i think of you more than i should

sincerely yours- melka ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

[melkafucks]

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 if its meant to be, then it will be. I forgive it all as it comes back to me𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

⋆⊹melka, 21, she/her⊹⋆

˚⟡˖ warning!: my blog is strictly 18+ and may contain explicit and dddne content, minors do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption! read at your own risk. ⤷find all of me in #melkawrites | requests are open | dividers by mieluno and cursed carmine

.✦ ݁˖masterlist below✦ ݁˖

bucky barnes :

tease dbf!bucky

tease too dbf!bucky

birthday girl dbf!bucky

stress reliev husband!bucky

stupid high bestfriend!bucky

the hunt pt.1 psycho!bucky

special training mean!bucky

drabbles and short stuff:

coworkers coworker!bucky

throat training with dbf!bucky

lee bodecker:

bodeckers sweetest girl mean!lee

soon in library: jack abbot pope cody johnny soap mactavish and other cod characters! benjamin poindexter

[melkafucks]

lately I've been thinking too much about dadbf!jack abbot fuuuuuck I need this old man to tease me till im crying #thinking

[melkafucks]

hi u guys!

im so sorry for being inactive lately, im getting ready (crying and whining) to defend my bachelors degree... and im completely lost in work buuuuut id really appreciate you sending me requests or any ideas of things you wanna see on my page bc I miss you all soooo much. ;3

P.S

I finished watching the pitt and I thinking about jack abott too much lately... just saying

anyway root for me because after defending that shit im coming back with even more filth in mind RAAAAH

LOVE YA

MELKA

[melkafucks]

bodeckers sweetest girl

lee bodecker x reader

summary: as a sheriffs girlfriend, you should behave yourself, and if you don't? lee is here to fix it in his own twisted way wc: 3k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angry fucking, hand over mouth, rough sex, cockwarming, lee is an asshole(obviously), degradation, a lot of crying, toxic!lee, reader is in love and he is just horrible, slight dd/lg undertones?. (lmk if I missed anything)

Lately, the nights have felt longer.

You knew what you were getting into when you started dating Lee Bodecker—a sheriff who lived at the station more than he did at home, a man with responsibility carved into his spine. You told yourself you were strong enough for it. Patient enough. Independent enough.

But knowing didn’t stop the quiet from settling into your chest when the clock crept past ten. Didn’t stop the ache of sleeping alone, or the way you reached for him in the dark and found only cold sheets. Somewhere between borrowed shirts and rushed kisses before dawn, you’d gotten addicted to him. Too fast. Too deep.

So you got dressed. Told yourself it was fine. That you just wanted to see him.

The station was almost eerily silent at night, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. Lee’s office was lit, a square of warmth at the end of the hall. You hesitated only a second before knocking.

From inside, his voice comes rough and irritated, muffled through the wood. “Who the fuck is that” he mumbled under his breath. Then, louder, controlled: “come in”

You open the door slowly, peeking your head through the crack first, like you’re asking permission just to exist there. “Hiiiiii leeee” you say in your sweetest voice, grin wide, eyes bright despite the nerves curling in your stomach.

He looks up, expression hard, brows drawn together. “Baby? what are you doing here its almost 11” There’s no warmth in his tone. No softness. Just confusion edged with irritation. His desk is buried in reports, documents stacked high like walls between you and him. A half-drunk glass of whiskey sits near his hand, untouched long enough for the ice to melt.

“I- i just missed you…” you mutter, gaze dropping instantly. Your fingers twist anxiously in the hem of your dress.

“First of all look at me when you are speaking and second of all you saw me this morning sweetface what more do you want from me huh?”

The words sting. You force yourself closer anyway. “But Leeee” you whine softly, face scrunching as you step toward him, trying to coax something gentler out of him.

“Use your big girl words, whining will not get you anywhere here”

Heat creeps up your neck. You finally look at him—big-eyed, embarrassed, painfully aware of how small you feel standing there. Still, the need doesn’t fade. “I missed you and i- i wanted to see you”

He studies you for a long moment. “i dont believe its the real reason you came here baby” Suspicion sharpens his tone, but then his hand pats his lap. “Come here”

Your body moves before your brain can catch up. You cross the room quickly, excitement flaring just at the thought of being close. You sit on his lap, your dress riding up as your thighs press against his, the contact grounding you and unraveling you all at once.

“I came here because I need you” you whisper, voice barely steady.

“What was that? i can't hear you baby” His fingers brush through your hair, casual, smug, like he already knows he has you.

“I came here because I need you lee… i missed you”

“Oh you do now?” The subtle movement of his hips beneath you steals your breath, reminds you how much control he has without even trying.

“What about my sweetest girl keeping me warm while I finish my paperwork? Can you do that for me baby? Will it be enough for you?”

You nod quickly, desperation slipping into your voice. “Yes yes please! It will be enough, i'll be good i promise” You said not even trying to hide your excitement.

“Up” he commanded roughly.

The single word cut through you, sharp and absolute, leaving no space for hesitation. Your body reacts before your thoughts could catch up, muscles tightening as heat pooled low in your stomach. You stood up immediately, heart pounding, eyes fixed on him as if waiting for permission that had already been given.

He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the sound loud in the quiet room, moving his pants and underwear just enough to free his hard and already leaking precum cock. There was something unhurried about him now—confident, certain—like he knew exactly how much control he had over you in this moment.

“Come on, take what you need” he said softly with a smirk on his face.

The shift in his tone made your breath hitch. Not gentle, not kind—just calm, assured, like he was offering something he already owned. Your fingers trembled slightly as you bunched up your dress, movements clumsy with want and nerves tangled together.

You straddled him slowly, lowering yourself onto his cock with a strangled grunt, the stretch familiar and overwhelming all at once. You had taken him many times before, yet every single time your mind still stuttered at how full he made you feel, how your body always seemed to yield to him despite knowing exactly what to expect.

As you settled down, full and aching, you wrapped your arms around his neck, seeking grounding, closeness, something steady. You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, clinging for just a second longer than necessary—like if you held on tight enough, you could keep this moment from tipping into something else.

“No moving until i finish it, got it?” he said, emphasizing his words with just a slight buck of his hips, as he continued on working on his reports.

The command landed heavy, not loud but absolute, reinforced by that subtle movement meant to remind you exactly who was in control. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a warning. It was an expectation. You felt it settle into you just as deeply as the authority in his voice, grounding you in place even as your body reacted.

You nodded, the motion small and careful, trying very hard not to even shift. Every muscle felt tense with restraint, your breath shallow as you focused on staying still. But the stretch of him was too good—too perfect—filling you in a way that made your thoughts blur. Your body felt acutely aware of every second, every sensation amplified by the forced stillness.

Minutes stretched thin. Time lost its shape. Was it ten minutes? Fifteen? An hour? You had no idea. All you knew was the quiet scratch of his pen, the rustle of papers, the occasional lift of his glass. The world had narrowed down to waiting and holding and wanting.

You shifted just a bit—to feel him more, to steal the smallest sliver of relief from the maddening state you were trapped in. It wasn’t defiance so much as instinct, your body begging for release in the only way it knew how. Lee didn’t react at all. His face stayed focused, calm, unbothered as he sipped his drink, eyes scanning document after document, pen moving steadily like nothing about this affected him.

“Quit squirming” he said in his low, commanding tone.

The words should have been enough. They sent a sharp shiver through you, made your eyes widen, heat rushing through your body as the authority in his voice wrapped tight around your spine. You knew you should stop. You knew you were supposed to obey.

But needing him felt louder than reason. Louder than restraint. Being unable to do anything, unable to touch or move or plead, felt like its own kind of torture. This was hell—sweet and slow and unbearable—but then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as intoxicating without riling your favorite officer just a little, would it? So you shift again, just a bit, and well… that does it.

“What did i fucking said to you, what did i said?” His hand in your hair is sudden and rough, forcing your head back until your eyes meet his. There’s anger there now—real, sharp, frightening. Before you can speak, he yanks you out of his lap, shoves you back, steadies you only to turn you over the desk. He covered your mouth with his big palm, his other hand moving your dress up, so your bare ass was all to his view, without another word he bottomed out in one rough thrust making you scream out behind his hand.

The words hit you before your mind could catch up, sharp and furious, stripped of any softness that might have existed moments ago. His palm over your mouth stole your voice, muffling the sound into something helpless, your breath coming fast and uneven against his skin. The sudden shift from command to punishment, left you reeling, body overwhelmed as your thoughts scattered under the force of it.

You clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, senses flooding all at once. The room felt smaller, tighter, his presence pressing in from every side, leaving you nowhere to retreat—physically or emotionally. The authority in his movements made it impossible to tell where want ended and fear began, both tangled together until you couldn’t separate them anymore.

“Cant last a minute without my cock, you are so fucking pathetic” he said as he roughly rammed into you, his palm left your mouth just to press your face down on the desk holding you in place as he continued to mercilessly fuck into your soaked cunt.

His voice stayed harsh, unyielding, each word meant to remind you of exactly where you stood beneath him. When his hand left your mouth only to force you down again, it felt less like freedom and more like correction—guiding, controlling, making sure you stayed exactly where he wanted you. The desk creaked beneath you, cold and uncomfortably real, grounding you in the moment even as your emotions spiraled.

Your thoughts blurred into fragments—heat, pressure, the weight of his hand between your shoulders, the sound of his breathing behind you. You felt small under him, pinned not just by strength but by expectation, by the unspoken rule that you were meant to take everything he gave without question.

“Lee, its too much! I'm sorry!” you whined.

