Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader
Word Count: 7.8k
Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)
Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.
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As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.
It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.
But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.
You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.
And you were so deserving.
You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.
He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.
He wanted to do more.
He heard you late at night with your vibrator.
He could give you so much better.
How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?
What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?
Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.
Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?
It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.
There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.
And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.
It was working.
He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.
Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.
But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.
He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.
The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.
He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.
And then he waited.
By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.
You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.
And now, he would wait.
He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.
Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.
Bucky chuckled.
This was going to be fun.
You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.
It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.
Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.
Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.
You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.
Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.
You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.
Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.
Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.
Look but not touch.
As always.
You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.
You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?
You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.
His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.
His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.
He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”
“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”
You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.
His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.
Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.
Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.
Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.
“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.
You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.
Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.
His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.
He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.
He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.
“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.
You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”
He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”
There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”
He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”
You needed something, and it was not TV.
But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.
God.
He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.
Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.
You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.
You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.
Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”
His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”
“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.
You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”
“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”
Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.
“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.
He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.
He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.
You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.
It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.
He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”
“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.
“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.
The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.
He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.
You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.
“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.
You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”
His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”
You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.
You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.
You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.
Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.
“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.
The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.
You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.
He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.
“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”
Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.
He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.
His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.
You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.
You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.
“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.
He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.
He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.
It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”
He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.
He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.
“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.
You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.
“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.
Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.
He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.
He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.
He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.
“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”
His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.
The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.
Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.
There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.
You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.
You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.
A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.
You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.
“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”
You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.
He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.
“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”
You could only groan beneath him.
But that wasn’t good enough.
“Because you are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you managed to gasp.
“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”
And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.
You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.
Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.
He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.
Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.
You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.
You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.
Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.
You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."
He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.
His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”
He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.
Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.
“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”
Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”
He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.
He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.
You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.
He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”
This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.
He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.
You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.
He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.
He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.
"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.
It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.
Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.
You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.
“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.
You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.
“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.
He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.
You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.
This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.
“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.
It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.
You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.
Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.
He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.
And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.
The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.
He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader
Word Count: 7.8k
Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)
Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.
It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.
But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.
You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.
And you were so deserving.
You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.
He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.
He wanted to do more.
He heard you late at night with your vibrator.
He could give you so much better.
How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?
What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?
Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.
Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?
It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.
There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.
And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.
It was working.
He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.
Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.
But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.
He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.
The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.
He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.
And then he waited.
By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.
You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.
And now, he would wait.
He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.
Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.
Bucky chuckled.
This was going to be fun.
You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.
It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.
Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.
Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.
You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.
Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.
You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.
Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.
Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.
Look but not touch.
As always.
You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.
You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?
You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.
His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.
His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.
He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”
“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”
You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.
His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.
Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.
Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.
Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.
“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.
You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.
Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.
His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.
He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.
He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.
“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.
You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”
He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”
There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”
He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”
You needed something, and it was not TV.
But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.
God.
He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.
Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.
You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.
You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.
Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”
His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”
“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.
You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”
“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”
Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.
“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.
He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.
He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.
You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.
It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.
He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”
“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.
“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.
The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.
He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.
You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.
“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.
You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”
His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”
You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.
You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.
You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.
Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.
“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.
The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.
You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.
He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.
“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”
Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.
He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.
His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.
You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.
You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.
“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.
He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.
He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.
It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”
He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.
He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.
“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.
You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.
“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.
Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.
He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.
He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.
He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.
“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”
His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.
The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.
Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.
There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.
You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.
You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.
A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.
You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.
“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”
You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.
He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.
“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”
You could only groan beneath him.
But that wasn’t good enough.
“Because you are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you managed to gasp.
“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”
And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.
You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.
Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.
He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.
Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.
You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.
You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.
Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.
You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."
He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.
His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”
He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.
Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.
“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”
Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”
He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.
He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.
You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.
He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”
This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.
He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.
You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.
He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.
He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.
"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.
It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.
Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.
You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.
“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.
You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.
“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.
He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.
You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.
This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.
“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.
It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.
You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.
Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.
He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.
And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.
The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.
He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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Pairing: dark!Winter Soldier x f!reader (any race)
WC: 2.2k
Summary: It's been too long since you've seen the Soldier
Warnings: dark, smut (p in v, unprotected, public-ish), edging, overstimulation, swearing, pet names [little lamb]
A/N: I can't believe I haven't updated this since september of last year... i'm sorry it took so long!!!! this was a doozy lol i hope you guys enjoy :)
Song referenced: Parasite Eve - Bring Me The Horizon
series masterlist | my masterlist | requests are open
part 1 | part 2
He’s been away from you for too long. His fingers itch to touch you, to ravage you. To ruin you. It’s all he can think about. Every mission he completes gets him closer and closer to returning to you.
You’ve been craving him. Nothing feels like him; nothing comes even close. Heat floods your body whenever you think of him, his hands on you, his words.
Don’t thank god, little lamb. Thank me. I’m your fucking god.
You go about your regular life, hiding the masked man away from everyone around you. He’s your dirty little secret, your wildest fantasy come to life.
Even though it’s fucked up, you miss him. It’s been weeks, and he has yet to return to your bedroom. The star he carved into your leg is scarring over nicely, and it serves as a reminder every time you see or feel it, of what he did to you. What he’s done. What he will do.
Tonight, as you dance with a man whose name you don’t quite remember, it’s him that you think of. The masked man with eyes that can see right through you. You think of him as this new man grips your hips just a little too tightly. He dances just a little too closely.
And then you see it.
A flash of metal, those eyes…
You shake your head. There’s no way he’s here. Even before that first night in your bedroom, he never followed you to places like this. He only ever saw you in public, not at a club or bar.
The dancing man behind you grows bored, finally picking up on your disinterest, and abandons you on the dance floor. But you’re not paying attention. No, you’re staring at the corner of the room.
There, hidden in the darkness, you see him. He devours you with his eyes, setting you alight.
You walk to him as if tethered by some invisible force. He pulls you in, hypnotizing you with his presence.
“Little lamb,” he whispers when you’re finally standing in front of him. He’s not wearing his mask, and it takes everything in you to not stare at his lips. They’re soft, plump, and pink. You want to kiss him, to press against those perfect lips and taste them.
His fingers grip your chin, and tilt your head up so you have to meet his eyes.
“You’re here,” you say breathily. His eyes search your face, but for what, you’re not sure.
The Soldier’s fingers reach out and brush up your arm, sending shivers through your body. Your dress is sleeveless, leaving your skin out for him to devour. And that’s what it looks like he wants to do.
“And you were dancing with a man.” His voice is gruff and laced with lust. But there’s anger there too.
All you can do is nod, already falling into his trance. Without speaking another word, the Soldier cocks his head and tugs you toward the back of the bar. You follow him, practically tripping over your feet to keep up with his long strides.
