just learned my asks and submissions haven't been open the entire time i've had this blog..... i thought they were on this whole time but apparently not. i forgot how tumblr works when i came back, my bad!
please send requests or your general thoughts about anything you see me reblogging here! this is quickly becoming a multi-fandom blog, but will always be marvel focused (especially when a new movie comes out).
asks and requests can be made at the ˣ෴ˣ tab
submissions can be made at the ༺♰༻ tab
what i write:
fan fics! (drabbles, blurbs, HCs, one-shots, multi-part fics)
reader x character, character x character, poly or platonic relations
trans! reader / [character]
gender neutral! reader, trans masc! reader, trans masc! [character], trans! [character]
queer ships
queer ships, queer ships x reader, platonic queer ships
political interpretations of media
what i write (nsfw)
smut <3
all smut i write is inherently queer, trans, and perverted bc im a queer trans freak who loves sex and writes for the queer and trans freaks and the queer and trans freaks ONLY
all my fics are x gn! reader unless specified otherwise
p links!!!!!!!!!! (heavy trans and queer focused)
D/S dynamics (strong switch rep)
kink (ws, humiliation, BDSM, pet play, somno, breath play, objectification, honestly u name it and it’s probably a yes)
who i write for:
most male marvel characters
heavy emphasis on the mcu, daredevil, and the thunderbolts*
i LOVE so many ships pls try me, i will likely have some nice thoughts about your ship (strong bias towards voidwalker, fratt/frankmatt, and bucky x cap)
yes i am!!!!! lol i’m always lurking! i appreciate you asking anon <333
i’ve just had a lot of things going on this year, can’t seem to catch a break! i live in the south of the U.S. as a disabled QTPOC so… life is not the easiest for anyone rn but i’m trying!
i have a lot of drafts and some request i have yet to fulfill so trust if you’ve requested something i have seen it!!! i’ll try to get posting more for pride month for all my queer and trans folks who i write for <3! and ofc always feel free to send requests, asks, or your own thoughts! i appreciate y’alls patience 🫶🏽
imagine ur trying to get with this sexy catholic priest with a troubled past (double sexy) and he keeps trying to talk about your mother. like hush brother im about to do some hozier level shit to you
(also u can commission me to do this for u btw. just putting that out there)
what happened on december 18th because i have like three drafts of fics from that day.
tattoo artist!reader traveling for a tattoo convention stays in chimney rock with father jud after their car breaks down. jud is of course courteous and inviting, but he cannot deny his growing admiration for you as he learns more and more about you.
reader dry humping against jud’s ass after innocently laying on top of him….. you both like it a lot and get really into it
the creature x trans masc!reader smut where reader is showing off their tdick and the creature watches in awe. talks of transness, creation, and god (all while horny).
and i still got plenty more in the drafts (a majority of which are thunderbolts* related). dear lord please let me focus on finishing at least one fic PLEASE
you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)
A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.
One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.
Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.
And three, he didn’t want to be here.
He made no effort to hide that fact.
You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.
The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.
But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.
What even was normal?
This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.
There never would be again.
The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.
You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.
You hadn’t asked why.
Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.
This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.
The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.
“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.
Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.
Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.
His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.
His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.
He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.
Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.
You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.
“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.
Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.
You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.
“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”
Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.
Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.
You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.
You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.
—
The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.
Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.
Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.
The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.
On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.
You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.
Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.
You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.
Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.
Mystery soup it was.
Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.
You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.
—
You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.
“Food. For you,” you said simply.
He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.
“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.
You shot him a look.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.
“Sit down.”
You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.
“Bland.” He commented.
You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.
“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.
It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.
“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”
Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.
“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”
“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.
Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.
You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”
You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.
Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.
“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”
You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.
“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.
It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”
“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.
Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.
“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”
Your throat closed up.
He thought you were part of it.
He thought you were one of them.
“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.
You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.
Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity
You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.
The cages.
The screaming—
Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.
“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.
“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”
You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.
Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.
But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.
Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.
But the voice in your head always whispered something else.
You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.
You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.
Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.
“Fuck you.” You seethed.
You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.
—
A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.
You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.
When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.
You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.
If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.
You already hated yourself enough.
The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.
Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.
You wanted to scream.
It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.
You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.
You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.
It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”
You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”
He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.
“No.”
You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.
“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”
He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.
His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.
Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
Interesting.
You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.
“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.
The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.