The words spill out of you strained and breathless, more plea than protest, tangled with panic and need. Your voice cracks on his name, thin and desperate, as if saying it might remind him you’re more than just a body pressed beneath his hands. Your apology comes instinctively, a reflex born from wanting to ease the tension, to make things softer again—even as you know it’s already too late.

“You dont get to say that now, you needed my cock so much you will fucking take it” he panted out, his voice laced with anger and need.

His words are sharp, final, leaving no room for argument. There’s no hesitation in him, no space for mercy—just heat and control and the unmistakable edge of frustration. His breathing is heavy behind you, uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together, and that intensity presses into you just as firmly as his grip.

“Fuck fuck take it take it baby uh-” he grunted as he came, painting your insides with his cum, the warmth of him, mixed with his harsh words making your head spin.

The moment hits all at once—too fast, too overwhelming—leaving you dizzy and hollow at the same time. Your body reacts before your emotions can catch up, nerves firing while your mind struggles to ground itself. The mix of his voice, his weight, and the finality of it leaves you stunned, breath coming shallow as everything blurs together.

He moves himself back, the sudden absence almost jarring, slumping into his chair with a tired finality. Without looking at you, he zips up his pants, movements efficient and detached, like closing another file instead of finishing something intimate.

You’re left bent over the desk, spent and trembling, palms pressed into the surface as you try to steady your breathing. Frustration knots in your chest—not just physical, but emotional too—your body still buzzing while the space between you feels wider than ever. You straighten slowly, leaning on the desk for support. You can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unreadable. Something about the silence feels wrong—colder than before.

“Go home and let me fucking work now” he said coldly.

There was no heat left in his voice—no edge of passion or intensity—just flat dismissal, like you were an inconvenience he was done dealing with. The words landed heavy and final, slicing through the fragile silence that followed everything else.

You immediately turned to face him, eyes wide, disbelief freezing you in place. For a split second, you genuinely wondered if you’d misheard him. Your boyfriend—after all of that—was telling you to leave? Just like that? 

“Don't look at me like that, I told you to be good and you disobeyed, and you expect me to let you come on my cock? or stay?” he scoffed mockingly.

The scoff hurt more than the words themselves. It was full of contempt, like your reaction annoyed him, like your feelings were an inconvenience he didn’t have time for. Your heart dropped hard into your stomach, twisting painfully as shame crept up your spine. The imbalance between you felt suffocating now—him seated comfortably behind his desk, fully in control, and you standing there exposed and shaken.

“Baby i- im sorry i didn't mean to-” you stumbled over your words, panic bleeding into your voice.

Tears welled up despite your effort to hold them back, blurring your vision as you reached out instinctively. You just wanted reassurance—something to anchor you, to tell you that you hadn’t completely lost him. Your fingers barely got close before he swatted your hand away, the motion sharp and irritated, like brushing off something insignificant.

The rejection was immediate and unmistakable.

It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, deliberate, and final in a way that made your chest ache. He didn’t look at you like his girlfriend anymore. He looked at you like a problem he wanted gone.

“Toys don't complain, the obey but you disappointed me today, so go home now. We will talk later” he said coldly, his eyes dark and dead serious.

There was no hesitation in him. No regret. His voice was steady, controlled, stripped of any warmth it might have held earlier. The words weren’t shouted—they didn’t need to be. They were delivered like a verdict, final and unquestionable. His eyes stayed on you, hard and unblinking, as if daring you to argue, to beg, to make this harder than he wanted it to be.

We will talk later.

Not now. Not when you were standing there shaken and exposed, heart cracking open in real time. Later—on his terms, when it was convenient for him. When you had already swallowed the hurt and learned your place again.

Something inside you snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, just quietly enough to hurt worse. The humiliation burned hot behind your eyes, your chest tight with everything you hadn’t been allowed to say.

This time you obeyed.

You turned away quickly, before he could see the tears spill, before your face betrayed how deeply his words had cut. You rushed out of his office, hands trembling as you shoved the door open, the sound of it slamming behind you sharp and echoing down the empty hallway.

The tears came immediately, hot and uncontrollable, streaking down your face as you moved farther away from him, from the light of his office, from the version of yourself who had walked in there hoping to be missed.

And for the first time that night, you were truly alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door closes behind you far too quietly.

Home doesn’t feel like home—it feels like a holding cell. The lights are too bright, the silence too loud. You don’t even bother taking your shoes off properly; you just stumble inside and lean against the wall, breath hitching as everything finally catches up to you.

You cry hard. Ugly. The kind that leaves your chest aching and your throat raw. You sit on the edge of the bed still in your dress, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to keep from breaking apart completely. Every few minutes, anger flares—hot and sharp—only to collapse back into hurt.

You check the clock. Once. Twice. Again.

Hours pass.

Your tears slow but don’t stop. They just turn quiet—sniffling, huffing breaths, your face buried in a pillow that smells faintly like him. You rehearse what you’ll say when he comes home. You imagine yelling. You imagine not speaking at all. Mostly, you imagine him not caring. Then, finally, the front door opens. The sound of his boots is slow, deliberate. Heavy. Familiar. Your stomach twists.

He pauses in the doorway, taking in your state. His eyes sweep over you, sharp, assessing, unreadable. “…Hey there,” he says, voice low, velveted with condescension.

Your tears spill over again. You can’t stop. You sniffle and huff, overwhelmed, and he doesn’t move immediately. He lets it happen. Let you unravel in front of him.

Then he crosses the room, calm and controlled, crouching in front of you like he’s inspecting a prized mess. His hands are on your knees, firm, steady. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, mockingly sweet, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “All messy, all crying… my poor, little sweetheart. Did you really think you could handle all that by yourself?”

You flinch, but can’t look away.

“Hmm,” he says, voice dripping amusement now, soft but with unmistakable authority. “Such a needy girl. And here I thought you were gonna be strong for me.” He shakes his head slowly, almost like he’s disappointed in a child. “Silly girl. You think you can just run off mad? You really are hopeless sometimes.”

Your lip trembles. You sniff, trying to speak, but he cuts you off gently.

“Shhh,” he says, pressing a thumb under your chin, lifting your face even more. “Don’t try to talk yet. I want you to feel this—understand why I’m here, why you need me.”

He smirks, leaning closer, just enough that his presence is overwhelming. “See? Look at me. You’re safe now. But don’t you forget… you made me mad tonight. Don’t think I’m letting you off that easily.”

His hand slides to your shoulder, squeezing just a fraction too firmly. “But it’s alright, my little girl. I forgive you… this time. And I like that you’re all teary and helpless. Makes it very clear who’s in charge, don’t you think sweetie?”

Your chest tightens. Heat rises in your cheeks. There’s comfort in his arms, yes, but it’s wrapped in control—control that you crave. He’s soft, yes—but only where it serves him. Only where it reminds you that he decides when it’s safe, when it’s over, when you’re allowed to breathe.

He tilts your face again, eyes locked on yours. “Come on now. Go wash your face, clean yourself up a bit. Then you’ll come to bed with me, okay?”

You nod, unable to speak, still shuddering from the tension of it all.

“Good girl,” he says softly, almost cooing, but there’s steel beneath it. “See? You listen when you’re calm. That’s what I like. That’s what keeps you my little girl.”

He leans in, brushing his lips to your temple. “And remember… I’m not just here to comfort you. I’m here to make sure you remember your place. You’re mine, my sweet, needy girl. And don’t forget it.”

You swallow, trembling, heart still racing—but somewhere in the back of your mind, you know he’s right. You need him. And in that twisted, condescending, manipulative way, he’s showing you exactly how much—and you can’t look away from him, because after all you are his sweetest girl.

[melkafucks]

hii!! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

im melka! ⊹ she/her⊹ 21

"If it's meant to be then it will be. I forgive it all as it comes back to me"

warnings!

˚⟡˖ ---my blog is strictly 18+, minors do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption!

find all of me in #melkawrites

.✦ ݁˖masterlist below.✦ ݁˖

smut- ✩ fluff-𖦹 angst-✦

Bucky Barnes :

tease dbf!bucky ✩

tease too dbf!bucky ✩

birthday girl dbf!bucky ✩

stress reliev husband!bucky ✩

stupid high bestfriend!bucky ✩

the hunt pt.1 psycho!bucky ✦?

special training mean!bucky ✩✦

drabbles and short stuff:

coworkers coworker!bucky ✩

throat training with dbf!bucky

Lee Bodecker:

bodeckers sweetest girl mean!lee ✩

[melkafucks]

special training

coach!bucky x agent!reader

summary: When you arrive at the shield facility for training you didn't expected to be trained by the man you despise- but soon enough hatred will turn into something much deeper.

wc: 5k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected p in v, mean!bucky and mean!reader, implied age gap reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, kissing, dirty talk, rough sex, lost of blood, broken bones, bloody makeout, bucky and reader beating each other, violence? in hot way?, enemies to whatever this is??, they are batshit ok?? I dont have a clue what else tbh

The air in the remote facility was stale, smelling of floor wax and old sweat, but it turned frigid the moment you crossed the threshold of the main training hall. Your boots clicked rhythmically against the polished concrete, a sound that died abruptly when you saw the figure standing by the weapon racks.

Your jaw didn't just tighten; it locked with a physical ache, the muscles bunching as you fought the instinct to turn around and walk right back out into the wilderness.

Bucky Barnes.

Time had been an accomplice to his magnetism, even if it had done nothing to soften his edges. The "Winter Soldier" shadows still clung to him, but they were seasoned now. The sharp, youthful lethalness had settled into a rugged, heavy-set authority. His hair was cropped short—cleaner than the messy mane he’d sported in the old days—and a thick salt-and-pepper beard hugged his jawline. It gave him the look of a man who had seen the end of the world and survived it out of sheer spite.

