to mention the potential patient impact…

Swallowing the lump of embarrassment in his throat at the realization, Robby rubs the back of his neck in a self-soothing gesture and forces himself to settle down.

“Fine. Say what you need to say,” he rasps.

Something like relief colors Jack’s expression, and he wastes no time making his case. “2022 meta-analysis on the effects of pair-bonding on stress hormone production in sexually mature Alphas.”

The chief releases a deep sigh. Of course, Abbot the niche medical research fiend would come prepared to cite his sources.

“Consistent exposure to Omega pheromones over the course a single month significantly reduced the production of cortisol, epinephrine, norepinephrine, and CRF in Alphas,” he continues, ignoring Robby’s exasperation. “Mating, however, had a multiplicative effect, resulting in benefits to the emotional and physical well-being of both parties.”

It’s all he can do not to roll his eyes. “Brother, I am not a fucking JAMA study.”

“This is what we do, man. We conduct the research. We study the research. We implement the research,” Jack counters, an accusatory finger now pointing at Robby’s chest. “This is legitimate medicine, and you know it.”

In spite of his attempts to get his temper under control, his tone has Robby’s hackles rising again. He feels flayed open, picked apart and placed under a microscope for all of the tender, vulnerable parts of him to be examined. It makes him mean, makes him want to bite.

“You sure you aren’t just chomping at the bit for me to find an Omega because you’ve got one now, and you want to see me all settled down and domesticated like you?” His words come out derisive and cold, and he thinks for a moment that Jack might actually yell at him now. His chest and neck, sun-weathered and freckled, are starting to flush, immediately drawing Robby’s eye to the complimentary bite marks on either side of Jack’s neck. Partially hidden by his scent patches, one is decades old and faded white, barely visible with the unrelenting passage of time. The one on the opposite gland, however, is practically brand new – mostly healed but the scar still a vibrant red, no more than three months old.

However, when his eyes flick back up to meet Jack’s, the other Alpha looks at him not with anger, but with a mix of exhaustion and…

Jesus. Pity.

“Look,” he sighs, the sound of his voice coarse and worn like gravel through a sieve. “All I’m saying is, speaking from experience, sometimes healing for your own sake isn’t enough of a motivator. Sometimes, you need somebody to heal for – somebody you care about enough to actually give a shit about getting better. And then, eventually, over time, maybe you’ll feel good enough to start looking after yourself for you.”

There’s something in the timbre of his words – something in the weight they carry, heavy in the way that only someone who has clawed their way out of their own darkness can convey – that brings Robby pause. For the briefest moment, he considers it.

Jack certainly paints a romantic picture. What kind of love would that have to be? What kind of devotion could inspire one to heal? If such a thing exists, Robby knows he has never experienced it.

“If that were true,” he says tentatively, “don’t you think I would have already done it? This place…” He wraps his long arms around his torso and looks away. His throat feels thick and dry, his eyes pricking dangerously. “It’s the closest thing to a pack I’ve ever had. I’d give my life for each and every person in this department.”

The vulnerability nearly chokes him, and he coughs loudly. He can feel Jack watching him, can feel the fondness and the warmth of his gaze even as he stands at a distance, giving Robby his space. There’s no frustration or anger in his scent now, which upsettingly only makes the attention more difficult to bear. Robby could handle rage. Softness, however, makes his palms itch.

“I know you would,” Jack acknowledges.

“Then why isn’t it enough?”

The other man sighs, scratching his graying stubble thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But what I do know – from one Alpha to another – is that you’re dropping the ball.”

The admonishment comes without malice or cruelty. It’s matter-of-fact, almost kind in its earnestness, but it doesn’t matter. Robby thinks that if the other man had punched him across the jaw, it might have hurt less.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Jack plows onward, undaunted. “And I’ve never aspired to the kind of leadership you’ve taken on, but these are my people, too, and until you start making some real progress on those demons you’re carrying around in your head every day, I can’t sit by and watch you consistently fail to show up for them the way they deserve.”

Every word is a dagger. An accusation. A fear made real, acknowledged out loud and thereby given body and substance. Robby feels as though the other Alpha has cracked open his ribs and reached his fist into his chest cavity, his thick fingers wrapping tightly around every forbidden anxiety and dragging it out into the daylight, hissing and spitting.

Robby’s eyes remain fixed firmly on the floor. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

The words themselves are aggressive, but they land softly – without acid, without bite. It’s only 7:15, the shift has barely begun, and yet he suddenly longs for his bed. He’s so goddamn tired.

Sensing his exhaustion, his hopelessness, Jack brings himself into Robby’s space, grips each of his biceps in his palms, and squeezes.

“You’re my brother, Mike,” he declares gruffly. “I love you.”

Robby makes a wordless noise of disbelief, but the other man won’t hear any of it.

“Don’t fucking scoff at me, man, you know it’s the truth. Just like I know, underneath all the shit you think you’ve buried, that you’re a good man. This place is lucky to have you.”

Wetness gathers at the corners of Robby’s eyes, and he grits his teeth against the threat of it spilling onto his weathered cheeks.

“But believe me when I tell you – whether you choose to take an Omega or not, if you don’t get your shit figured out, I will petition the administration to have you put on a leave of absence. And I will take over the ED.”

The older man’s eyes flick upward, finally meeting Jack’s. “Why not just do it now? Save us both the trouble?” he asks softly, bitterly.

Jack offers him a sad smile in response. “Because I really don’t fucking want to.” Releasing one of Robby’s arms, he reaches up and pats him on the cheek. “So please don’t make me.”

Abbot ducks out of the exam room soon after. The slight limp in his stride is the only indicator he gives that he is fatigued, that the day may have worn on him. Otherwise, his shoulders are square, his eyes clear, and Robby thinks he catches him giving a wave and a half-smile to someone out of sight as he shuts the door behind him.

Robby, for his part, takes a few more moments to collect himself. He’s later than he wants to be getting out onto the floor, but he’s worn thin enough by the early morning confrontation as it is; he decides he can afford to give himself a minute or two to clear his head.

As he emerges into the corridor, however, the first thing he notices isn’t the hustle of his staff or the barely-controlled chaos of his patients. It’s the faint, homey fragrance of clean laundry and drugstore lipstick that lingers directly outside the door. The scent clings to the nearby walls, like someone had hovered there for an extended period, perhaps just out of line of sight from the exam room window.

And he would know that scent anywhere.

Clearing his throat, swiping his hands under a hand sanitizer dispenser on the way by, he makes his way back toward the Central Hub.

There, glasses low on the bridge of her nose, ostensibly concentrating on a staffing chart on her computer, is Dana Evans. She’s got nicotine gum between her teeth, the only indicator that perhaps she also is not having the morning she wished when she arrived today; otherwise, her ironed scrubs, tidy bun, and freshly-applied makeup paint the picture of someone eminently in control. The ringleader of the circus, the navigator at the helm.

Robby approaches her silently then pauses to lean against the counter where she sits. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she replies with a wry smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please. I know better than that.”

At that, Dana shrugs. She turns in her chair, looking up at him over the rim of her glasses. If she was honest with herself, she would get a pair of bifocals. As it is, she makes do with the same lenses she’s worn for the last 10 years.

“I heard enough,” she admits quietly. The Hub is empty with the exception of her, the rest of her staff dispersed around the floor receiving report from the night shift nurses, but she still keeps her voice down. It’s one of the innumerable things Robby appreciates about his favorite charge nurse; she knows when to be discrete.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you have anything to add?” The end of his question tilts up facetiously, and Dana damn near rolls her eyes as she gets to her feet and starts bustling around the station.

“You’ve known me long enough to know what I’m gonna say to that,” she quips in reply, snagging a tablet off the nearest charging bank.

Of course, after so many years working side-by-side with her, Robby does. “Alpha business is none of your business,” he quotes.

“That’s right. If I spent all my time trying to figure out why you all do the things you do, I’d never get anything done.”

He recalls the first time he had met her, decades ago now, he had falsely assumed that she was an Alpha, as well. A supremely self-possessed woman, even before she had been given the formal authority to back it up, she had been so comfortable stepping up, taking charge, creating order out of madness, setting an example for others with her level head and gentle hands. Her scent, of course, hadn’t been quite right, but at the time, Robby had just assumed she had found herself some powerful suppressants. He would never forget the way she had lined him out in front of the entire department for the presumption.

“What, because only an Alpha knows how to be a leader?” she had snapped. “Only an Alpha can be trusted in a crisis? Sure, because all those raging hormones make you all so stable and reliable. Don’t make me laugh, Robinavitch. Now get out of my face, your embarrassment is stinking up the nurses’ station.”

The memory draws a weak, nostalgic grin to his lips. His gaze flickers down to the telltale bareness of her wrists. Her neck, too, is naked, save for the golden cross pendant he has never seen her without. She has no need for scent patches as a Beta, her pheromones too neutral to have any emotional or behavioral impacts on patients.

“And what about not as an Alpha, but as a friend?” he asks.

Dana softens at that, reluctantly matching his fond expression.

“Abbot’s a good friend,” she says easily. “He cares about you. If there’s something he thinks might…help? Might be worth listening to what he has to say.”

Robby’s jaw works back and forth, a humorless smile twisting his lips. “Thought you were on my side.”

“Always.”

He know she spots the furrow of his brow. It’s been years since he has bothered to put on the same masks with her as he does everyone else; he knows she can see the frustration, the confusion, the hints of betrayal lingering in the downturn of his mouth, the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Look,” she sighs, stepping closer, voice soft and raspy from her last cigarette. “You know I’m in your corner. But Abbot’s right. You haven’t been yourself. Not for a long time.”

Defensiveness flares hot and tight in his chest, and he shakes his head. “Jeeeesus, not you, too.”

“Started during COVID, but after Pittfest, and Jake – ”

“Don’t.” For all that he is burning up inside, anger and grief and self-loathing threatening to consume the core of him, the word comes out frigid. It’s solid, sharp, and pointed as a shard of ice.

Dana, however, appears entirely unmoved. “Look, I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through as an Alpha. Not exactly my area of expertise. But I know people, and I know you. And you…” She reaches out, palm patting his chest, blue eyes sharp and knowing. “…need help.”

“Dana.”

If she registers his protests, she does not react. Instead, she continues, “Who am I to say what form that should take?”

“Allll right,” he groans as he pushes himself away from the counter and claps his hands together. Gesturing with two thumbs over his shoulder, he says, “I think that’s my cue.”

“Hold up, I got one more thing to say.”

But Robby is already rounding the nurses’ station, already retreating back down the corridor. “As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with me!” he calls back over his shoulder.

“I’ve got a new nurse starting today.” It’s not quite a shout, but her voice is the kind that carries, and it’s loud enough to reach him even as he gets to the other end of the Hub. “A traveler on a three-month contract.”

He pauses then to look back at her with a frown. “Okay. And?”

“She’s with HR for a couple hours doing her onboarding, but I want to introduce you when she gets down here. She’s good, I think you’ll like her,” Dana explains.

At that, Robby merely shrugs. “Sure, fine. Come find me when the time comes.”

Travel nurses come and go, even more frequently these days in a post-pandemic world. Often he finds that just about the time he gets accustomed to their presence – to the way they move around the department, their skills and their quirks and their scents – it’s time for them to move on. It keeps him on his toes, if nothing else. Keeps him from sinking too deep into the routine.

Still, he tries not to get too attached. Travels are impermanent, transient things. And the loss of a team member (a pack member, a soft, insistent voice whispers) always leaves him feeling a bit…off.

Sometimes you wonder why it’s taken you so long to accept a contract in Pittsburgh.

It’s not as though there is a shortage of available opportunities in Pennsylvania’s second-largest metropolitan area. There was a need for skilled nursing staff here just like there was everywhere else, and Pittsburgh provided the added benefits of familiarity and proximity to your parents. It is your mother’s hometown, the place where you had spent countless summers with your grandparents, the home of your second choice for universities back when you had been up to your eyeballs in SAT study material, spending your weekends applying all up and down the east coast. You know the city fairly well for somebody who still had yet to unpack her suitcases.

But as you emerge from the elevator into the buzzing madness of PTMC’s Emergency Department, a folder of HR paperwork clutched in your hands and a backpack slung over your shoulder, you meet the all-knowing eyes of Dana Evans, and you remember.

Dana quickly finishes the instructions she had been giving two other nurses and shoos them on their way. Smiling widely, she beckons you forward, thin arms spread wide as she emerges from behind the nurses’ station counter.

“There you are, kid!” she says affectionately, pulling you into a motherly embrace. “I was about to send the cavalry after you.”

It’s well past the time you were meant to have reported for your shift; your meeting with HR had dragged on longer than anyone had expected.

“I wish you would have,” you reply as you return the hug. Just like the bedroom you had woken up in this morning, she smells like nostalgia, like childhood. Soft, comforting, bittersweet. “The orientation is always a nightmare.”

At that, the older woman chuckles. “Well, glad to hear we’re living up to your expectations. Remind me again what number contract this is for you?”

“Five.” You can hear the weariness in your voice with the admission. Still, you smile wryly as you count them off on your fingers. “Cleveland, DC, New York, and Baltimore. I’m a one-woman traveling circus.”

It has been over a year now since you broke your lease in Philadelphia, shoved almost all of your belongings into a storage unit, and hit the road, and you’ve been on the move ever since. You had never felt the urge the run before that day, never looked at the city and the people that raised you and thought to yourself, “I need to be somewhere else – anywhere else.” The choice to upend your entire life hadn’t exactly been planned, but heartbreak had proven to be a powerful catalyst.

It had taken months to stop feeling like you were running away from something and to start feeling like you were running toward something. Freedom, independence, a sense of self-competence and capability that you had never been given the opportunity to develop. You’ve grown so much over the last year that you’ve begun to wonder…would this new version of you be strong enough to go back?

Of course, Pittsburgh isn’t Philly. But here, in your godmother’s ER, is the closest you have allowed yourself to get to “going home” in months.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, Dana – your mother’s oldest friend, your aunt in all but name – pats you on the shoulder and gestures for you to follow her. “C’mon. I’ll show you where you can put your stuff.”

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur of new names and new faces, both staff and patients alike. Dana fetches you a set of scrubs in the PTMC-standard nursing gray, checks to make sure your brand-new badge works to log you in to all of their systems, then cuts you loose to shadow with another nurse named Perlah. It’s all par for the course, standard first-shift stuff; by now, you’re deeply familiar with the feeling of drinking from a firehose that comes with trying to digest everything you need to learn and remember about your new workplace. Thankfully, the Beta woman has a sincere, steady energy, and although she doesn’t go out of her way to make anything easier for you, she also doesn’t do anything to make your life more difficult, which is more than you can say for the reception you’ve received on other assignments.

By lunchtime, your impression of the PTMC ED is one of a highly-competent, close-knit staff with a diverse range of personalities and skillsets that are all trying desperately to keep their heads above water amidst the chaos. To your eyes, they seem to be succeeding, though you suspect it is a hard-won success. It’s clear that the lean headcount and the scarcity of beds is wearing on everyone.

You are about halfway through the lunch that Benji had packed for you that morning when you get pulled back out onto the floor. Shoving your lunchbox into the staff refrigerator, brushing crumbs off your scrubs, you find yourself smiling. In your experience, the departments with the biggest staffing problems are the fastest to soften toward your presence. On the one hand, they are the ones who would benefit the most from more permanent, full-time nurses, which can foster more than a little resentment toward those on travel contracts. On the other, however, the sooner you have the opportunity to prove yourself useful, the sooner the team will be willing to bring you into the fold. And goodness knows there are plenty of opportunities here to be useful.

Something else you notice right away is the distribution of designations among the staff. You wish, in this day and age, that it wasn’t such a notable feature of this department, but having now worked in more than your fair share of Emergency departments, you know well enough how their staffing protocols tend to heavily favor Alphas and Betas. There tends to be this antiquated mentality among hospital leadership that the ED is too high-risk, too fast-paced, too physically dangerous for the tender sensibilities of Omegas. Not to mention the potential liability issues of allowing unmated Omegas in the presence of volatile Alpha patients. Intoxication, withdrawal symptoms, psychiatric events, sudden-onset ruts, just regular old aggression, all of it posed an increased risk to Omega healthcare workers in comparison to Alphas and Betas.

You have grown used to being one of perhaps two (if you were lucky) Omega staff members in an ED at a given time. In contrast, during the first few hours of your first shift at PTMC, you meet no less than three Omega doctors and two other Omega nurses, and they all seem fully integrated into the social structure of the team. Perhaps you might actually be able to make a few friends while you’re here…

You catch a spare moment here and there to connect with Dana, which is both pleasant and deeply bizarre, as you have only ever known her as family and not as your superior in a work environment. Still, you quickly find that there isn’t much difference between the two sides of your mother’s friend. Even if Charge Nurse Dana comes with a tougher hide and a sharper tongue, at the heart of her, she is still the same warm, empathetic, powerful woman you have known since childhood. Having a familiar face nearby – even when you know she has a million priorities other than you – is strangely comforting.

During one of these rare minutes of downtime, you find yourself deep in conversation with Dana and a medical student named Victoria when a tall, broad-shouldered figure sweeps by the Central Hub, two other staff members hot on his heels. They’re all clad in black scrubs – EM physicians then – though the man leading the charge appears to be wearing cargo pants instead of a typical pair of scrub bottoms. He is dark-haired, middle-aged, and seemingly in a hurry, but even in the handful of seconds it takes for him to breeze by and disappear into Trauma 2, he catches your attention immediately.

There’s something in the way he carries himself, the way he moves with urgency and absolute clarity of purpose. There is an air of authority to him that is unmistakable, the weight of it solid and heavy, seasoned with age and experience. Granted, he’s too far away and gone too soon for you to deduce much more, but regardless, you would bet your first paycheck that this man is an Alpha.

The errant thought crosses your mind that he must smell divine.

Victoria follows your gaze, watches you as you watch him duck into the trauma bay, and nods knowingly.

“That’s Dr. Robby. He’s the attending on shift today,” she explains, answering your unspoken question.

At that, Dana glances up from her computer screen. “I’ve been trying to pin him down all afternoon – I want to introduce you.”

You nod in easy acquiescence. Even if Perlah had kept you away from the major traumas for your first shift, filling your hours with triage and lower-acuity cases, it was only a matter of time before you would be given the same freedoms and the same responsibilities as any of the other nurses on staff. It would make sense for you to meet as many of the physicians you would be working with as possible.

The opportunity doesn’t come until hours later.

Around you, the day shift draws to a close as members of the night shift staff begin to trickle in one by one. Perlah hovers at your shoulder as you wrap up your charting, her supervision required by policy but not in practice; you’ve used the same charting system in three other hospitals. You are in the middle of documenting the wound care you had administered to an 83-year-old diabetic man’s foot when Dana taps you on the shoulder and beckons you to follow her. Quickly as you can manage, you save your work, lock the computer, and jog after her.

