Lost so much of himself just to help people find hope. Seeing 21 year old Leon genuinely breaks my heart so much.
All he wanted was to be a cop and help. So bright eyed and full of life, now hes completely stripped of the rookie he once was. I would think he couldnt even remember back to himself at that age. Not Raccoon City, not the virus. But him.
Pairing: Marvel Rivals! Santa Helper! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Smut.
Summary: Who would have thought that Santa helpers were real, not so little, and had a big appetite?
Word Count: 535
note: I had to do it. The Winter Buckaroo skin is so slutty that I couldn't stop myself. Also, exploring the use of 2nd person singular on this one.
Of all the things you imagined doing on Christmas Eve, riding the thick cock of one of Santa’s -not-so-little- helpers on your own couch definitely wasn’t one of them.
You roll your hips desperately, taking him deep over and over, every inch of him stretching you perfectly. Bucky -apparently that’s his name- grips you tightly, his hands hot and cold over your skin, guiding you down harder onto him.
The new nightie you’d thrown on earlier is ruined now: he ripped it open the second things got serious, buttons flying across the room so your breasts spill out, jolting with every bounce you give him. Your nipples brush deliciously against the green wreath around his neck, tiny ornaments and bells jingling softly in time with your rhythm.
Your panties? Long gone. A soaked, shredded scrap somewhere on the living room floor, right next to the plate of cookies you’d set out... just in case.
You never believed in Santa. Definitely never believed in his helpers.
But there he was, already waiting in your living room when you came downstairs for a glass of water: tall, broad, absurdly gorgeous, messy silver hair under that reindeer hat, wearing nothing but those low-slung red pants and that damn wreath like he owned the place.
Turns out, he didn’t need milk and cookies. “We don’t eat your food,” he’d growled against your throat as he pinned you to the couch. “We run on joy. Pure, raw happiness. And nothing will feed me better than you cumming on my cock.”
And God, he wasn’t wrong.
You’re on your third orgasm -or is it the fourth?- your thighs gave out a long time ago, trembling and burning from the effort of riding him so hard. His hands had taken over, sliding under your ass and lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing as he thrust up into you, hard, deep, and relentless.
Those abs aren’t just for show.
Every snap of his hips drives him into you exactly where you need him, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, grinding against your slick, puffy clit every time he bottoms out. The couch creaks under the force of his movements, the Christmas lights on the tree flickering in the background like they’re trying to keep up.
He still hasn’t come -not once- his jaw clenched, breath ragged, every muscle in that perfect body straining with restraint as he holds back. You feel how close he is, though: the way he swells even thicker inside you, the low, animal growl in his chest each time you clench around him. When he finally lets go, you know it’s going to be a flood. Hot, thick, and so much it’ll overflow and leave a sticky, festive glaze all over the poor couch beneath you.
“Good girl,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger. “Just take it and feed me every last drop of your Christmas cheer.”
You do, milking him greedily as another climax rips through you, harder than the last, your nails digging into his shoulders while he keeps pounding up into you without missing a beat.
If this is what believing in holiday magic feels like... sign you up for next year, too.
dividers by @/strangergraphics header from @snowrivals of fb.
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