He aged like fine wine, and you hated him for it. You hated how the silver in his beard caught the harsh fluorescent lights, and how his broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than they had a right to.

"Sergeant Barnes," you said. Your voice was a masterpiece of forced neutrality, clipped and professional, though your pulse was thrumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You kept your spine rigid, refusing to let him see how much his presence unsettled you.

Bucky turned slowly. His movements were deliberate, like a predator who knew he didn't have to rush. When his gaze finally landed on you, his icy blue eyes narrowed, sweeping over you with a cold, dismissive flick of his lashes. He didn't look pleased; he looked like he’d just found a leak in his ceiling.

"You," he said. The word was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. "Great."

The sarcasm was heavy enough to suffocate. It made your skin crawl—that familiar, prickly heat of irritation that only he could provoke. He took a step toward you, and for a fleeting second, the sheer gravity of his presence made the room feel smaller. The scent of gunpowder and cedar drifted off him, a sensory ghost of the days you’d spent on opposite sides of a battlefield.

He didn't offer a handshake. He didn't even offer a nod. Instead, he closed the distance just enough to make his height a threat before leaning in slightly, his expression a mask of grim professionalism.

"Training starts tomorrow morning. 6 am. sharp," he commanded. The gruffness of his tone was like sandpaper against your nerves. He paused, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat too long, long enough for you to see the flick of a challenge in his eyes. "Don't be late. I won't waste my time on agents who can’t find their way to the mats."

Before you could snap back a retort, he moved. He didn't walk around you; he pushed past, his heavy shoulder brushing yours with a firm, intentional jolt that sent a spark of pure lightning up your arm.

You stood there, frozen, listening to the heavy, receding thud of his boots echoing through the hall. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your heart hammering a frustrated tempo. Fuck you, Barnes, you thought, the words tasting like fire in your throat.

The hell he was going to put you through hadn't even started yet, but the air already felt like it was primed to explode.

The alarm hadn't even finished its first shrill note before you slammed your hand down on it. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of your own jagged breathing and the distant, lonely howl of the wind outside the remote facility. You dragged yourself to the bathroom, splashing ice-cold water onto your face until your skin felt numb. Looking into the mirror, you watched droplets cling to your eyelashes, your reflection staring back with a mixture of dread and defiance.

"6 am. sharp," you muttered to the glass, your voice thick with sleep and bitterness. "Fuck you, Barnes. Seriously."

By the time you stepped into the gym, the clock on the wall was just clicking over. The air was cool and smelled of rubber and sanitized metal. Thinking you had beaten him there, you took a centering breath, trying to settle the nervous hum in your stomach. You sank onto a mat, legs spread into a deep stretch, reaching for your toes. You closed your eyes, savoring the hollow stillness of the room, trying to find a scrap of peace before the storm arrived.

"Get up, Agent. You aren't here to sit and contemplate your life choices."

The voice was like a low-frequency vibration, hitting you right in the base of your spine. You didn't even have to look to know he was standing right behind you, probably looming like a gargoyle.

"I wasn’t—" You started to snap back, twisting your torso to glare up at him, but the retort died in your throat.

Bucky was standing there with his arms crossed over a dark, compression-fit shirt that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He looked down at you, his eyes hard and clinical, cutting off your defense with a sharp, impatient tilt of his head.

"I said get up," he nagged, the gruffness of his tone acting like a physical shove. "Clock is ticking, and you’re already behind."

You let out a sharp, frustrated sigh that puffed your hair out of your eyes and pushed yourself off the floor. You stood your ground, mirroring his stance, trying to ignore the way the morning light caught the gray at his temples. He looked far too awake for a man with his history.

"We’re doing hand-to-hand," he stated, his voice dropping an octave as he reached into a duffel bag. "Wrap your hands."

He didn't hand them to you; he tossed a pack of white handwraps with a flick of his wrist. They hit your chest, and you caught them instinctively.

"Thanks," you muttered.

You moved to a bench and began the rhythmic, ritualistic task of protecting your knuckles. You worked with practiced precision, looping the tape between your fingers and around your wrists. But despite your best efforts to remain professional, your gaze betrayed you.

Across the small gap between you, Bucky was doing the same. He had his foot propped up on a weight bench, his head bowed in concentration. You watched as his fingers—one hand flesh and bone, the other gleaming vibranium—moved with a terrifying, fluid grace.

As he tightened the wraps, the muscles in his forearms coiled and strained like braided steel. His jaw was set, his teeth grinding slightly as he clenched his fists to test the tension of the tape. There was a raw, masculine power in the way he moved—unapologetic and disciplined. For a split second, the hatred in your chest flickered, replaced by a treacherous, heat-filled ache. The sight of those powerful hands, capable of so much destruction, working so meticulously...

No. You shook your head internally, tightening your own wrap until it pinched. No, no. Focus. This is Barnes. The man who has made 'grumpy' an Olympic sport. Fuck him.

"Ready, Sergeant," you challenged, your voice steady despite the way your heart was trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

Bucky didn't smile. He just flexed his fingers one last time, the vibranium hand making a soft, whirring click that sent a shiver down your neck. "We'll see about that."

The air in the gym had turned into a thick, humid soup. Every breath you drew was searing, tasting of salt and the metallic tang of old iron. You weren't just fighting Bucky anymore; you were fighting the gravitational pull of your own exhaustion. Your lungs burned, a raw fire spreading through your chest with every jagged inhale, but the fury in your gut was hotter.

Bucky moved like a shadow given weight. He wasn't even breathing hard, which only fueled your resentment. He danced around your strikes with a terrifying, lazy economy of motion, parrying your fists as if he were swatting away a nuisance.

And then there was his voice—that low, gravelly rasp that seemed designed to peel away your skin.

"Stop slouching," he barked, his voice cutting through the sound of your thudding heart. "You’re off-balance. A stiff breeze would knock you over."

You lunged, a right hook aimed at his jaw that he caught in his palm without even blinking. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, smelling of cedar and cold sweat. "Weak," he hissed. "It’s a surprise they even accepted you into this program. SHIELD must be getting desperate."

The words stung worse than the strikes. You wrenched your arm back, your muscles screaming in protest. You swung again, a desperate flurry of blows, but he stepped back, a dark, mocking glint in his eyes. "That’s all? I’ve seen recruits in basic with more fight in them than you."

You were boiling. The blood was screaming in your ears, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that drowned out the world. Your legs felt like they were made of jelly, trembling under the weight of your body, but the sheer, unadulterated spite kept you upright. You watched him, your vision tunneling until all you could see was the smug set of his bearded jaw and the way his eyes tracked your every tremor.

Then, it happened.

Maybe it was a flicker of overconfidence. Maybe he thought you were too spent to be a threat. Bucky shifted his weight, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second as he prepared to deliver another verbal barb.

It was the only opening you needed.

You didn't think; you exploded. Harnessing every ounce of resentment, every "fuck you" you’d swallowed since yesterday, you pivoted on your lead foot. You put the entire weight of your body, your history, and your hatred into a straight, lightning-fast strike.

The impact was sickeningly sweet.

A sharp, wet crack—the sound of bone meeting bone—shattered the silence of the gym.

Bucky’s head snapped back, his eyes widening in a rare moment of genuine shock. For a heartbeat, time suspended. You watched, breathless, as a dark, crimson bloom erupted from his nostrils. It wasn't a trickle; it was a heavy, visceral stream that stained the silver of his mustache and splattered onto his black shirt.

He stumbled back a step, his hand flying up to catch the bridge of his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers, thick and dark, dripping onto the mat between you with a steady, rhythmic splat.

The gym went deathly quiet, save for your ragged, heaving gasps. You stood there, your knuckles throbbing with a dull, white-hot ache, watching the great Winter Soldier bleed because of you.

Bucky slowly lowered his hand. His nose was already beginning to swell. He looked down at the blood on his palm, then back up at you. The air in the room didn't just feel cold anymore—it felt electric, heavy with the sudden, violent shift in the atmosphere.

His eyes weren't narrow anymore. They were wide, burning with a new, dangerous kind of heat.

You didn't even have a chance to draw a full breath before the atmosphere in the room curdled. The air became thick, charged with the kind of predatory energy that preceded a lightning strike. Bucky didn't just walk toward you; he stalked, his boots heavy and rhythmic against the mat, each step a promise of retribution.

"I'm so... I'm so fucking sorry," you stammered, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. You weren't lying—seeing that much blood, hearing that sickening pop of cartilage, had sent a jolt of pure, instinctual alarm through your system. You began to back up, your heels catching on the edge of the padding, your hands raised in a useless, placating gesture.

"You're sorry?"

He didn't just say it; he growled it, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his lungs. As he spoke, flecks of crimson splattered from his lips, staining his teeth and painting a macabre picture against the silver of his beard. He looked less like a mentor and more like the ghost of the man who had haunted the nightmares of the twentieth century.

He closed the distance in a blur of motion. Before your brain could even signal your muscles to move, his vibranium hand shot out, his fingers fisting into the collar of your sweat-soaked shirt. With a terrifying, effortless display of strength, he yanked you upward.

Your toes brushed the floor, your breath hitching as the fabric of your shirt strained against your throat. You were trapped in his orbit, pinned by the sheer gravity of his fury.

"Not that I'm not... you know, kinda happy to see it, I mean—" The words were a reflex, a defense mechanism born of pure nerves. A tiny, hysterical smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth, but it died the second you looked into his eyes. They weren't just blue anymore; they were frozen over, hard as glacial ice and twice as jagged. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the wet, heavy sound of his breathing.

"Let’s make it even, Agent," he hissed.