You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.
The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.
“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.
He was a storm.
Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.
This was your only shot.
“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.
You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.
“What the fuck are you—”
But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.
The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.
You didn’t know where you were going.
You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.
And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—
The world tilted.
You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.
You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.
When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.
“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.
You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”
Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.
And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.
“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.
But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.
“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”
Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.
“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.
“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.
His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.
“Put me the fuck down!”
“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”
“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”
“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”
“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”
You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”
“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”
You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.
He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.
You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.
Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.
The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.
You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.
Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.
“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”
—
Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.
He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.
You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.
You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”
“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”
You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”
But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.
“Sit. Down.”
You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.
Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.
Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”
Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.
He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.
Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—
You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.
He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.
“Stop squirming.”
“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”
“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.
That shut you up.
You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.
He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.
Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.
“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”
A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.
You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.
You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.
He stared at you.
“Are you even listening?” he barked.
You jumped. “Sorry—what?”
“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”
You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”
“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”
Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.
The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.
“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”
You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.
He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.
The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.
“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”
“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”
You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”
That stopped him cold.
His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.
“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.
You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.
“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.
“...Yeah.”
You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.
“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”
You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.
He was flinching from you.
Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.
Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?
And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?
When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.
What if this was different?
What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.
Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?
Would it make you… better?
Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.
His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.
Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”
He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.
His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.
You didn’t dare look up at him.
Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.
He didn’t flinch.
That was the point.
The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.
He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.
You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.
“You’re a—”
“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”
The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.
“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”
You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.
“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.
“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.
But he didn’t let it go.
Of course, he didn’t.
Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.
Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.
It was that he cared.
Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.
“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”
You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”
When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.
“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”
His brow creased. “Pain?”
“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.
“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”
His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.
“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”
You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.
Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.
“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.
“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.
“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.
“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.
“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”
You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.
He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”
That startled you more than it should have.
“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”
Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”
The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.
“No, I… I get it.”
Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”
He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.
“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”
You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.
—
Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.
Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.
It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.
And the weather wasn’t helping.
The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.
“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.
You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.
It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.
Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.
His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.
He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.
But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.
You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.
“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”
Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.
Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.
“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.
With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.
You opened your mouth to argue—too late.
The hem of your dress was already lifted.
“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.
“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.
You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.
He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”
You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.
“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”
“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.
His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.
Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.
“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”
Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”
“I’m not babying you.”
“I feel like dead weight.”
His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”
That made him pause.
His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.
Your heart kicked in your chest.
You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.
He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.
“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”
You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”
His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”
And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.
You bit your lip, cursing yourself.
His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.
And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—
You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.
He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.
Your face burned.
You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.
So much for subtle.
You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.
He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.
He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.
Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”
Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.
“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”
The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.
“Shit—ah—”
A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.
“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”
You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.
“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”
You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”
You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.
His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.
“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”
You exhaled, long and slow.
“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”
He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”
You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.
—
Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.
You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.
So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.
He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.
Your breath caught mid-page.
You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.
And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.
You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.
Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.
You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.
You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—
“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”
You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.
He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.
Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.
He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.
You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.
“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.
Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.
His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—
Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.
The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.
You jolted in fright.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.
Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.
“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”
You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.
You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.
When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.
He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.
You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”
You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.
“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”
“I just—you let it burn you.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”
But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.
You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.
Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm
“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”
Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.
“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”
You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.
You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.
And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.
“Can you feel that?” you breathed.
He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”
You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”
You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.
“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.
His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.
“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”
His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.
“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”
Your brows furrowed.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”
You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.
“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”
His hand stilled against your face.
“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”
His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.
“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.
Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.
For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.
“Come here.”
You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”
“Just... closer.”
You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.
When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”
Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.
God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.
You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.
And then you took the plunge.
“Let me… let me show you something.”
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”
You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.
He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.
You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”
“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”
“Show me again.”
You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”
His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.
“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”
You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.
“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”
His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”
You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.
You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.
And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.
“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.
“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”
Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.
A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.
His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.
Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.
And then something snapped.
Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.
One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.
He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.
Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.
Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.
Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.
His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.
You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”
You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.
He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.
He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.
When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.
And when his pants came off—
You stopped, just for a second.
Your breath hitched.
He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.
“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.
Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.
His reaction was immediate.
A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.
The pleasure took him like a tide.
And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.
“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.
He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.
Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.
He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.
“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”
You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.
“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”
Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.
So you showed him.
Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.
You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.
You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.
“I… you fucking minx—”
His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.
He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.
For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—
But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.
With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.
He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.
“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”
You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.
“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.
That was all it took to break him.
“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”
You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.
“God, Bucky—”
He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.
“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.
Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.
“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”
Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.
“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.
Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.
Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”
His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”
“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.
You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.
“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”
“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.
“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”
Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.
His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”
His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.
That was all it took.
Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.
Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.
Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”
He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.
“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.
You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”
He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”
You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”
“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”
He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”
You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”
---
hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.
holy shit is this in the hall of fame for fan fics MY GOD!!!!! what a read, 17k words but every single one was beautiful and engaging. i love mutant!reader’s story and their dynamic with bucky— truly a perfect pairing to be kept in hiding together. all the tension builds so well— BUCKY CALLING READER SWEETHEART THE WHOLE TIME BUT EVERY TIME HE SAYS IT IT CHANGES MEANING (condescending to sincere concern and care) AHHHHH. so so so good im creating a hall of fame fan fic tag and this stars as first! i will be thinking of this fic for a while whew
Content Ahead: heavy religious imagery and language, oral sex (reader receiving), sex acts in a church, reader has ambiguous genitalia, Father Jud worships you basically, overstimulation (Jud pushes you into overstimulation but it's out of need to complete his service to save you), very minor dissociation but Jud brings you back, feelings of catholic guilt of course, you both cry from pleasure, messy head, spit, "Child" used in a "Child of God" way, "Father" used in a "Father Jud" way, slight corruption kink, probs grammar mistakes and punctuation being misused (i'm trying my best), written by an agnostic
Synopsis: After confessing your lie to Father Jud, he devotes himself to absolving you of your sins… by creating a few more first.
Word Count: 3.7k
Author's Note: i'm calling this a blurb for consistency sake but it is so not one anymore... tbh the last one was way more than a blurb too so i just be lying... anyways thank you for all the support on part 1!!!! also thank you for your patience, sorry this took so long to post! hope you enjoy <3!
This is Part 2. Part 1 of this story can be read here on my blog :) All my writings can be found under the tag #ghost writes <3
GIF from this post by @lazzarella
This blog is 18+ ONLY!!!! MDNI you WILL be blocked! Ageless blogs please put age in bio / pinned post or you risk being blocked too!
Father Jud’s life purpose is to serve the world and all the people on it. The guilty, the sinful, the wicked— he’s devoted to bringing them closer to Christ. He serves them for they are all God’s children deserving of grace. He devotes himself to God for it was God that saved Jud from ultimate sin. It was God who loved and forgave Jud. It was God who bestowed the Holy Spirit in Jud to be able to forgive the sins of any, allowing him to start life again. It was God who gave Jud His grace to give to others. It is God who sustains everything Jud does. It was God who gave Jud his purpose.
It is God who gave Jud you.
You, completely bare from the waist down, your knees bent to the side as you lean back in the pew of his church. You couldn’t be more sinful, presented completely lewd in front of Him. The center core between your legs was rapidly engorging, a flush and sheen of arousal coating your glans. Your anticipation grows with Father Jud so close to where you needed him most. You’re becoming restless, chasing after the hot breath of his you felt mere seconds ago. Your slick grows along with your anticipation, as you begin to whine and squirm under his watchful eyes while his mouth remains hovering over your heat.
Jud was going to relieve you, but it’s hard not to get stuck in a state of admiration at your beauty. He wants to be patient, to take his time warming you up, maybe kiss and massage your thighs first, but your heat is just so close to him, his mouth drooling at the thought of tasting you. He can also see your core throbbing and your patience wearing thin.
You beg him for mercy, “Father Jud, please, please.”
He looks up at you from his position knelt before your core, between your legs; his strength to deny himself entry to the heaven that lies between your thighs is nothing short of remarkable.
Before you continue your plea, his concerned gaze disrupts your thoughts. You gulp staring into his darkened kind eyes. You feel the weight of what he is about to do for you— to save you from your sins he is about to commit numerous ones himself. He’s willing to break his vow of celibacy to bring you to salvation.
He really is a man of God, a man of service.
You quietly plead, “Save me, Father, please,” the last word barely audible.
He's glad he pre-emptively pleaded to God for forgiveness because he could not deny himself from your needy center any longer.
