You don't like Bucky, and Bucky doesn't like you. Clean and simple. Until it's not.
cw: cisfem reader, vaguely snake-powered reader, vomit, mentions of torture and skin cutting
wc: 1.5k
a/n: idk thinking about this reader + Bucky again
part 1 part 2 part 3
You take living on the run nobly, all things considered. Never complaining, always ready to run when told.
You pride yourself on being a team player.
Wanda’s sweet to you, and she’s taken to rooming with you when it’s an option. You know she misses Clint, misses Vision (misses Pietro).
There’s a sadness that lingers around her, never quite dissipating, even when she’s smiling. It’s overwhelming, but she’s your friend, you think.
She’s gone now. Stole off into the night mumbling something about needing air.
And now you’re alone, slumped back against the splotchy glass shower door, stomach churning uncomfortably. It’s an ugly bathroom, covered in cracked tile and mildew. The perfect place to rot away into your surroundings.
A sharp pang tears through your abdomen, and you hiss, eyes squeezing shut. What if you fucking died here? The thought of Wanda walking in on your sweaty corpse makes you feel embarrassed, and the fresh anxiety adds to the waves of nausea.
This really fucking sucks.
After you catch your breath, you lift slightly onto your knees, the top half of your head appearing in the grimy mirror. Exhaustion kisses your skin under your eyes and sits coiled around your shoulders. You need to sleep. Bad.
Your lips curl in disgust as you collapse back down, the glass reverberating when your back lands against it.
You hear the room door creak open, but it sounds a million miles away, like you're hearing it from underwater. At least Wanda wouldn’t find you post-mortem and could hold your hand and witness your pathetic death.
“What the hell happened to you?” Not Wanda. Not Wanda at all.
The urge to scream and cry washes over you, but all you do is squeeze your eyes shut and breathe deeply.
Why on earth is Bucky here right now?
“Don’t know. Ate something my new biology didn’t like, I guess,” you say dejectedly, opening your eyes to watch him blearily. A nondescript baseball hat sits on top of his greasy hair, a cracked leather jacket and gloves keeping his metal arm hidden.
“Shouldn’t you know what’s safe to eat at this point?” You muster up a glare, ignoring the emotional pain you feel on top of the physical. He’s always been good at kicking you when you're down.
“Clearly that is not the case,” you huff haughtily. Or as haughtily as you can, given that you’re a sweaty heap on a disgusting bathroom floor. You are also deliberately ignoring the fact that he’s making a decent point. At this point, you should know what triggers your immune system.
Bucky just grunts and then points to the toilet.
“Can I use this?”
“What?” you choke out, shakily pushing yourself up into a sitting position that could almost be considered alert. He wants to use your bathroom while you’re camped out on the floor?
The porcelain lid slams shut, and he stands on it, towering over you.
“What are you doing?” you ask, staring at him.
“Room checks. For bugs and spy equipment. Starting in here because no one said anything when I came in…” he trails off awkwardly.
“Wanda went to get some air. Don’t know when she’ll be back," you offer weakly.
Bucky slides his metal hand under the backing of the recessed light, pulling gently until it pops out of place.
“What on earth could be hidden up there?”
“Cameras or bugs.” He stops moving for just a moment, unable to stop the flow of memories. The silence in the room is heavy, thick with unease. “Hydra used to put cameras in their lights.”
"Oh."
Bucky checks the socket and cover, running a finger around the dusty rim. Pleased with the lack of equipment, he begins to put it back in. You watch as he checks the other three lights in silence. He’s motionless, lost somewhere in his mind.
“I think I kept breaking them, the cameras that were in my cell,” he says eventually. You stare at him, torn between disgust at Hydra and empathy for him. The dehumanization that comes with the blatant violation of privacy is disorienting. It's a terrible thing to experience.
"I’m sorry.”
It’s pathetic, but given how poorly you feel, it’s the best you can do without diving headfirst into your own compartmentalized mind.
Bucky snorts. “Nothing to be sorry for. You weren’t the one to tie me up and jab a million different needles into me.”
“I know. I just…” you trail off awkwardly, trying to figure out how to accurately tell him what you meant without him biting your head off or accidentally triggering yourself.