He dropped you. Your feet hit the floor with a jarring thud, but before your knees could even lock to steady yourself, the world shifted.

You didn't see the punch coming. You only felt the vacuum of air as his fist cut through the space between you.

The impact was a white-hot explosion.

It wasn't just a punch; it was a physical ending to the conversation. You felt the bridge of your nose shatter under his knuckles—a mirror image of the sound you had made moments before. A blinding flash of light ignited behind your eyelids, and for a split second, the gym vanished, replaced by a searing, throbbing void.

Your head snapped back, your brain rattling against your skull, and then came the heat. A rush of warm, thick fluid flooded your upper lip, pouring into your mouth with the salty, iron tang of your own blood. The pain was blinding, a high-pitched scream in your nerves that made your vision swim in dizzying, dark circles.

You stumbled back, clutching your face, the world tilting as you gasped through a throat that suddenly tasted like a copper mine.

The world was spinning in a nauseating, jagged blur, but you forced your head up. You refused to collapse at his feet. You stared at him through a haze of watering eyes, your mouth hanging open as you fought to pull oxygen through a nose that felt like it had been hit by a freight train.

The symmetry was haunting. Two soldiers, standing in the center of a cold room, both painted in the visceral red of the other’s making. You were close enough to feel the radiating heat of his body, so close that your frantic, ragged breaths tangled in the air between you, each of you inhaling the copper-scented exhaust of the other.

For a heartbeat, the mask of the Sergeant cracked.

You saw it—a tremor in his vibranium fingers, a subtle, rhythmic twitch that betrayed the adrenaline surging through his veins. His eyes, usually so frigid, flashed with a sudden, agonizing spark of guilt as he looked at the wreckage of your face. But as quickly as the remorse appeared, it was swallowed by a tidal wave of something far more volatile. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black, fueled by a cocktail of ancient rage and a raw, starving need that had clearly been festering beneath his ribs for years.

"God... I hate you," he panted. The words weren't a statement; they were a confession, groaned out against the inches of air separating you.

Before you could even gasp a response, he surged forward. His hand didn't just grab your shirt; it clawed into the fabric, yanking you flush against the hard planes of his chest with a force that knocked the remaining air from your lungs.

He crashed his mouth against yours, and it was a collision, not a kiss.

There was no tenderness, no soft apology. It was a punishment in its purest, most primal form—a desperate attempt to reclaim the control you had stripped from him with that one lucky strike. His lips were hard, demanding and unforgiving, tasting of iron and salt.

As he tilted your head back, your blood smeared together, a warm, slick fusion that stained both your mouths. It was filthy, arousingly so—the metallic tang of your shared violence acting as a catalyst for a different kind of heat. You felt the rough scrape of his beard against your raw skin, the bruising pressure of his mouth claiming yours, and the terrifying, electric thrill of realizing that the line between wanting to kill someone and wanting to possess them had finally, violently snapped.

The kiss was a war zone. It was the culmination of every snarky comment, every bruised ego, and every year spent wishing the other didn't exist—or at least, didn't exist so vividly in the other’s mind.

Bucky’s  hand was a cold, unyielding weight against the small of your back, crushing you against him until you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his tactical shirt. His other hand was buried in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands and yanking your head back to gain a deeper, more desperate angle.

You didn't just submit; you fought back. You grabbed the front of his shirt, your knuckles white as you pulled him closer, meeting the bruising pressure of his mouth with a feral intensity of your own. Every time your wounded noses brushed, a sharp, white-hot spike of pain flared through your skull, but it only served to heighten the moment. 

He backed you up, his movements heavy and predatory. Your heels dragged across the mat until your spine slammed into the cold, concrete wall of the facility. The impact jolted through your teeth, but Bucky was already there, pinning you with the sheer mass of his body.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you gasping for air that tasted like salt and adrenaline. His face was a mask of beautiful, tortured rage—blood smeared across his cheek, his beard matted, his eyes burning with a hunger that looked like it was physically hurting him.

"I should have left you in the dirt years ago," Bucky spat, his voice a jagged serration of sound. He tightened his grip on your hair, yanking just enough to make your eyes water, forcing you to look at the raw, unfiltered loathing written in the lines of his face. "You’re a distraction. You’re loud, you’re arrogant, and you’re a goddamn liability."

"Then finish it, Sergeant," you hissed back, your voice cracking but sharp enough to draw blood. You shoved against his chest, not to get away, but to feel the resistance of his muscles. "Go ahead. Put me down. Or are you too busy looking at what I did to your face?"

His eyes turned murderous. The salt-and-pepper beard was stained dark with the blood you’d drawn, making him look like some ancient, vengeful god. "You think you’re special because you landed one lucky hit? You’re nothing. You’re a ghost I can’t fucking shake."

His vibranium hand shot up, slamming into the wall beside your head with a deafening crack that sent dust spiraling from the ceiling. He leaned in until his nose—the one you’d broken—was pressing against yours, the shared pain a sickening, electric jolt.

"I hate the way you look at me," he growled, his teeth bared in a snarl. 

"Then stop talking and do something about it," you challenged, your hand flying up to catch the back of his neck, your fingers digging into the short, coarse hair at his nape. You pulled him down, forcing him back into your space. "I’m right here, Barnes. Destroy me" 

He didn't just kiss you this time; he attacked. It was a collision of teeth and tongue, a desperate attempt to silence the vitriol with pure, unadulterated friction. He caught your lower lip between his teeth and tugged hard enough to draw a fresh hiss of pain from your lungs, a sound he swallowed with a dark, triumphant groan.

His flesh hand roamed downward, seizing your waist with a grip that would surely leave a map of bruises by morning. He moved like he wanted to climb inside your skin, to colonize your lungs so you could only breathe when he allowed it.

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe. He seized the backs of your thighs, his vibranium fingers digging into your skin with a bruising pressure as he hoisted you up. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, the friction of your tactical pants against his hips sending a jolt of lightning straight to your core. He didn't carry you to a mat; he slammed you back against the wall again, the impact rattling your teeth, and pinned you there like a specimen.

"You want to be a soldier?" he growled, his voice a jagged edge of gravel and lust. "Then act like one. Take it."

 The sound of your shirt giving way was a sharp, violent punctuation to the silence of the gym. You didn't flinch; you reached for his own shirt, your fingers trembling with a frantic, angry energy as you shredded the hem, needing to feel the heat of his scarred skin against your own.

When your bare chests finally collided, the sensation was overwhelming—a searing, slick contact of sweat and adrenaline. Bucky let out a choked, animalistic sound, his mouth dropping to your shoulder. He didn't kiss the skin; he branded it, his teeth sinking in deep enough to leave a permanent reminder of his rage.

"God, you’re so loud," he hissed against your collarbone, his hand sliding down to the waistband of your pants. "Always talking, always fighting me. For once in your life, just break."

"Make me," you challenged, your voice a ragged, breathless snarl. You arched your back, pressing your center against the hard ridge of his desire, a move so bold it made his eyes blow out until they were twin voids of black.

He stripped you with a brutal efficiency, his movements rough and lacking any shred of gentleness. 

Bucky didn’t wait for you to regain your footing. In one fluid, terrifying burst of strength, he lunged, his metal arm hooking under your knees while his flesh hand clamped around your throat—not to choke, but to steer. He hauled you off the wall and slammed you down onto the training mat. The air left your lungs in a violent huff as the foam padding squeaked under the force of your impact.

Before you could even blink the spots from your eyes, he was there, looming over you like a mountain of shadow and muscle. He braced his weight on his forearms, pinning your wrists over your head with a grip that felt like iron manacles.

He was heaving, his chest drenched in a cocktail of sweat and your shared blood, heaving against your own rising breasts. He shifted, his hips heavy and demanding, and you felt the thick, twitching length of him brush against your soaking cunt. The friction was electric—a slick, searing promise that made your hips buck instinctively against him.

"Beg me for it," he panted. The command was a low, jagged rasp, vibrating deep in his throat. He stared down at you, his eyes wild and bloodshot, his nostrils flaring with every ragged breath. "After all that talk…let me hear you break. Beg me to finish this."

The arrogance in his voice flickered like a flame. He knew he had you. He knew your body was traitorously screaming for the very thing your mind claimed to despise. He nudged his tip against your entrance, teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh, withholding the release just to watch you writhe.

"Go on," he hissed, a dark, cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his blood-stained mouth. "Tell me how much you need me. Say it."

You glared up at him, your teeth bared, your own blood staining your grin. Your heart was drumming a frantic, war-like rhythm against your ribs. You were caught between the urge to spit in his face and the desperate, hollow ache between your legs that only he could fill.

"Fuck you, Barnes," you gasped, your voice a wrecked, needy shadow of itself. You arched your back, forcing the contact, grinding yourself against him until a low, tortured groan escaped his lips. "I’m not begging for anything. If you want me, take me. Or are you too much of a coward to finish what you started?"

His jaw locked, the muscles cording in his neck until they looked ready to snap. The challenge was the final spark in the powder keg.

"Coward?" he repeated, the word coming out as a predatory growl.

He didn't give you another second to breathe. He seized your hips, his fingers bruising your skin, and drove into you with a single, devastating thrust that bottomed out against you. The sensation was a violent explosion of white light—a blunt-force trauma of pleasure that shattered your defiance and left you reaching for him, your nails clawing at the mats as he began to dismantle you, one brutal, rhythmic strike at a time.

The sound of his name leaving your lips was a broken, frantic chant, stripped of all the ice and professional distance you’d spent years perfecting. It was a whine—a desperate, high-pitched surrender that made Bucky’s entire frame shudder.