He happily answers to your plea, grateful for the chance to bring you closer to Christ. He gives a testing lick up to your glans, just testing your reaction— my God your reaction. He instantly saves in his brain the way your breath hitches, your full body reacting to the long-awaited warmness and wetness of his tongue on you. For a moment, just a moment, you tense at the new sensation, your anticipation finally being met, the pleasure it brought bloomed and then darted away, and you needed more. The little thrust of your hips into the air attempting to chase after his tongue allows Jud to sense your needs without your words.
He was done feigning patience and denying his purpose. He was here to relieve you of your sins and bring you to Christ; as the leader and face of the church, knelt before you, he was in the perfect position to do so. Well— almost.
Jud shifts himself further down and back as his arms loop under your bare thighs, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, his arms supporting you as you sink further down the pew. Your neck is craned up the backing of the pew at an acute angle, your back resting against the seat with your bottom now hanging off the pew, legs and lower bottom being completely supported by Father Jud. Whatever discomfort felt leaning against that pew was quickly forgotten when Jud gave you another testing lick… and then another and another. What started as cute and polite licks at the underside of your sensitive glans, turned hungry quickly.
He wanted to take his time with you, but you’re leaking so much now, it’s too much to ignore. The more of a mess you make, the more he salivates. His licks get sloppy quicker, and faster. It’s not long before he’s wrapping his lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves that go haywire at his touch.
It’s almost too much.
He’s giving you exactly what you’ve been lusting after, and it’s too good— he is too good. He’s perfectly stimulating you, drawing out noise after noise of pleasure out of you. You’re overwhelmed with him everywhere you need him to be. His arms supporting your legs to bring you even closer to his mouth, gripping onto your thighs to hold you in place.
His mouth pleasures you so intensely you’re shocked that these powerful, sinful sensations are coming from a priest and not a demon. One of his hands trace up your thighs, up the patch of hair on your pubic mound, his mouth slightly stopping—almost buffering—at sensation of your coarse hairs before continuing to lap at you, hands sliding up your shirt to grab your stomach, soothing your hot sensitive skin.
Your gaze is fixed to the ceiling, the pleasure so good you can’t look at him because then it would become too overwhelming. God, it’s already overwhelming— he’s making you feel just too good too quickly you're struggling to submit to the overpowering waves of pleasure he’s bringing you. He is too good; you keep thinking repeatedly and it disrupts your focus. You subconsciously hold yourself back from receiving the pleasure from his tongue as your mind race with thoughts that you’re corrupting his good— his grace.
As soon as Jud notices your distance and holding back, he moves his mouth from your core to kiss your inner thigh, hand soothing your other thigh. He kisses and kisses until your gaze meets his. You look down at his eyes that read concern, his eyebrows pulled up to a point silently asking the question Are you okay? You nod as you both slow down to take a breath.
He’s first to speak after your moment of silent recovery, “Was it too much?”
You let out a breathy laugh, “No! Well, yes, but it was good— you’re good. Too good,” your hand reach down to his, him eager to take your hand in his, “I just… I feel guilty… like I’m taking your good away from you.”
His face scrunches up at that before nodding understandably as to why you would think that. He brings your hand to his lips, leaving a brief, but delightfully deep-pressured kiss. The act grounds you. As you focus on your breathing, Jud reminds you of his devotion to you, “Sweet angel, you could never take away the good from me or anyone. If anything, you are allowing me the chance to do good. You came to me to confess your sins, that you did. Please, allow me the chance to absolve you of them.”
“But what about your sins?” You’re quick to respond, the question bubbling in your mind, “I’m making you do so—”
He cuts you off, “You are not making me do anything. You are blessing me with the divine that you possess within yourself. You are as close to Heaven as I can reach, even more than anything else I do. You are a sinner, as am I. Your lie and your lust are just two sins, and we will commit even more together, but you will be forgiven of them. You can sin as much as you want, I am here to absolve you of them. I am here to be of service to you, sweet Child. If that service results in even more sinful activities, so be it. You are my purpose.”
You’re nodding along to his words, even if they’re difficult to process. Instead of replying to his empowering speech— your body reacting strongly to his declaration of fidelity, needing time to process all his enticing words— you opt to comment on the one thing you could quickly comment on, “You can sin?”
Jud barks out a laugh at your question, bringing a smile instantly to your face as your body tension goes away, “Of course I do, I wouldn’t be catholic if I didn’t.”