You catch up to her at the South nurses’ station, only to find that it’s not a case that has prompted her to pull you away from your terminal. Instead, she seems to have finally cornered the mysterious attending from earlier. The older man has his hip propped against the nearest work surface, his feet crossed at the ankles, and his head bent over a tablet as he reads lab results. His high forehead creases with a deep frown as he reads, a distorted reflection of the screen visible in the lenses of the round-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Robby,” Dana says pointedly, hitting him an arched-brow stare that you recognize from your childhood. Long summer weekends at your parents’ lake house with Dana and Benji and their two daughters taught you well enough what it looks like when Dana Evans has run out of patience.

Thankfully, Dr. Robby appears to recognize it, as well. His eyes – a deep, soft brown – flick up to meet hers over the rim of his glasses.

“Dana,” he replies, just as pointed and more than a bit facetious. You smother a smile.

If the charge nurse is irritated by the response, she doesn’t give it away. Instead, she gestures to you. “Told you we’d have a fresh face today. This is our newest traveler.” You duck your chin at him in greeting as she introduces you by name. To you, she adds, “Dr. Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine.”

Chief. You add that new piece of information to the model you have created of this man in your mind, and it slots right in with the rest like a puzzle piece. Of course, he’s the chief. He would have to be. Only someone with institutional power and all the baked-in clout that came with it could carry themselves with such…casual gravitas.

You offer the chief attending a polite, personable smile and reach to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say as he grips the meat of your hand in his own. His grip is strong but not domineering, and his hand is huge. You wouldn’t consider yourself to be especially small, but his grasp dwarfs yours in a way that makes you feel almost dainty. It brings heat to your cheeks, makes your mouth run dry.

This close, even with the hospital-issued scent patches clinging to the insides of his wrists, even with the layers of antiseptic that cloak everyone in the hospital, you can finally smell him. You resist the sudden heaviness in your eyelids as you take in his scent – earthy, grounded, comforting. You detect oakmoss and cedarwood, perhaps a whiff of high-quality black tea. It reminds you of an old library or perhaps a cabin nestled in a damp wood.

It makes you feel strangely safe, like you could unclench your jaw in his presence.

Now that you have identified the source, you realize that the whole department smells like him. His scent all over everything – the computer terminals, the Pyxis, the exam rooms. Beneath the bleach and the hand sanitizer and the metallic notes of suppressants, everything carries the scent of this man. He permeates the air, leaves faint traces everywhere he touches. A silent claim – his territory, his people.

Still holding your hand, Dr. Robinavitch blinks. His dark, weary eyes pin you to the spot. “The, uh – pleasure’s all mine,” he replies. There’s a question in the pitch of his voice, and you watch as the frown returns to his brow. His nostrils flare, a gesture you ought to find rude, but instead, it merely makes your neck feel warm. “I – uh, I’m sorry, have we… Have we met? There’s something familiar…”

He glances between you and Dana then, as though trying to add up something in his head, and for the first time, you realize that Dana hasn’t shared anything with him about your relationship. He’s wondering why you smell like his charge nurse. And of course, he can’t ask you outright; a male Alpha attending asking a female Omega nurse anything about her scent was the sort of thing anti-harassment trainings were made of.

For the span of a breath, you consider brushing off the question. Really, it’s none of his business. It isn’t as though Dana had been a part of your hiring process, and while close, you aren’t technically family, which means that there were no policies in place that would prevent the two of you from working the same shifts. From a staffing perspective, there is no conflict of interest here.

But there’s something endearing about the confusion on his face, something that gives you the insane urge to pat him reassuringly on the head. You got the impression that nothing happens in this ED without this man’s knowledge; his ignorance in this situation must be maddening for him.

So before he can open his mouth and say something he might regret, you find yourself offering, “Dana’s my godmother. I’ve been travel nursing for about a year now, but I chose PTMC for my next contract because I knew I would have someone local I could stay with. I’m crashing in her and Benji’s guest room. Much cheaper than trying to find a sublet or an Airbnb.”

You can feel Dana’s eyes on you, and though she says nothing, you’re certain you have surprised her with the disclosure. For the sake of your reception by the rest of the department, you know she would never have revealed your relationship without your blessing. You love her for it, of course. But you were equally certain that if anyone had any misconceptions about any favoritism you might receive, those concerns would be quickly put to rest the more time you spent under her authority.

Dana was far more likely to push you harder because of your relationship than she was to coddle you.

As for the Alpha still holding your hand, this seems to provide him with enough pieces of the puzzle that the deep wrinkles between his eyebrows smooth, and the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth softens.

“Ah,” he says, eyes darting back and forth once more between you and the woman at your side. “That…certainly explains a few things. Well.” He clears his throat and finally drops his grip on your hand, letting it fall limply back at your side. “Welcome to the Pitt. I, uh, hope we haven’t scared you away after your first day.”

“Not at all.” You offer him an earnest smile. “It’s intense, but nothing I can’t handle. And everyone’s been very welcoming and helpful so far. I’m excited to be part of the team.”

Loosing a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and surprised laugh, the attending scratches the back of his neck and shifts on his feet. “Ha. Well. I’m glad to hear it. You know, normally I’d just…direct you to Dana, give you the same spiel I give everybody about how she runs the place and how you can go to her if you need anything, but something tells me you already know.”

The wry expression on his face makes you laugh. “I do,” you agree. “Though if you have any other pieces of advice, I’ll happily take them.”

The question seems to take him aback for a moment, and you watch as he gives you a once-over with his eyes. He doesn’t linger too long anywhere, doesn’t hesitate on any of the bits of you that typically get the attention of men, but you aren’t naïve. He’s scanning for evidence of your designation.

You know what he will see. The scent patches on your neck, partially hidden by the collar of your baby pink undershirt. The matching ones on your wrists, these fully exposed by your rolled-up sleeves. The distinct lack of bite marks.

With his proximity, you wonder if he can smell you the way you can smell him.

You wonder what he thinks. You wonder if he likes it.

Blinking rapidly, Dr. Robinavitch seems to shake himself out of a stupor as he says, “Uh… I guess I would say don’t be afraid to lean on your team. This place isn’t for the faint of heart. We’re all here to support each other, so don’t feel like you have to go it alone.”

You recognize the platitude for what it is, the easy thoughtlessness with which he delivers this nothing-burger nugget of wisdom. But you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a twinge of annoyance at his words. It’s exactly the kind of gentle, well-intentioned condescension you’re familiar with – as a woman, as an Omega, as someone who is perpetually the newbie, who never sticks around long enough to accumulate the kind of respect earned by those with greater tenure. This man has only just met you, and there is a part of him that already thinks you soft.

You are soft, of course, but he cannot possibly know that.

You wrap up your pleasantries with a close-lipped smile and the unexpected weight of disappointment in your gut.

Each of you goes your separate ways then, eager to tie up the shift’s loose ends as best as you can. Dana greets the incoming charge nurse with an arm around her shoulders, the redhead clearly a friend, while you give report to the night shift nurse taking over Perlah’s patients. In spite of your exhaustion and what you feel is a rather lack-luster presentation, you earn yourself a pleased smile and an approving pat on the shoulder from your Beta mentor. Embarrassingly, the implicit praise gives you a zing of energy that reinvigorates you, and you find yourself humming a tune as you gather your backpack and water bottle from your new locker. It’s nice to be recognized, to be appreciated.

You spot Dr. Robby one more time on your way out the door, the older man chatting with one of the other Omegas you had met earlier that day – a young male resident, friendly and kind, with wide blue eyes and mousy-golden curls. The attending’s arms are folded across his chest, but he looks at the resident with such softness in his gaze that it almost stops you short. It’s nothing like the way he had looked at you earlier, with confusion and mild bewilderment, as though he hadn’t quite known what to do with you. You had wondered whether that might be an Alpha quirk of his, if he struggled to interact with Omegas in the workplace, but apparently not.

Apparently it’s just you.

Something tightens in your chest at the realization, though you don’t allow yourself to pause and examine it further. Instead, you pull the keys to your beat-up old CRV from the pocket of your backpack and head for the parking garage.

It’s for the best that you keep things…detached, you think as you wave good-bye to Dana, promising to park on the curb so she would be able to pull into the driveway. This job is temporary; PTMC is only one of many hospitals you have called home over the last year. You’re good at what you do – good at learning quickly, good at earning the trust of your coworkers, good at turning yourself into exactly what the team needed until it was time to move on. It’s a hard-won skillset, being able to connect and separate, connect and separate, over and over. And you’ve created a good life for yourself doing it.

The last thing you need right now is a man messing up your plans, you remind yourself. Especially when the man in question is an unmated Alpha.

That night, for the first time in months, Robby stops and picks up groceries on his way home.

Well, not exactly on his way home. He goes quite a bit out of his way, all the way to the other side of the Allegheny to the Squirrel Hill neighborhood. He tries not to visit this part of town too often – too many childhood memories, too sweet and too painful and too much when he is already worn thin from the weight of his work. But he finds himself there anyway, at the same kosher grocery his grandmother had favored when he was a child, and he thanks the bone-deep fatigue he had awoken with that morning that had prompted him to drive to work today rather than walk.

He shops thoughtlessly, allowing his limbs to take him where he needs to go. His body seems to know what he’s looking for even if Robby himself hasn’t given it any conscious consideration. By the time he arrives at the checkout counter, there is a modest collection of ingredients in his shopping basket that he pays for in cash.

By the time he stumbles through the front door of his house, it’s nearly 9:00 PM.

There was a time – perhaps not so long ago, though it feels like lifetimes now – when Robby loved to cook. There are cookbooks in the little cabinet above his refrigerator; some are glossy and modern, while others curl and yellow with age, precious heirlooms inherited from his grandparents. There are heavy-bottomed stainless-steel pans hanging from a rack mounted to the kitchen wall, their exposed surfaces collecting layer upon layer of dust. There is an oversized, over-featured gas grill on his back patio rusting beneath a protective tarp. He hasn’t touched any of it in years.

For a moment, he pauses, bags of groceries in his arms, backpack still slung over his shoulder, and wonders. He’s exhausted. The sun set long ago. His house is dim and quiet. On most nights like this, he barely has enough energy to shower the scent of the hospital off his skin and collapse into bed.

What has gotten into him?

When he poses the question to himself, he comes away empty-handed. All he knows for certain is that the day had opened up a pit of longing in his chest. It’s a homesickness that hollows him out, that makes every heartbeat feel effortful, that makes him feel unmoored and fragile in a way that knocks the breath out of him. The feeling does not bear dwelling in for long; otherwise, he will surely fall apart.

So instead, he turns on the TV for some much-needed background noise, and he moves.

He grabs a deep, high-walled sauté pan from the rack and scrubs it until it shines. He dices chicken thighs, minces onions, and grates carrots. He rinses buckwheat over the sink until the water runs clear, dumps it into the pan, and douses it all in vegetable broth. It’s so simple, so easy it almost shocks him, but in the end, it is precisely as he remembers. The memories have not left his muscles after all this time, and those memories guide him now. The rich, nutty, savory fragrance of the kasha fills his kitchen, reaches behind his ribcage, and softens something there.

It smells like his grandmother’s kitchen. It smells like home.

He plates up a serving for himself, packing the rest into a small stack of meal prep containers Heather had bought him years ago. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s used them, but he’s grateful for them now. Perhaps he will actually take the time to eat something during his next shift if he knows he has a home-cooked meal to look forward to.

As he takes the first bite, he nearly chokes and needs to reach for a glass of water as he struggles to swallow. Not because of the food, he realizes, but because of the feeling, and it is then that he understands.

He still has them.

All the parts of himself he thought he had shed so long ago. The parts that had granted him the softness that nearly killed him when Adamson died, the parts that had hurt too badly to keep. Those parts of him hadn’t abandoned him. They had been smothered, scorched, excised like a malignancy that threatened to poison the rest of him, but he hadn’t gotten them all. He is, it seems, still human. Still a man.

Robby takes another bite of kasha, his eyes prick with the threat of tears, and for the first time in recent memory, he feels…alive.

Credits: Dividers - @saradika-graphics, Chapter Beta Reader - @kedsandtubesocks

Taglist: @kedsandtubesocks @sawymredfox @livslifeonline @rosharanfiction @skylardenae @pocket-of-possibilities @bergamote-catsandbooks @peepawispunk @80ssong @ohheyitssj @vicky066 @windsweptarmadillo @sharkerino @dugiioh @tatertot118 @pickles-the-jackalope

If you would like to be included in the taglist for this fic, please comment on this chapter or send me a message!

[witchywithwhiskey]

aren’t you glad you read the latin?

pairing: demon!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you're exploring an abandoned church when you stumble onto a room with a mysterious old book written in latin. despite your friend's warnings, you decide to read the latin and end up summoning a demon.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), teratophilia/monsterfucking, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, size kink/size difference, breeding kink, praise kink, light degradation, thigh riding, fingering (f receiving), orgasm delay/denial, some overstimulation, dumbification, slight come inflation, temporary body modification, fated mates, pet names (little witch & pet), aftercare, happy ending (let me know if i missed something!!)

word count: 11.7k

a/n: whew! i know this is a day late since i said i'd be posting my halloween fics on sundays, but the warlock fic delayed my editing process, so it ended up taking a little longer to get this fic done! but i'm really happy with how it turned out!! it's technically my entry in my own halloween event, the horror movie hoe-a-thon, using the quote prompt "Do not read the latin." i was reading over the list one night and this idea popped into my head and i knew i had to run with it. i also wanted to branch out into more monster smut, so this demon!bucky is much less human than the demon!steve from my other fic 😈😈😈 (you're welcome, fellow monsterfuckers) anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!!

halloween fics masterlist

“Do not read the latin.”

Scoffing, you looked up from the book you’d discovered and shot your friend Natasha a petulant look. The book had been sitting on an ancient lectern made of dark wood in the secret room the two of you had discovered in the basement of the abandoned church, and you’d felt a weird urge to read it, stroking the soft leather binding before opening the tome to discover it was written in latin. 

But Natasha was giving you a stern look, and you rolled your eyes. “It was your idea to come here,” you reminded her with a little pout. Your best friend had wanted to do something more than watch scary movies the night before Halloween, and after some research on local haunted locations, the two of you had found the abandoned church. 

You’d started pulling on your boots before Natasha even finished reading through the description—something about being haunted or being frequented by devil worshippers, you weren’t really listening. Something inside you knew it’d be the perfect place to spend the night before Halloween, snooping around the empty church and trying to scare each other.

You didn’t really believe in the supernatural, so you weren’t expecting any ghosts or devil worshippers to pop out, but the deeper the two of you got into the church, the more you felt something. Natasha seemed to feel something weird about the vibe of the church, too, because she’d gotten more and more tense as you’d explored. You’d practically had to drag her down into the basement, using the heavy-duty flashlights she’d insisted you both bring to explore the empty space. 

It had been your idea to look inside the weird wooden door that was built into the back of  the stone basement, half-hidden behind a shelf. Natasha hovered in the doorway while you explored the room, which was empty save for the lectern, the book and a circle etched into stone floor, with symbols you couldn’t decipher decorating the outer edge. 

“I think we should go,” Natasha said from the doorway, shining her light around the room like she was waiting for something to pop out of the shadows. Your normally unruffled best friend seemed genuinely spooked, which only made you want to have some fun with her, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of your mouth.

“Aw, c’mon, Nat,” you whined, flipping idly through the weathered, yellow pages of the book in front of you. You’d thought about stepping away from the lectern to look more closely at the circle on the floor, but your feet didn’t want to move. It didn’t occur to you that that might be strange. 

Nat’s gaze darted to the pages of the book, drawn by the soft rustling they were making as you flicked through them. “Do not read the latin,” she said again, her voice sharper than you’d ever heard it. “I’m serious.” 

Her eyes were wide, too, and you realized she was really scared, though you couldn’t understand why. It was just a silly book and a silly room. You would put money that the whole setup had been left there by some kids trying to add to the legend of the church. It was all bogus. Probably.

Wanting to lighten the mood, you grinned at your friend. “What’s the point of learning a dead language if you’re always telling me not to use it?” you needled, waggling your eyebrows at Nat, though she didn’t seem swayed by your attempts to joke around. 

Just then, your gaze caught on the page you’d turned to, a drawing on the weathered yellow paper catching your attention. On the page was a picture of a kind of…beast. As you peered closer, centering your flashlight over the drawing, you realized it wasn’t fully animal, more half-beast, half-man. The sketch was crude, but you could make out horns, claws and a tail on the hulking figure. A spark of interest lit in your gut as you looked at the image. 

“I don’t always tell you not to use it,” Natasha retorted while you were fixated on the drawing, only half listening to your friend. “I just don’t think now is a good time.” She waved her arms around, gesturing to the room and the circle marking the floor. “Y’know, when we’re clearly in a place where reading the latin might summon a fucking demon.” 

Her hissed words finally caught your attention and you dragged your eyes away from the book, glancing over at your friend, who was clearly unsettled by the situation you’d both found yourselves in. You couldn’t fully understand why Natasha was freaking out so much, but then, the room didn’t seem to scare you the same way it did her. If anything, you felt less spooked in the basement room than you had in the rest of the church.

Scoffing again at the preposterousness of accidentally summoning a demon, you shook your head, still smiling at your friend. “Ok, sure, let’s say that’s actually a real possibility for a second,” you said, indulging your friend. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen you looking at monsterfucker porn on your phone when I’m sitting next to you on the couch,” you teased, trying to calm your friend down with your light-hearted joking. Waggling your eyebrows at Nat again, you gave her a lascivious grin. “You sure you don’t wanna summon a demon and see what he’s packing?” 

Natasha’s face filled with an angry flush. “You send me half of that porn,” she shot back, but a smile was flickering at the corners of her mouth and you knew you’d gotten through at least some of her fear. However, a second later she seemed to remember where you were and she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide a shiver. “Besides, that’s fantasy—this looks like the real deal, and I know better than to mess with an actual demon.”

Rolling your eyes, you muttered, “You’re assuming demons are real.” Your skepticism wavered, though, when you glanced back down at the book and found your fingers stroking over the drawing of the creature that you realized was the tome’s depiction of a demon. That was strange.

Something about the image was calling to you, inspiring a soft heat to bloom in your core, settling into the juncture of your thighs and pulse through your body in time with the steady beating of your heart. It was such a pleasant feeling that you were tempted to answer the call of the drawing, at least enough to read the instructions on how to summon the being. It seemed easy enough, all you had to do was chant a few lines of latin. A rightness settled into your heart, your eyes skipping over the warnings written in the dead language and focusing on the words you’d need to say.

“Well, my dear friend Natasha,” you said, planting yourself more firmly behind the lectern and looking up only long enough to shoot a foolhardy grin at your friend. “I do not know better.” 

That was the only warning you gave her before you looked back down and started reading the latin. It had been a while since you’d spoken the dead language out loud, and the words felt strange and unnatural on your tongue, but you couldn’t say whether that was your rustiness or if the words themselves had a tinge of evil to them. Your heart raced with excitement as you felt a prickling beneath your skin. Something was actually happening.