"Bucky... Bucky, Bucky," you gasped, your voice cracking under the weight of the pleasure. Your fingers, slick with sweat, curled like claws, digging into the dense, scarred muscle of his shoulders. You weren't just holding on; you were trying to anchor yourself as he threatened to pull you under.

"Say it again," he commanded, his voice a raw, jagged mess. He didn't slow down; he accelerated, his hips hitting yours with a rhythmic, bruising force that made the heavy mats slide across the floor. "Say it while I ruin you."

He surged deeper, his metal hand moving from the mat to the side of your face, his thumb catching your lower lip and pulling it down so he could watch the way you gasped for air. He was relentless, a force of nature that had spent seventy years being suppressed, now finding its outlet in the friction of your bodies.

Every time he hit that perfect, agonizing spot, your back arched off the mat, your heels digging into his calves to pull him even closer. 

"I hate you," you sobbed into the crook of his neck "I fucking hate you, Bucky."

"Good," he rasped, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse. 

As he drove into you with a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm, your resolve began to fray at the edges. A sound started in the back of your throat—a thin, pathetic whimper that you tried to swallow, but it slipped out, high and needy.

Bucky froze. A dark, predatory light flickered in his eyes, and he slowed his hips to a grueling, taunting crawl. He leaned down, his chest brushing your sensitized nipples, his breath a hot, mocking caress against your ear.

He shifted, just enough to catch a sensitive nerve, and another broken whimper escaped you, your fingers curling helplessly into the mats.

"Pathetic," he rasped, though his pupils were so dilated his eyes were almost entirely black. He began to move again, but it was shallow, teasing, withholding the full weight of his body that you were silently begging for. "You want it so bad you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Is the big, bad sergeant too much for you to handle?"

"Shut... up," you gasped, the words sounding weak even to your own ears.

"Make me," he countered with a sharp, arrogant tilt of his head. He leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet sneer. "Begging for me one second, cursing me the next. You’re a mess. A needy, undisciplined mess. You’re lucky I’m here to teach you exactly where you belong."

He punctuates the insult with a sudden, forceful thrust that bottomed out, shattering your remaining pride. You let out a jagged, sobbing breath, your head hitting the mat as he watched you crumble beneath him with a look of pure, triumphant malice.

"That’s it," he cooed darkly, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to emphasize his control. 

He was staring down at you, but his eyes were glazed, distant, as if he were fighting a war behind his own ribs. His jaw worked rhythmically, his teeth grinding together with a sound you could hear over your own frantic pulse.

Then, the murmuring started. It wasn't the loud, barking commands of Sergeant Barnes; it was something much more terrifying. It was Bucky—raw, unhinged, and spiraling.

"That's it," he rasped, the words tumbling out in a low, feverish hum. He leaned in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his breath a scorching, humid gale. "Just like that. Take it. Take it, baby."

The endearment felt like a brand, filthy and wrong and perfect all at once. It was laced with a dark, possessive grit that made your toes curl into the mat. He shifted his hips, a slow, torturous centimeter of progress that made you whimper again, your hands reaching up to blindly grab at his biceps.

"You want to fight me?" he muttered, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, hypnotic growl. "You want to push me? Then take all of it. Every goddamn fucking drop."

He felt the tremors starting deep in your core, the way your cunt clamped around him in a rhythmic, involuntary pulse.

His jaw locked so tight the bone looked ready to snap through his skin. A low, vibrating growl started in his solar plexus, a sound of pure, agonized frustration. He surged into you one last time—harder, deeper, a final, tectonic shift that felt like it was trying to fuse your souls through sheer force.

"I hate you," he choked out, the words a wrecked, breathless curse.

His back arched, the muscles of his spine cording like braided steel under your clawing fingertips. His head snapped back, his eyes rolling shut as the climax hit him with the force of a physical blow. You felt the scorching, heavy heat of him filling you— pulsing release that seemed to go on forever, grounding him to the mat, to the moment, and to you.

He didn't collapse. He stayed rigid, his vibranium hand denting the floor beside your head, his knuckles white as he shook with the aftershocks. A ragged, guttural sob of air escaped his lungs—a sound of utter defeat. 

Slowly, the tension bled out of him. He slumped forward, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck, his skin slick and burning hot against yours. He was dead weight, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your own.

For a long minute, neither of you moved. The violence was spent, the rage had been bled out, and all that remained was the hollow, echoing aftermath of a collision that should have never happened.

Bucky was the first to shift. He pulled back slowly, his muscles stiff and protesting. As he sat up, the raw, vulnerable man you had just seen—the one murmuring feverish endearments into your skin—vanished behind a wall of cold, reinforced steel. He didn't look at you. He stared at the blood-spattered mat between his knees, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line.

The silence turned brittle.

"Tomorrow," he said. His voice was no longer a growl; it was a dead, flat rasp that made your chest ache more than your broken nose. "6 sharp. Be on the mats."

He stood up in one fluid, mechanical motion, reaching down to snag his discarded, shredded shirt from the floor. He wiped a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and finally turned his gaze toward you. 

He reached out, his vibranium hand hovering for a split second before he settled it on your shoulder. It wasn't a shove or a pin; it was a grounding, heavy heat.

"You're a goddamn mess," he muttered. The words were still gruff, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, but the venom was gone. It sounded less like an insult and more like an observation he was making to himself.

He let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders dropping as he looked at the blood-stained mats. "Go to the med-bay. Get that nose set before the swelling gets worse. I'm not training an agent who can only see out of one eye."

You started to push yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest, and he instinctively reached out to steady your elbow, his grip firm but careful. He didn't apologize—he wasn't a man who knew how to wrap words around his regrets—but the way he lingered, ensuring you had your footing before he let go, spoke louder than he ever could.

"I mean it," he added, his voice dropping an octave, losing the condescending bite. He looked you dead in the eye, his blue gaze flickering with a silent, begrudging respect. "Tomorrow. If you're not there, I'm coming to your quarters to drag you out."

“Yes sergeant, i know.” you said out of breath.

"Clean yourself up," he said "You fought well today. For a headache." 

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in the cooling silence of the gym. He was still the same grumpy, difficult man, but for the first time, you realized the fire between you wasn't just there to burn—it was there to keep you both from freezing over.

He surged into you one last time—harder, deeper, a final, tectonic shift that felt like it was trying to fuse your souls through sheer force.

"Damn you," he choked out, the words a wrecked, breathless curse.

His back arched, the muscles of his spine cording like braided steel under your clawing fingertips. His head snapped back, his eyes rolling shut as the climax hit him with the force of a physical blow. You felt the scorching, heavy heat of him filling you—a visceral, pulsing release that seemed to go on forever, grounding him to the mat, to the moment, and to you.

He didn't collapse. He stayed rigid, his vibranium hand denting the floor beside your head, his knuckles white as he shook with the aftershocks. A ragged, guttural sob of air escaped his lungs—a sound of utter defeat. The Great Winter Soldier, the man who couldn't be broken, was currently falling apart in the arms of the person he claimed to loathe.

Slowly, the tension bled out of him. He slumped forward, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck, his skin slick and burning hot against yours. He was dead weight, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your own.

For a long minute, the only sound was the wet, heavy slap of your shared breathing. The silence was louder than the violence that had preceded it. He didn't pull away; he stayed buried in you, his fingers twitching against the mat, as if he were waiting for the world to start spinning again so he could find the words to take back everything he’d just given you.

[melkafucks]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊throat training with dbf!bucky₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

"Keep those eyes on me," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, metallic rasp, as you were seated right in front of him on the wooden floor of your apartment.

He reached out, the pads of his fingers—thick, calloused, and smelling faintly of woodsmoke—hooking under your chin to tilt your head back. You obeyed, your jaw dropping open in a silent invitation.

"I’m going to have so much fun training you," he murmured.

At first he didn't rush. He slid two fingers into the heat of your mouth, the weight of them pressing firmly against your tongue. The sensation was intrusive and grounding all at once. He began to move them with agonizing slowness, a rhythmic slide-and-sink that forced you to taste the salt of his skin. You felt a low whine build in your throat, your hands clutching at your own thighs just to keep from reaching for him.

"That’s it. Just get used to the weight," he coached, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your knees weak.

Then, the pace shifted. He began to push deeper, his knuckles grazing your lips as he tested the limits of your throat. Each thrust was deliberate and calculated. You felt the first sharp spark of a gag reflex—a sudden, involuntary flutter of your throat muscles constricting around him.

A string of saliva escaped the corner of your mouth, glistening in the lamplight as it trailed down your chin, but Bucky didn't pull back. Instead, his thumb brushed the moisture away, his expression darkening with a predatory sort of pride.

He began to drive his fingers inward, the thick digits stretching the corners of your mouth until the skin felt taut and sensitive. With every thrust, he went a fraction deeper, hitting the sensitive back of your throat with a blunt, rhythmic force.

"Shhh, take it," he growled, his thumb coming up to press firmly against the pulse point in your neck, feeling the frantic thrum-thrum-thrum of your heart. "I didn't tell you to pull away. I told you to open up."

He increased the tempo, his movements becoming more aggressive and you began to drool around him involuntarily. The wet, rhythmic slap of his palm against your chin echoed in the quiet room. You felt the muscles of your throat fluttering, trying to reject him, but he was unyielding. He was mapping you out, learning exactly where your limits were so he could push right past them.

"You’re shaking," he observed, a dark, predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Is it too much? Or is it just the realization that I’m barely using two fingers, and you're already struggling?"

You let out something between a gag and a whimper as a response.

He withdrew his fingers just enough to let you gulp in a frantic breath, only to plunge them back in, deeper than before, bottoming out against the soft tissue of your throat. Your hands flew to his wrists, your fingers digging into his skin and the cold, unyielding seams of his metal arm, seeking a scrap of mercy.