It’s your turn to laugh now. You both share a doting look at each other, smiles wide on your face, embracing the comfort in this moment. But as the moment passes, you both become re-aware of the wetness and arousal that remains between your legs and on his lips. While staring into your eyes, Jud’s tongue darts out to lick your taste on his lips, unable to prevent the roll of his eyes as he silently savors the taste, being patient and respectful of your pace.
God, he’s too perfect, you think, I’m going to absolutely ruin him.
As a sign of embracing the comfort— and as an attempt to get his mouth back on you— you shift around briefly to pull your top off over your head before leaning back down the pew, fully revealing yourself to him. It’s intimate to bare yourself in front of a fully clothed cleric, but you know you can trust him.
Presented bare in front of him, Jud’s eyes scans over you, particularly focusing on the skin you just revealed, admiration widening his pupils. After lingering for a moment too long on your chest, he looks into your eyes for permission to start again, “Will you allow me to bring you to salvation, my sweet sinner?”
With your nod, and a “Yes, Father,” he leans up to leave a kiss on your cheek. It’s sweet, loving. His kiss then moves down to your neck, rising pleasant sighs from you as his kisses grow to be amorous. He spends a little extra time on the sensitive spot on your neck that elicited low moans from you before continuing his trail of kisses down your body.
Kissing down your chest was difficult, Jud having to resist the temptation to leave bites all over your chest, leaving his mark on you. He has to remind himself that he is here for you. He’s here to forgive your sins— not his own. And so, he kisses down your chest, to your stomach, until he's back on your inner thighs, so close to where his tongue once was. His kisses are delightful, his tongue occasionally lapping at your skin, getting you used to his presence again.
God, he’s too good.
His care and patience show in each kiss he leaves on your body. He takes his time with each kiss, treating you with such goodness, with such need to serve. Looking into his eye you see nothing but care and absolute devotion. So close to your deprived core, you start tensing again in anticipation, your thought spirals threatening to come back.
Sensing your tension, Jud destroys any last drop of hesitancy in you with his affirmation, “You’re okay… I’m here for you. You can let go; I got you.”
With that, you completely let go. You submit your trust to Jud, fully allowing yourself to be supported by him as your body sinks into his arms as his warm mouth moves to finally kiss your heat.
It’s everything you wanted.
Him.
You give yourself up to pleasure, you give yourself up to him.
At the feeling of you letting go and your weight bearing on him, Jud moans and pulls you somehow even closer to him. His kisses turn into open mouth ones, lips moving all over your sensitive skin. You put your trust into him, he thinks, you trust him to hold you and support you, you trust him to make you feel good. As he internalizes this truth, he can’t stop the moan from escaping him as his tongue moves to lick at your core of buzzing nerves again, over and over. You trust him. You have faith in him.
You trust him.
You give into the gratifying feeling of his mouth kissing, sucking, and lapping at you. You let go fully, allowing yourself to feel his tongue so intensely so. You get louder and louder, no longer holding back. Moans fall freely out of your mouth, and Jud’s keen focus is all on you. He’s quick to memorize your reactions, your tells. He’s not just listening, he’s reading you. With every sudden intake of air and every moan that strays from the others, he’s learning what make you feel good, what you love and what you need. Every twitch and body convulsion tells him what brings you the most pleasure. He’s quickly learning your moans and your body, fully committed to you.
He can’t get enough of your noises; your moans—especially the broken ones—go straight to cock. He's getting drunk on you, his eyes remaining half closed as his mouth devotes to you. He wants to shut his eyes to fully dedicate in to giving you pleasure, but he fights to keep them open to satisfy his own needs of looking at you. He stares up at you with hooded eyes. From his position kneeled on the ground staring up, he sees everything.
He sees your diaphragm rapidly expanding and deflating, your breaths quickening when he licks at the spot on your bundle of nerves that brings you to tears. He sees your heart pound against your chest as you struggle to breathe, chokes getting stuck in your throat as the pressure in your lower abdomen keeps building and building. He sees your head is now thrown back, your mouth alternating between being agape with your eyes wide open and your lip bitten with your eyes shut tightly.
Jud bobs his head in rhythm with his tongue and mouth movements to intensify the sensation he brings to you, drinking up your arousal and taste. Your eyes open wide at the sudden peak of pleasure before your irises roll behind your eyes. Jud continues his service, staring at the beauty that is your pleasure, committing it all to memory along with the taste of you.