Not long after you began to read, an unnatural wind started to swirl around the room, candles wedged into sconces lining the stone walls flickering to life without any matches. The wind blew faster and faster, a dull roaring sound filling the small chamber. Above the noise, you heard Natasha cry out from the doorway, and when you glanced up, having learned the words enough to repeat them without reading from the book, you saw your friend backing away from the doorway. Her eyes were impossibly large and round in her face, a stricken expression overtaking her features.

Natasha’s mouth opened like she was going to scream for you to stop, but before any sound came out, the door to the room blew shut, sealing you inside the chamber beneath the abandoned church. Alone. Your friend’s warnings about summoning an actual demon flitted through your mind. Even you had to admit something supernatural was occurring in the room, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything other than anticipation about what would result from the incantation you were reading.

When you’d finally finished chanting the passage in latin the designated number of times, you looked up from the book in time to see a wisp of smoke seep through a small crack in the stone floor at the center of the circle. It rose up toward the ceiling, expanding until the thick smoke was pouring into the room from below. You coughed and sputtered, pulling your sweater up to cover your mouth and nose, your eyes watering as the darkened smog blotted out the light of the candles. It grew so thick, you couldn’t even see your hand in front of your face. 

After a short few moments, the smoke began to dissipate, and the first thing you noticed was the hulking figure standing in the middle of the circle, the light of the candles casting him in a warm glow. You blinked the smog from your eyes as the half-human, half-beast form of the demon came into focus through the disappearing smoke. The creature that stood before you was even more intimidating than what was pictured in the book, but your body responded by heating all over.

He was massive—his shoulders half as broad as you were tall, muscles bulging in his chest and arms, making him appear even larger. He was tall, too, the horns protruding from his brow brushing the ceiling even as he stooped a little. Your eyes caught on his horns, taking in the way they were thicker at the base before sharpening to wicked-looking points as they extended back at an angle from his temples. 

As your gaze drifted down from the horns, you noticed the demon’s face and his handsome features—a strong brow that was lowered over eyes the color of the summer sky, a mouth with impossibly soft lips turned down in a small frown and a sharp jaw gritted with tension. The demon had a dusting of facial hair along his jaw that you ached to brush your lips over and feel the coarse roughness, as well as brown hair cut to his chin that framed his handsome face perfectly.

Unable to stop the perusal of your eyes, your gaze traveled further down, taking in the golden skin of the demon’s chest, which was heaving slightly in the candlelight as he breathed. The hue of his arms darkened below the elbow, blending into a deep burgundy color at his hands, which were tipped with claws. The demon’s legs were the same. Though his thighs, thick as tree trunks, appeared human beneath the soft shorts he wore, below his knee they faded into the color of dried blood and more resembled the clawed feet of a predatory animal. And finally, behind him, a long tail flicked with curiosity. 

It was only when you grew light-headed and dizzy that you realized you’d been holding your breath while taking your first look at the demon. You gasped for air, noting the way the creature’s eyes darted to your lips at the sound. The blue of his gaze darkened while he watched your lips part and your chest rise rapidly beneath your sweater. Heat rose within you, your body responding to the demon’s attention. You didn’t quite understand the force of your attraction to the demon, but you were so warm and your head muzzy with desire, you had no inclination to question how you felt. 

“You were the one to summon me, little witch?” the demon asked, breaking the silence that had fallen in the room since you’d finished reading and the wind had died down. The creature’s voice was deliciously deep, the tenor of it digging into your ribcage and settling down in the marrow of your bones, making your knees knock together with a trembling shiver. 

Beneath your skirt, you clenched your thighs together against the budding throb of arousal between your legs and stared up into the demon’s face, his stature so significantly taller than yours that you had to crane your neck. “I did,” you admitted, pressing your lips together while you quickly debated whether to say more. Before you could think better of it, you spilled the rest of your confession. “I felt… compelled to do so,” you said, picking your words carefully as you thought of what had driven you to read the latin of the summoning spell.

Since you were already looking at the demon’s face, you caught the look of surprise that flitted across his features. Then his brow furrowed back over his eyes and his mouth resumed its frown. “The book called to you?” he asked, glancing between your face and the tome sitting before you on the lectern.

Your eyes dropped to the book and you thought of the pull you’d felt toward the church, then the basement, and the room you were standing in. You thought of how you’d flipped through the pages of the book until you’d landed on the one to summon the demon in front of you, and the way your fingers had idly stroked over the drawing of him when you’d been talking to Natasha. You hoped your friend didn’t hate you for ignoring her warnings, but you couldn’t ignore what was right in front of you.

“Yes,” you said in a small, hesitant voice. But as soon as you said it, you thought about how ridiculous it was to think that a book—a spell to summon a demon—could call to you. Rebelling against the very notion, you forced yourself to laugh, the sound choked and wretched in the small, stone room. “But that’s ridiculous, right?” you said, your voice high and off-kilter as you returned your gaze to the demon. You didn’t wait for him to answer, though, as you blustered on. “It is! I’m being ridiculous,” you said, mostly talking to yourself at that point, your fingers gripping the edges of the lectern so hard your knuckles were white. “I’m letting the Halloween spirit get to me—I just wanted to know what it’d be like to fuck a demon!” 

A low rumbling growl came from the creature and your gaze flicked up to his face in time to see his eyes darkening, his expression turning hungry as a smirk curved the edges of his mouth. “Well, then, little witch,” he rumbled, stepping closer to you, his hulking body blotting out the light of the candles on the opposite side of the room as he prowled toward you. “I’m more than happy to ignore the mystery of the calling you felt in order to oblige you.” His smirk was wickedly sharp, his lips parting to flash his fangs. 

Instinctively, you stepped back from the lectern while the demon continued to stalk toward you, your heart racing in your chest, and the throb of your arousal echoing between your thighs. Your feet were clumsy, your legs trembling, and even still, you felt dampness in your panties making the soft fabric cling to your sticky folds. Your emotions were a riot in your body, fear and desire fighting for dominance as you retreated from the creature with shaky steps while he smirked wider and wider until your back hit the stone wall of the room. A gasp wrenched free from your lips.

The creature was grinning and practically salivating as you trembled against the wall, his tail twitching agitatedly behind him. Your neck craned as you watched his still-approaching form. “You need not be afraid of me, little witch,” he rasped, drawing closer until he was within reach. He planted his claw-tipped hands against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in with his large body. He ducked his head down toward your upturned gaze, his face and shoulders blocking out the rest of the room as he overwhelmed you with his presence without even touching you. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised, his eyes glittering with desire.

When you took in a deep breath to calm yourself, all you could smell was the scent of his skin, like a crackling fire and something earthy beneath. It was an intoxicating combination and you wanted to bury your face between the demon’s pecs and sniff him to your heart’s content, but you shoved the idea aside as soon as you had it, determining it to be too preposterous. Instead, you forced yourself to meet his eye and say, “Y-you keep calling me a witch,” you said, your voice rising as if asking a question. “I’m not a witch.” 

The demon’s smirk softened into a smile and he dropped a hand from the wall, brushing the back of one of his monstrous fingers down your cheek so softly it made your heart ache with yearning. His tail wrapped gently around your leg, just above your knee, your thighs squeezing together and pinning him between them. 

“You read the latin, you summoned a demon,” he recounted, making your face heat when you were confronted by what you’d done. “By all accounts, that makes you a witch.” 

It seemed too simple, but you couldn’t really argue with that logic. Your actions had been rather witchy, and even if you were still grappling with the knowledge that magic and demons both existed, you were enjoying the way he touched you far too much to be able to form a response. So you just nodded, acknowledging his answer. 

Seeing your acceptance, the demon pulled his hand away from your cheek, but before he could place it back on the wall, you let out a little whimper of protest. You wrapped both your hands around his wrist and brought his hand back to your face, the expanse of his palm enveloping your cheek and jaw. You nuzzled into his blood-red hand, inhaling the scene of him while staring up into his blue eyes.

“What should I call you?” you asked, your voice soft and a little shy. You wracked your brain to remember if the ancient book you’d used to summon him had listed a name, but if it had, you’d missed it. And if he was going to call you ‘little witch,’ you wanted to be able to call him something, too. 

At your question, the demon smirked again. “A demon never gives his real name,” he started, cupping your face purposefully in his massive palm, a rumbling purr sounding in his chest when you continued to nuzzle into him, your eyes closing with a contented sigh. His hand was big enough that you felt the tips of his claws graze the back of your neck, making you shiver, more wetness pooling between your thighs. “For it gives those who know it too much power over him.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, only half listening as you enjoyed the feeling of his warm, calloused palm against your soft cheek. He felt hotter than any human should, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that was true for all of him. His tail was warm against your leg, but what about the rest of him? What would it feel like to sink onto his hardness—would he feel impossibly hot in the depths of your own heat? 

A chuckle came from the demon before he murmured, “Little witch,” to get your attention again. Your eyes fluttered open and you smiled as you found the creature gazing affectionately down at you. He went on, answering your question. “I’ve had many names throughout the ages—zimniy soldat, zimski vojnik, vintersoldat,” he said, his tongue rolling easily through each of the languages that were foreign to you. “Hiemis militis,” he finished and you recognized the latin, though it took you a moment to translate it.

“The Winter Soldier?” you asked hesitantly, unsure if your translation was correct. 

“Mhm,” he murmured, a pleased smile spreading across his face. His thumb stroked your cheek affectionately, and you smiled in return. “You may call me that or any of the others, little witch.”

You would’ve expected a demon to be much rougher and meaner, but you were enjoying the creature’s softness, it stoked the heat inside you even higher. You had the urge to press your body to his massive form and writhe against him like a cat in heat, but you settled for bringing your hands up and placing them against his abdomen, which was level with your chest. 

“Soldat,” you said slowly, testing out the word on your lips. It sent a shiver of need down your spine and you looked up into the Winter Soldier’s face. He smiled and nodded at you, encouraging you. “Soldat,” you said again, acting instinctively as you pushed yourself up on tiptoes, head tilted back so that your lips were angled toward his mouth.

The demon knew exactly what you wanted, but he was so much taller than you that he couldn’t quite stoop enough to kiss you. So he wrapped his massive hands around your waist and picked you up, pinning you back against the wall by pressing his hulking body against yours, one of his thick thighs pushing between your legs as his tail wrapped around your ankle, pulling you open for him. His skin was hot against your inner thighs, brushing up under your skirt, but you couldn’t be distracted by that because a moment later the demon’s mouth was on yours. 

The Winter Soldier kissed you like he touched you—gently, taking care of your fragility in comparison to his imposing muscle. His mouth was searching as it worked against yours with soft brushes of his lips and tongue, the carefulness of his movements teasing your arousal even higher until you were practically intoxicated with it. 

A needy whimper escaped your lips as you pushed against the creature, taking his face in your hands and deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprised even you. The demon made a pleased sound deep in his chest, rumbling against your ribcage, and you felt his mouth curve into the ghost of a smile before he was meeting your fervor with his own. His tongue plunged past your lips and took possession of your mouth, dragging heated gasps and desperate moans from your throat as he explored you.

He tasted of sin and pleasure and depraved devotion and you couldn’t get enough, your hands clinging to his bare shoulders as your hips began to work against his thick thigh, grinding yourself down on his bulging muscle through your panties. You were slick enough to make the movement pleasurable and you moaned at the friction, the demon swallowing the sound down with a growl. His response only made you grow slicker between your thighs, so that you were sure he could feel your wetness against his heated skin.

Wrenching his mouth from yours, the demon’s face hovered in front of your gaze, his blue eyes blazing with a depthless hunger and his nostrils flaring as he scened something that made another sound rumble in his chest. “I can smell your arousal, little witch,” he murmured before taking a deep breath and groaning low in his throat. “You smell like your sweet cunt is flooded and ready for cock.”

Heat filled your cheeks at the implication of his words, but the pleased groans he let out sent a warming desire straight to your slit. You clenched your thighs, which only pressed your slit down harder on him, wringing a keening, desperate sound from you. “Soldat,” you whined, rocking against him with jerky, frantic movements. “Please, I need more!” 

He chuckled, his hands gripping your hips and guiding you to rub yourself harder against his thigh, his tail stroking gently up and down your leg. “You want to see what it’s like to fuck a demon, don’t you, little witch?” he asked tauntingly, throwing your earlier words back at you, making you whine mindlessly while he went on. “Want to know the feeling of being split open on my monstrous cock?” His voice was low and merciless right beside your ear as you furiously humped his thigh. “Do you think you can take it?” 

His taunting words had you glancing down below his waist and your eyes widened when you saw the massive, twitching bulge beneath his shorts. His one scrap of clothing was made of a soft material that did very little to hide the way his big dick was growing and thickening, the weeping tip pushing out from the waistband of his shorts. Your mouth watered at the sight of the blood-red demon cock, wanting to sink to the floor and lick the pearl of precum from the head of his cock, then worship the full length of him with your mouth until he came down your throat. 

But you realized quickly you’d have trouble doing more than licking and kissing him. As the Winter Soldier’s cock continued to grow with the demon’s desire for you, you saw the full head of his dick push out of his shorts, and it was bigger than anything you’d seen outside of the monsterfucker porn you liked. He was as thick around as your wrist and as long as your entire forearm. You knew you’d struggle to take even the head of his cock in his mouth. 

Even as the Winter Soldier’s size should’ve made you question how he could ever possibly fit inside you, your mind was focused on the thought of sitting between his legs and worshipping his magnificent, monstrous cock however you could manage. If that meant kissing and licking up and down the veins of his thick cock, then taking the head into your mouth and sucking on him until he came, then so be it. 

“Mm, you’re a perfect little whore, aren’t you, witch?” the demon teased, having read your slutty thoughts from the way you were staring wantonly at his cock. He made another pleased rumble in his chest, almost like a purr, the sound making you squirm on his thigh, your pussy dripping and clenching down around nothing when what your body wanted was to be stuffed full of cock. The demon chuckled. “You do like the idea of taking my demon cock into your tight little human cunt, don’t you,” he said, a hint of awe in his tone. “I can feel you soaking through your panties—you’re drenched for me, aren’t you?”

His words had you warming with embarrassment over your blatant desire for the creature, but you refused to feel shame for your arousal—especially when the demon wanted you just as badly. His stiff cock was evidence of that. So you looked up at the Winter Soldier and gave him a wide, hungry smile of your own. 

“I’ve thought a lot about fucking a monster cock like yours, Soldat,” you confessed, your expression shifting into one of coy teasing. You fluttered your lashes at him, trying to restrain the smirk that wanted to be set free. “I want you to do more than split me open—I want you to ruin my pussy with it.” You savored the way his blue eyes darkened at your words. “Fuck me, claim me, make me yours, Soldat.” 

“Filthy little witch,” the demon growled, your words cutting through his restraint. He tore your sweater and skirt from your body with one sweep of his razor-sharp claws, shredding your panties before you could even gasp at the cold of the room brushing against your bare skin. “So eager to be defiled and desecrated by a demon.” His big hands groped your small, soft body, using his tail to tease your nipples until they were stiff peaks and your chest was heaving with need. The demon’s eyes flashed when he caught your heavy-lidded gaze. “Do you even know what it means to be taken by a demon, to have my infernal seed buried in your sweet little human cunt?”

“Oh fuck, I don’t care,” you whined, your hips writhing against the bare skin of the Winter Soldier’s thigh. The heat and hardness of his leg was a weak replacement for what you really wanted between your thighs, and it only made you more desperate to be filled. Reaching down, you shoved the demon’s shorts down and wrapped both hands around his massive cock, working them up and down his length until you earned a groan of approval. “I want your cock, I want you to fuck me—now, Soldat, please.” 

The demon chuckled, bouncing you on his thigh, which only wrung a more needy moan from you. “Such a reckless little witch,” he rumbled. Still teasing your nipples with his tail, he slid one of his hands down your body and shoved it between your cunt and his leg, his fingers curling inside your sopping wet pussy with ease. You half-expected to feel the pinch of his claws, but you felt only pleasure at finally having something inside you. “And so wet for your demon,” he practically purred in your ear, thrusting two fingers slowly into you. “You’re just a desperate, needy little thing, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” you answered quickly on a gasp, only half aware of the question he’d asked. You were so riled up, arousal pounding through your blood, that you suspected you would’ve agreed to anything he said. Perhaps it should’ve worried you, especially what he’d said about burying his seed inside you, but you were too far gone in your lust to care. “Need you, Soldat, I need you so bad,” you cried, tears springing to your eyes in your frustration.

“I know, pet, I know,” he murmured soothingly as he added another finger to your hole, stretching you out while you rocked on him. His tail caressed your breasts and belly as he stroked your face with his hand, cooing at you sympathetically while he brushed his lips against your heated cheeks. “Gotta get you ready to take me,” he explained, an apology in his tone as he explained why he hadn’t given you his cock yet.

You nodded to let him know you understood, squirming and letting out a little whimper when he added a fourth finger, panting for breath as you struggled to take him. You knew he was right to take his time stretching you out before trying to sheath his monstrous cock inside you, and you knew you should be grateful he was even trying to prepare you, but you were impatient. To keep yourself from whining more for him, you kept your hands moving up and down his hardness, using your thumb to collect the pearl of precum from the tip.

The Winter Soldier’s attention was dragged away from your pussy when you brought that thumb to your lips and you caught his eye before popping it into your mouth. You let him see the way your eyes went heavy-lidded at the first taste of him, so salty and musky and good that you groaned loudly. You sucked on your thumb while the demon watched, reveling in the heat of his attention. An unnatural tingling sensation was spreading through you, but you didn’t stop and wonder at it, too transfixed by the Winter Soldier and your desire.

“You like how my come tastes, little witch?” he rumbled, fucking you faster with his fingers buried in your cunt up to the knuckle. You were so wet for him and he was moving so fast, the sounds of your wet, squelching pussy were loud in the otherwise quiet room, only matched by your panting breaths. “Are you trying to tempt me into fucking your hot mouth so you can guzzle down my seed like a thirsty heathen?”

At his filthy words, you moaned and arched your body, trying to bear down harder on his fingers even though you had no leverage with your body pinned to the wall. Panting dazedly, you managed a smirk as you looked up at the demon. “If you’re offering…” you said in a suggestive, if breathless, voice. 

He rumbled another laugh, the sound making you shiver with need. “Too greedy for your own good,” he chastised lightly, the tip of his tail spanking your ass lightly, though it still made you twitch and grind harder on his fingers. The Winter Soldier shoved his fingers as deep inside you as they’d go and spread them, stretching you almost impossibly wide. He’d driven you to the edge of your release and you were hanging on by a thread, your gasping moans turning even more desperate as words escaped you.