He shoulders open the back door of the bar, and it doesn’t cross your mind to wonder how he knew where the exit was, how he barely had to look for it at all. Instead, your thoughts linger on the way the low light casts shadows over his beautiful, sharp features. You drink him in, committing the slope of his nose, the angle of his chin to memory.
The Soldier presses your back against the rough brick wall of the alley, and suddenly the world comes back into focus around you.
“Thought you were gonna be good for me,” he whispers roughly, metal fingers curling around your chin. His other hand dips down, running up your knee to your thigh. You shiver when he makes contact with the star he carved into your skin.
“I- I have been good, I promise,” you reply, watching the Soldier’s face closely. His brow furrows as his fingers trace higher, finding your pussy already wet for him beneath your panties.
“I don’t believe you.” His words are harsh as he applies pressure to your clit. “You were letting that man touch you. How often have you done that since I last saw you?” Frustration washes over you, overtaking your lust. You push on his shoulders, shoving him back slightly.
“I don’t even know your fucking name,” you say, trying not to be afraid of the man in front of you. “Why would you care what I do when you’re gone? You’re the one who always disappears, who never showed me your face before tonight. Since when do you control my fucking life? You don’t own me.”
The Soldier’s eyes narrow, darkening at your words. He’s back on you in an instant, fingers finding their way back to the mark on your thigh.
“You are all I think about when I’m away, lamb.” Cold fingers trace the star over and over, the gesture practically obsessive. “Your eyes, your perfect body. Only you.” He leans his forehead closer to yours, knocking your nose with his. “I have no choice; I have to leave. But you…” he trails off, dragging his fingers back to your clit. “You chose to give me control that first night.”
“No,” you whisper, not even meaning it one bit.
“You begged for me,” he says, nipping at the tip of your nose. “Fucked yourself to the thought of my cock.” His fingers slide beneath your panties, finding you soaked. “You really going to tell me you don’t want me? Don’t want this?” You moan, feeling his strong fingers circle your clit.
“What’s your name?” You ask with a shaky voice. The Soldier grins, and you feel your knees go weak.
“I don’t have a name anymore.” You can tell he feels conflicted, but you want to push him for more. “I am called Soldat now.”
“Soldat,” you whisper. The sound of his name on your lips sends his mind to dark, dark places, but for you, he would go anywhere.
The Soldier’s blue eyes gleam down at you, and your lips part with a sigh. He’s working you up so perfectly; he knows your body better than you know it. When his lips connect with yours, it sends sparks flying through you.
He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s devouring you. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer. You gasp when he moves one of his legs between yours, spreading your feet apart further.
“Take it back,” he grunts. In a swift movement, he tears your panties down your legs. They fall to the ground, shredded. Confusion must flash across your features because as he fusses with his belt, he continues. “You said I don’t own you. Take. It. Back.”
Two of his fingers press inside of you, and you gasp loudly, suddenly aware of the possibility of someone walking past the alley and seeing what he’s doing to you. You try to cover his mouth with your fingers, but he easily dodges your grasp.
“Say it.” Your eyes roll back when his fingers graze the perfect spot deep inside of you. “Be a good little lamb for me, and maybe I’ll let you come. How’s that sound?” You preen at the idea of being good for him, but part of your brain scolds you for it. You don’t want to tell him he owns you, that you crave him, that you’re infected.
Instead, you shake your head, your orgasm growing closer and closer.
The Soldier clicks his tongue at you, withdrawing his fingers from your pussy. He shoves his pants down his legs, and your mouth waters at the sight of his dick.
He chuckles at your reaction and the way your tongue traces along your lower lip. “Pull up your dress.” His commanding tone sends shivers down your spine, and despite worrying about people that might walk past, you find yourself following his orders.
“What if someone sees?” The Soldier grips your legs at your knees, hoisting you up and against the wall. You instinctively wrap your legs around him, tugging him closer. His cock nudges against your clit, and you bite back a moan.
“Then they’ll know what you can’t seem to get through your dumb little head. That I fucking own you.” As the last word leaves his lips, he thrusts into you, stretching you around his length. This time, you can’t hold back the moan that rips from your throat.
“Soldat,” you whimper, head lolling back as he fucks you with fast, deep thrusts. Suddenly, he’s pressing something against your face. You realize a moment later that it’s his mask. He hooks it around your head, securing it into place. With the way it’s positioned on your head, you can’t open your mouth fully, and it muffles most of the sound you make.
“But those sounds,” he grunts, “are all mine.” His hands scour your body, grabbing and feeling every inch of your body as he fucks you. It’s all you can do to stay upright, and you give in to the feeling of him taking you.
His metal fingers find your clit, and he works you in quick, tight circles. It doesn’t take long for you to reach the edge, and you grip his shoulders, begging for release. But he doesn’t give it to you. The moment you’re about to come, he stops all his movements.
You groan at the loss, and your heart stutters in your chest.
“Take it back, and I’ll let you come,” he tells you, thrusting shallowly. The Soldier holds you against the brick and watches his cock as it slides in and out of your pussy. “Three little words, that’s all it takes.”
Your silence must last too long because he starts fucking you again, clearly trying to work you back up to your orgasm as quickly as possible.
He brings you to the edge more times than you can count, keeping you from coming each time. Tears stream down your face, and your muffled noises are music to the Soldier’s ears.
“You look so fucking perfect with my cock in you, little lamb,” he groans, pressing a hand against your lower belly. You whine from being sore, but it just makes him go faster. “If you wanna come so bad, you know what to say.”
He likes playing this game with you, especially since he wins either way. He loves seeing you take him, loves watching your body give him everything even though your mind won’t quite let go yet. He knows you’ll say it eventually. It’s only a matter of time, and he can’t wait to push you to your limit.
Your fingers dig into the Soldier’s shoulders, and you feel him shudder, his hips stuttering from their consistent pace. He comes on a low groan, but he doesn’t stop fucking you. He’s still hard, still pressing deeply inside of you.
Your eyes widen, and he grins, dipping his head to bite your neck. “You thought I was done with you, little lamb?” You can’t find the words to respond, your mind full of him . “Can’t ever get enough.”
“Please, please, please,” you whimper, muffled through the mask.
“I know you’re sore, little lamb. I just can’t help it; you look so fucking perfect. Your pretty pussy takes my cock so well.” His words are music to your ears, and despite any discomfort, you might be feeling, you grind your hips against his pelvis, shifting yourself to his pace.
“Soldat, please,” your voice sounds broken and hoarse; it just fuels his fire.
“Tell me what I want to hear.” His fingers slide up your body, caressing every curve, before curling around your neck. With an unexpected tenderness, he pulls the mask off your face. You suck in a shaking breath and groan as his cock hits your G-spot.
“You own me,” you whisper. His thrusts still, and your body jolts from sensitivity.