"Drooling like a good little mess for me," he whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear, his hot breath sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. "Gag for me again. Let me feel how tight you can get. Because we aren't stopping until you can swallow every inch of me without a sound."

[melkafucks]

the hunt pt.1

psycho!bucky x f!reader

UNTIL DAWN AU

summary: year after tragic death of buckys sisters, two of you decided to go to the mountains where all of it started. It supposed to be a calm weekend getaway together, but it took a dark turn when he gets out of control.

wc: 4k warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of death, grief, psycho!bucky, use of knive, threats, loss of consciousness, bucky hears voices. (lmk if I missed anything)

a/n: I just finished playing until dawn and as you can see im in love with josh, also this will have pt 2 ofc. I wanna go full batshit bloody psycho bucky with smut ofc ;p but lmk what you wanna see in the next part!

The cable car groaned, the rusted metal screeching against the guide ropes as it climbed higher into the heart of the mountains. Outside, the world was a blur of aggressive white, the mountain peaks looked like jagged, broken teeth waiting to snap shut, and the wind was a physical weight, slamming against the glass like it was trying to get in.

A year ago, this mountain had swallowed Bucky’s sisters. The police called it a "horrible accident," but the way the trees leaned over the slopes made it feel more like a crime scene that had never been cleaned up.

Bucky was leaning his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging the pane in rhythmic, heavy huffs. He looked exhausted, his jaw perpetually locked, but there was something else in his eyes—a flicker of something sharp and restless that hadn't been there when you left the city.

"We shouldn’t have invited the others anyway," Bucky’s voice broke the silence. It was low, gravelly, and carried a weird sort of edge. He didn't look at you, kept his eyes on the swirling snow. "They don’t understand. They look at me like I’m fucking crazy, like I’m already broken."

You reached out, your fingers squeezing his arm through the heavy, dark fabric of his tactical jacket. He felt like he was made of stone. "They're just worried, Buck. But I agree. We needed this. Just us."

He finally turned to you. The light hitting the snow outside reflected in his eyes, giving them a bright gleam that made your heart skip a beat—not out of romance, but out of a sudden, instinctive flash of nerves. He looked at you with such intense focus it felt like he was trying to memorize the shape of your soul. But you pushed the feeling down, it was hard year for Bucky, full of hospitals, medication and therapy— now he needed peace.

 He needed you.

As the cable car lurched to a final, shuddering stop at the summit, the silence of the Canadian wilderness rushed in to meet you. It was heavy, the kind of quiet that made your ears ring. Bucky didn’t move at first. He just stared through the scratched glass at the silhouette of the lodge, his breath fogging the pane in thick, rhythmic huffs.

"We're here," you whispered, reaching out to lace your fingers through his. His leather glove was freezing, the material stiff.

"Yeah," Bucky said, but his voice sounded like it was coming from miles away. "A year. Exactly a year."

He finally stepped off the car, his boots crunching loudly in the fresh snow. You followed him toward the massive timber doors of the Blackwood Lodge. It looked lonelier than you remembered. The towering pines around it were bent under the weight of the snow, looking like hunched figures watching you approach.

Inside, the air was stale and biting. You clicked on your flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark to find the grand staircase.

"I'll get the generator started in the basement," Bucky said. But he didn't move. He was staring at the spot on the floor where his sisters, Beth and Hannah, had stood the last night anyone saw them alive.

"Bucky?" You stepped into his space, the floorboards groaning under your weight.

He turned his head slowly. In the harsh white light of the flashlight, his eyes looked... different. They weren't the soft, tired blue you fell in love with. There was a frantic, glossy sheen to them—a manic gleam that flickered like a dying candle.

"They were laughing," he murmured, a small, jagged smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Right here. Hannah was complaining about the cold, and Beth was teasing her about that stupid sweater. I can still hear it.” 

The hair on your arms stood up. "Buck, hey... look at me."

You dropped the flashlight on a side table and took his face in both of your hands. His skin was ice-cold, his jaw locked tight. You stepped closer, pressing your body against his heavy coat to give him your warmth.

"That’s just the grief talking," you said softly, your voice trembling just a little. "It’s been a hard year. We came here to move past this, remember? Just us. No distractions."

Bucky’s hands came up, gripping your wrists. His grip was a little too tight, his fingers digging into your skin, but his eyes started to focus on yours again. The wild light dimmed, replaced by a deep, hollow ache. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his shoulders beginning to shake.

"I miss them so much it feels like I’m rotting," he choked out, his hot breath puffing against your skin. "I keep thinking if I just look hard enough in the woods... I’ll find what’s left of them, and-"

"Shhh," you cooed, sliding your hands back to stroke his messy hair. You felt a wave of protective love wash over you, drowning out the unease. "I’ve got you. You’re not alone anymore. We’re going to get through this weekend, okay?"

He pulled back just an inch, his nose brushing yours. The sadness was there, but that weird, sharp energy hadn't totally left his gaze. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of ghosts.

The heavy oak doors had groaned shut behind you, locking out the screaming wind, but the silence inside the lodge felt even heavier. After a bit of fumbling in the dark, Bucky had managed to get a fire roaring in the massive stone hearth. The orange light danced across the animal heads mounted on the walls, making their glassy eyes flicker as if they were watching you.

You were curled up on the oversized leather sofa, the cushions sinking under your combined weight. Bucky was sitting close—closer than usual—his shoulder pressed hard against yours. He had shed his heavy tactical jacket, leaving him in a dark thermal shirt that stretched over his broad chest.

"It’s actually warm in here now," you murmured, trying to break the thick tension. You shifted on the leather sofa, pulling the wool blanket tighter around both of your shoulders. You reached for his hand, but his fingers were twitching, drumming a frantic, silent beat against his thigh.

"Buck?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackle of the logs.

He didn't seem to hear you. His head tilted at a strange, stiff angle, and his lips were moving—dry and pale, spilling out words that were barely more than a breath.

"The snow... it’s too heavy," he mumbled, his voice a hollow rasp. "I told her to wear the coat. I told Hannah... She never listens. She’s out there. She’s cold. I can feel how cold she is."

"Bucky, look at me," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His skin was unnervingly chilled despite the heat of the fire.

He finally turned his head, but his eyes stayed glassy, reflecting the orange embers with a manic, wet sheen. It wasn't the look of a man who was fully in the room with you. He looked like he was halfway stepped into a nightmare.

"I can hear them," he whispered, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. His breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound. "Under the floorboards. In the walls. They’re mad I left them in the dark."

"Baby. It's just the house settling. It’s an old lodge," you murmured, sliding your fingers into his hair, trying to anchor him. You felt a surge of protective ache for him, even as a small, cold knot of fear tightened in your chest.

He suddenly gripped your waist, his large hands sinking into your hips with a strength that was just a bit too much. He pulled you onto his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't cry, but he was shaking—hard.

"Don't let me go," he muttered against your skin, his voice dropping into a dark, desperate register. "If you do, I'll go looking for them and I won't come back. You understand?" He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours with that terrifying, bright intensity.

"You’re staying, right?" he asked, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip, dragging it down just enough to see your teeth. "Even if the storm stays. Even if the cable car breaks. You're mine. You’re the only thing that’s warm."

"I'm staying," you breathed, trying to soothe the wildness in his gaze.

He let out a low, shaky breath that sounded almost like a growl of relief. He tightened his hold, his arms like iron bands around you, locking you against his chest as if he expected the shadows to reach out and pluck you away.

The silence that followed the lights cutting out was immediate and deafening. One second, the warm glow of the lamps had been fighting back the shadows; the next, the world shrunk down to a small, flickering circle of orange light around the fireplace.

Bucky’s body tensed under yours, his muscles turning to cords of steel. He didn't jump. He didn't even gasp. He just sat there in the dark, his eyes reflecting the dying embers like a predator's.

"It’s probably just something with the generator," he said, his voice eerily calm—too calm for the way his heart had been racing moments before. "I'll go fix it."

He stood up, and the loss of his heat felt like being splashed with ice water. You reached out to catch the hem of his shirt, your fingers trembling. "Buck, wait. Just... stay here. The fire is enough."

"I can't leave us in the dark," he murmured. He leaned down, kissing your forehead with a dry, lingering pressure that felt more like a seal than a comfort. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

You watched his silhouette retreat, his heavy boots thumping against the floorboards until the door to the basement groaned open and clicked shut behind him.

Suddenly, the lodge felt massive.

The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and bleed toward you. Every sound was magnified ten-fold: the frantic whistling of the wind against the eaves, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of a clock you hadn't noticed before, and the settling of the heavy timber above you.

Your skin prickled with an intense, crawling sensation—the feeling of being watched. You glanced toward the grand staircase, where the darkness was so thick it looked like velvet. You kept expecting to see the pale, frost-bitten face of one of his sisters peering through the banisters, or to hear the wet thud of footsteps coming from a room that should be empty.

Downstairs, you heard a heavy metallic clag—the sound of Bucky moving something in the basement. Then, a muffled, rhythmic thumping.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It didn't sound like someone was fixing a generator. It sounded like something being dragged across a concrete floor.

The air in the living room felt thinner now, smelling less like woodsmoke and more like the damp, earthy scent of a cellar. The silence that followed your voice was worse than the wind. It was thick, heavy, and felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

"Bucky?!" you called, your voice pitching higher, wavering with a frantic edge you couldn't suppress. You took a step away from the fireplace, the small circle of warmth fading as you moved into the belly of the darkened living room.