This is supposed to be an act to save you, to save you from your sins and alleviate your ache; but in saving you he has damned himself.
It’s true, you break his devotion to God to commit sin, but he swears devoting to you is the same; the purpose he feels when he preaches the Gospel to a sitting congregation is the same purpose he feels when kneeled in front of the pews, tasting the Holy you bless him with.
He swears he’s been sent here to serve you. He is here to serve you, a child of God in need of absolution, and absolution you will receive once he brings you to the edge of salvation. But he cannot deny the wet patch growing in his pants as his cock strains against his now tight pants. He cannot deny that his eyes are wide open, pupils blown to fully see and take in all of your light and glory from his position down below.
Yes, Jud is here to alleviate you of your sins, but he is also alleviating his own in the process. By saving the cries of your pleasure in his mind, and the slight shifting of his hips to press his hard cock against his jeans, he is serving himself.
Is it so blasphemous that the act of servicing you brings him pleasure too?
God he’s in his own head… and so is God!
God, he devotes to, first and foremost, but he swears He made you for him to worship. He sent you here for him to save.
So here he is, saving you— and maybe himself in the process too.
One of his hands holding onto one of your thighs palms and massages it as his other hand pins your leg in place, keeping you spread before him.
He’s making you feel so good, your body twisting and turning at the act of his tongue lapping at you incessantly. Neither of you can stop the tears from forming in your eyes, you both entering states of pure bliss.
He feels so good, he makes me feel so good.
They taste so good, God, they sound so good.
You’re both moaning messes, and Jud is unable to stop instinctually grinding his stiff cock against his tight pants, needing the relief to be able to focus on you and not the uncomfortableness of his cock straining behind cloth and not you.
You... you, you, you; you are all he’s thinking about.
God, he really is incessantly licking at you, drooling to the point you don’t know what is your slick and what is his spit. He leaves such a sloppy, wet mess all over your pulsing heat. He can’t stop. Feeling and tasting your arousal, he’s drowning in you. His eyes are rolling behind his head the more drunk off your arousal he gets. You’re quickly become a new addiction to him as he can’t stop fixating on making you feel as good as you possibly can. He’s moaning as he swallows you whole, wet noises filling the Holy walls of the church.
You’re not sure if he knows how much he’s… you would say moaning but he’s more like babbling at this point in a state of pure euphoria.
The fact that he is this affected by you receiving pleasure, brings you closer and closer to your peak. Your hips begin to buck upwards, chasing after his movements. Your breathing notably becomes heavier as your moans begin to break further into silent ones as he sucks your sensitive concentration of nerves, your breath going out with the sharp movements of his tongue.
He sees your chest heave and eyebrows scrunch as your hips pick up speed. He sees your struggle in not knowing what to do with your hands, your hands clenching into a fist as you struggle to hold on for a little longer. He senses your hesitation building once more. Before you can get lost, however, Jud reaches for your hand, giving it a slight squeeze before guiding it to his head.
You instantly grab onto his hair, controlling his head as you grind into his mouth, chasing your climax. Your mouth hangs open in pleasure as you use his.
He’s more than happy to provide the service. To be used for your own desire is a blessing, a sacrament. He’s staring up at you with pure wonder. How can someone this Holy and divine be a person walking amongst the Earth? You’re an angel using his mouth. The act is so sinful you expect to see some regret in his eyes when you look down into the, and yet when you do all you see are blown out pupils and eyes that read 'Does this feel good?' as his mouth follows the movements of your hips so well.
God, he's too good.
God, you taste so good.
Jud's pathetically humping the air, attempting to bring any sort of relief to his throbbing cock. The stimulation has him slightly embarrasses as he knows it’s self-serving for his own pleasure, but God, you’re driving him insane.
Using his mouth the way you are, he knows you’re getting closer. Your movements get sloppy as you use him to satisfy your desires. Knowing just how much immense pleasure possesses him as he services you instills you with confidence to take control like this. With a hand tangled into his hair, you give a slight tug, a test, really.
He moans in response, looking up at you through the tears in his eyes.
He really is enjoying this.
Tears threaten to spill out of your own eyes at the sight of him so affected by you. You feel yourself mere inches away from your peak, close to falling, moans getting more strained.