“Again.” The Soldier’s fingers drag down your front, tracing over your nipples. Your entire body feels like it’s been electrocuted, even though a layer of fabric separates his skin from yours.
“You own me.”
“Good fucking girl.” He thrusts into you slowly, deeply, before working up to a pace that makes you see stars. His fingers circle your clit as his lips suck at the sensitive spot where your neck and shoulder meet. Tears fall freely down your cheeks as you get closer and closer to orgasm.
Heat builds like a raging storm in your belly from being worked up for so long. You sob, hiccuping as you hold onto him for dear life.
“Lemme see those tears,” he whispers, gripping your chin between his fingers, “Come while you’re fucking crying on my dick, little lamb.”
The Soldier’s hand covers your mouth as you come on a loud moan. You feel him fill you again, pulsing inside of you. The two of you remain, pressed against each other and the brick wall for what feels like an eternity.
“You own me,” he tells you, leaning his forehead against yours. You gaze into his bright blue eyes and see the devotion.
There’s so much you want to say, that you should say. But as silence falls over the two of you, you can’t help but feel that this is how it was meant to be.
When we forget the infection
Will we remember the lesson?
If the suspense doesn't kill you
Something else will
please fill out this form to be added to a taglist! must bw 18+
Pairing: dark!Winter Soldier x f!reader (any race)
WC: 2.3k
Summary: your mysterious visitor returns
Warnings: dark!!, masturbation, edging, knife play, blood, marking, pet names [little lamb], smut [p in v], oral [m receiving], degradation
A/N: lowkey inspired by my favorite pierce the veil song, I Don’t Care if You’re Contagious <3 please lmk what you think!!
series masterlist | full masterlist | bucky masterlist
"I will see you again, little lamb. Soon, very soon."
You're still reeling three weeks after your encounter with the man in your room. You still catch yourself peeking over your shoulder, waiting for him.
When you go to bed each night, your thoughts drift to him. The way his hands felt on your skin, the drag of his blade down your spine.
As if still under his command, your hand never fails to drift down to the crux of your thighs, rubbing slow, methodical circles into your sensitive spot.
"I want to ruin you, to paint you with the darkness that flows through my veins. My sacrificial lamb, ready for the slaughter."
His words haunt you, his eyes seared into your brain.
As you lay in bed tonight, you find yourself in the same position as always. Face pressed into your mattress, ass high in the air just like he'd placed you that night. You try your best to relieve the throbbing need you feel, but your fingers don't do nearly as good of a job as his cock had.
"There is no god, little lamb."
You moan at the memory of his words, at how fucked up it all had been. Never in your life had you been as turned on as you had that night. It was like he'd cracked your head open and dug around until he found your deepest and darkest fantasies. Things you hadn't even admitted to yourself that you wanted.
The names he'd called you, the things he'd done to you…
You shiver, trying to picture him pressing his knife to your cheek.
"So fuckin' perfect, taking what I give you. You like it? Yeah? You like being fucked like a whore?"
No matter what you do or how hard you try, nothing comes close to being as good as the real thing.
The Soldier hasn’t liked being away from you for so long. It wasn’t his intention, not at all. He’d been called out on a mission, and the moment he reached the city, he found his way to you.
He scales your building easily, settling himself outside your bedroom window. And oh, what a sight you are naked and writing for him.
With your back arched, fingers working your clit hard, you are a vision of depravity and beauty. He feels his cock harden instantly as he watches you. He wonders what you’re thinking about; he wonders how wet you are. How desperate you’ve gotten.
After a few moments of watching you drive yourself to the edge of your climax, he slides your window open. Stupid little lamb, he thinks, you’re just asking for someone to come in here and have their way with you.
You’re so wrapped up in your fantasy, mind filled with the man’s voice, that you don’t hear your window open. You don’t hear his footsteps on the floor, nor do you notice him standing beside your bed, watching you intently.
It isn’t until he reaches out and moves your hair out of your face that you freeze.
Your eyes fly open, and you crumple in on yourself, trying to retain some of your dignity, but it’s no use.
The man stares down at you, eyes devouring your figure. Your skin heats under his gaze. Most of his face is concealed by a black mask, but you can tell just from the look in his eyes that he’s ready to destroy you.
“Don’t stop,” he says, voice slightly muffled from the mask. “Don’t fuckin’ stop, little lamb.” Just his voice, the way he says your pet name has heat rushing to your clit, making it pulse with need.
The Soldier crouches beside you until he’s at eye level with you. “What, too shy now?” His voice is taunting. He wants a reaction out of you.
“N-no, it’s just–” you stammer, unable to get the words out. His presence is so threatening, you know he’s deadly, but that just makes him that much more attractive to you. You swallow your pride and give in to your desires. “I’d rather you do it.”
Your words make something crack in the Soldier. He growls, low and deep in his chest, and rips off the leather gloves from his hands. A breath later, he’s kneeling between your legs, fingers running over your soft skin.
“Do you think about me?” he asks, his touch ghosting over your abdomen. You shiver beneath his touch, arching your back to try and get him to touch you where you want him. Where you need him.
“Ngh– yes,” you hiss, his fingers brushing over your swollen clit. You’d lost track of how long you’d been playing with yourself before the man’s arrival, but all you know is you couldn’t finish with just your fingers. You needed him to push you over the edge.
“What a good little lamb,” the man whispers, slowly circling your clit with a calloused finger. His metal hand grips your waist tightly; you’ll have bruises tomorrow. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”
You writhe beneath him, a combination of sensitivity and his perfect fingers playing you like a goddamn violin driving you right up to the edge after just a few moments.
“Please, please, please,” you whimper, begging him to give you the release you’re craving. The man cocks his head, and even with the mask on, you can tell he’s planning something.
Just as you’re about to climax, he removes his hand.
You groan at the loss of his fingers, feeling your orgasm fading. Your clit pulses, and you try to bring your thighs together to alleviate the pressure, but you can’t with the man’s large body between your legs.
“Just as pathetic as I left you,” he sneers. “My dumb little lamb, did you consider that you don’t deserve to come yet?” Tears prick in the corners of your eyes as you shake your head.
The man huffs, bringing his hands to his belt, undoing it, and swiftly pulling it through the loops on his pants. A moment later, he flicks open the button and drags the zipper down on his fly.
Your mouth waters at the memory of how he’d used your mouth and throat for his pleasure, how he’d forced you to take all of him.
“Come here and suck my cock like the little slut you are, and then we’ll see if you deserve to come.” You shift onto your hands and knees as the man moves to stand beside the bed.
His hands tangle in your hair, pulling at it to guide you into position. You take his cock out of his pants and gently kiss the tip before licking down his shaft. His taste fills your mouth, and you moan around his length.