To let him know that you might as well have been sitting in that same exact lab getting needles and scalpels dragged across your skin.
“I know,” he says, looking you square in the eye. “I know what you meant.”
“They used to cut up my skin,” you say to him quietly. Bucky looks down at you from his vantage point, a lonesome god judging his single subject. "They used to do a lot of things, but they seemed to really like doing that."
He doesn’t say anything; silence roars in your ears, begging to be filled with more noise. But your mouth dries up, and your head slumps against the glass again.
You’re being weighed, measured. Your heart is placed on a gleaming set of scales. Bucky’s still looking at you, somewhere else.
The two of you paint a rather stupid-looking picture right now. You, a pallid, sweaty creature about to lose their lunch any minute now; him, a greasy, exhausted killer standing on top of a toilet. You chuff, able to appreciate its ridiculous nature.
A tiny flutter of movement catches you eye, so delicate it seems unreal. You gaze travels past Bucky’s shoulder to the corner of a room.
A single spider sits on the wall, its long, spindly legs disproportionate to its little body. A Harvestman. The flesh on the back of your neck prickles.
Bucky tracks your gaze, eyeing the little creature.
“Daddy long legs. They don’t bite.”
“Harvestman,” you counter. “They’re legs look like tiny scythes.”
“Really?” he scoffs, but there’s a tiny smile on his face. Maybe it’s the illness, but you decide then, and there you like it.
You like it a lot, actually.
The corners of your mouth pull up weakly.
Your eyes drift up to the corner again. The little arachnid just…sits there. Waiting. It’s harmless, but it sets you on edge.
“What, you want a snack?” Bucky chirps at you.
Your stomach squeezes violently at the thought; you glare at Bucky before you lurch towards the toilet. Pathetic swats to his calves coax him off, and he lands with a thud next to you as you lift the cover.
Despite everything, it’s actually the faint traces of mold in the toilet that make you finally gag.
“Poor taste. Sorry.” Bucky’s voice washes over you like the tide, and then you feel his hand rub your back awkwardly as your stomach empties itself. Only when there’s nothing left, and you’re all but panting, does he pull back.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” His voice is quiet again, thoughtful. Your brows wrinkle as you try to process.
“What?” You asked blearily. “You were the one who brought up eating spiders-”
“Mutate yourself for Hydra.” His words float around in your brain, and you frown, trying to understand his line of thought.
“Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer,” you mutter, beginning to take slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm your stomach.
“You didn’t?”
“No,” you groan, eyes squeezing shut. You're hunched over the porcelain bowl, battling against a second wave of nausea. “I would never,” you say. A small part of you is hurt that he would even think that.
If you were to open your eyes and look at him, you’d notice that Bucky’s visage had changed. Something sad and aching fills his eyes, recognition.
It’s a terrible weight, knowing the experiments didn’t stop with him. Wanda. Pietro. You. You're the evidence made flesh. His eyebrows pinch together as he starts to see the full picture of you, the web strands that make up your life.
If you were to open your eyes, you would see him finally see you.
But your eyes stay shut.
When your stomach finally settles, you can’t look at him. You feel warm and uncomfortable, still sick.
A large, strong hand rests on the top of your head. He pats you awkwardly, and you finally spare a glance at him.
He’s just staring at you, unreadable save for the small frown.
“C’mon. Let’s get you up,” he mumbles. He flushes the toilet as you reach for your toothbrush.
On his way out, Bucky pauses at the doorframe, turning to look at you again. His mouth opens, something on the tip of his tongue.
You look at him, toothbrush awkward in your mouth. You feel oddly vulnerable, in a way that only happens when you're sick in front of someone.
"I'll bring you some water," he says stiffly, and then he's gone.
Simon, who's just staring at where he splits you, watching the way you're spread around the head of his cock. Just luxurating in the wet heat.
You're whining and begging, trying to buck your just right so he slips in further; Simon's iron grip on your hips keeps him right where he wants to be.
He draws himself back, leaving you completely empty before inserting just the tip again. Your pleas fall on deaf ears. He's either completely oblivious to your tears or completely uncaring.
Ghost is silent behind you. It’s the least he could do after somehow worming his way into your darkroom.