“While I do like the idea of covering your pretty face in my come,” he began, working your pussy open with his big fingers while you cried out and writhed against him. “I said I’d fuck your tight little cunt and I always keep my word.” He pulled his fingers from your fluttering channel, wrenching you away from the edge and denying you your release. You whined at the loss of him, but the demon only shushed you. “Hush, little witch, you’ll be filled with more demon cock than you can handle soon enough—and you’ll come more times than you can count.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that, Soldat,” you said on a purr, a pleased smile on your lips. You let your head fall forward against the demon’s chest, kissing and licking and biting his skin wherever you could reach while he shifted you in his hands. He shoved his shorts down to his feed and maneuvered you until your legs were spread around his waist, your dripping entrance hovering over the tip of his cock. Your arms couldn’t reach up around his shoulders so you held onto his bulging biceps for something to cling to. 

The tips of the demon’s claws dug into the soft flesh of your ass and you moaned, rocking against the tip that felt much bigger than his four fingers. Excitement and only a small amount of trepidation rippled through your body as you kept grinding down on the head of Winter Soldier’s thick cock. His tail wrapped around one of your ankles and spread you wider until your thighs were as open for him as possible. The demon started to push inside you and even with all his time preparing you, it took a long moment to work the tip of his massive cock into your tight little hole.

“Soldat,” you whined when it popped inside, stretching you nearly to the point of pain. But it felt so good, too, your pussy being stretched beyond its limit making your mind go hazy with pleasure. Your mouth fell open as you whined and whimpered, not knowing whether you were urging him on or urging him to be careful.

“Shh, be a good little witch and take your demon’s cock,” the Winter Soldier rumbled, pulling out before thrusting just the tip back inside, sending your head rolling side to side on your shoulders as your body struggled to accommodate his size. You wailed at the overwhelming sensations, your brain feeling like it had leaked from your head so that all you could do was make mindless sounds as he impaled you on his cock. “You wanted this, remember, little witch?” he teased you as he fucked you with the tip of his cock. “You begged me to ruin your pussy with my big, fat demon cock—does it not feel as good as you hoped?”

He was pressing deeper with every thrust, fucking you open with his monstrous cock, and you could feel yourself stretching to take him, your pussy aching with the effort, but the pleasure you felt far eclipsed any pain. “Better,” you cried out on a gasp, barely finding your tongue and answering his question. You tilted your face up so you could see his face looming above yours, getting lost momentarily in his darkened gaze. “Feels better than I ever imagined,” you slurred, half-drunk and dumb on the pleasure he was giving you. A dazed smile spread across your face as his cock rubbed against more and more of your sensitive inner walls, filling you better than any man or toy ever hoped to.

“You love it, don’t you—love being my perfect little cocksleeve?” the demon rumbled, fucking even deeper into you. He’d worked at least half of his length inside you, which didn’t seem like it should be possible, but you could feel him deep inside you, his cock hot inside your slick channel. The Winter Soldier took one hand away from your hip and placed it over your lower belly, pressing down and making you feel him buried inside you even more acutely. “You love feeling my demon cock destroying your pussy for anyone else, don’t you, little witch?”

“Yes, master,” you cried hoarsely, not knowing where the honorific came from but not questioning it either. It felt right to call your demon ‘master,’ especially after he’d taken such exquisite possession of your body. You gasped when he shoved his cock even deeper, his hand pressing down on your belly making your body even tighter around him. “Love it so much!” 

The Winter Soldier groaned, his hands flexing against your body and gripping you even more tightly. “You were made for this, pet,” he rasped, dropping his head and pressing kisses to your forehead until you tilted your face up and he could capture your lips. He relaxed his grip on your body and let gravity do its work, forcing you to sink further down on his cock. 

You whimpered into the demon’s mouth as you felt his cock rearranging your guts to fit his hot, hard length inside you. You weren’t sure how much of his cock was left for you to take, but you weren’t sure anymore would fit. But just as you had that thought, he shoved another inch of his fat cock into your pussy, making you cry out, your whole body trembling in his arms as you came suddenly. 

The demon held you crushed to his chest, grunting and groaning as your pussy convulsed around his thick cock. You knew the tip of his dick was weeping precum into your cunt from the tingling sensation that spread through you, recognizable from when you’d tasted his come. The feeling added to your pleasure as you rode out your orgasm with jerky little movements of your hips and mindless moans. 

“That’s it, little witch, come on your master’s cock,” he rasped, one hand stroking down your side, feeling the way your body trembled for him. “You feel so good milking my cock, but I’m not done with you yet.” With that, he pushed another inch into you, making you shriek in surprise, your body wracked with violent tremors at the feeling in your oversensitive pussy, but he didn’t relent. “You were made for this,” he repeated, his voice taking on a dark and hungry edge as he worked his cock even deeper. “You were made to take demon cock inside your tight little cunt—and you were made to take demon seed inside your human womb and be bred by a demon.”

The Winter Soldier’s words should have worried or scared you, but they only turned you on more. You moaned unintelligible gibberish, legs spreading wider, knees lifting higher to take his cock deeper inside you in an invitation to do exactly as he said. Your hands clung to his massive biceps, nails digging into his skin while you nodded your head fervently. You didn’t know where the desire came from to let this demon, the one called the Winter Soldier, breed you, but you were defenseless against the need inside you.

“Master, please, please breed me,” you begged, the words slipping from your lips before you’d scarcely thought them. They felt right on your tongue, like it was only natural for you to want a demon to breed you. “Master, master, master, please, knock me up, breed me with your seed,” you said, whimpering and moaning as you stared up into the demon’s eyes.

“Perfect pet,” the Winter Soldier praised, his eyes darkening as he stared down at you, stroking your face with his claw-tipped hand. “I’m going to fill you up with my come until my seed takes in your precious little womb, and then I’m going to watch as you swell with my child—my perfect little breeding witch.” 

With a growling grunt, the demon buried his cock into your cunt to the hilt, shoving the rest of his length into your body. A scream wrenched free from your lips at the sharp, searing pain of your body taking his entire cock deeper than was humanly possible, but the sting was soon replaced by pleasure beyond any you’d ever felt.

Your body went limp in your demon master’s arms, your head rolling back on your shoulders and your tongue lolling out of your mouth. It was like the demon’s cock had flipped a switch inside you and you were left completely mindless, only able to bask in the unimaginable bliss he delivered unto your body. Your mouth made soft babbling sounds, but otherwise you were nothing more than a boneless toy for the Winter Soldier to use for his own pleasure.

“That’s it, little witch,” the demon growled, pulling out until only the tip of his monstrous cock was still inside you. A gentle keening sound escaped your mouth and the creature chuckled. “Give me your submission and I’ll fuck you just like you’ve always dreamed—like you’re nothing more than my tight, warm cocksleeve.”

Another sharp cry fled your lips when he used his grip on your waist to pull you down onto his cock, filling you up all over again, making your body shudder with pleasure. You were distantly aware that his cock never should’ve fit all the way inside your pussy, but he was buried inside you to the hilt and it felt too good to question. The tingling throughout your body persisted and, if you had to guess, you suspected some kind of magic was at work allowing you to take the creature’s full length.

“Fuck, you feel so good, pet,” the Winter Soldier purred, using your body like a fleshlight as he worked you up and down his cock. “You were made to please me, and you’re doing so well—taking your master’s cock so fucking deep.” He groaned loudly, the sound so deep and delicious, it made your body clench with desire. “I can feel your womb, pet,” he rumbled, fucking you faster on his cock, driving your pleasure higher and higher. “Your cervix is sucking on my cock, begging for my seed, little witch.” His voice was little more than a growl as he fucked you furiously. “Do you want it? Do you want my demon seed inside your sweet little human womb?”

You couldn’t do anything but babble mindlessly, too far gone with pleasure as he fucked you, but you tried to nod your head to show that you wanted it. You wanted it so badly, to be filled with your demon master’s come, to carry his child, to give your body over to him and be his perfect breeding pet. 

The demon chuckled as you struggled to answer his questions, fucking you harder when he saw you nod your head. “Good pet,” he purred, his balls, big and heavy, slapping against your ass with every thrust. “It’s been so long since anyone’s summoned me, I’ve got plenty of come for you, little witch,” he rasped, his own desire evident in his voice. “I’ll fill you up until your womb is full and bloated with my come,” he promised, bouncing you furiously on his cock while you both groaned at the feeling. “And then I’ll keep you plugged with my cock so none can leak out.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh,” you mumbled, the closest thing you could get to real words. You wanted to show him how much you wanted what he was saying. It called to something deep in you that you’d never looked at very closely, but the thought of being bred by your demon was too good, and it only drove your pleasure higher, pushing you closer to your release. 

“Ready, little witch?” the Winter Soldier huffed, fucking you harder, rutting into you as he chased his release. You could feel his cock twitching inside you, and you shivered, nodding your head as quickly as you could. The demon grinned wickedly, his tail slipping between your thighs to rub your clit ruthlessly while he pounded into you. “Take my come, little witch, take your demon master’s seed deep in that tight little cunt, let me flood your womb.” He grunted, burying his cock deep inside you, his length throbbing as you felt him begin to release.

You came at the first spurt of his seed, your vision going black for a moment as overwhelming pleasure washed over you. Your whole body clenched tight as a piercing scream spilled from your mouth. You dug your nails into the demon’s biceps hard enough to nearly draw blood, your hips jerking and pressing down on his cock, rubbing against his tail on your clit, as you rode out your orgasm.

The Winter Soldier groaned like he was being tortured as you both writhed together, drawing out your orgasms while he flooded your pussy with his come. There was so much that your lower belly felt heavy with it and when you glanced down, you saw a bulge in your body that could only be from the amount of come the demon had pumped into you. Your pussy fluttered with another minor orgasm at the sight, and you let out a breathless moan. The demon grunted, thrusting into you shallowly, like he was making sure he’d milked every drop inside you.

After long moments of reveling in your pleasure together, the demon slumped, his arms wrapping around your lower body to hold you cradled against his chest. With a contented sigh, he turned until his back was to the wall and then slid down, holding you carefully so no part of your bared skin scraped against the rough stone of the wall or the floor. You relaxed against his massive chest, trying to catch your breath.

For a long time, you lay like that, your much smaller body sprawled across the expansive chest of the demon you’d summoned. His cock was softening inside you, but still filled you to the point of being nearly uncomfortable. You enjoyed the feeling of being connected to him, and you didn’t want to ever move. You were so content and sated, you let yourself dream about spending the rest of your life in your demon’s arms.

The Winter Soldier seemed happy as well. He purred beneath you, his hands and the tip of his tail stroking up and down your spine comfortingly. Occasionally, he dragged his claws over your skin in a way that made you shiver. He chuckled whenever you trembled, enjoying the way your body reflexively clenched down on his cock. Then his hands would go back to soothing over your body, groping your ass and hips possessively.

Slowly, you regained control of your limbs and your breathing evened out, but you stayed where you were, content to lay on the Winter Soldier as long as he’d allow. The tingling that you’d felt since the demon began leaking precum into your pussy began to ebb, and you felt something strange—something new—at the base of your spine and at your temples. You tensed with confusion, not sure what was happening to your body, and the demon grunted when your walls clenched down hard on his cock.

“Something wrong, little witch?” he rumbled in a soft, sleepy voice. You didn’t have a chance to truly appreciate the sweetness of the demon’s sleepy voice because the sensations in your body were so strange, they were making you worry for the first time since you’d entered the room beneath the abandoned church. 

“I feel weird,” you said, pushing yourself up and reaching behind you to touch your lower back, just before the rise of your ass. Your fingers connected with the base of a tail that hadn’t been there before and you gasped. “I have a tail,” you said in a quiet, wondrous tone. Turning to look over your shoulder, you ran your fingers along the new blood-red appendage, shivering at the sensation. The tail was sensitive even to your own touch and your stroking fingers had you quivering with need. 

The Winter Soldier’s own tail curled around your back and came to twine with yours, making you shudder and suck in a sharp breath, your nipples tightening into stiff peaks as renewed arousal flooded your pussy. The demon groaned, then caught your chin between his fingers, turning your face to him. “You really didn’t read the fine print before you summoned me, did you, little witch?” he asked, amusement in his tone. 

When his gaze flicked to your temples and he nodded in their direction, you reached up and inspected the other spots where you’d felt the tingling sensation. You found two small horns, only a couple inches long, protruding from your hairline and pointing toward the back of your head. “I have horns!” you exclaimed, a little bit of excitement in your tone at the new additions to your body. But then the Winter Soldier’s words finally sank in and you refocused on him, your brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, what do you mean about the fine print?”

“You summoned a breeding demon, little witch,” he explained, gesturing to himself with one hand, an amused smirk on his lips. “Since humans aren’t meant to take a demon’s cock, our come changes your body to accomodate for our size,” he said, swatting your ass lightly and making you clench down on him again, highlighting just how big he was and how impossible it was that he’d buried the entirety of his cock inside you. He was getting hard inside you, his length thickening and stretching you to the point that you barely heard his next words. “And there can be certain side effects,” he finished, his tail stroking yours and making you moan shamelessly.

Your hips rocked on the Winter Soldier’s cock, and it took some effort to refocus on the conversation, worry seeping back into your chest as a thought occurred to you. “Is it permanent?” you asked in a shaky voice, wondering how on earth you were going to explain your new horns and tail to Natasha, let alone everyone else in your life.

The Winter Soldier leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing against the base of one of your little horns. “No, pet,” he murmured, a tinge of regret in his tone. “The summoning isn’t permanent, so neither are the side effects.”

“Oh,” you said, inexplicably disappointed by that revelation. However, you realized there might be another way your body could change from your coupling with the demon. “But what about your seed—if humans can’t normally take demons, can I get pregnant from you?”

The Winter Soldier grinned, pressing his hand down on the little bulge in your tummy where his come still filled your womb. You moaned, your mind going hazy with arousal, but you shook your head, giving him a sharp look and waving your hand in a circle to encourage him to explain. 

“No, little witch, my seed won’t really take in your womb,” he said, a smirk on his lips. He seemed to enjoy torturing you with pleasure just as much as he enjoyed your antics. “Not unless you complete the breeding spell.” 

Your eyes flicked to the ancient book on the lectern, wondering if you should try to find that spell. But then you shook the thought from your head, looking back to your demon. Amusement danced in his eyes, a deep hunger lingering beneath it that made you squirm on his cock. “What happens to you when the summoning spell ends—and how long does it last?” you asked, wondering how much more time you had with the Winter Soldier.

His hands came up to grip your hips, helping you grind on his cock while he answered your questions. “I’ll go back to where I came from—the underworld,” he said, a little sadness in the rasp of his voice. “But we have a few hours yet.” 

You whined unhappily at that, planting your hands on his abdomen as you rolled your hips, rocking on his hard length. He felt so good inside you that you never wanted him to leave. The knowledge that the spell would eventually end and he’d have to go back to the underworld filled you with a desperate anguish, compelling you to ride his cock faster.

“Haven’t had you fill of demon cock yet, little witch?” the demon teased, sitting up and tilting your face so he could press a searing kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, you were embarrassed to realize tears were slipping down your cheeks. Emotions were a tangle in your chest, making your heart and throat feel tight.

“I’ll never get enough of you, master,” you said softly, reaching up and cupping your demon’s face in your hands. You stared deeply into his eyes as you confessed, “I don’t want you to leave me.” Your words cut off as you choked back a sob, trying to swallow the sound and letting out a desperate little whimper instead. 

“Oh, my perfect little witch, I don’t want to leave you, either,” he cooed, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips before dragging them across your cheek and whispering an important secret into your ear. 

Your heart warmed at the Winter Soldier’s murmured words, feeling overcome with something that felt an awful lot like the first blooming glory of love. You knew it was preposterous, but it was how you felt, and you wouldn’t let your doubts ruin the moment.

When the demon had told you what you needed to know, he captured your lips in fierce kiss, both of you pouring your burgeoning emotions into the slide of your mouths and the stroking of your tongues. You knew you were playing with even more fire by falling in love with a demon, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to worry or fear for your wellbeing. Somehow, you knew you were safe giving your heart to the demon.

You knew, somewhere deep down inside you, that you were meant to be with the Winter Soldier. Everything that had happened that night—the calling you’d felt to the church and the book and the spell—it had all been leading you to him and you weren’t going to ignore fate when it was making itself so clearly known. So you gave yourself freely to him. His kiss felt like accepting your fate and when he finally pulled away, gazing into your eyes with endless affection written plainly across his face, you knew you’d never regret it. 

With a newfound intensity settling over the both of you, your demon settled back against the rough stone wall, letting you take control of your pleasure as you rode him the best you could. It was difficult because of how wide his hips were, but he seemed to enjoy watching you struggle. You huffed and moaned, rising up and sinking back down on his massive cock, your ass slapping against his thick thighs, but you whined when you couldn’t go fast enough, your strength nothing compared to the Winter Soldier’s. 

Finally, he gave in and helped you, lifting you up and lowering you down on his cock until you could do nothing but shatter apart with your release. He grunted and spilled inside you, dumping even more of his seed into your womb. Before either of you could fully recover, the Winter Soldier picked you up and bent you over on your hands and knees, rutting into you until you came again, milking even more come from his balls. He growled praises in your ear all the while.

By the time you had to bid farewell to your demon, you were so sore and full of come, you knew you’d be feeling him for days. Even still, the thought of saying goodbye to the Winter Soldier filled you with sadness, not wanting to go back to your world, but knowing you couldn’t go with him to the underworld—he’d told you humans couldn’t survive in the toxic realm.   

The demon helped you back into your torn clothes as best he could, pulling the shreds of your sweater around your shoulders to hide your nakedness as much as possible. Your tail poked out from beneath the hem of your sweater, stroking against the demon’s while he gave you one last lingering kiss. With a reassuring smile and a reminder of what he’d whispered in your ear, the Winter Soldier stepped back into the summoning circle and disappeared in a plume of smoke.

When you finally tugged the door to the room open, you found Natasha asleep against the wall beside it, the pale violet light of sunrise spilling into the basement of the abandoned church. You shook your friend awake and helped her to stand, the two of you making your way out of the church and back to her car. 

As you settled into your seats, Natasha looked over at you, taking in your appearance for the first time. Her sharp green gaze took in your shredded clothes, the grin clinging to the edges of your mouth and the ancient tome you clutched to your chest. Thankfully, the tail and horns had already disappeared. 

Natasha heaved a huge sigh, shaking her head at you even as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “I take it you had fun with the demon you summoned,” she said teasingly. You could tell from the warmth in her tone that she was genuinely happy for you, even if she was a little annoyed she’d had to wait so long for you. 

“It was,” you said, buckling your seatbelt over the book so it was strapped to your chest. You clung to it tightly, knowing it was the key to seeing your demon again. Natasha eyed the book out of the corner of her eye as she began driving away from the church.

“Are you going to summon him again?” she asked when you didn’t elaborate on your time with the demon.

“Yep,” you answered simply, grinning at your friend. 

She laughed good-naturedly. “I guess that demon dick is out of this world then,” she quipped, shaking her head a little before cutting her eyes to you. “D’you think he has a demon friend for me?” she asked jokingly as she turned onto the road that would lead you both home to your shared apartment. 