The floorboards groaned under your weight, a long, slow creak that sounded like a scream in slow motion. You started pacing, your breath coming in shallow, ragged heaves that puffed out in the freezing air. Every time you turned, you expected to see a shadow detached from the wall, or a hand reaching out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.

"Honey, is everything okay? I'm scared in here!" you yelled out again.

Nothing. No grunt of frustration from the basement, no clanking of tools, no "I'm fine, babe." Just that rhythmic, wet thud-thud from below that had suddenly stopped the moment you spoke.

You stopped in the middle of the room, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs it felt like it was trying to break out. You felt so exposed in the center of the room, like a target.

Your breath hitched, turning into a strangled, whimpering sound that died instantly in your throat. You froze, your muscles locking up so tight it felt like you might snap. The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic, metallic drip-drip-drip echoing from the basement door, and now—this.

The creak of the floorboards had been soft, practiced. Whoever it was had moved with the silence of a predator.

Before your brain could even register the need to scream, a massive, calloused hand clamped firmly over your mouth. The skin was rough, like sandpaper against your lips, and it smelled faintly of metal—like oil and old iron.

You thrashed, your heels digging into the floorboards, but the grip didn’t budge. It was absolute. A second, equally heavy arm wrapped around your waist, hauling your back flush against a chest that was hard as concrete. The heat radiating off him was immense, almost feverish, and he was breathing heavy, ragged gulps of air against the shell of your ear.

Your eyes bulged, darting toward the flashlight beam still cutting through the dark on the floor. You clawed at the hand over your mouth, your fingernails digging into his skin, but his grip only tightened, his fingers bruising your cheeks.

"So warm," he rasped, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your spine. It was Bucky’s voice, the low, gravelly timbre you knew by heart, but the delivery was wrong—it was jagged, frantic, laced with a manic edge that made your blood turn to ice. "You smell like fear, sweetheart."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. You needed to know. You needed to see who was holding you— because he sounds like Bucky, but it wasn't your Bucky. As he shifted his weight, his hold on your mouth loosening just a fraction, you risked it. You wrenched your head to the side, forcing your eyes towards his face, catching a glimpse of him in the dim, flickering light of the dying fire.

Your vision swam. You expected to see Bucky’s face, his familiar features twisted in grief or madness—but instead, you were staring at a nightmare.

Pinned to his face was a clown mask. It was old, the plastic yellowed and cracked, the painted smile was wide and warped, peeling away to reveal dark, stained foam underneath. One of the painted eyes was smudged with a thick, oily grime, and the other was a hollow, empty slit.

Through that slit, you saw a blue iris—Bucky’s iris—but it was wild, bloodshot, and rolling, completely devoid of any recognition or love.

He moved his hand from your waist, now putting pressure against your stomach, deliberate and heavy, his big palm splayed over your abdomen— a tactile reminder that he was in total control. You could feel the rigid, corded muscles of his arm beneath his shirt, and beneath that, the steady, thundering beat of his heart. It was too fast. It was the rhythm of someone who had completely detached from reality.

"Are you scared of me?" his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that used to make your knees weak. Now, it just made your skin crawl.

The mask was pressed so close to your head that you could hear his shallow, wet inhales through the tiny, cracked ventilation holes of the plastic. The smell was suffocating—stale tobacco, dried mud, and the metallic tang of something that definitely didn't belong in a living room.

"You're shaking," he whispered, a wet, rattling sound escaping his throat that might have been a laugh or a sob. "I can feel your pulse jumping against me. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Like a little bird trapped in my palms."

He shifted his weight, and for a split second, the firelight caught the side of the clown mask. The peeling, red paint around the mouth seemed to stretch into a wider, more impossible grin as he tilted his head. He looked like something that had crawled out of a childhood nightmare to take shape in the physical world.

"Tell me," he hissed, his thumb digging into your skin, his touch lingering in a way that felt both intimate and predatory. "Tell me you’re scared. Tell me you know that no one is coming for you."

He loosened his hand over your mouth just a fraction, a jagged, desperate invitation for you to speak, his blue eye—the only part of him that felt remotely human—staring into yours through the slit in the plastic with an unblinking, manic intensity.

"Bucky, you're scaring me," you whimpered, the words muffled and garbled against his palm. "This isn't funny. Please... take it off."

For a long, agonizing second, he didn't move. He didn't breathe. The only sound in the room was the settling of the floorboards and the frantic, shallow whistle of your own lungs. Then, he let out a low, vibrating sound—a laugh that felt like gravel grinding against glass. It wasn't a joke; it was a rhythmic, pulsing wheeze that seemed to echo inside the hollow plastic of the mask.

"Funny?" He repeated the word, his voice distorting into a surreal, nasally pitch against the mask’s surface.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he forced you to turn until you were facing him fully, the firelight catching the grotesque, peeling paint of the clown’s grin. Through the narrow slit of the eye, his blue iris darted frantically, wild and bloodshot, scanning your face with a hunger that had nothing to do with love.

He leaned in, the plastic of his mask scraping against your forehead, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You think this is a bit? A trick?"

His hand moved from your stomach, his fingers sliding up to tangle harshly in your hair, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to stare at the painted nightmare inches from your own. He squeezed your jaw, his thumb pressing deep into the soft, tender skin just beneath your ear, forcing your head to tilt until your neck strained. The plastic of the mask was ice-cold against your forehead, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating off his body.

"Up here? The mountain is quiet," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the hollow plastic, thick and distorted. "And Hannah and Beth told me exactly what I need to do to keep you from ever leaving me."

The silence that followed his words wasn't just empty; it was suffocating. You stood there, frozen, your gaze locked on the empty, black slit of the mask’s eye. Behind that plastic, Bucky—or whatever was left of him—was waiting for a reaction.

"Hannah and Beth?" you breathed, the name coming out as a strangled, broken plea. "Bucky, stop. Please, you're not making any sense. They’re... they’re gone."

He tightened his grip on your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone until you winced. "They’re not gone," he hissed, his voice dropping into a raspy, guttural growl that made the skin on your arms crawl. "They’re right here. They’re in the snow. They’ve been whispering to me since we stepped off that cable car, I need to keep you mine.”

"Bucky," you choked out, your voice vibrating with a jagged, high-pitched tremor. "Bucky, you are scaring the shit out of me."

He froze. For a heartbeat, the only thing you could hear was your own blood rushing in your ears. Then, a low, wet sound bubbled up from behind the plastic mask—a deep, rhythmic wheeze that might have been a laugh if there was any humanity left in it.

"Scared?" he murmured, the word distorted by the mask, sounding hollow and metallic. "Good. That’s the point, sweetheart. Fear is the only thing that makes you real."

He didn't pull away. Instead, his free hand dipped into his pocket, the movement smooth and predatory. The light of the dying fire glinted off something cold and sharp as he pulled out a long, serrated hunting knife.

He didn't hold it like a weapon; he held it like a caress.

He brought the tip of the blade to the hollow of your throat, pressing just hard enough to leave a white indentation in your skin. Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to trace the steel along the curve of your jaw, the cold metal biting into the heat of your pulse point.

"You're shaking," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, honeyed rasp that made your stomach drop. He tilted his head, the mask’s peeling, painted smile hovering mere inches from yours. "Does it turn you on? To know that I could end it right now? That I’m the only thing between you and the dark?"

He dragged the flat of the blade down your neck, the metal tracing the path of your jugular with a terrifying, heavy precision. He was breathing heavily against your skin, his chest heaving against your own, his grip on your hair shifting to pull you even closer, forcing you to look at the blade reflecting the orange embers.

He looked like a nightmare painted in greasepaint, his blue eyes—dilated until the irises were nearly gone, filled with a wild, possessive hunger that made your breath hitch in a way that was half-sob, half-gasp.

"Tell me you feel it," he hissed against your ear, the knife stopping just above your collarbone. “Tell me you gonna stay with me forever”

"Bucky, please," you whimpered, your voice cracking as you tried to pull back, but his hand in your hair only tightened, yanking your head back until your throat was completely exposed. "Stop, you're hurting me."

He let out that same manic, hollow giggle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your own. "Hurting you? No, sweetheart. I’m just keeping you."

"Tell me," he rasped again, the sound distorted and wet behind the plastic. He pushed the flat of the blade deeper into the skin of your neck, his knuckles white as he twisted his fist in your hair, forcing your head back until you were staring at the ceiling beams.

You couldn't breathe. Your voice was trapped in a throat that felt like it was closing up. "Bucky... please," you wheezed, the word barely a tremor.

His manic, bubbling giggle filled the room, a low sound that vibrated right through your chest. "Please? Please what, sweetheart? Please keep you? Please never let you go?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The predatory hunger in his eyes—visible through the slit of the mask—darkened into something devoid of all recognition. The possessiveness in his grip became cruel, his fingers digging into your scalp until you winced, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

"You're making too much noise," he hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural, final tone.

Without warning, his grip on your hair tightened, turning into a vice. Before you could even scream, he yanked you away from the warmth of the hearth with violent force. You stumbled, your boots skidding on the floorboards as he dragged you toward the shadows of the hallway.

You clawed at his arm, your fingernails digging into his skin, but he was unstoppable. He spun you around, his momentum carrying you both toward the hard, cedar-paneled wall of the foyer.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered, a sound that was half-growl, half-caress.

He didn't hesitate. With a sudden, explosive jerk of his arm, he slammed your head against the hard timber of the wall.

The impact was sickening—a dull, heavy thud that echoed through the silence of the lodge. For a split second, there was a flash of white-hot pain, followed by the terrifying, ringing sound of nothingness. The floorboards rushed up to meet you, and as you collapsed, the last thing you saw was the grin of the clown mask looming over you, its static smile looking down at your limp form with an endless, hungry delight.