You’re working quickly but carefully, extracting the film from the cassette. There’s an eagerness that thrums under your skin, excitement to see what sort of shapes and light you managed to coax and trap onto silver halide.
You can feel the electricity of your emotions buzzing off your fingers; not even the hulking shadow behind you can kill you high.
You love your darkroom. It's your extra safe space, the beating heart in the warm body that is your apartment, that no one but you enters. And it’s now been breached, and it's your own damn fault.
It was stupid to reach out to him. But you were just too damn anxious after hearing nothing from him. The chances of him forgetting seemed to be nonexistent based on his behavior and how cruelly he smiled when he got your number. It was better to get ahead of this.
Hi Ghost. Fyi, I’m going to develop the film, and then I can give you the negative.
You had stared at your phone, waiting, heart thumping nervously. Your phone vibrated. One word.
Why?
It had devolved into a series of explanations and back-and-forths, you need to develop the film strip, and he can have the negative in case it’s good or if he wants to burn it or something and fine as long as he can watch.
You probably should’ve backtracked at that.
You had thought of the sweat dripping down his body, the way his muscles and fat had moved when he threw a punch, how thick his thighs were beneath his gym shorts.
You had sent him your address almost immediately.
Ghost lurches forward, hunching down to watch as you load the film into a spool. You stay focused, but can’t stop the way a warmth starts to fester in your abdomen.
“Could’ve done this in a changing bag, but I like using a dark room,” you say, not really expecting a response.
“Changing bag?” Ghost’s voice slightly lilts up at the end, waiting for an explanation.
“It’s a special bag that lets me load the film into the spool and the developer tank in daylight. But you gotta do it completely by touch. Pros and cons…” you trail off, placing the spool into the tank.
You turn to grab the developer, allowing yourself to sneak a glance at Ghost. You pause, breath caught in your chest. He’s staring at you. Intensely.
He’s wearing a black mask over the lower half of his face, but the red hues of the safelite leave the rest of his face steeped in darkness, a shadowy map of red skin and bruises.
There’s no reflection in his eyes, no spark of life, just an emptiness. A chill runs down your spine.
You feel feverish.
Getting the chemistry up to temperature, developing the film, and using Blix goes by pretty quickly, even with his silent frame planted right next to you.
It’s only when the negatives have been washed and are hanging up to dry that he finally speaks again.
“Which one is it?”
You pluck the film strips from the line and beckon him next to your light table. A smooth, semi-translucent white panel sits quietly on the counter, its light waiting to blink on.
“This is my favorite part,” you say, voice quiet with reverence. The strips lay flat on the board, and then you flick the switch on.
A parallel world of ghostly dusk hues stares up at you. An inversion of sorts.
Your tongue clicks as you scan across the film. Some nice bottles on the bar, the lights of the marquee, a wide shot of the crowd, some guy who had wanted you to take a picture of him, and-
You inhale, leaning in close.
Fuck. It was a good shot. Even with how small it is and the inversion, you can tell it’s relatively in focus, just the tiniest bit of blur to imply the movement of Ghost’s arm towards the King. His face is mostly covered, but he looks vicious. Eyes squinting fiercely, while the King is pathetically hunched in on himself.
The ropes of the ring divide the background up nicely, and you appreciate the shallow depth of field. It’s something you miss about older sports photography. The colors, the contrast, the intentionality.
You tap lightly next to it.
“Fuck me, it’s really good. Like actually good.”
Ghost grunts, hunching over to get a good look. You could magnify it, but you don't want to do anything until he decides what he wants to do with it. Your heart aches at the thought of him trashing it.
Ghost stands up suddenly, crossing his arms. He doesn’t look at you, just continues to squint down at the negatives.
“One print. That I'll take.”
He doesn’t even look at you.
“Two,” you counter. He eyes you sharply, eyebrow quirked up. “One for you, and one for me,” you say. Your chest heats up, a warmth spreading all the way to your core.
He doesn’t say anything, just turns to face you fully, his thick frame cutting a nice silhouette with the light table behind him.
“It really is a good picture,” you mumble, eyes downcast, head full of sweat, muscles, and the sound of skin colliding against skin.
a little boxer!ghost x photographer!reader drabble
also Fuji 400 Pro film was discontinued, but not here....not in my world. not in the world i'm living in
The flash of your camera is bright, much too bright for an amateur fight in a basement that smells like beer and sweat. You hiss through your teeth, letting the camera dangle against your chest after you hear the film turn.