Noticing, his hand reaches up to yours again, offering it to your other hand that's not interlocked with his curls. Your hand meets his, grasping as tightly as you maintain intimate eye contact. Jud mumbles noises—what would likely be words had they not been muffled—of encouragement as you use his mouth.
The vibrations of his mouth and the sight of him so close to crying with pleasure from being used like this, overwhelms you and thrusts you to your peak.
“Ah, fuck!” You shout as your hips freeze, legs shaking, hands letting go. You’re so sensitive, the full feeling of cumming halted by your instinct to close your legs and push Jud away from overstimulation.
This rivals Jud’s commitment to making you sin cum as much hard as you can. Frustrated by your attempts to cast him out, he pins down your thighs apart, lips separating away from your core for a split second to grunt out a frustrated, “Let me save you,” before diving back in to wrap his lips around you even more intensely.
“AHH FUCK!!! JUD!” You cry as you tremble in his grasp, orgasm pulled out of you with such force and strength it sends you into orbit.
Instead of letting you ride through your orgasm, however, Jud continues to suck and lap at you, moaning at the different taste your orgasm brings. You kick your feet as you squirm in his grasp, “Ah! Please!" you beg. "Father! Please! S-Sensitive!” you exclaim as you’re brought far over the edge, your body going light.
Finally satisfied with the state you’re in, he allows you to push him away from your sensitivity. His hands soothingly pet your thighs as he kisses them again, soothing you through all the aftershocks brought throughout your body. He lets you take your time, never stopping the strokes of his palms as your breathing finally begins to slow down. He whispers grounding words of affirmation of, 'you did so good for me,' 'you did so good,' 'you’re okay,' 'it’s okay,' 'I have you,' as you regain consciousness and sensation in your body.
Your body is spent, but you feel so much lighter.
“Jesus Christ,” is the first thing to leave your mouth as you gather your consciousness.
Jud laughs and gives your thigh one more kiss before kneeling up straight, still slot between your legs, his hands running up your back and helping you sit back up, “Yeah… I pray he wasn't pay attention during that.”
You give a light laugh as he kisses your forehead before going back to his position below you, resting his head on your thigh. He draws circles on your legs as you both catch your breath. He seems more comfortable kneeling in front you, staring up at you in your holiness. Perhaps it's because his instincts tell him to kneel before the sacred.
As you regain feeling in your body after your explosive orgasm, you notice the absolute mess left all over the pew and all over him. You squeal in shock, “Ah! Forgive me, Father! I didn’t know I would make such a mess in your church.” Embarrassment rises in your cheeks.
He laughs and gives your thigh another kiss, “Oh, you’re forgiven, sweet angel. That was heavenly.”
You blush as you stare at his messy lips, “As are you, and as were you."
"I just am happy to be of service."
"Clearly!" You exclaimed as you look down his body to see where his own spit trickled down, staining his clothing, bringing your attention straight to the wet patch on his jeans. Your eyebrows raise in shock because you two both know that is not from spit.
A blush floods Jud's cheeks as he looks down, hand rushing to try to cover up, but his bulge was just so prominent straining against his jeans and his hand couldn’t fully cover it, only bringing more attention to it. “Ah, God, I'm sorry I— I couldn't stop it from happening, you just make me feel so much I just kept leaking and I-” he stutters before your reach down to cusp his warm cheeks, quickly silencing him mid stutter, almost hypnotizing him into a trace by your touch.
You stroke his cheeks with care, him leaning into your touch, almost nuzzling into your hand. You smile in admiration as you soothe his worries, “You don't have to be sorry, Father Jud. Please... let me help."
Part 3 focusing on Father Jud to be released later this month.
Author's Note: yeah so there's gonna be a part 3 because this got so long. honestly it feels unreal to have finished this, and i am scared to post it tbh but i hope this made it worth the wait <3 lmk what you think! k i'm gonna finally read what everyone else has been writing since Wake Up Dead Man was added to streaming and everyone is seeing it now!!!! ive been so busy i havent been able to read the new fics posted!! i can't wait to read what everyone creates about this kind, sexy priest <333 k bye, inbox is always open!