Stroking the leather-bound tome idly, you smiled and stared out the windshield, already crafting a plan for the next time you’d be able to see your demon again. “I don’t know, but I can ask if you really want,” you said distractedly, watching the sun crest the horizon as Halloween dawned over Natasha’s car.

A short silence filled the vehicle, both of you thinking hard about what you wanted for your futures. “Let me think about it,” Nat said after a while. You hummed in acknowledgement, creating a list of what you needed and what you planned to do to achieve the future you wanted with the Winter Soldier.

-~-~-

One year later on the eve of the next Halloween, you stood in the basement of the home you’d purchased for this exact reason. In the months since you first summoned your demon, you’d repeated the spell as often as you could manage, having to return to the abandoned church to make use of the small room. The Winter Soldier would grin each time he’d see you, then proceed to fuck and defile you until you were both spent, before discussing your plans for your shared future.

While you’d enjoyed your nights with your demon, it was finally time for something more permanent. You’d spent the year practicing your witchcraft, reading through the book of spells, and using what the demon had told you that first night to craft a more permanent summoning spell. Excitement crackled through your nerves as you stood behind the lectern you’d taken from the church and set up in your basement beside the summoning circle you’d recreated.

When everything was ready, you started reading the latin of the spell you’d crafted from scratch, feeling the power of the magic flowing through you and swirling around the room with an unnatural wind. Smoke began to seep through your basement floor and, as you came to the conclusion of the spell, you used your demon’s true name—James Buchanan Barnes—to summon him one final time. The smoke filled the basement and then cleared, leaving your demon standing in the circle, a wide happy grin on his handsome face.

You abandoned the tome on the lectern and launched yourself into your demon’s arms. He caught you easily and lifted you off your feet, spinning you around in circles as you both laughed happily, the sounds filling your basement.

“Welcome home, Jamie,” you murmured into his neck. Your face was buried against his throat, inhaling the comforting and familiar scent of him.

“Thank you, little witch,” he whispered into the crown of your head, a rumbling purr sounding in his chest. As he stepped free of the summoning circle, your demon’s body began to change, shrinking and morphing into a more human-like appearance. 

You’d learned that demons possessed some shapeshifting magic, and Bucky had worked on strengthening his skill so he could pass for human for as long as he wanted. By the time he’d climbed the steps up from the basement, he was the same size as a tall human, his claws, horns, tail and blood-red skin having disappeared entirely. When you pulled back from your hug, he looked like a man—but he was still your Jamie. 

His sparkling gaze was your only warning before he swooped down and captured your lips in kiss. It turned heated quickly since both of you were excited to see the other. But before you got carried away and let Bucky fuck you on the floor of the kitchen, you insisted on giving him a tour of the house you’d bought for your life together. 

It turned out that Bucky had amassed a great deal of wealth in gold during his long life, and it had been more than enough for you to buy a cozy house. You hadn’t filled it with much beyond the essentials, and together you both talked excitedly about how you wanted to decorate your home.

Once you reached the second floor, you led him to an empty room down the hall from the master bedroom. You stood in the doorway, with Bucky behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on the crown of your head while you rattled off all the ways you could use the room, like as an office or a library. 

“I think this would be the perfect room for our child, don’t you, little witch?” he asked once you’d finished, somehow knowing what you really wanted to use the room for, even as you’d skipped over it. Of course, Bucky knew. He always knew. 

You looked up over your shoulder at your demon from under your lashes, giving him a shy smile. “It would be a perfect bedroom for a child,” you agreed. Bucky squeezed you in his arms and stole a quick kiss.

He lingered with his nose brushing teasingly against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Can’t wait to fill this house with our hellspawn, little witch,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet. 

In your chest, your heart raced excitedly, your slit going damp between your thighs. “Let’s start tonight, Jamie,” you said eagerly, rising up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. 

Bucky rumbled a pleased growl, then spun you in his arms and ducked to toss you easily over his shoulder. “You know I’m always more than happy to oblige you, little witch,” he rumbled, laughter in his voice. You squealed as he prowled down the hall to your bedroom, morphing back into his demon form. He threw you onto the massive king-size bed then made quick work of closing the blinds and blackout curtains, ensuring no nosy neighbors would be able to see you being fucked by Bucky in his true, monstrous form. 

You stripped off your clothes and lay on the bed, your thighs spread wide for your demon. Your hand trailed down between your legs, shoving three fingers into your sopping wet hole and getting a head start on preparing your tight pussy for his massive cock. No matter how many times you fucked your demon, you were still so tight it made both your heads spin when he pushed inside you.

Looming at the foot of the bed, Bucky grinned wickedly down at you, his glittering blue eyes raking over your naked body. He pumped his cock in one hand, climbing onto the bed and moving to cover your much smaller body. When he was close enough, you reached for his cock, collecting the first bead of his precum with your finger and bringing it to your mouth. You moaned as you felt the tingling begin, your demon’s come working its magic on your body.

“Jamie, please, I need you,” you whined when you’d pulled your fingers from your mouth. He chuckled, pushing your hand from between your thighs and replacing your fingers with three of his own. You whimpered at the stretch, your hips rising to meet the shallow thrusts of his hand.

“I’ll never get enough of this perfect cunt, little witch,” Jamie growled as he worked your pussy open as quickly as he could manage. He knew your body so well by that point that he knew exactly how to stretch you with his fingers and get you ready for his cock. It wasn’t long before you were writhing and begging for him, but he wouldn’t relent just yet. “Tell me who you belong to, tell me who owns your cunt, your heart, your soul,” he demanded in a rough growl.

“You, Jamie,” you cried obediently, but when he only pounded into you harder with his fingers, you knew what he really wanted. “I belong to James Buchanan Barnes—my heart, my soul, my cunt is yours, master!” The words flew from your lips easily because you knew they were absolutely true. 

Bucky hummed a pleased sound, removing his fingers from your cunt and pressing the tip of his cock to your dripping hole. “So good for me, little witch, the perfect pet—the perfect mate,” he praised, pushing his cock into you as fast as he could. You moaned and clung to his massive form, eyes rolling back in your head. He grinned down as he watched pleasure contort your face. 

“Jamie—master, please,” you cried, wanting more of his cock buried inside you. As he always did, Bucky obliged you, working his cock into your cunt until you felt like you were being split open by his thick length. When he was fully sheathed inside you, you both breathed a sigh of happy relief. “S’good, Jamie, s’good,” you slurred, your mind lost to the pleasure as you lay limply beneath Bucky, ready to be used as his perfect little toy.

“My little witch,” he rumbled, affection and love clear in his voice. You mewled as he pulled out of your tight channel, making him chuckle at your pathetic little sound. He shoved back inside, spearing you with his monstrous cock and wrenching a piercing cry from your lips. 

Bucky fucked you so perfectly you could cry at how fulfilled you felt. After a year of only seeing his sporadically, your feelings for him growing just as much as his did for you, it was wonderful to finally have him and know there was no limit on your time together. You were finally truly together and you were excited to make the most of it.

You and your demon settled into a rhythm, his cock pounding you perfectly, and you couldn’t wait for Bucky to fuck you through the night. You wanted him to fuck you until you passed out with exhaustion and then wake up to him fucking you until your belly was bloated with his come and you were sure his seed would take in your womb.

Brushing a kiss to your forehead, you could feel the smile on Bucky’s lips as he fucked you brutally into the bed, huffing a laugh as you whined and writhed beneath him so perfectly. In a teasing tone, he rumbled, “Aren’t you glad you read the latin?” 

That made you grin wildly, staring up at your demon with love in your eyes, seeing it reflected in his own blue gaze, and you nodded, the both of you smiling happily as you clung to your demon while he fucked you in the home you’d spend the rest of your lives in together. You knew it would be a home filled with love and laughter as your family grew to include more than the two of you. 

Yes, you were certainly very glad you ignored Natasha’s warning on that Halloween eve and read the latin since it had led you to your happily ever after with your demon.

[danzer8705]

This was so incredibly perfect!!!!!!!

[halfbloodprincess23]

One of my fav Snamione tropes. Just let her love you, Severus!! 😅

[plaguedocboi]

I hate the “open floor plan” that everyone is obsessed with in houses now. I want nooks and crannies and bizarre floor plans. I don’t need to be able to see what someone is doing on the other side of the house. I want places to hide and lurk and dwell in the shadows. I am the beast who awaits in the labyrinth

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[bitcheshelp]

a spin on a classic

[midnightwinterhawk]

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

How’s Your Head? | Bucky Barnes x Reader

This has been in my WIP forever and I finally finished it. Once again, I am looking for a soft, kind, Bucky Barnes to take care of me and flirt with me. Is that so much to ask?🥲

This is slightly longer than my usual stuff, just FYI. The WC is 7280. And yes the title is a Drag Race reference. 😂

Warnings: reader injury (not severe), creepy men (jail), blood, vomit, flirting, fluff🫶

Bucky didn’t like the staring. The eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. The old woman just a few seats down from him leered at him almost aggressively, like she hoped looks could kill. And though this was a common occurrence, it still rubbed him the wrong way.

“Another adoring fan…” Bucky thought. 

He shifted side to side along with the rocking of the subway car and did his best to ignore her gaze- but couldn’t stand it any longer. He gave her a nod and a small, forced smile before heading for the adjoining subway car. Hopefully, he’d find an empty seat free from gawkers and onlookers.

But when he opened the door to the next car, he didn’t find the peace and quiet he’d hoped for.

“I’m not interested…” you said to the creepy guy sitting next to you.

“Oh, come on,” the man insisted. “Don’t be so uptight, sugar.” He rested a hand on your thigh and gave your leg a squeeze, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Fuck off, dude. Seriously?” You banished his hand and stood from your seat, “eat glass, asshole.”

But as you tried to make your getaway, the man grabbed you by the wrist. He pulled you close as you struggled in his grip, his face only inches from yours. “Maybe you should learn some fuckin’ manners,” he threw you to the ground, your head striking the floor.

Bucky flew into a blind rage. He made quick work of your assailant, nearly removing the man’s head from his body. And with the entitled dickhead desperately escaping to another subway car, Bucky made his way to your side. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

You sat on the floor, slightly dazed. A thick fog settled into every corner of your mind and your ears stung with a sharp ringing. “Yeah, I’m good. Didn’t hurt that bad,” you lied. Yet another interaction with an unknown man. Yes, he’d shooed away your creeper, but you wanted to be left alone. No more strange men, no more men pretending to be “one of the good guys” before showing their true self. 

If you could convince this random guy that you were okay, maybe he wouldn’t bother you. Maybe you’d be able to make it home without being touched by another strange hand. “Thanks for asking, but I’m-”

“Oh- you’re bleeding”. Only then did you notice the rush of warmth running down the back of your neck. Bucky yanked the jacket from his body and reached for your bloodied skull before quickly recoiling. “Erm, can I?” 

You nodded- the motion made you wince.

With cautious hands, he used his jacket to hold pressure to your wound. He stared down at you with genuine concern, his brow furrowed with worry. 

After a few moments, most of the fog cleared and brought you screeching back to reality. The reality in which a man you’d never met held his jacket to your bleeding scalp as you sat on the floor of a subway car. Pain pulsed beneath his touch and shot through your head. Warm blood dripped down your neck. But you didn’t care- all you wanted was to move.

Bucky watched as you struggled to get up and instantly tried to stop you. “Hey, careful. I don’t think-”

“I don’t wanna be on this floor any longer than I have to,” you did your best to stand, but the dizziness sabotaged your efforts. “People do weird shit on the train. I’d probably sitting in someone’s pee.” 

Bucky gave it a thought and instantly reconsidered his cautioning. “Ew. Yeah. You’re right,” the disgusted look on his face nearly made you laugh out loud. He thought back on all the questionable and downright nasty things he’d seen on the subway- he didn’t want you on that floor. “May I?” He offered you his free hand and got you safely into a seat. 

“Which stop is yours?” He asked, settling into the chair next to you. And though he seemed like a perfect gentleman, you gave him a suspicious glance. 

“Oh- I didn’t mean that in a ‘where do you live, I’m gonna follow you home’ type of way. More like, ‘how many stops do you have left before you can go get some rest?’ type of way”

You let out a laugh that sent pain pulsing behind your eyes. Maybe this stranger wasn’t so bad. “Um, I still have like five to go. I think. I’m coming all the way from Coney Island.” 

“Coney Island, huh?” A rush of memories hit Bucky like a train. Riding the cyclone with Steve and watching him puke. Spending all his money to win a stuffed animal for some redhead he had a crush on. 

“Yeah, I got to hang out with a girl I know from college. Haven’t seen her in a while and she’s never been out there. It was actually a pretty great day until that asshole cracked my head open…”

Bucky grimaced. He pulled his jacket from your scalp to give the wound another look, only to be greeted by a continuous flow of blood. “I think you should probably go to the ER. You might need stitches. And there’s a good chance you have a concussion.” 

You shot him only a nonchalant shrug, “I’m not worried about it. Plus, I don’t feel like going into debt so they can give me two Tylenol and an ice pack”.

Bucky liked your sense of humor, your wit. How you could be cheeky and sarcastic after being accosted surprised him. But he clocked the tension in your shoulders, the worry in your eyes. You were uneasy. Your glance darted from one end of the subway car to the other every few seconds; he knew you had to be searching for your assailant. Or the next man who wanted to touch you without permission.

“Hey, would you rather take a cab home?” Bucky said, pulling you from your anxious spiral. “I don’t blame you if you don’t want to ride the train after what happened.”

“Oh, um…”

“I’m not inviting myself home with you-” Bucky shook his head. He was cute when he got flustered. “I just mean, I’ll pay for you to take a cab if you’re uncomfortable.”

How you seemed to meet both the bottom of the barrel and the crème de le crème of men back-to-back nearly gave you whiplash. But this handsome stranger had done enough; you couldn’t let him pay for your ride home. “That’s- wow, that’s really sweet. But you don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“What if I want to? You seem uneasy… like you’re waiting for him to come back.”

You nodded.

“Then let’s get you a cab, alright? Next stop, we’re outta here.” He shot you a wink before once again reassuring you that he was not going to follow you home. “Is there someone who can keep an eye on you, though? Like I said, you probably have a concussion. And if your roommate or, um, significant other can sit with you for the rest of the night, that would be a good idea. Head injuries are no joke.”

“Well, I don’t have a significant other,” you almost laughed. “And my roommate’s out of town. She was supposed to get back around sevenish, but her flight got crazy delayed because of weather- now she’s not getting home for a few hours.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He checked his watch and saw that it was only 8:04pm. He needed someone to sit with you for the rest of the night. Just in case something happened, you’d need a friend or loved one by your side. And if you didn’t have someone there with you, Bucky knew he’d spend the remainder of his evening worrying about the cute stranger he met on the train. 

Just then, the subway stopped. Bucky offered you his arm and guided you onto the platform and up the stairs- all while keeping his jacket in place against your wound. Getting away from the train eliminated your unease. No longer were you trapped in the tiny space, your blood staining the floor. You had an escort in the form of a good samaritan, and a ride that would get you home without any further abuse.

 But when Bucky hailed you a cab, your anxiety resurfaced.

“Hey, um…” you eyed the car as it approached, “Would you- do you mind riding with me?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side. 

“I don’t know- I’m just a little nervous and I don’t really wanna be in a cab alone with another random man,” you said. “I know it’s probably inconvenient for you- I’ll pay for your ride home from my place.” The taxi neared the curb and stopped in front of you, sending your unease into overdrive. “Do you mind?”

Bucky clocked your wide eyes and shaking hands. Sure, you made jokes and sarcastic quips about what happened. But deep down, you were shaken. And he wanted to help in any way he could. “Not at all- I get it,” he gave you a reassuring look, “and you don’t have to pay for my ride. Let’s just get you home, alright?”

He held the door open for you and helped you into the cab before sliding in behind you- his hand still attached to your bloody skull. The ride was quiet, save for the honking of horns and cursing drivers. But having Bucky with you for the duration eased your discomfort. 

“So, is there anyone you can call to come look after you?” Bucky asked after a while, “A friend, a neighbor, a family member?”

“I don’t really have any friends,” you said. “But not in a ‘I’m a loser and can’t make friends’ kind of way, I promise.” Bucky laughed. You liked his laugh. “I’m just still kinda new here. And all my family lives in across the country. Plus, I only know two of my neighbors. One of them is an old man who always tell me my skin looks ‘so soft’-”

Bucky’s nose wrinkled, “Ew…"

“Yeah. And the other is this girl who told me to shut the fuck up because she thinks my footsteps are too loud? So yeah, I don’t have many connections here yet.”

He sensed a little embarrassment staining your words and aimed to make you feel better, “Well I’ve lived here for quite some time, and I don’t have any friends, either.” 

That didn’t seem possible to you. He was so likable. Quiet, yet endearing. And certainly, a gentleman. He made you feel safe. You wondered how his girlfriend would react when she found out he took another woman home. 

Bucky found himself wondering how you didn’t have swaths of friends. Even after your harrowing experience on the train, you were so charming. Funny. Sweet. It was even harder for him to believe you didn’t have a love interest to go home to. But after what he’d witnessed tonight, he didn’t blame you for keeping to yourself. 

“What part of town do you live in?” You did your best to conceal the optimism in your voice, the hoped that he lived close by. It was embarrassing how smitten you were with this man.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky said. “I’ve lived there for a while- save for some years I spent, um, away.”

Brooklyn. Nothing a quick train ride couldn’t solve. Though you weren’t too keen on the subway after the night’s events. “Well, tell your girlfriend that I apologize for keeping you so long.”

“I don’t have one,” Bucky said. Things inside the cab fell quiet.

“Oh. Well, do you-” you second guessed yourself, but decided to push through. “Do you want to stay with me until my roommate gets home? You know, since you’re so worried about me and my possible concussion and my lack of friends.”

Bucky stopped breathing. “Oh, um. Sure. Yeah. If that’s- if that’s alright. You sure you’re okay inviting a stranger into your house?”

“Well, you’re not really a stranger, Sergeant Barnes”. You shot him a wink.

An immediate ringing filled Bucky’s ears. He didn’t know what to say, how to react.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Bucky’s mind echoed with the sound of your voice referring to him by name. He liked the way it sounded coming from you. But he hated that you knew who- and what- he was. And when the cab turned onto your street and stopped in front of your apartment, he nearly panicked. He reconsidered his agreement to stay with you. But you didn’t seem to mind having the ex-Winter Soldier so close. And he didn’t want you to be alone with a head injury.

Against his better judgement, he followed you to the front door of your building. 

“My great aunt actually lived here back in the fifties,” you told Bucky as you fumbled for your keys. Bucky wondered how you could tell casual stories while dealing with a head injury and an ex-assassin. But as you continued to speak, he realized that he didn’t quite hear what you’d said. He was still reeling from your mention of his name. 

And then he noticed you struggling. You were dizzy after cracking your head open, and a slight shaking rendered your hands almost useless. No matter how many times you tried, you couldn’t seem to finagle the key into the lock. 