The strangers next to you glare, and you shrug.
“They need better lighting here,” you try to joke, but they're locked back in on the main event. You sign, holding the camera body gently. In your defense, it was never stated that flash photography wasn’t allowed, and the shot was too good to pass up.
Ghost vs the King. A sorta local legend against some out-of-town asshole. Or at least so you heard. You’ve never seen Ghost out of the ring, except maybe on a ratty poster or two. He’s not from here, but just popped up overnight one day.
Have you seen the Ghost?
He can throw some real haymakers.
I heard he's on the run after killing someone.
He’s kinda hot, I hope he doesn’t go pro…
There are a million different rumors and whispers swirling about him, his physicality and mystique successfully putting a spell on your town.
So, of course, you let your friend take you to a match. Or two. Of course, you ended up going by yourself. Of course, you eventually brought your ancient and well-cared-for 35mm camera equipped with a roll of Fuji 400 Pro film.
The dark basement’s pretty large, but crowded. People pressed in tight to throw back some beers and catch a glimpse of Ghost taking down the King.
Both Ghost and the King are masked in a way that reminds you of luchadors, the black fabric concealing their faces and hair, but their sweat-slick skin and sturdy muscles remain on display.
You bite your lip and raise your camera, watching the fight through the lens.
Jab. Cross. Jab. Uppercut. You trace their bodies with your camera, feeling a tiny seed of something warm in your gut.
A tiny lens adjustment allows you to get a slightly closer look; you can practically see the sweat drip down the ridges of their muscles. They're not chisled, but thickly built. Solid and sturdy. Something you could really grab onto.
A rogue image of being underneath Ghost flashes through your mind.
You refocus. It would be a risqué shot, something that belongs in The Body Issue or Tom of Finland.
Your finger hovers over the shutter button.
“Could you not take another picture?” a voice next to you slurs. “I, like, have a headache, and the flash hurts.” You tear your face away from the camera, lowering it slightly, when you see a very drunk and ill-looking girl squinting at you.
Shit.
After a few glasses of water at the bar upstairs, you’re now patting her back and helping her order a ride home. The floorboards are practically vibrating from the noise beneath you.
A stiff, gnawing ache to be down there fills you, but you shake it off. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake. You don’t need to watch two grown men beat the shit out of each other.
“Like, thank you so so much,” the girl hiccups at you before getting in her Uber. As you smile and wave politely, people begin meandering up and out of the basement.
One more drink in the patio with a quick cig, and then you’re going home.
Drink in hand, you fumble trying to light the cigarette that hangs from your lips, without elbowing anyone or hitting them with your camera bag.
“Delete the photo of me,” a gruff voice barks at you.
Your cig plunks onto the ground, and you groan.
You whip your head to glare at the voice, eyes slightly widening at the mean scowl already thrown in your direction.
He’s big. Huge, even. And he looks like he wants to tear your head off. Fuck.
The light’s shit out here, but you can make him out well enough, and your stomach drops. It’s Ghost. It has to be.
He’s got a hoodie on, but it fails to hide his battered face or his size. He’s somehow even taller and thicker in front of you, radiating an intense heat.
What did he want? Right, the photo. How the fuck did he notice that?
“Oh,” you say dumbly, looking down at your camera bag. You thrust your drink at him as you start to unclip the straps. He holds your glass automatically, but his glare is frozen to his face.
You pull out your camera that has certainly seen better days. He just stares at you, eyes narrowing. You swallow through your silence, trying to shake off the nerves. He’s a professional athlete; he’s not going to hurt you, right?
“It’s film,” you explain. He stays silent. Fucking great, you think and withhold the urge to sigh. “I can give you the negative to burn or whatever the fuck you wanna do with it, but it’s going to have to wait until I get the roll cracked open.”
He looks at you for a second, scarred face blank. He’s not handsome, but he’s not necessarily ugly either, you muse.
He’s got a face that makes people automatically start counting cracks in the floor, but not because it’s ugly, but because it’s intense. Sharp, striking, and cracking at the seams.
He oogles you up and down, still white-knuckling your glass.