Yeah I can't stop thinking about how by eating Eve's Apple (a sin), Wicks knowingly and willingly committed suicide (THE sin), therefore ruining his chance of going to heaven. This man is a Catholic priest! He would willingly lose his way to paradise for what? Ruining his daughter's life? He quite literally forsook Grace, the one thing God offers to his people, because of the resentment he felt about his daughter's loss of virginity. What a lost man.
18+ ONLY!!! MDNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED! Ageless / blank blogs you risk being blocked too!
concept of jud fucking you with a dildo and watching so intensely.
he struggles to get it in at first, even with lube. he's just watching you with such pure intent it makes you tighten up with nerves.
getting the head in was a feat. he gasped alongside you as the toy entered and quickly slid out with how tight you are.
he showers you with praise to loosen you up with his words, “it’s okay, you can handle it,” he grabs your hand to give a kiss. he continues to rain down encouragements, “nice and slow… you’re okay, you’re doing so good for me, just look at you.”
you’re whining from his words’ effect on you, body seeking him and his touch. you open up for him, his praise making your body relax.
“just breathe in for me. oh my— there you go, wow, look at you!” jud nearly tears up watching how the cock just sinks right in you, you swallowing it up so well.
you cry out for jud as your lax body gives into the toy, your hand squeezing his tighter.
jud gives your hand another kiss before pulling the cock out slowly before sliding it back in at an even slower pace, absolutely mesmerized with how the toy disappears into you and reappears with a sheen he desperately wants to taste, yet he remains focus on his task of pleasuring you.
the moans he lures out of you only further induce this lustful trance he’s in, watching you take this thick toy.
of course jud can’t stop the thoughts of what if it was his cock in you, making you whine and beg for more just like your hips were silently doing, chasing after his hand movements of the toy.
he imagines how warm you’d feel stretched around his cock; how broken your moans would be; how messy you’d both get as arousal, sweat, and spit—or more accurately, drool—grows and multiplies between you.
he’s absolutely entranced by the apple between your thighs, ever red from arousal, surrounded by a garden of coarse hairs. god knows he shouldn’t give into temptation, but how could he not when you’re instinctively gripping onto the toy when he pulls it out.
he's transfixed by you as he slowly pushes and pulls the cock in and out of you. his watchful blown-out eyes brings arousal out of you, the apple between your thighs darkened with the blood rushing to your sensitive glans.
you grow impatient as the pressure in your abdomen builds, your body beginning to tense up again as your climax begs to be reached.
your hand slaps over jud’s, urging him to pick up speed as you grind your hips to the cock, desperately trying to get him to fuck you with it faster. you cry out “please!” as your hips dramatically bounce up and down the toy, moans brokenly escaping as you plea for him to pick up pace.
his eyes water at the divine sight he witnesses. he lets you grind on the toy, gasping as the sounds of your arousal and moans grow. he didn’t think your cries would ever make him happy, but here you are, crying out of pleasure and need— a need only he can supply right now in this very movement.
he finally gives you mercy as his grip on the toy tighten before his wrists increased speed, pumping the toy in and out faster and faster.
your whines instantly ceased in your throat, mouth agape with only silent moans to fall out.
the room once filled with cries and moans now fills with heavy breathing from father jud and the slick, wet noises of the toy fucking in and out of you.
with your mind temporarily breaking from pleasure, jud is quick to bring you back, “you’re okay, that feel that good, hmm? it’s okay, just let me make you feel good, okay?”
the juxtaposition between his soft, grounding words with the small circular strokes on your hand he still holds onto, and the strokes of the fat cock he pistons in and out of you, is too much and throws you over your peak. you yelp out a “fuck!” as your orgasm splashes out of you so unexpectedly.
jud moans loudly at your squirts of orgasm, feeling the warmness of your arousal splash all over him, his own arousal threatening to flow out of him as he throbs against his soaked pants that you ruined.
lord have mercy because jud’s going to be using this memory of you explosively cumming all over him for his own pleasure so long as he lives and sins.
author's note: an actual proper blurb versus the full fic i called a blurb lmao. i think this format writing will be for blurbs bc it’s easier to keep as an actual blurb instead of turning a blurb into a full 3k fic…. anyways i can't stop thinking bout this priest so sporadic writings about him to come for quite a while. this thought came to me in thinking about all the ways jud would go about bringing you pleasure without directly breaking his vow of celibacy. all my writing can be found under #ghost writes ! my inbox is open for chats, thoughts, and requests <33333 hope you enjoyed this lil blurb :>