“Um, do you want some help?” He gestured to your keys and allowed you to drop them into his free hand. He pushed the old door open with a loud creak and escorted you inside the lobby- his hand still resting on the back of your head. It was quiet while the two of you waited for the ancient elevator to roar to life. And when the doors finally opened, he guided you inside and watched you press the ‘5’ button.

“So… how’d you know it was me?” He asked as the elevator slowly climbed to your floor.

“Well, when I first saw you, I thought you looked kinda familiar. But I couldn’t place you”. You laughed a quiet, bashful laugh, “Then you knelt down next to me, and I thought I was gonna pass out- but not from the head trauma. You just you have like, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.” The head injury had you a bit loopy, a little too honest. Too confident. “I knew I’d seen those eyes before… and then it clicked. You were so chivalrous, you know? So old fashioned. I mean, who uses their own jacket to stop a stranger’s head wound from bleeding?” 

Bucky shrugged. His cheeks flushed pink.

“I read a book a few years ago about Captain America and his efforts during World War II. And there was a huge portion about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes… And that’s where I’d seen those eyes.” You flashed him a dramatic wink, “Truth be told, it was my favorite part of the book.”

A shy laugh made its way out of Bucky’s mouth, “Is that so?”

The elevator lurched to a stop and nearly sent you tumbling to the floor. You’d gotten used to the clunky machine since moving into the building, but your sabotaged equilibrium didn’t stand a chance against it. Bucky caught you in a careful, protective grasp before you could tip over. He gently righted you and searched your face for any indicators of discomfort. 

“You alright?”

“All good, Sergeant Barnes.” You gave him a salute.

He rolled his eyes and escorted you into the hall, “you can just call me Bucky, if you like.”

“Okay, Bucky-” you said with a smile, “follow me.” You lead him in the direction of your apartment- with his jacket still plastered to your scalp. The man was determined to help you. You’d give him that.

You once again needed his assistance when it came to unlocking your front door. But when Bucky got the door open, he just stood there. He didn’t go inside. He held the door for you and insisted you go ahead, finally peeling the jacket from your wound. He knew he didn’t belong here.

You noticed how tentative he was about entering your home and beckoned him inside. “You can come in…” you said. “Are super soldiers like vampires? Do y’all need an invitation?”

Bucky laughed, “No. I just… I don’t do this kind of thing very often.”

“Oh, you don’t accompany injured women home from the subway on a weekly basis? I’m shocked.”

You flipped on the light and let the warm glow reveal your apartment. Bucky admired the art covering your walls, the books lining your shelves, the smell of some kind of baked goods lingering in the air. This place was cozy, welcoming. Nothing like his apartment.

While he was distracted drinking in the details of your home, you gave his jacket a once over. Blood coated the leather and smeared the lining. It was enough to make you nauseous.  “Sorry about this mess… here, let me clean it up for-”

“It’s leather- I’m not worried about it,” Bucky shrugged. “I’ll just wipe it off later.”

“Ew, I think that’s considered a biohazard, Sarge.”

Bucky’s laugh echoed through your home- you liked the sound of his voice bouncing around your space. “Well, lucky for me, I’m not susceptible to biohazards. So, really, it’s not a big deal.” He shot you a wink and hung his bloody jacket on the back of a chair. “Let me take a look at your head.”

He gently moved your hair out of the way enough to expose your wound. He was as careful as he possible not to hurt you or make things worse. And using the dish towel you offered him, he wiped away enough blood to get a good look. 

“It’s big, but not deep enough to warrant stitches. And it looks like the bleeding has finally come to a stop.” 

“Perfect. I’m gonna go take a shower” you said. “Make yourself at home. You’re welcome to anything in the fridge, except the kombucha. My roommate will murder you if you drink her kombucha.”

Bucky didn’t even know what kombucha was. “Are- are you sure you wanna go shower?”

“Um, yeah. Gotta get the subway-floor germs off me,” you gave a dramatic shudder. “Some of us are, indeed, susceptible to biohazards.”

“That’s fair,” he laughed, “I’m just a little worried about your balance… I think it’s probably seen better days.”

He wasn’t wrong. The floor did indeed seem to dip and shift under you unsuspecting feet. The room spun on occasion. The walls wiggled. But you needed to get cleaned up. “I’ll be extra careful. Promise.” You offered him your pinky and made him link his with yours. “But I have more blood in my hair than anyone should- I need a shower.” You left Bucky alone in your living room with a promise to be back soon.

It was strange for him, being in a stranger’s home like this. He didn’t get invited places or have friends to hang out with. He had Sam- and that was it. And while Sam was great, he never felt quite like this at Sam’s apartment. Something about your place warmed him, made him feel a little lighter. Or maybe it was you. Who was he kidding? Of course, it was you.

But Bucky knew this feeling couldn’t last. In a few hours, your roommate would return and send him home. And that would be the end of it. Of course, he’d be thrilled to see you again under better circumstances. But assuming he’d get that chance would only lead to disappointment. And so, as he waited for you to finish your shower, he did his best to remember this feeling just in case it was the last time.

“I said make yourself at home and you didn’t even sit down!” you said when you emerged from the bathroom. You found Bucky in the living room with his hands in his pockets, admiring your things as though he were in a museum. Looking, never touching. “Relax a little, sarge. The couch is really comfy, I promise.”

Bucky liked the way you looked with your skin still slightly damp form the shower, your hair wet and a little messy. “Oh, yeah- I just got distracted looking at all your…” he gestured to your bookcase, “your books and your tchotchkes. You have good taste- I like that you have two copies of Fellowship of the Ring.”

“Well, my sister dropped one of them in the lake at summer camp when we were kids…” you pointed to the faded cover and worn spine of the book in question. “She took a hairdryer to it and it’s mostly fine, but my mom made her get me a replacement. I just can’t seem to part with this one, though.” You plucked your water-damaged copy of Fellowship of the Ring from the shelf and flipped through the pages, “too much sentimental value. You know?

Bucky felt a small smile creeping upward- you didn’t mind damaged goods. Maybe you’d want to see him again after all. 

“Can I get you a drink or something? I have water, tea, La Croix, wine…” you looked at him expectantly. 

“Oh, no I’m okay-”

“Well, I’m going to the fridge for some water anyway, so you’re not saving me a trip…” you shot him a wink and began your trek to the kitchen. He followed in your footsteps, too much of a gentleman to let you fetch him a drink. And though he didn’t know what La Croix was, he took the one you offered him with a smile.

He followed you yet again, but to the couch this time. He sat a respectful distance away- as respectful as your small couch would allow- and taste tested the blackberry drink in his hand. It didn’t taste like blackberries. But he thanked you, anyway.

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to check in on you after your shower- he was too entranced by the sight of you in your pajamas. “Hey, how’s your head?”

“Haven’t had any complaints.”

Maybe it was too forward of a joke. Maybe someone from his time wouldn’t appreciate crass humor. Bucky’s cheeks flushed red- and he burst into laughter. You joined him, ignoring the throbbing pain in your skull. 

“It feels fine. I mean, it hurts, but it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before” you said. “Are you just gonna make sure I stay up all night?” 

Bucky cocked his head to the side, “uh, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh…” you grew a little embarrassed. “I thought you couldn’t go to sleep if you have a concussion.”

“You can go to sleep- it’s just good to have someone check in on you now and then,” he said. “And, hey, you don’t have to stay in here with me- don’t feel like you have to entertain me, or anything. If you wanna go to bed, I’ll be fine out here.”

“Well, I don’t know about entertaining, cause I think the concussion kinda fucked up my ability to tap dance,” you laughed. “But I wanna hang out here with you- if you don’t mind the company.”

He gave you a shy smile, “I don’t mind at all.”

Bucky wasn’t anything like the tabloids said. He wasn’t cold or scary or threatening. He sat on your couch, sipping a La Croix and admiring your throw blanket. He was the farthest thing from intimidating. He had a quiet calm about him that brought you peace. Never did you think you’d invite a man you met on the subway to accompany you home. But Bucky made you feel safe. He was sweet, he clearly cared for your well-being. He was, by all definitions, perfect.

“So, what do superheroes do in their downtime?” you asked. “Like when you’re not saving the world, what do you do for fun?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t do anything for fun. “Um, I have court mandated therapy appointments,” he gave an awkward laugh. “I read. I hang out with Sam when he’s not in Louisiana visiting his sister. And I have lunch with a neighbor of mine every Wednesday- this old man named Yori.”

“I’m sure he could say the same about you- that he has lunch with some old man named Bucky.”

Bucky’s head fell back in a laugh, “yeah, you’re right. He’s- he’s about twenty years younger than me.” Bucky didn’t bring up the fact that Yori didn’t know his real age or anything about his past. About how the Winter Soldier killed his son. “Um, what about you?” He quickly changed the subject, “what do you do for fun?”

You thought it over for a moment. You hadn’t expected him to ask; most guys never asked what you liked to do for fun. They didn’t ask you anything at all, really. “Well, I also go to therapy,” you said. “My therapist’s name is Angela and I love her. And when I’m not ‘hanging out’ with Angela, I like to read. I like to go on walks. Oh, and I do a lot of baking- there’s a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies on the island if you want some.”

Bucky’s eyes grew wide. He was off the couch quicker than you could comprehend and returned with the entire Tupperware in hand. But before he could dive in, he offered one to you. He was a gentleman, after all. 

“Oh, shit, these are so good”. Bucky wiped a stray crumb from his lip, “seriously, maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

His praise made your cheeks hot. Bucky Barnes called you ‘the best he ever had’- it was enough to make you sweat. “Oh, I’m flattered. The recipe’s been in my family for generations, though, so I can’t take full credit, but I-”

“I’m giving you full credit”, he said as he finished his second cookie. “These things are incredible.” 

You smiled so hard it hurt. “Well, I make at least one batch a week, so…” This was it, your excuse to see Bucky again. You could simply say that you wanted to bake him some cookies as a way of saying thank you, and then you’d ask him out. It was a perfect plan, really. A flawless, surefire way to guarantee that you’d see him at least once more. But as you tried to suggest baking him a ‘thank you’ batch, your mouth flooded with saliva.

Bucky clocked the way you grew suddenly quiet. He dropped his third cookie and inched closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, you okay? Do you need something?”

You did your best to push past the wave of nausea. Breathing in your nose and out through your mouth, you willed your body to cooperate. You made a valiant effort, but it was no match for the clear and present threat of vomit. This was happening- now. You scrambled to your feet and made a beeline for the bathroom, swearing to yourself you wouldn’t puke in front of the James Buchanan Barnes. 

Bucky rushed after you and found you kneeling in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. “Oh, shit- here, let me,” he carefully moved your hair out of your face, holding it behind you in an imitation ponytail. His touch was gentle, cautious. He didn’t want to pull too hard and hurt you- you didn’t need any extra pain. 

He watched your body lurch as you wretched over and over, voiding your system completely. It was harsh, almost violent. And when you finally sat back on your heels, black and white spots danced through your field of vision. You were empty. Spent. Exhausted. 

“Hey, do me a favor and sit against this wall, okay?” Bucky guided you backward until you rested comfortably like he asked. “I’m gonna go get you some water, and I don’t want you tipping over while I’m gone.” Even in your despondent, miserable state, he still made you smile. And when he was certain that you wouldn’t injure yourself in his absence, he rushed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

He returned moments later with ice cold water in hand. “Thanks,” you croaked, your throat raw. Small sips of the cool water eased the burning. And a few more swigs rid your mouth of the unpleasant aftertaste. “I’m sure you weren’t planning on watching a stranger puke tonight,” you laughed. It made your head pound. “But I appreciate the water. And you holding my hair.”

Bucky plopped down next to you with a “sure thing” and a “don’t worry about it.” But you’d heard those phrases before. You’d heard them from people who were never a sure thing, people who made you worry about everything they did for you. They’d throw their rare acts of kindness in your face and use them as ammo in an attempt to disprove the pain they caused. It was condescending. Manipulative. Hurtful.  But Bucky meant what he said. All he wanted to do was help. You could tell.

He watched you catch your breath. Watched you drink your water in small sips. But he kept an eye out for another wave of nausea. He wanted to be ready in case he needed to hold your hair again. And he found himself thanking the universe that you’d invited him in; imagining you going through this by yourself broke his heart. 

“How do you feel?” he asked after a while.

“Not the best... but I’ll probably survive.”

Bucky’s laugh filled the room, “well, that’s very good news.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence. Bucky’s hand rested near yours. Your thigh bumped against his a few times. You swore electric currents passed between the two of you each time you touched. 

“Hey, if you don’t mind, could you grab me some Tylenol?” 

Bucky was up in an instant, ready to fetch you what you needed. But he found himself lost with no idea where he was going. He was so intent on helping, on making you feel better, that he was ready to run off without a map.

“In the cabinet to the left of the fridge,” you laughed. 

He shot you a wink and sped off. And while he rummaged through your cabinet, you made an embarrassing effort to stand. You rose on wobbly legs, determined to brush your teeth. There was no way you were going to have vomit breath around Bucky- absolutely not. He was the handsome stranger of your dreams. And you couldn’t screw this up; not that you thought he’d kiss a random concussed woman he met on the subway. But you wanted to leave the very best impression possible.

Bucky came screeching own the hall, bottle of Tylenol in hand. “I didn’t know how many you wanted, so I brought the whole thing”, he shrugged. You shot him a smile in the mirror and gave him a muffled “thanks”.

He stood patiently in the doorway, waiting for you finish brushing your teeth. And when you banished the rank taste of bile, you accepted the Tylenol. You tossed back four pills, and before you could reach for your water, Bucky retrieved it for you. He was one step ahead of what you needed. 

With the pills washed down your throat, you gave Bucky an expectant look. “Back to the couch?”

“Yeah, I mean, only if you’re feeling up to it,” he checked his watch. Noticed the yawn you tried to keep concealed. “If you wanna get some rest, please, don’t mind me. You can go to bed- I’ll be fine on my own.”

“No, I’m good. I’m fine,” you took him by the hand and led him back to the living room. “I’m having a good time.” Bucky didn’t say a word; he just let you guide him. He hadn’t held hands with someone in- he didn’t know how long. And holding hands with you- a stranger he’d grown rather smitten with- was enough to stop his heart.

The two of you sunk back into the couch- closer this time- and kept the conversation going. Your thigh rested against Bucky’s; his arm curved around the back of the couch. You could’ve sworn he was playing with a piece of your hair as he talked. But you didn’t want to ask and ruin the moment.

As the night continued, Bucky was shocked. He couldn’t believe you’d only heard of a few of his favorite movies. And he’d never heard of any of yours. “Make me a list,” you said, handing him a pen and a scrap of paper. “And I’ll make one for you. A person’s favorite movies say a lot about them.” 

“Yeah?” he cocked an eyebrow at you. “And what do mine say about me? The ones you know of, that is.”

A sly smile pulled at your lips, “they say that you’re a hopeless romantic.” It almost sounded like an accusation, and Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Is that so?”

“That is so!” you told him. “But I’m gonna tell you a secret…”  You lowered your voice, beckoned him closer, scanned the room as though in search of any eavesdroppers. “I’m the same way.” 

Just as you finished your list of movies for Bucky, you considered writing down your number. It would be so smooth, so perfectly timed- but what if he thought it was too forward? What if he didn’t want your phone number at all? You scratched out your area code and handed him the list with a smile.

The two of you continued teasing and joking and learning about each other. You found out that Bucky loved peach cobbler. He learned about your passion for animals. And eventually you asked the question you’d been curious about all night.

“So, where were you headed?” 

“What?”

“Well, you were on the subway. I’m assuming you were going somewhere.” You thought he was probably going to some fellow hero’s house for Super Movie Night. Or maybe a meeting with Captain America and Company. He had something much cooler to do than anything you planned for the night, that was for sure.

“Oh, right…” he cringed. “Um, I wasn’t actually heading anywhere. I was just riding the train to, well, ride the train.” It was embarrassing. More embarrassing than anything he’d ever done or said in his hundred years of life.

You cocked your head to the side, “Hmm. Interesting. So, is that like a hobby of yours?” 

He wished he could take his answer back. He wished he would’ve said he was going to dinner. Or Target. Or literally anywhere. But no, he just had to be honest. “No, it isn’t a hobby. It’s more like… exposure therapy.”

“Shit. Sorry,” you threw him an apologetic look. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s okay, no big deal. I just- I don’t really like confined spaces. Or spaces with a lot of people. It’s a- it’s a long story.”

You nodded. 

“So, my therapist told me two combine the two and force myself to take the train- which isn’t great for my fear of trains,” he let out an awkward laugh. “Anyway, I was just trying it out. Seeing how it made me feel.”

Your heart broke for him. He had so many problems, so much trauma to deal with. And while you weren’t a psychiatrist, you didn’t think combining three of his fears into one nightmare was very sound medical advice. “And how did it make you feel?” 

“It wasn’t great- this lady was staring daggers at me for ten solid minutes. But I did get to teach that creepy guy a lesson, so at least there’s a silver lining.”

You laughed. He loved the sound- wanted to hear it all the time. 

“Thank you again, by the way, Sarge. You really rocked that guy’s shit.”

“I don’t like hurting people-” he shrugged, “It’s just something I’m good at. I try not to engage in violence unless absolutely necessary, you know? But that guy deserved it. Probably deserved a little more, but…” He gestured to you, “priorities.”

A warm rush flooded your cheeks. James Buchanan Barnes referred to you as a priority. 

The evening continued as the two of you swapped stories. You couldn’t believe how funny he was, how many ridiculous things he did back when he was young. In the comfortable safety of your living room, he came alive. You asked for more tales of young James Barnes and his antics with Steve Rogers. 

But as time passed, Bucky clocked the way you sank deeper into the couch. You nodded along with his stories and made comments here and there, but there was no mistaking your exhaustion. You leaned against his body more and more until your head rested on his shoulder. 

And then, you were asleep. Completely out. 

But Bucky didn’t mind. He sat still and quiet. He silenced his phone and yours. After the night you had, you needed the rest. And he was more than happy to help you get some sleep. He held in his laughter as you muttered nonsense under your breath- something about crepes and trench coats. It was perfect. Not the night Bucky expected, but the night he needed. And he’d stay in that exact position for hours if he had to. 

But after only forty minutes, a loud crash scared you awake.

Two large pieces of luggage fell to the floor inside your front door. “Fuck Delta airlines and FUCK LAX!” your roommate, Emma, yelled. “I swear to god, there’s a curse on that fucking airport and Delta is the devil’s airline.”

She eyed the room for a moment, taking in the unexpected scene. “Ew, why is there a bloody jacket in the kitchen? And who the fuck are you?”

You stood, begrudgingly leaving your spot next to Bucky. “This is Bucky, that’s his jacket. Some asshole attacked me on the train. I split my head open. He brought me home and kept an eye on me till you got back.”