“Good girl,” he says through gritted teeth, grip tightening in your hair as you take him deeper and deeper. “Fuckin’ missed the way your throat squeezes me.” You preen at his praise, trying harder to please him more. Your hand works at the length of him that you can’t take in your mouth, and you stare up at him, watching his eyebrows pinch with pleasure.
Never in your life have you truly enjoyed giving oral; you’ve never found pleasure in the action. Until him; until now. You want nothing more than to bring him pleasure, to make the man feel good.
The Soldier watches you take his cock with amazement. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as you.
Your eyes flick up to his as you force yourself to take his entire cock in your throat. He feels you gag, but you don’t pull away. He nearly comes at the sight, but he wants to save that. He wants to feel you squeezing his cock with your pretty pussy. He wants to come deep inside of you. So deep that you won’t ever be able to forget about him.
He uses his grip on your hair to pull you off his dick with a lewd pop. You pant as he adjusts your position, laying you down on your back with your legs spread in front of him.
You’re so much more beautiful like this, cock drunk and needy for him.
You’re perfect.
The Soldier leans over you, running his face along your neck. Even though you have no clothes for him to cut off of you tonight, he still reaches a hand into his pocket and flips out his knife. He loves how you shiver when he drags the blade down your skin. The way your heartbeat speeds up.
He sits up, showing you the knife, and your breath hitches. You hate admitting it to yourself, but you’d missed the feeling of the cool steel against your skin.
The Soldier traces a line up your leg from ankle to hip, not causing any damage but still making you shake.
He traces your nipples with the tip of the knife, causing them to perk up more. Your back arches into the feeling without you willing it to. The Soldier tsks you, but he loves the way you respond to everything he does.
“I’m going to fuck you now, little lamb,” he explains, letting the knife drift down your abdomen, circling your belly button, and finally pressing gently against your aching clit. “And you’re going to take it like a good girl. Do you understand?” Your breaths come out shaky as you stare down at the blade.
You nod quickly. “Yes, yes, I understand.” The man lines his thick cock up with your weeping pussy and presses into you with one brutal thrust.
“Fuck,” the man groans, adjusting his grip on the knife, so it no longer presses against your clit, but rather the inside of your thigh. “Take my fuckin’ cock.”
Your tears spill freely down your cheeks at the stretch of your pussy taking him. It hurts so so good.
He sets a deep and punishing pace, hitting every sensitive spot within you, and all you can do is lay there and take it.
Your hands grip your sheets with every thrust, keeping you anchored to this world. Searing pain in your leg brings your head back down to earth, and your eyes flash open.
The man has stilled his thrusts to focus instead on carving something into your fleshy thigh. You grit your teeth through the pain but never tell him to stop.
You realize you should be angry; you should be furious that he’s just marked you like that. You don’t even know his name, and he’s scarred you for life. But you’re not mad. You’re so turned on, so delirious with pleasure, that you don’t care.
The man looks up at you, his flesh hand wiping the blood from your wound just to smear it on your abdomen.
“You’re mine, little lamb. All. Fucking. Mine.” He punctuates every word with a deep thrust, fucking you brutally. More of your blood sticks to him every time his body connects with yours, but he doesn’t care.
The mixture of pain and pleasure comes together to bring you right to the edge. Only the man fucking you is the one who can send you over.
“I’m gonna– please, can I –” You can barely get the words out, can barely get air into your lungs.
“You wanna come?” the man asks, leaning down, staring intensely into your eyes. “You wanna come all over my cock like a whore?” Your eyes screw shut as you moan at his words.
“Please,” you whisper over and over like a prayer. The Soldier loves hearing you pray to him, begging him to give you what you want.
“This pretty pussy’s been taking me so good,” he says, cocking his head. “I think she deserves to come.” Your whole body goes tight, knowing you couldn’t come without his permission.
“Oh my god, thank you, thank you, thank you,” you moan as you come undone. Heat and pleasure shoot through your body, up your spine, making your fingers tingle.
“Don’t thank god, little lamb. Thank me,” he grunts, getting closer to his own climax. “I’m your fucking god.”
He comes with a loud groan, filling you up with his seed. You can’t help but arch into him, loving how it feels to have him pulsing inside you.
When the Soldier pulls out, he immediately mourns the loss of your warmth wrapped around him. The sight of you dripping with his cum makes him feel better, though.
He sits back on his heels and runs his thumb over the cuts on your leg. You watch with hooded eyes as he unclasps his mask and brings that bloodied finger to his mouth, sucking it clean.
Your chest heaves, exhaustion taking over. Your eyes take in his beautiful but deadly face. The sinister grin he sports, his dark eyes.
“You did so good, little lamb,” he praises, dropping his fingers down to your leaking pussy. He presses his cum back inside you with two digits, pumping a few times. You moan, sensitive and overstimulated. “So good for me.”
The man stands, pulling his clothes back into place as your lids droop. You don’t want to fall asleep; you want to stay awake and ask him who he is, where he comes from. But you don’t get the chance to.
The Soldier pulls a blanket over your naked form and smooths your hair away from your forehead. “Rest,” he whispers, his voice almost sounding gentle. “I’ll be back.”
The following day when you wake, you’re sore all over, but all you can focus on is the marking on your inner thigh. You couldn’t tell what it was when he’d initially cut you, but now that you’ve cleaned the blood off, you see it’s a little star.
It matches the one on his metal arm, and you warm at the thought.
You know he’ll be back, and you’ll be waiting. Ready and desperate for him.
You’re infected by him.
And I don't care if you're sick, I don't care if you're contagious.
I would kiss you even if you were dead.
I'm gonna tear out the thread one by one from your skin,
'Till your bones feel embarrassed from all the attention.
please let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist <3
Pairing: dark!Winter Soldier x f!reader (any race)
WC: 2.1k
Summary: The Soldier has been watching you for some time now, but tonight he will finally act on his urges.
Warnings: dark!!, stalking, knife play, pet names [little lamb], smut [p in v], oral [m receiving], degredation
series masterlist | full masterlist | bucky masterlist
When you first noticed the feeling, you'd thought you were crazy—the feeling of eyes on you, of someone following you. But when you looked around, you saw nothing.
It used to be easy to convince yourself that no one was there, but you saw him yesterday.
You saw him slip around the corner as you whipped around. He didn't move quite fast enough for you not to catch a glimpse of his dark eyes and built frame.
Tonight, you sit on your bed and stare at the window, unable to tear your eyes away from it. You're sure you saw him; you'd recognize those eyes anywhere.
But the longer you sit, the heavier your eyelids get. It isn't long before you're asleep, unaware of the man climbing up the side of the building and sliding your window open.
You don't hear as he slips through the window frame and steps into your room.
The Soldier stands beside your bed and watches your chest rise and fall with every breath.
He has never seen anything like you, anyone so beautiful.