“Fine. Give me your number.” You stare at his ancient cell phone, something that flips shut and texts with a number pad. Christ, you haven’t seen one of those in a while.
“Why?”
“So you can give me the picture or whatever.” His voice rumbles around you, pressing in on all sides, suffocating. You numbly enter your number, stomach wrenching a little as he hits enter, and your own phone vibrates in your pocket.
He nods sharply at you, no longer glowering. In fact, he’s smiling at you, but it’s not something kind and warm. It’s predatory, as if he’s got himself a nice juicy steak for dinner. You take a half step away.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he says, pressing your drink back into your palm. He chuckles. It’s a slow, stupid laugh, one that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. Heh heh heh.
And then he’s weaving through the people, somehow lost in this stupid bar despite his massive stature. You hold your camera tight enough that it digs into your sternum.
He’s a professional athlete. He wouldn’t hurt you; he just wants the film. That’s it. You think of the sweat dripping down his body, and take another swig of your drink. That’s it.
Google docs isn’t deleting your docs just because they have lewd text.
OP turned off reblogs of the post due to being debunked, but here’s a link of the reblog so you can still read stuff. Hate Google all you want but misinformation helps no one.
💬 246 🔁 9346 ❤️ 11184 · You need to move off of Google Docs! · I know some people have seen the news recently and may be doubtful of it. T
rewatching peacemaker and got to the jail episode. it is actually so fucking insane from adrian’s pov.
first of all this is his first time (making at attempt at) killing someone as ADRIAN, not vigilante. no mask, no costume, no anonymity, no running. he gets himself arrested knowing they will book him, ID him, and register him in the system as adrian chase. one can only imagine what’s going through his head during all this, especially cause we know how seriously he takes his secret identity.
second, he immediately stops limping when he gets into the cell and needs to start forging a public reputation at the prison. he is limping the entire rest of the episode (pinkie toe cut off YESTERDAY!!!) but as soon as the guard opens his cell up to walk him to the rec room, he is strutting.
lastly, adrian has never actually met chris’s dad, so he has to plan on identifying him just based on the racist aura alone.
anyway just loving and appreciating my husband at this time
Concept art from a pitched Batman Beyond animated feature film — From Writer/Director Patrick Harpin (My Dad the Bounty Hunter) & Production Designer/Producer Yuhki Demers (Into the Spider-Verse, Across the Spider-Verse)
rewatching Peacemaker rn and i’m haunted by Adrian Chase’s voice in episode 3 when he says “hey, dude, move over for a sec” all calm and gentle and smooth before he takes the gun from Peacemaker. the unquestionable confidence when it comes to doing something he’s good at—which really only applies to killing in the show, but i’m thinking there’s a point where it also comes to fucking
you’re probably the only woman that sad little virgin man has ever been with, but that means he’s got your body and your body only memorized. he doesn’t wanna fuck it up so no matter how bad he just wants to get off inside you, he makes sure he’s making you cum, and once he figures out just the way to do it he treats it like a secret formula. curling his fingers a certain way, wrapping his lips around your clit just right, putting your leg up a certain angle when he’s fucking you. when he’s knuckle deep and you’re squirting on his forearm and his face he’s grinning triumphantly, fist pumping the air, saying “let’s do that again!!” and going right back to it. once he realizes what he knows how to do he won’t stop doing it, he’s mesmerized
you’re touching yourself one day and it’s just one of those days where it’s not hitting, you’re not even really having fun, you’re just covered in a thin sheen of sweat and gritting your teeth in frustration because you just need to get off and it’s not working and it’s so fucking annoying. he prolly sees you cause he has no sense of boundaries and he was lookin in the window, and he doesn’t really get what the issue is?? you’ve got your hand, and that’s all it ever takes him to have you squirting all over the bed
Adrian’s a person who always tries to do the right thing and help people!!! his voice is smooth and confident when he says “here, let me :)” never takes his mask off, just starts pumping a few gloved fingers inside you and manages to have you screaming and arching off the bed. it takes him less than 2min to give you the release you’d been chasing for over an hour and you cry you’re so relieved. there are two things in the whole world Adrian knows he’s never failed at doing: killing people, and making you cum. he takes pride in that!!!