Maybe she was just in a shit mood because of the travel nightmare. Or maybe she recognized Bucky. But either way, Emma wasn’t having it. “Okay, well, thanks for bringing her home. But I’m back, so you can go. Now. And don’t forget your nasty jacket.”

Bucky gave an awkward laugh. He mumbled a “nice to meet you” and stood from the couch. The two of you locked eyes for a moment, and you wished telepathy came with the serum. If he could only read your mind, he’d know how sorry you were. How horrified you were by Emma’s behavior. You couldn’t believe how rude she was being, how utterly unkind. 

But your mind and body weren’t quite working together. You were still groggy, lost in the haze of sleep. And your head injury only made things more difficult. You did your best to formulate a response to Emma and an apology to Bucky. But before you could say anything, Emma was at it again. 

“Seriously, dude. It’s time for you to go, get out of my house.”

Bucky was so flustered, so uncomfortable that he left without saying goodbye. Without getting your number. He shut down. He simply snagged his jacket from the kitchen and bailed. He heard you arguing with Emma as he walked down the hall. Heard you near-tears. 

He wanted to turn around and say goodnight. To protect you from Emma’s wrath. Comfort you. More than anything, he wanted to get your number. Maybe ask you out. But he was too thrown off by the whole thing. He didn’t expect such a response- he didn’t even get to tell Emma that you needed looking after. He just ran. And it made him feel like a coward. 

He pressed the button for the ancient elevator once. Twice. Five times. And when it finally arrived, he got in and slammed the button for the first floor. Ruining his chances of ever seeing you again. Sure, he knew where you lived. But he couldn’t just show up. You’d already dealt with enough creepy shit from weird men- he wasn’t going to stalk you. 

Bucky spent the entire elevator ride heartbroken. He knew he’d have to go home to his empty apartment; knew he’d think about you for way too long. You’d probably forget about him after a day- maybe two at the most. And he’d spend months trying to get over the stranger from the subway.

But when he stepped out of the elevator, he found you waiting for him.

“Hi, um… what?” He was more than a little confused. “How did you- how’d you get down here so fast?”

“Stairs,” you breathed. “Faster.”

Bucky couldn’t believe you. It was romantic; it was something out of one of his favorite movies. But it was stupid. “That was… that was a terrible idea- you could’ve gotten hurt. You almost fell over earlier when you were just standing still. Why’d you run down the stairs?”

“Cause I didn’t get to say goodbye…” your voice was soft, heartbroken. “And I didn’t get to give you my number.”

Wordlessly, Bucky handed you his phone. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to chance ruining such a perfect opportunity. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, of all people. That you actually wanted to see him again.

When you finished, you extended Bucky’s phone in his direction- but recoiled as he tried to reach for it. “Promise me you’ll call?”

“On my life,” he said. The answer brought a warm smile to your face- a smile he wanted to see again. As soon as possible. And when you gave his phone back, he took a moment to stare down at your number. This had to be a dream. 

“Do me a favor and go get some rest, okay?” He extended his pinky and linked it with yours, “Drink a lot of water. And even though she seems like she’s in a bad mood, ask your roommate to check in on you every now and then.”

“Yeah, like she’s gonna go for that-”

“Tell her that if she doesn’t, I’m coming back to look after you myself. And I’ll drink her, her um…” 

“Kombucha,” you whispered. 

“Right, I’ll drink her Kombucha!” He laughed and shot you a wink, “That’ll do the trick.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, wiggled your pinky with his, and stepped into the still-open elevator doors. “Thank you for everything. I’m really happy I met you.” 

Bucky blushed. “So am I. Not under the best circumstances, but-”

“Worth it,” you shot him a wink. Just as the doors began to close, the two of you exchanged waves. And just before Bucky vanished from view, you threw a quick “call me” his way. And then he was gone.

You made it back to your apartment, nearly tripping over Emma’s luggage. She apologized as you grabbed a glass of water and nearly cried when you told her the story of your evening. And though you wanted to hear about her airport nightmare, you needed to sleep. 

You got settled in bed and realized- you missed Bucky already. 

And just as you decided to go to sleep for the night, your phone buzzed:

“Wanted to call but figured it might be too soon- seeing as it’s only been about four minutes. I’ll call you in the morning. And just so you know: even without the tap dancing, I found you very entertaining. I’m really glad I met you.

If you need anything at all, let me know. Feel better.

-JBB”

—————————————

Taglist: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality  @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes @psychoticmason @glxwingrxse @lonewolf471 @dreamerglassesgirl l  @the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned @purpleshallot  @seitmai @itvy5601 @dailyreverie  @navs-bhat @eviesaurusrex @themorningsunshine  @evangeliamerryll l @buckys-metal-arm @broadwaybabe18 @the-kestrels-feather @avocadotoastwithegg @goldylions @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @vrittivsanghavi i @idkitsem @avengetheunnatural @rassvetsky @hereforbuckyandsteve @barnesselo

[siriusempra-deactivated20240304]

Fanfic Draco Malfoys I Will Never Stop Screaming About

Bring Him to His Knees (BHTHK) Draco Malfoy (this Draco will always be my #1)

One Thousand Ways to Fall in Love Draco Malfoy 

Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love (DMATMOOBIL) Draco Malfoy

Be My Baby Draco Malfoy 

The Weather Outside is Frightful Draco Malfoy 

The Sugar Bowl Series Draco Malfoy 

DILF Draco Malfoy Series Draco Malfoy 

Remain Nameless Draco Malfoy 

The Erised Effect Draco Malfoy 

Unexpected Draco Malfoy 

Amends Draco Malfoy 

For Sale by Owner: Rose Weasley-Granger’s Virginity Draco Malfoy 

Crossing Lines Series Draco Malfoy 

*list will be updated as I continue to read as much dramione/hp fan fiction as possible

[unexpectedfreckles]

Granger sighed. "All right. Goodbye, then." "Granger." "What?" "Tell your cat I said pspsps."

[agoldengirlx]

He kisses her, and he’s twenty-five, finally allowed to fall.

And he’s twenty-six, telling a woman he loves her for the first time.

And he’s twenty-seven, down on one knee.

He’s twenty-eight, sobbing at the sight of her white dress.

He’s thirty, meeting his son.

Thirty-two, meeting his daughter.

Fifty, reaffirming his vows.

Sixty-five, meeting his first grandchild.

Ninety, knowing five years had been almost nothing at all.

Almost Nothing At All by @mightbewriting

[mkmgwrites]

Hermione: Can we just call a truce?

Draco: No.

Hermione: No?

Draco: Did I stutter?

Hermione: *Huffs*

Draco: …..Best I can do is enemies.

Hermione: Malfoy! I- for Godric’s Sake- I don’t want to be your enemy anymore!

Draco: I see you drive a hard bargain. Fine. Acquaintances.

Hermione: Pardon?

Draco: Merlin’s tit you’re difficult. Friends then. Take it or leave it.

Hermione: I- You- I don’t…what?

Draco: FINE. Lovers.

Hermione: *Splutters*

Draco: That’s my final offer Granger.

[pixydustworld]

The marriage law was announced at 2pm on a Tuesday.

By 2:15 Hermione had already drafted a motion to dismiss the law entirely. It was a good motion, too. If she’d sent a copy to Ron, he would’ve replied with: wow! lots of words! good stuff!

At 2:17 her motion was denied.

“It’s best to just accept defeat.” Malfoy said from his side of the office, bookshelves neat, papers all stacked in order. “You won’t win this one.”

“I’m not in the habit of giving up.” Hermione snapped. Her side of the office was cluttered, less pristine. Her bookshelf had a nasty habit of overflowing all over the floor, stacks of books balancing precariously on every surface. “A fire hazard.” Malfoy had sneered at her once, “Breaking several codes.”

“Hm.” Malfoy said, “I hadn’t noticed.” He was smiling softly, like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. Waiting, almost patiently for her to smile. Stupid man with his stupid grin, Hermione wanted to throw a book at his head.

“This is archaic.” Hermione hissed. “The Ministry has gone too far. They can't force us to marry anyone.”

Even as she spoke, a squirming feeling of doubt was beginning to take root in her chest — being friends with Harry came with many things. Companionship and love, but it also came with a healthy distrust of the government (like a free gift basket! but terrible one).

Malfoy ignored her complaints. "Marriage Acts aren't as mid-evil as you're making them out to be." He said, with that annoying voice he used when he knew he was right about something, "They serve a purpose."

"A purpose?" Hermione could practically feel the beginnings of an aneurysm. A fitting death, slumped over her desk, surrounded by unfinished documents and discovered by Draco Malfoy, "Are you actually defending this?"

She would have to find a new partner. A new office, one where he wasn't constantly surrounding her, swimming on the edge of her peripheral vision. Maybe Dean Thomas would let her set up a current workplace in his records closet, he was always bragging about how it was big enough for him to take naps in during work —

"No." Malfoy said, somehow even more amused now, "I don't support it."

"Oh." Hermione said, very eloquently, "That's good."

"But," Malfoy continued, still distinctly unruffled while Hermione was very ruffled, "Most people will be unfazed. It's a Pure-Blood tradition. My parents have always planned to arrange a marriage contract.” Malfoy shrugged, “It’s not absolutely unheard of.”

“Well," Hermione said, out of breath from all the pacing she was doing, "Your parents are terrible.”

“Of course.” Malfoy said, like it was obvious. “They would never allow me the opportunity to sully the Malfoy name. Producing the correct heir is the only thing I’ll ever be good at.”

Hermione frowned. “Hearing about your family isn’t good for our working relationship. It makes me feel bad for you.”

“We can’t have that.” Malfoy said.

“No,” she agreed with a sigh, “we can’t have that.”

“So, tell me Granger. What is your plan?” His grin became less self indulgent, more fake. “You’ll have to marry someone. It'll undoubtably be the event of the season — have a fiancé you’ve been hiding from me?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I could hide anything from you?”

Malfoy knew when she changed the scent of her shampoo, when she switched up her coffee order — he even knew if she was sleeping less than usual. It was impossibly annoying to be around someone so observant, someone so intent on cataloguing her every move.

"If I had a secret fiancé, which I don't, I'm confident that you're competent enough to have sniffed him out by now."

Malfoy responding grin was slow and syrupy. "You think I'm competent?"

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“Is he shorter than me? Is that it? Didn’t want to introduce us because you knew he’d feel bad?”

“You’re taller than everyone.” Hermione said, annoyed, again, “You would obviously be taller than my imaginary fiancé. You’re like an angelic giraffe.”

“You think I’m angelic?”

“No.”

"Two compliments on top of each other, are you feeling alright, Granger?"

"Shut up."

At 2:20, Hermione began to clean her side of the office, desperate for an excuse not to talk to Malfoy.

At 2:22, Harry slammed through her door, completely demolishing the (very little) progress Hermione had made in cleaning up her side of the office.

“I’ll marry you.” Harry said, slightly out of breath, like he’d sprinted all the way to her office, “Do you think we can kiss without making a face? We’ll have to practice.”

“I’m not marrying you.” Hermione said from the floor behind her desk, “You are engaged to Theo.” She was laying on her back with a book covering her face, feeling rightfully sorry for herself.

“Theo won’t mind.” Harry said in the voice he reserved for whenever he wanted people to listen to him (i am harry potter! and i did not spill mustard on the couch! you have to believe me, i saved the world!) “It will be quick. I can get us rings before the day is over.”

"No." Hermione said, still on the floor, "I've gone along with enough of your stupid ideas. This is too much."

Because, despite it all, Harry would do this. Without hesitation, blind loyalty and unwavering determination — Harry would marry her and be pleased with his choices. He was lovely, but at times, Harry could be a misguided idiot.

"This is where you draw the line?" Malfoy hummed, "Interesting to catch a glimpse into the inner workings of your mind."

Finally scrambling to her feet (after a few more seconds of wallowing) Hermione was horrified to find a familiar look on Harry's face — one that promised something stupid.

"I'll figure it out. " Harry said, with a shrug that reminded Hermione of their childhood (occidentally, the stress headache she was feeling also reminded her of their childhood). He pointed a stoic finger at her. "Don't make a face when I kiss you."

Then, he left.

“Theo wouldn’t mind,” Malfoy said in a helpful voice, “He’d probably marry you as well. Would it be Granger-Potter-Nott? Or Granger-Nott-Potter? Better figure that out soon. Potter seems eager to find those rings.”

Hermione threw a book at his head.

Malfoy caught it with ease, his stupid Quidditch hands.

“I have an idea,” Malfoy said after a moment.

Hermione ignored him. “There has to be a way out of this.” She was pacing again, sensible shoes kicked off to the corner (where she’d undoubtedly forget them) “I could write another motion? A longer one this time. With more quotes.”

“Marry me instead.”

Hermione stopped pacing. “Excuse me?”

“I’m your best option.”

“I have many options —

“Weasley already tricked someone into marrying him and Potter is engaged to my only friend.” He frowned, in a mocking sort of way. “Did I leave anyone out?”

“No.” Hermione said flatly. “You didn’t.”

“Alright then. Marry me.”

“Hah.” She said, “Hah. I take back everything I’ve ever said about you. Malfoy, you are funny.”

“I’m being serious.” He said, looking annoyed. Fantastic, they were both annoyed. Like they always were.

“We can get married before the law passes and then you can do what you do best.” Malfoy continued, like that was a totally normal thing to say.

“Which is?” Without her shoes, the height difference was unbearably noticeable. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. At some point he'd stopped being a willowy wraith of a person and began the unfortunate process of filling out.

He didn’t look away. “Destroy everyone’s expectations and free the downtrodden.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “What would you get out of this arrangement?”

Malfoy shrugged, too practiced to be nonchalant. “I’d be married to a war hero. It would do wonders for my reputation.”

“And you would be married to me.” Hermione said, beginning to feel like this was getting too real, “We both know that would never happen.”

“Never?”

“Never.” She agreed.

He wasn’t smiling that lazy smile from before, this one was different. Sharper. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Besides,” Hermione continued on loudly, “you’re no gentleman. No need to pretend. I don’t need saving, I’ll figure this out myself.”

“You don’t need to.” Malfoy said, “I will help. I want to fuck over the Ministry for many reasons, but mainly because they declined your motion.”

He was on her side of the office now, leaning casually against her desk, inches away from where she stood. He was too pretty up close, like staring at the sun.

“It was very good.” Hermione breathed.

Malfoy nodded, almost too good at pretending to be sincere.

“I’m sure it was good. You touched it. Everything you touch is golden.”

“You truly want to help me?”

“I’ve only offered several times.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “All to fuck over the Ministry? No other reason?”

“Maybe I want you all to myself.”

Hermione's eye twitched.

"Don't tease me." She managed to hiss. "Not about this."

She saw when he realized, a flicker of excitement in his eyes — when he noticed her apparent misery at how completely and helplessly she was drawn to him.

"I'd never dream of it." Malfoy said warmly, "You could kill me with ease, only an idiot would be careless around you."

She thought of all the long nights they spent together, crammed in their tiny little office. How she looked forward to her day, if only to see his stupidly pointy face. How she tried to date, but couldn’t. Because it wasn’t right — her dates were too kind, too short.

Not him.

How, through everything, he was the first person she thought of in the morning, the person she thought of in the darkness of the night, when no one could see her wandering hands — the person she looked at for a challenge, for relief and support.

Despite her best attempts, Hermione Granger had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy and now, here he was, seeming to share in her suffering.

“We’d have to consummate the marriage.” She said, giving him one last out. “You’d have to see me naked.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“I’m very bossy,” she said, “and I work all the time.”

“Good thing we share an office.”

“I’m not easy to love.”

Malfoy scoffed. “It’s been easy enough for me.”

He was close enough to touch, so uncharacteristically open. Looking down at her with fondness she didn’t know he possessed.

“I’m selfish.” Malfoy warned, “Do not forget that. I will help you destroy this law and anything else you want. Burn it all down if you want to. But I won’t be letting you go. Not now, after I've gotten you."

“I suppose that’s fine.” Hermione said softly, watching as his hand moved to touch her face, warm against her skin. "It'll be bearable to be around you, I suppose."

As he held her face in his hands, Hermione watched as his grin transform into something different, something new — a smile she'd only seen glimpses of, one only for her. "I'll work very hard to make our marriage a tolerable one." He said.

"Good," Hermione breathed, stretching up to kiss him, to finally press her lips against his, "I can't wait."

Hermione was married at 3pm on a Tuesday.

It was a small ceremony.

Harry, although he'd never publicly admit it, was relieved.

Despite his best attempts, he would've made a face when Hermione had kissed him.

[elisecyauthor]

I love this beautiful art for my “Shadows and Sunlight” fic 

Art by @michichocoleto (find her on IG) <3 

Fic by me, EliseCY <3

Link to fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31827337/chapters/78796327

[no-longer-another-bondi-blonde]

[regional-horror]

WHEAT SHARKS

[angrythingstarlight]

Sweeter than Sugar

Summary: She broke his heart but you're not going to let her win. Bucky deserves the best and you're going to give it to him.

Pairing: Chubby Baker!Bucky x Reader, mentions of former relationship with OFC.

Word Count: 4K

Warnings: Smut, Oral (fem receiving), body shaming by OFC, language, mentions of insecurities. painful break up (not reader) bit angst, fluff. As always 18+ only.

A/N: Do not copy, rewrite, repost or translate my works. Comments and reblogs are welcomed. Beta'd by the lovely @deann and @makbarnes but all mistakes are my own.

A/N II: @star-spangled-bingo 2021 Squared filled: Curtain fic and @gotnofucks Body positivity challenge

"Wait till you try this. I think this is my best batch yet." Bucky promises as he pulls the tray out of the oven with his vibranium hand.

You cringe for a second before remembering that he can handle the heat.

You stretch, looking around the large bright kitchen. A fresh breeze floats through the open window carrying in notes of rain and freshly cut grass and the faint sounds of the neighbor's kids playing with their dogs.

Leaning back in your seat, you turn your gaze back to him, a faint smile on your lips as he blows on the pastries, cute little puffs he named after you.

His blue eyes shine under the soft yellow lights, an apron under the swell of his pudgy belly. He looks incredible, wearing only a pair of black boxers that stretch across the curves of his ass. His hair is pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck, and there's always something smeared across his cheek.

Yesterday, it had been red velvet frosting, and today, cherry.

Bucky scoops a puff on to a small white plate, grabbing a fork from the drawer. He beams, his entire face radiant as he walks towards you.

That's the look that makes your stomach twist and leaves you feeling dizzy.

Dating Bucky has been a dream. He's loving, kind and he looks at you with such love that you lose your breath just thinking about him.

According to him, you've improved his life in several ways; he swears his food tastes better now, that you somehow make his cakes perfect, his frostings sweeter, and well, he can’t look at a peach without grinning like a drunk-in-love idiot.

You’ve spent many late mornings and lazy afternoons watching him patter around the kitchen, listening to him explain his baking processes while you lounge in a chair.

You don’t understand half of what he’s saying, but he speaks with such passion, his hands animatedly flying in the air as he talks about chocolates, melting points, and the differences in pans.