It didn't start innocently, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He saw you walking down the street and couldn't help himself.
Your shy nature, the way you cowered out of the way of oncoming people. It called to him.
You shift in your sleep, and he runs his metal fingers down your bare arm. You'd fallen asleep in a pair of short flowy sleep shorts and a tank top.
"Hm, little lamb, you've dressed so perfectly for me tonight."
You stir at the sound of his words. Your eyes flutter open, and you freeze under his cold gaze.
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He leans over you, dropping his head down beside you.
You try to shift away, but his hand shoots out and grips your chin.
"Hello, my lamb," he whispers, holding your face close.
"Who- who- who are you," you ask, voice shaking.
The Soldier shakes his head, not finding it necessary to answer your question.
Instead, he dips his head and breathes you in, taking in your scent, your softness. Somehow, even though he is right beside you, finally being able to smell you makes you more real to him.
"Please, I'll do anything," you shudder, "please don't hurt me." The Soldier returns his gaze to you and smirks.
"My poor little lamb." The Soldier stands at his full height, towering over you. "All I want to do is hurt you."
You don't dare take your eyes off him as his hand snaps to his belt. When his hand comes back into view, you see the glint of a blade practically glowing in the moonlight.
You can't help the whimper that escapes your lips at the sight of it. The Soldier twirls it through his fingers with an elegance that, for some reason, doesn't surprise you.
It's hard not to imagine what he's going to do to you with the blade, if he'll make it quick or if he'll draw it out. Judging by the deadly look on his face, you think it'll be the latter.
He runs the knife down your cheek, the sharp point grazing your skin as it glides.
"I want to ruin you, to paint you with the darkness that flows through my veins. My sacrificial lamb, ready for the slaughter."
You shiver under his gaze; your heart races.
"P-please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for.
"You're pathetic," he whispers. "My pathetic little lamb."
He drops his head and runs his nose along your neck. The hand gripping the knife stays by your face, a reminder of the danger the man above you could commit.
His other hand grips your waist before slipping down to your pussy.
You jolt at the feeling of him touching you, but the man's grip on you keeps you from knicking yourself on the blade.
He lets his fingers graze over the fabric covering you, ghosting touches that send electricity up your spine.
You know it's fucked up, oh my god, so fucked up, but you crave more. You want him to touch you, to really touch you.
And he knows.
"You're so fucking needy," he taunts, not giving in to your wishes.
Your body thrums with energy, pulses under his touch, and he knows how much you crave him.
He's only been in your room for a few moments, yet here you are, already wrapped around his finger.
"I knew you'd be a good little lamb for me the moment I laid eyes on you," he chuckles, giving you a little more pressure against your clit. "I saw you, and I knew."
You feel yourself getting wetter at his words. It's like he bore into your head and discovered all your deepest fantasies.
"I knew I'd be able to get you on your knees, ready to please me. Are you gonna prove me right?" He asks, pressing the palm of his hand against your clit.
You arch into him, feeling the blade's sharp edge against your cheek.
"Answer me," he commands.
"Y-yes," you nod, not caring about the possibility of cutting your cheek on his knife.
"Good girl." The Soldier stands and removes the knife from your face, but he doesn't put it away.
His metal arm reaches out and grips you by your hair, tugging you up and off the bed and onto the floor.
You land on your knees in front of him, staring up at the mountain of a man.
His gaze is deadly as he unbuckles his belt with just one hand.
Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock bobbing out of his pants when he finally opens them.
The Soldier's metal fingers lace through your hair as he guides your lips to his cock.
"Show me how good you can be," he grunts as your breath ghosts over him.
You nod as best you can with his fingers in your hair and lick up his shaft to his tip.
It's a challenge fitting him in your mouth, but the sound he makes as your wet tongue slides over him makes you try even harder.
"Fuck, you feel so good, little lamb. Just like I knew you would." You lose yourself in the action of pleasing him; you don't care how messy you're being or what you look like. All you care about is making him feel good.
He presses you further down on his cock, and you sputter around it. The Soldier's hips stutter and heat licks in your belly at the thought that you make him lose control.
You don't notice you're pressing your thighs together until he scolds you for it.
"I'll fuck you when you've proven to me that you're worthy of it," he grunts, pressing you down on his cock until your nose hits his pelvis.
He roughly pushes you off his dick, and you suck in a few deep breaths, spit dripping off your chin.
"Come here and clean up your fucking mess," the Soldier commands.
You move to stand, but he shakes his head; you know what he wants.
After another breath, you get on your hands and knees and crawl back toward him.
"What a good little lamb," the Soldier whispers as you begin to clean the spit off his cock with your tongue.
You stare up at him, loving the way his brow furrows in concentration while you clean him. You love how his fingers tighten in your hair, gripping and pulling, making your scalp ache.
He pulls you off of him with a pop, and it's as if he can read your mind.
"You want me to fuck you?" He asks, fake sympathy coating his voice.
"Please," you reply, voice hoarse. Your clit is pulsing with need, and you find yourself pressing your thighs together again to relieve the pressure.
"Hm, I like when you're begging." The man tightens his grip on your hair as he nods, watching saliva drip down your chin. He tugs you onto the bed, releasing you for only a moment before gripping your ankles and positioning you the way he wants you.
He presses your face into the mattress, your ass high in the air.
You hear the flick of his knife open, and you shiver with anticipation of what is to come.
The chill of the blade is just noticeable enough for you to feel it run down your spine. The Soldier puts just enough pressure on it to cut open your tank top but not cut you. The fabric falls from your back and pools at your hands. He cuts open your shorts and panties next, leaving you bare for him.
"Time for you to take what I give you," he grunts, positioning himself behind you. The mattress dips with his weight, and you can feel the heat radiating from him.
He rubs his cock against you a few times, teasing you and making you squirm.
It's impossible to not whine as he teases you, impossible to keep your noises contained. "Fuck," you whimper as his cock bumps your clit.
"You're going to look so beautiful impaled on my cock," the man whispers, leaning over you to speak next to your face.
His voice is deep and gravelly, and it somehow turns you on more. He bites your earlobe, tugging it with his teeth as he pushes into you in a brutal thrust.
You groan at the feeling. He's so deep inside you, and the stretch burns a little with no preparation.
"Oh my god," your voice comes out broken and weak; you can practically feel him feeding off your pitiful state.
"There is no god, little lamb." The man sits back up and begins to fuck you with long, deep strokes, hitting all the right spots inside you.
His grip on your hips is the only thing holding you up; you are entirely and wholly at his mercy.
The Soldier uses your body in the way he's dreamed about since the moment he laid eyes on you. You feel even better than he thought you would; the way you squeeze him sends him spiraling.
He loves the way you look, the way you stare up at him with lust-blown eyes. He loves the way you gave in to him, the way you let him do whatever he wanted.
As he fucks you now, all he can think of is how perfect you are. He made a good decision choosing you.
He especially loves the sounds you make. You're so vocal without realizing it. Every time he touches you, every time his cock brushes that spot inside of you, you're whimpering and moaning.
You respond so well; you're so good for him.
"My perfect little lamb," he grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts.
You can't help but preen at his praise. "So fuckin' perfect, taking what I give you. You like it? Yeah? You like being fucked like a whore?"
No one's ever spoken to you like this, called you those names, but you love it. It makes you want him more. You press your hips back against him, urging him to fuck you more.
Your lack of response earns you a threat with his blade. He presses it against your spine again, this time harder.
"Answer me."
"Yes," you moan. "Yes, I love it so much." You hear his satisfied huff as his other hand leaves your hip to circle your clit.
Electricity shoots through you as he brings you to your peak. Your toes curl, and your back arches, taking everything he's giving you.
"You want to come?" He taunts, staggering his thrusts.
"Please, please, please," you beg wantonly, not caring how pathetic you sound.
"Well, when you ask so nicely," he replies, voice trailing off as he evens out his pace, bringing you right back to the edge.
It only takes a few more moments for you to explode. Your whole body shakes as you come.
The Soldier watches the beautiful sight in front of him, and it sends him over the edge; he spills into you and fucks it deeper and deeper into you.
You collapse onto the mattress, black creeping in on your vision.
You fall asleep, completely exhausted, before he leaves.
The Soldier watches your eyes dip closed, satisfied. A little voice in his head whispers to clean you up, and for once, he listens to it.
He carefully and gently cleans you up before placing a blanket over your sleeping form.
He remains in your room for a few more moments and only leaves when the sun begins to rise.
When leaves, it is with whispered parting words before slipping out the window.
"I will see you again, little lamb. Soon, very soon."
please let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist <3
Pairing: Dark!Winter Soldier x f!reader (any race)
Status: ongoing, no schedule but taking requests if people have them
Summary: The Winter Soldier takes what he wants
Warnings: dark fic, stalking, dubcon, knife play, pet names [little lamb], smut [p in v], oral [m receiving], degradation, masturbation, edging, knife play, blood, marking, overstimulation
A/N: Since this oneshot has now turned into multiple parts, i've made a masterlist!! Please, i'm begging, don't read these fics unless you're 100% okay with the warnings listed above!!!!!!!
main masterlist | taglist form
Part 1: Slaughter (2.1k)
The Soldier has been watching you for some time now, but tonight he will finally act on his urges
Part 2: Contagious (2.3k)
Your mysterious visitor returns
Part 3: Parasite (2.2k)
It's been too long since you've seen the Soldier
Please fill out this form to join a taglist. Must be 18+
pairing: dark!winter soldier x f! reader (any race)
wc: 3.3k
summary: The Wolf sees you walking through the forest on your way to your grandmother's house, and he just can't help himself.
warnings: dark fic, knives, oral (f receiving), smut (p in v), pet names [bunny], degradation, primal play, predator/prey, fear, crying
a/n: this is my entry for @boxofbonesfic's fairytale writing challenge :) I hope you guys enjoy!
beta'd by the amazing @sgt-seabass <3
my masterlist
The sight of your home village warms your heart. You’ve been away for so long and missed so much. It’s good to be back. You pull the hood of your cape up to keep the sun off your face and venture into the heart of the village.
After gathering some sweets and a few loaves of bread, you bid farewell to the friendly faces you pass. As lovely as the village is, you can’t shake the feeling that something is just slightly… wrong.
The edge of the forest calls to you, the familiar sound of songbirds lulling you in. You’ve traveled this path hundreds of times; you know it with your eyes closed, even after all this time. Beautifully bright flowers bloom just off the beaten path. You gaze at them but don’t stop to pick any. Grandmother is expecting you. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her, you feel guilty you haven’t visited sooner.
As you walk, you hear footsteps crunch through the fallen leaves. You turn around, the hem of your cape fluttering with the movement. Behind you, you see a tall mountain of a man. Cloaked in black, the man stalks toward you. You’ve heard whisperings of him in town, the Wolf, they call him.
“Excuse me, miss,” he coos, voice deep and gravelly. “Where are you headed? A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be alone in these woods,” he whispers. “There is danger around every corner.”
You know what people say about the Wolf, the things he’s rumored to have done. That he’s a killer, that he roams the woods hunting unsuspecting victims. He’s ruthless, coldblooded and animal-like in his violence. You’re sure the rumors are true as you gaze up at his bright eyes. Fear flashes through your mind as you stare at him. His eyes are a stark, beautiful blue. His hair, dark and inky, frames his face, though most of it is covered by a black mask.
“I’m visiting my grandmother’s house,” you tell him, smiling politely. You’ve always been taught to be kind to strangers, and this stranger, in particular, the way he’s looking at you, seems to scream danger. You don’t want to risk slighting him.
“Ah,” the Wolf replies, raising his eyebrows. “And what might you have there in your basket?” You move the cloth, showing the Wolf your various sweets and loaves of bread. You imagine he is licking his lips behind his mask. Images of his lips on you, of him kissing you deeply, of him tasting you, flash through your mind, and you quickly shut your eyes. You try to shake off the heat that’s settled in your belly. You shouldn’t think that way about a stranger.
“Well, I must be going. Grandmother is expecting me.” You nod to the Wolf and cover your basket, returning to the path you’d been following. Each breath feels tight in your chest.
“What a shame,” he calls. “The birds are singing so sweetly.” Your steps slow as you allow yourself to listen to the songs that float through the air, but you continue on. You can always listen to the birds as you walk.
“Ah, but the flowers are so beautiful this time of year. Wouldn’t your grandmother enjoy a bouquet?” The Wolf asks, again halting your walking. You glance at the flowers off the path, practically preening for you in the sunlight. Grandmother has always loved the wildflowers; maybe you could spare a few moments to gather a small bouquet.
“I suppose…” You glance back at the Wolf, finding that he has continued to follow you down the path. He’s so close now that if you breathed deeply, your back would touch his chest. Your heart stutters with fear. How did he move so quickly without you hearing? How did you not feel him approach?
“You don’t want to miss out on all the beauty,” he whispers, leaning down beside your ear. With two long fingers, the Wolf tugs your hood off your head, letting the breeze flutter against your neck. He breathes deeply, and your knees wobble as you feel the heat the Wolf emanates. Something sharp trails down your neck, a stinging pain following close behind, and your eyes widen.
Not even a breath later, he’s gone. You shudder at his sudden absence and quickly dart your eyes around, looking for the Wolf, but he’s disappeared into the shadows.