Bucky has discovered early on that he loves to watch you eat. To be more specific, if it's his food. Only his food, if he’s being honest. He gets so nervous every time that his stomach plummets because he wants to make things for you.

Give you so many things.

Starting with your own custom-made pastry.

“Here, Peach, it just melts on your tongue,” his deep voice lowering to a near moan.

He slips the pastry into your open mouth, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip as you swallow. Oh, your eyes almost roll back in your head when the flavors explode on your taste buds. You’ve never tasted anything that wonderful.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you gasp, leaning forward for more. “I-that’s so good! Can I have another?”

He grins, lopsided and wide, his heart thundering so hard it feels like it might fly out of his chest. Bucky will give you pastries as much as you want if you keep looking at him like that. He puts his all into his baking and the fact that you enjoy it makes him feel as if he can walk on air.

Bucky kisses your forehead as you chew, pushing away from the table, he slides on his sock-covered feet to the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”

“What do we have?” You giggle as he dances in front of the fridge, calling out options for you.

It’s hard to believe that the carefree man in front of you is the same one that was ashamed to remove his shirt a few weeks ago.

Bucky holds your hands at your sides, fingers laced between yours as he feasts between your thighs. He promised to make you come for him at least three times and you swear it’s been double that by now. His warm, wet tongue flicking over your swollen, sensitive clit over and over, sucking and pulling it into his mouth like he can’t get enough of you.

You moan incoherently, voice hoarse from begging and mewling, your legs limp around his broad shoulders. “Buc-Bucky, oh right there, Bucky,” you plead, feeling pressure build in your belly as his tongue traces patterns over you.

Bucky grinned, his face covered in your slick. He can’t remember the last time he had a better meal in his life. “That’s my girl, so sweet, need one more taste, just a little more,” he whispers before his lips wrap around your clit again. Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream, back arching off the bed when he gently shakes his head, sucking so hard that you see stars.

Bucky groans actually groans deep and vulgar when you cum,and you feel it as your body explodes, waves of pleasure surging through you until you’re gushing on his beard. He eases up, nuzzling into your puffy folds as you come down from your high. Bucky looks up, his dark slate-blue eyes taking in your heaving chest, a bead of sweat rolling down your belly.

“One more?” he says hopefully, wanting to dive back into your pussy.

Your eyes widen as you frantically shake your head. “No. Oh no. Bucky, I can’t, I really can’t, I’m not sure I can handle any more.” You laugh breathlessly, tugging one of your hands free from his tight grip. You rake your fingers through his hair, smiling down at him. "Besides, I’ve been dreaming about you fucking me until I can’t walk.”

A faint blush sweeps across his cheeks as he averts his eyes. “Peach,” he mumbles shyly like he just didn’t spend the past hour worshiping your pussy with his mouth.

Bucky stands up, wiping a hand down his face. He stares at his glistening palm for a second, and then his pink tongue darts out, swiping across the wet surface. You wonder if he’s aware that he's moaning, your pussy throbbing at the guttural sounds.

“You’re filthy,” you jest when he does it again. His face gets even redder as he sucks on his finger.

“You taste better than my pies,” he retorts. “I could eat you all day, every day.”

“Tomorrow, for sure, but right now I want you inside me.”

His smile drops a little when you tell him to get undressed. He’s been dreading this moment, doing everything he can to avoid it. You scoot back on the bed, reaching out for him. Bucky looks down at his body, at his belly, his eyes narrowing, he scratches the back of his neck, telling himself he can do this.

He lifts the edge of his navy blue Henley, freezing when he hears her voice in his head. “Who would want a fatty? No one is going to love you looking like that.” Even now it stings thinking about her. Bucky glances over at you, his heartbreaking at the thought of you rejecting him.

Bucky drops his shirt and reaches for the lamp. “One second.” He says. An unmistakable hint of sadness in his voice has you sitting up. He’s never sounded like that before.

You tilt your head to the side, searching his face. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“Just gonna turn the lights off first.” The corner of his lips lifts in a weak, watery smile.

You move to your knees and grab his large hand before he can switch them off. “Why?”

Bucky swallows, “no reason, just like the lights off, 'is all.”

Bucky’s admittedly good at a lot of things, but lying isn’t one of them. He briefly meets your gentle gaze, worry and fear swimming in his beautiful clear blue eyes.

Placing your hands on his chest, you grab his chin. “Bucky, look at me.” He immediately follows your soft command. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

Bucky blinks, shaking his head, almost confused at the thought that you could do anything wrong. “No, no, you’re perfect! It’s me. I don’t wanna disappoint you.” His voice tapers off in a whisper, hearing her sharp laughter the last night they were together. “I know I’m fat, so it would be better if we turned off the lights, that way you don’t have to look at me. “

You stare at your generous, doting boyfriend. “Why wouldn’t I want to look at you?,” you question, befuddled because who on earth would jump at the chance to see a naked Bucky Barnes.

He shrugs a shoulder, his somber eyes drifting down. He grabs his belly and jiggles it. Another shrug followed by a quiet, “I look different with my clothes off.”

You crane your head back, “I love your belly, it’s perfect. Who made you feel like you have to hide it?”

Bucky sighs, rubbing his cheek into your palm. “My ex, Moxie- “

Bucky dated her two years ago. She latched on to him when he and Steve bought the bakery, wanting to be the girlfriend of the rising baking star.

Bucky slowly gained weight as he sampled his baking and designed dessert menus for local restaurants, his joy for baking expanding each day, finally getting to see his dreams become reality.

He hadn’t noticed the changes in his body until one night Moxie cruelly pointed them out.

He was getting ready for bed, eager to be with his girl after a full day of running around. He had been telling her about how another restaurant wanted his input, so excited to share his news that he didn’t notice the way she glared at him.

Tossing his shirt in the hamper, he turned to her and smiled, his hands on his belt. “I’ve been thinking about you all day baby, I can’t- “

Moxie sneered at him, pretending to gag. “Are you serious?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Um, what?”

“Um, what,” she mocked, pulling the blanket up to her chest. There's a pause, tension seeping into the room. “You know what, I have to say it, I can't take this anymore James. Look at you and look at me, why the fuck would I let you touch me anymore?”

Moxie sighed, “can you put on your shirt back on or something because that- “she gestured at him “-is disgusting” She let out an irritated groan when he flinched at her words.

A punch to the gut would have hurt less. Bucky felt his heart split. “Moxie,” he whispered, unable to find words to express the pain currently ripping through him.

“Look, I didn’t sign up for this, you were in shape when we got together, what the hell happened to you? Why do you think I stopped letting you touch me.” She ranted, ignoring his soft pleas for her to stop.

“Either lose the weight or I’ll fuck Steve, at least he still looks good.” She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, yawning, “can you go somewhere else, I don’t want you accidentally rolling over me and squishing me in your sleep.”

His mouth floundered open, but he couldn’t speak. It all hurt too much, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, the air was too thick and his chest grew tighter with each breath; he needed to get away, terrified of what might happen if he cried in front of her.

Bucky shuffled out the room, his heart shattering with every step. He thought she was happy, that he made her happy. Her laughter following him out to the hallway made his head droop even more.

What did he do wrong?

He spent the night on the couch, staring at his old pictures through tear-filled eyes, Bucky always had a little fullness to him, but he was always happy with his body. And he had been having so much fun with the grand opening and all the new opportunities that he never noticed that he stopped needing belts and his shirts were a little snug over his belly.

Bucky called Steve, his best friend fuming when he told him what happened. By the time he was done speaking with him, Bucky felt a little better, his heart may have been in pieces but he knew what he needed to do.

He kicked her out the next morning.

Much to Moxie’s surprise and Bucky's. He may be chubby but he's not going to be her pushover either.

Bucky ignored her apologies and said she had to go. It shocked her when Steve had shown up with a roll of garbage bags, tossing them at her feet with a sharp quip that he doesn’t fuck losers. Both men stood side by side, watching silently as she packed her belongings.

The only things she left behind were his broken heart and a few nagging insecurities that plagued him.

He finishes, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of his confession, you want nothing more than to stamp out the sadness marring his beautiful eyes.

“I thought she loved me but--“ he sighs, “--I don’t want you to look at me the way she did, I love you too much, Peach, and I know I should probably lose a few -”

You’ve never been angrier in your life. You want to punch little Ms. Moxie in her throat, she better hope she never runs into you because they will have to pry you off of her.

Clearing your head, you clasp his face in your hands and pull him down for a kiss. “Bucky Barnes, you are the sweetest man I know, you’re beautiful and I love everything about you.”

You silence his objections with another kiss. “I mean it Bucky, I love all of you. You don’t need to change anything.”

Bucky swallows the small protest, letting himself relax. You’re not her, you won’t hurt him. Placing a kiss on his soft, round belly, you murmur, “you have no idea how sexy you are, honey.”

You stand on the bed, holding on to his bicep for balance, and tug his shirt off. Looking down at him, you bite your lip. He’s ridiculously handsome and you’re going to prove it to him.

You pepper kisses along the curve of his neck as you sink back down, praising him and telling him how much you love him, describing in vivid detail how each part of his body is perfect.

His confidence and love for you growing with each word. By the time you reach the band of his boxers, he panting, his eyes darkening with an almost feral need to possess you.

Bucky tears off the last barrier keeping you from him and he pounces. You giggle as he pushes you into the soft blankets, the solid, comforting weight of his body encompassing you as he kisses you with such passion you forget to breathe. His warm lips melding into yours, his wet tongue dipping into your mouth, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue as it dips into your mouth.

Bucky reaches down with one hand, grabbing his cock, his other hand cupping the back of your head as he deepens the kiss. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours so he can gaze into your eyes. Bucky watches your mouth fall open, a gasp pouring out when he guides his thick cock into you.

He rolls his hips, moving deeper into your wet, hot heat. “That’s it Peach, you’re so good,” He brushes his lips across yours, swallowing your oh Bucky as he stretches your tight pussy around him. The slight burn gives aways to pure bliss, you circle your hips after a minute. A quiet I’m ready breathed into his mouth.

Bucky thrusts languidly into your pussy, each deliberate slow drag of his throbbing cock against your soft walls sends bursts of pleasure up your belly and down your spine. His lovemaking tender, yet so possessive that your head is reeling.

He makes sure that you feel all of him, each inch as you clench down, greedy for more of him, even as he goes deeper and deeper, his soft lips caressing your neck. His body keeping you pinned, so you have to take everything he’s giving you.

That pressure builds again, heavy and hot in your belly, digging your heels into the top of his thighs, you meet his strokes, pleading with him to please move a little faster, you need it so bad.

You don’t have to beg; he wants you to cum for him; he wants to feel your sweet pussy flutter around him as you cry out his name.

Bucky sucks a bruise on your throat, his hips pounding into yours. The headboard smacking against the wall with each powerful thrust. The dull thuds drowned out by your loud moans, the pressure getting more intense.

“Bucky,—” you cry out, scratching his lower back when he grinds his hips down, “—oh fuck, do that, do that again,” you frantically chant, slapping your hands on his ass, keening when he does, god yes, he does it just right, hitting a tender spot inside your cunt so hard that you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

“That it Peach, is that what you need.” He slips a hand between your bodies, his wide fingers circling your clit, “Go on, cum for me, give it to me Peach, be my good girl, and cum for me.”

You do, your walls clenching down as the pressure snaps, sensations firing off as your orgasms winds through you. Bucky’s pace falters, becomes erratic when he feels you milking his cock, unable to hold himself back any longer he lets himself go, relishing in your warmth until he spills inside you.

He tries to roll off of you, but you wrap your arms around him, murmuring for him to stay for a minute. You smooth your hands over his slick back, Bucky relaxes on top of you, grinning at your contented sigh. “I love you Peach.”

“Love you too,” you respond, plotting all the ways you’re going to let him know how much he means to you.

After that night, you began to praise Bucky, complimenting his body every chance you got, smacking his ass whenever he walked past you, hugging and kissing him.

The first couple of weeks, he would hide his face behind one of his large hands and his cheeks would resemble one of his bright red apples. “Peach, you don’t have to, I mean I’m-” he would stammer each time, always tucking his hair behind his ears.

It took you three days to figure out that he has a praise kink and you amped it. He barely opened his eyes before you were saying something that made him hide his face behind his pillow, laughing when you wiggled under it to tell him how good he looks when he smiles.

While you loved making him blush, you cherished how confident he became. And you reaped the benefits, one second he was a bashful baker with buttercream frosting on his forehead, the next he was bending you over his counter, railing you so good you couldn’t even scream his name.

After a while, he stopped avoiding the bathroom mirror in the mornings. And you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face, the first time you saw him cooking, shirtless, in the kitchen. He turned when he heard your footsteps, his face turning that familiar shade of red as you openly gawked.

“C’mon Peach, don’t you start-” he playfully grumbles, his lip twitching as he held in his smile, he moved back to the frying pan turning off the stove as he braces himself.

You squeal, flinging yourself at him, peppering his back with kisses. You couldn’t contain the litany of praises on your tongue, so proud of him. Bucky twisted in your grasp, cupping your face in his hands. “God I love you Peach.”

Bucky and Steve are celebrating the grand opening of another bakery. The largest one to date. The new building is full of investors, press, other bakers and chefs, a live band playing in the corner, drinks, and food everywhere, and of course the tower of desserts in the middle of the room. The atmosphere light and airy, glasses clinking, people dancing and every kind of cake, pies, and pastry imaginable on silver platters through the room.

You’ve never had so much fun, although a slightly buzzed Bucky is having an even better time because you’re wearing one of his favorite dresses. You remember when he first saw you in it, you twirled out of the dressing room and he nearly lost it in the middle of the store.

The more he celebrates, the more he’s giving you that look. Steve has to keep interfering, he’s close to going feral in front of all his guests.

Steve sent him to the kitchen after he caught him trying to put his hand between your thighs. You’re laughing as a contrite Bucky gets up from the table to refill the rapidly diminishing display.

“You know I’ve known Buck my whole life and I’ve never seen him this happy.” Steve remarks as he takes a seat across from you. His warm blue eyes glistening. “Thank you for that. He’s been through a lot and you’re the best thing that happened to him.”

Your cheeks get heated at his words. Steve leans forward, holding your hand between his. “I mean it, even though he’s getting on my last nerve talking about you.“

Steve squeezes your hand as he looks up at the ceiling for a second. “God, the man never shuts up, and I’m this close to strangling him if he compares you to another peach, but I love-“

He cuts off, his head jerks back so fast, you think something struck him. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

You turn around in your chair, searching the crowded room. “Who are you talking about?”

“Moxie,” Steve spits out, his hand curling into a fist. “White dress by the bar.”

You find her flirting with one of the investors. Moxie puts her hand on his chest, her shrill laugh cutting through the surrounding conversations. Whatever she tried fails spectacularly. The tall, sturdy blonde grimaces and walks away. You would almost feel bad if you didn’t want to slam her face into the wall.

She spots Steve and waves, making her way through the crowd. “Hey, long time no see.”

Steve raises a brow, his eyes hardening. “Why are you here?”

She laughs, patting his shoulder. “I’m here to apologize to Bucky, I know he misses me, he must be lonely.”

“Really?” you question, keeping your voice light and even.

Moxie dismissively glances at you before returning her attention to Steve. You chuckle under your breath, tapping your heel on the floor.

Don’t ruin your man’s event. Don’t ruin your mans’ event. You repeat the thought as you inhale through your nose.

“So I heard you two are doing really well.” She says, her manicured nails roaming over Steve’s suit. “Really well.”

Steve flicks her fingers off him, “We are. No Bucky’s not lonely. He doesn’t miss you. He’s very happy. With her.”

Moxie’s polite veneer cracks when Steve points at you. Waving your fingers at her, you grin at her. “You go near my Bucky and I’ll rip that cheap necklace off and shove it down your throat.”

She turns to Steve, gesturing to you as if she's the innocent one here; he raises his glass, blowing a harsh breath through his lips. “Don’t look at me, I still don’t fuck losers, but I’ll call you if that changes.”

You laugh in your empty glass when she sputters. She turns to you, hand on her hip. You slowly raise your eyes, returning her stare. Part of you wanting her to do something, so you can wipe the smirk off her overly painted face.

“Whatever, I don’t need this. Keep the fattie. I can find another rich loser like that.” She snaps her fingers, storming over to the bar. You blink a few times in disbelief. The audacity of this bitch, thinking that she can stay and mingle at his event.

You're debating if you should have her thrown out by one of the staff or if you should drag her out by her hair.

You look her up and down as you ponder your choices, pausing when you see the edge of a tag sticking out the back of her dress. Hmm, interesting. She must plan on returning it after tonight.

A devious smirk slowly takes over your face, you know exactly what you’re going to do to little Ms. Moxie.

You glance at Steve, picking up his wineglass. Steve shakes his head while grabbing your hand. “Hey hey, I know what you’re thinking, and no.”

Before you can say anything, he’s pouring more burgundy wine into the glass until it’s nearly sloshing over the sides. “If you’re going do it, you gotta do it right.”

You exchange knowing glances. No one hurts Bucky. You saunter over to her, keeping your hand steady, not wanting to lose a single drop on the floor.

“Hey Moxie,” you call out. She turns around and you ‘trip’ over your heels, the deep red liquid flying forward in a perfect arch, splashing across her ivory dress, her face and you even got some in her hair.

“Oops, gosh, I am so clumsy,” you state, hiding your grin as she shrieks.

Steve jumps up, offering to help before she can swing at you. “I got you, darling.”

He places a hand on her back, quickly ushering her away “a little club soda will get that right out,” he reassures a pouting, whining Moxie.

He's lying through his teeth, that stain will never come out. Steve gets a peek at the price tag, almost laughing at the $899 imprinted on the card. He maintains his façade, leading her through the room, he stops, giving her a wide smile.

“And you can find some at the drugstore down the street.” He states, opening the front door and pushing her out. Her indignant shouts cut off when he slams the door in her face.

You throw your head back and cackle, startling some guests around the bar, you apologize for your outburst between fits of laughter, wiping the tears pricking at your eyes. You wave down the amused bartender, placing an order for you and Steve.

Steve joins you, raising his fresh glass of wine in a toast. “No one fucks with Bucky.”

"No one."

Neither you nor Steve realizes Bucky saw the whole thing. He ducks back into the kitchen, clutching the tray of Cannelés to his chest. For weeks after the breakup, he had rehearsed what he was going to say that next time he came face to face with Moxie.

But what you and Steve did was even better, the love of his life and his best friend always looking out for him.

Loving him unconditionally.

And just like that, the last traces of his insecurities vanished.

Later that night, you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. He smiles at your hand on his belly. He places his large hand over yours, wondering how he got so lucky to have you.

And if Steve would kill him if he named another dessert after you.

He’ll risk it.

[edgysunflower]

❤️

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SEBASTIAN STAN ‘Fresh’ Official Trailer

[intoafandom]

Stronger than ever🔥