You try to calm your nerves, focusing instead on the flowers glittering just a few paces away. You kneel down, gathering your skirts to prevent them from getting dirty. The flowers are soft against your fingertips as you pick the perfect ones. All the while, the Wolf’s beautiful blue eyes burn in your mind.
The Wolf
Poor, poor grandmother, I think to myself as I drag the woman out of her woodland home and into the glade. She’ll wake up eventually, but not before I do what I want. Not before I take care of her sweet, beautiful little granddaughter.
I go back into the house and take in the empty space. Photos of my little bunny are everywhere, school photos and memories of vacations. She looks so delectable in her too-small bikini, her bright smile practically blinding me.
Next, I climb the stairs, finding myself in the room I had just dragged her grandmother from. The four-poster bed takes up most of the room, fabric hanging from the top of the frame like a canopy. I grin at the thought of taking my bunny here, her tears staining the blanket. Her screams filling the air. I feel myself hardening in my pants, and I adjust my cock.
When I saw her walking through town, my mouth watered. She looked so beautiful in her red cloak, the sun warming her skin. She looked good enough to fucking eat. I followed her from a distance, but once she entered the forest, I couldn’t hold back any longer. The smell of her when I got close… I could barely hold myself back. I wanted to grab her right then and there. I wanted to fuck her into the dirt. But good things come to those who wait.
I am not a patient man, and I always get what I want. Always.
So, I lay down on the bed, the canopy concealing me well enough, and wait.
And wait, and wait.
Until I hear the door creak open.
“Grandmother?” My bunny calls. I can practically hear the smile on her lips. I grin beneath my mask, fingers itching to touch her. To mark her. I hear her footsteps as she wanders into the house. My heartbeat speeds up, ready for the hunt.
“Grandmother?” She calls again, this time even closer. I see her shadow as she comes up the stairs, and a moment later, she pushes open the bedroom door. “Oh, Grandmother, are you ill?” Through the canopy, I see her set down a vase of flowers, the ones she picked in the woods, and her basket, full of sweets.
Her fingers gently curl around the canopy’s fabric and tug it aside. Her eyes widen, and her lips part on a scream, but I’m already moving. I lunge, grab her, and push her down onto the mattress. My hand presses over her mouth, absorbing her scream.
“So fucking beautiful when you scream, bunny,” I growl, dipping my head into the crook of her neck. I breathe her in, the sweet scent of fear mixing with the floral scent of her perfume.
My bunny writhes and struggles against me, but it’s no use. I’m bigger than her, stronger than her. She’ll never escape me. She heaves her breath behind my hand, so I take it off of her, not minding if she screams. No one will hear her anyways.
“What– what are you doing?” She whimpers, tears streaking down her face.
I don’t answer. Instead, I straddle her hips, pinning her to the bed. I run my hands along her torso and up to her breasts. She fits perfectly in my hands, and I flick my eyes to hers, watching her reaction. I can see the way she struggles with herself. The way she wants to give in to me, but something holds her back.
“Oh, bunny,” I whisper, my hands coming up to curl around her neck. “What a beautiful neck you have.” I squeeze her neck lightly, giving her just a taste of what I want, and I see the way her pupils dilate. Her hips jolt up into mine, and I grin beneath my mask.
She breathes heavily, lips parting into a perfect, soft ‘o’. “And what perfect lips you have.” I move one hand up, running my thumb across her beautiful mouth. I lean down close, cupping her jaw.
I want to taste her, I want to rip this fucking mask off my face and taste my little bunny, but I can’t. Not yet. I need to be patient. I sit up, slipping a knife out of my belt and flicking it open. Her eyes widen at the glinting blade.
“Please,” she whispers, tears brimming in her eyes again. “Please don’t hurt me.” I grin.
“My poor, stupid, little bunny. The more you beg me not to, the more I want to hurt you.” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and I stifle a moan. I don’t know how I’ve lived so long without her, how I’m going to go on living if I don’t have her by my side.
“What did you do to my grandmother?” She asks, voice wavering.
“You don’t want to know, bunny.” Her tears stream down her cheeks, and she hiccups as she sobs. She’s fucking perfect. I take in the sight of her blood-red cloak stark against the white sheets. I run the knife along the side of her face, not cutting or scratching her but letting her feel the sharp edge.
I slide off the bed, dragging the knife down the center of her sternum between her breasts and down her torso. I see the thoughts running through her pretty little head. I know she wants to run. I hope she does. I step back and watch her fingers twitch before she darts off the bed. Her red cape flutters behind her as she saints down the stairs. I give her a head start before giving chase. My little bunny is more perfect than she could ever know.
After taking a steadying breath, I take off after my bunny. She left the front door open, and I catch sight of the hem of her cape as she dives behind a tree. She ran pretty far, I’ll give her that, but she won’t escape me. Never.
My feet pound on the ground as I chase her, adrenaline coursing through my veins. She keeps running, doing her best to hide as she goes deeper into the forest, but she’s not fast enough. I catch up quickly, making sure she knows just how close I am. Whenever she hears my boots snap a twig, she yelps, tripping over her feet. As we get further away from the house, she loses steam. I grin as she stumbles, constantly looking back to see me hunting her.
Bunny’s cape gets caught on a branch, and she falls, landing hard in the dirt. She tries to crawl away, but she knows it’s no use. I stalk toward her, loving the way she shakes with each breath, and sink to the ground by her head.
I grip her by her hair, lifting her face out of the dirt, and lean down. “You lose, bunny.” She gasps as I bring out my knife, holding it near her cheek as I turn her. Even though she ran and wants to think she’s afraid of me, I know what she wants. I can fucking smell it on her. Can taste it in the air.
“Please,” she whispers, fingers digging into the leaves on the ground. Her thighs rub together beneath her skirts, and my mouth waters. I know she won’t run this time, not when she’s so close to getting what she wants.
I remove my mask, tugging it from my face with my other hand. Her lips part as her eyes search my features. I move between her legs, running a hand along one of her legs. I push up her skirt, exposing her soft skin. With my knife, I run the tip along her leg, up and up, until I reach her panties. She can’t hide how needy she is. My bunny writhes in the dirt, begging me to touch her with her big beautiful eyes. I slide my knife beneath the waistband of her panties, slicing the fabric. I cut a matching slit near her other leg, tugging the material away. She shivers as the cool air hits her cunt.
“What a pretty pussy you have, bunny,” I growl, lowering my face to the crux of her thighs. She watches me with lust-filled eyes, nodding like the dumb little bunny she is. I bite her inner thigh, leaving an imprint of my teeth on her skin.
“What beautiful eyes you have,” she tells me, a small smile on her lips.
“The better to see you with, bunny.” I run my nose along her pussy, and she bites back a moan. My tongue laves along her clit, and I hear her breath hitch.
“What–” she gasps when I press a finger inside her tight cunt. “What a perfect mouth you have.” I groan against her pussy, devouring her like my last meal.
“The better to eat you with,” I mutter into her pussy. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. She tastes so fucking sweet, practically dripping against my lips. I knew my bunny would be perfect, but she’s better than I ever could have dreamed.
“Please, please,” she whimpers, begging for her release. I curl my finger inside of her, looking for the spot that makes her squirm, and brush my teeth over her sensitive clit. My little bunny is so responsive for me, writhing around in the dirt.
“So fucking sweet, bunny, my own little treat.” Her whimpers get higher pitched, and I know she’s close. I’m practically humping the dirt, I’m so hard, but all I can think about is how good my bunny is being and how fucking perfect she’s going to feel wrapped around my cock.
I work her right up to the edge, and when she’s gripping my hair so hard she’s about to pull it out, she breaks. She comes all over my tongue and finger, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I crawl up over her, my tongue running over my lips, gathering her taste. “What a good bunny,” I whisper, taking in the sight of her blissed-out expression. She wants more, though, I can tell.
Her eyes roam over my face, her hands tracing over my features. Her lips part, but she can’t seem to find the words. “Tell me what you want, bunny.” My finger circles her sensitive clit; she jolts.
She shudders but doesn’t speak. “Come on, bunny. I know you’re afraid. I know that you don’t want to admit it. You want my cock? Is that it, bunny? You want me to fuck you here in the dirt?” Her eyebrows pinch together, and fear flashes in her eyes. She knows I’m dangerous; she knows I am unpredictable.
“You wanna be my dirty bunny?” I ask her, nipping at the soft skin of her neck. “You’re my dumb fucking bunny, you know that? You’re gonna let me fuck you into the dirt, and you’re gonna love every second of it, isn’t that right?”
“Oh my god,” she moans, hips bucking against my fingers. “Please.”
“I need to hear you say it, bunny.” I bite her shoulder hard enough to draw blood, and she gasps. “Tell me that you’re my dumb little bunny. Tell me what you want me to do.”
I see the way she hesitates, the way her mind runs through all the reasons she should fight me, but then I see the shift. I see the moment lust takes over, and she succumbs to her primal desires.
“I’m your dumb little bunny,” she whispers. I slide two fingers into her pussy, scissoring my fingers to stretch her. “And–” she sucks in a breath. “And I want– need you to fuck me.”
“Such a good bunny.” I settle back between her legs and pump my fingers, working her up again. I use my other hand to take off my belt. When my pants are down far enough, I palm my cock, moaning. She watches me with hooded, lust-drunk eyes, and I smirk. My dumb little bunny looks so pretty taking my fingers, but she’ll look even better taking my cock.
I take a long look at her pretty face before I grip her hips and turn her over. Hooking my hands underneath her, I position her with her ass high and her head in the dirt. This is how she was meant to be; she was fucking born for this.
I line my cock up with her perfect pussy and tease her clit, loving how she jolts each time. My little bunny has never looked better with her skirt shoved up on her waist and her face pressed against the earth.
“What a perfect bunny for me,” I tell her, spanking her ass. I press my cock into her, groaning as she squeezes me. She’s so fucking tight, so perfect, like she was made for me. Made for this. I slide in, loving how she stretches around my dick. Her face screws up the deeper I get, but I don’t give her time to adjust.
I set a brutal, deep pace, and electricity shoots up my spine. The sounds she’s making, the way her fingers dig into the dirt, are nearly too much for me to handle. The smell of sex and earth floods my nose, and I feel it flood my bloodstream.
She moans and whimpers with each thrust, pressing back with each thrust, egging me on. My little bunny wants me just as much as I want her. I lean down, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and haul her torso up so she’s kneeling, arching against me. I run my tongue along the spot I’d cut earlier when I’d first spoken to her, tasting the sweet tang of her blood.
My little bunny has tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. Her eyes are screwed shut as she takes my dick.
“Such a good little bunny,” I groan into her ear. “You were fucking made for this. You were fucking born to be my dumb bunny, to take my cock.” Her cunt flutters around my dick, and my hips stutter.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants like a prayer. I drop a hand to her clit and circle it in a way that makes her throw her head back, and bite the cut on her neck. The combination of sensations throws her over the edge, and she convulses on my cock.
I press her back into the dirt and pound into her, slamming into her over and over again. I come on a moan, both of us collapsing. “Good bunny,” I whisper. “Such a good little bunny.”
She falls asleep, drained from the way I used her body, and I grin at the sight. She should know better than to fall asleep next to a predator like me. I brush the dirt from my pants, tucking my cock away, and pick her up. I carry her back to her grandmother’s house and lay her on the four-poster bed.
Next, I retrieve poor old grandmother. She’s still asleep. The drug I gave her will wear off soon. I place her on the couch in the front room. I’ll let my bunny find her when she comes to. I return to the bedroom and stare at my beautiful little bunny.
I don’t clean her up; I don’t even put her dress back. She looks perfect, dirty, and used against the bone-white sheets.
Just the way I like her.
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Pairing: bestfriend'sbrother!Bucky x f!reader (any race)
Status: In progress, updating occasionally not on a schedule
Summary: You've been best friends with Becca Barnes since third grade and have been pining over her older Bucky just as long
Warnings: age gap, swearing, alcohol consumption (everyone is of age!), oral (f and m receiving), smut (p in v, shower), praise, pet names [good girl, baby, sweetie, beautiful, pretty girl], little bit of a size kink, low-key angst, so much fluff, occasional angst
A/N: I finally made a masterlist post for this!! Here you will find all of the parts of my best friend's brother!bucky AU :) I will be posting new parts when I feel like it/get requests so please let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future parts!! If you have any requests feel free to send them in, I'd love to hear from you <3
title is the 1975's song 'This Must Be My Dream'
main masterlist | one shot masterlist | au playlist
THIS SERIES IS 18+ MINORS DNI WITH ANY PART OF THIS POST
Last updated: May 17 2023
Part 1: Not Givin It Up Again
Part 2: It's Not Living (If It's Not With You)
Part 3: It's You And I, Tonight
Part 4: Love It If We Made It
Part 5: Thinking This Through
Extras:
Headcanon: PDA
Headcanon: Bucky takes care of you on your period
again, if you would like more parts feel free to send me requests/ideas!
If you would like to be tagged in future chapters/my other works please lmk <3
hi :) it’s been a while since I’ve been on here consistently and for anyone who has stuck around, I just wanted to say thank you for continuing to read/support my writing 💕 I’m still writing, but it just hasn’t been a lot of fic but I’m hoping to make a return soon :)
hi :) it’s been a while since I’ve been on here consistently and for anyone who has stuck around, I just wanted to say thank you for continuing to read/support my writing 💕 I’m still writing, but it just hasn’t been a lot of fic but I’m hoping to make a return soon :)