Then, everything went black.

[melkafucks]

the hunt pt.1

psycho!bucky x f!reader

UNTIL DAWN AU

summary: year after tragic death of buckys sisters, two of you decided to go to the mountains where all of it started. It supposed to be a calm weekend getaway together, but it took a dark turn when he gets out of control.

wc: 4k warnings: 18+ MDNI, mentions of death, grief, psycho!bucky, use of knive, threats, loss of consciousness, bucky hears voices. (lmk if I missed anything)

a/n: I just finished playing until dawn and as you can see im in love with josh, also this will have pt 2 ofc. I wanna go full batshit bloody psycho bucky with smut ofc ;p but lmk what you wanna see in the next part!

The cable car groaned, the rusted metal screeching against the guide ropes as it climbed higher into the heart of the mountains. Outside, the world was a blur of aggressive white, the mountain peaks looked like jagged, broken teeth waiting to snap shut, and the wind was a physical weight, slamming against the glass like it was trying to get in.

A year ago, this mountain had swallowed Bucky’s sisters. The police called it a "horrible accident," but the way the trees leaned over the slopes made it feel more like a crime scene that had never been cleaned up.

Bucky was leaning his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging the pane in rhythmic, heavy huffs. He looked exhausted, his jaw perpetually locked, but there was something else in his eyes—a flicker of something sharp and restless that hadn't been there when you left the city.

"We shouldn’t have invited the others anyway," Bucky’s voice broke the silence. It was low, gravelly, and carried a weird sort of edge. He didn't look at you, kept his eyes on the swirling snow. "They don’t understand. They look at me like I’m fucking crazy, like I’m already broken."

You reached out, your fingers squeezing his arm through the heavy, dark fabric of his tactical jacket. He felt like he was made of stone. "They're just worried, Buck. But I agree. We needed this. Just us."

He finally turned to you. The light hitting the snow outside reflected in his eyes, giving them a bright gleam that made your heart skip a beat—not out of romance, but out of a sudden, instinctive flash of nerves. He looked at you with such intense focus it felt like he was trying to memorize the shape of your soul. But you pushed the feeling down, it was hard year for Bucky, full of hospitals, medication and therapy— now he needed peace.

 He needed you.

As the cable car lurched to a final, shuddering stop at the summit, the silence of the Canadian wilderness rushed in to meet you. It was heavy, the kind of quiet that made your ears ring. Bucky didn’t move at first. He just stared through the scratched glass at the silhouette of the lodge, his breath fogging the pane in thick, rhythmic huffs.

"We're here," you whispered, reaching out to lace your fingers through his. His leather glove was freezing, the material stiff.

"Yeah," Bucky said, but his voice sounded like it was coming from miles away. "A year. Exactly a year."

He finally stepped off the car, his boots crunching loudly in the fresh snow. You followed him toward the massive timber doors of the Blackwood Lodge. It looked lonelier than you remembered. The towering pines around it were bent under the weight of the snow, looking like hunched figures watching you approach.

Inside, the air was stale and biting. You clicked on your flashlight, the beam cutting through the dark to find the grand staircase.

"I'll get the generator started in the basement," Bucky said. But he didn't move. He was staring at the spot on the floor where his sisters, Beth and Hannah, had stood the last night anyone saw them alive.

"Bucky?" You stepped into his space, the floorboards groaning under your weight.

He turned his head slowly. In the harsh white light of the flashlight, his eyes looked... different. They weren't the soft, tired blue you fell in love with. There was a frantic, glossy sheen to them—a manic gleam that flickered like a dying candle.

"They were laughing," he murmured, a small, jagged smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Right here. Hannah was complaining about the cold, and Beth was teasing her about that stupid sweater. I can still hear it.” 

The hair on your arms stood up. "Buck, hey... look at me."

You dropped the flashlight on a side table and took his face in both of your hands. His skin was ice-cold, his jaw locked tight. You stepped closer, pressing your body against his heavy coat to give him your warmth.

"That’s just the grief talking," you said softly, your voice trembling just a little. "It’s been a hard year. We came here to move past this, remember? Just us. No distractions."

Bucky’s hands came up, gripping your wrists. His grip was a little too tight, his fingers digging into your skin, but his eyes started to focus on yours again. The wild light dimmed, replaced by a deep, hollow ache. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his shoulders beginning to shake.

"I miss them so much it feels like I’m rotting," he choked out, his hot breath puffing against your skin. "I keep thinking if I just look hard enough in the woods... I’ll find what’s left of them, and-"

"Shhh," you cooed, sliding your hands back to stroke his messy hair. You felt a wave of protective love wash over you, drowning out the unease. "I’ve got you. You’re not alone anymore. We’re going to get through this weekend, okay?"

He pulled back just an inch, his nose brushing yours. The sadness was there, but that weird, sharp energy hadn't totally left his gaze. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of ghosts.

The heavy oak doors had groaned shut behind you, locking out the screaming wind, but the silence inside the lodge felt even heavier. After a bit of fumbling in the dark, Bucky had managed to get a fire roaring in the massive stone hearth. The orange light danced across the animal heads mounted on the walls, making their glassy eyes flicker as if they were watching you.

You were curled up on the oversized leather sofa, the cushions sinking under your combined weight. Bucky was sitting close—closer than usual—his shoulder pressed hard against yours. He had shed his heavy tactical jacket, leaving him in a dark thermal shirt that stretched over his broad chest.

"It’s actually warm in here now," you murmured, trying to break the thick tension. You shifted on the leather sofa, pulling the wool blanket tighter around both of your shoulders. You reached for his hand, but his fingers were twitching, drumming a frantic, silent beat against his thigh.

"Buck?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackle of the logs.

He didn't seem to hear you. His head tilted at a strange, stiff angle, and his lips were moving—dry and pale, spilling out words that were barely more than a breath.

"The snow... it’s too heavy," he mumbled, his voice a hollow rasp. "I told her to wear the coat. I told Hannah... She never listens. She’s out there. She’s cold. I can feel how cold she is."

"Bucky, look at me," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His skin was unnervingly chilled despite the heat of the fire.

He finally turned his head, but his eyes stayed glassy, reflecting the orange embers with a manic, wet sheen. It wasn't the look of a man who was fully in the room with you. He looked like he was halfway stepped into a nightmare.

"I can hear them," he whispered, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. His breath hitched, a sharp, broken sound. "Under the floorboards. In the walls. They’re mad I left them in the dark."

"Baby. It's just the house settling. It’s an old lodge," you murmured, sliding your fingers into his hair, trying to anchor him. You felt a surge of protective ache for him, even as a small, cold knot of fear tightened in your chest.

He suddenly gripped your waist, his large hands sinking into your hips with a strength that was just a bit too much. He pulled you onto his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He didn't cry, but he was shaking—hard.

"Don't let me go," he muttered against your skin, his voice dropping into a dark, desperate register. "If you do, I'll go looking for them and I won't come back. You understand?" He pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching yours with that terrifying, bright intensity.

"You’re staying, right?" he asked, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip, dragging it down just enough to see your teeth. "Even if the storm stays. Even if the cable car breaks. You're mine. You’re the only thing that’s warm."

"I'm staying," you breathed, trying to soothe the wildness in his gaze.

He let out a low, shaky breath that sounded almost like a growl of relief. He tightened his hold, his arms like iron bands around you, locking you against his chest as if he expected the shadows to reach out and pluck you away.

The silence that followed the lights cutting out was immediate and deafening. One second, the warm glow of the lamps had been fighting back the shadows; the next, the world shrunk down to a small, flickering circle of orange light around the fireplace.

Bucky’s body tensed under yours, his muscles turning to cords of steel. He didn't jump. He didn't even gasp. He just sat there in the dark, his eyes reflecting the dying embers like a predator's.

"It’s probably just something with the generator," he said, his voice eerily calm—too calm for the way his heart had been racing moments before. "I'll go fix it."

He stood up, and the loss of his heat felt like being splashed with ice water. You reached out to catch the hem of his shirt, your fingers trembling. "Buck, wait. Just... stay here. The fire is enough."

"I can't leave us in the dark," he murmured. He leaned down, kissing your forehead with a dry, lingering pressure that felt more like a seal than a comfort. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

You watched his silhouette retreat, his heavy boots thumping against the floorboards until the door to the basement groaned open and clicked shut behind him.

Suddenly, the lodge felt massive.

The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch and bleed toward you. Every sound was magnified ten-fold: the frantic whistling of the wind against the eaves, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of a clock you hadn't noticed before, and the settling of the heavy timber above you.

Your skin prickled with an intense, crawling sensation—the feeling of being watched. You glanced toward the grand staircase, where the darkness was so thick it looked like velvet. You kept expecting to see the pale, frost-bitten face of one of his sisters peering through the banisters, or to hear the wet thud of footsteps coming from a room that should be empty.

Downstairs, you heard a heavy metallic clag—the sound of Bucky moving something in the basement. Then, a muffled, rhythmic thumping.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It didn't sound like someone was fixing a generator. It sounded like something being dragged across a concrete floor.

The air in the living room felt thinner now, smelling less like woodsmoke and more like the damp, earthy scent of a cellar. The silence that followed your voice was worse than the wind. It was thick, heavy, and felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

"Bucky?!" you called, your voice pitching higher, wavering with a frantic edge you couldn't suppress. You took a step away from the fireplace, the small circle of warmth fading as you moved into the belly of the darkened living room.

The floorboards groaned under your weight, a long, slow creak that sounded like a scream in slow motion. You started pacing, your breath coming in shallow, ragged heaves that puffed out in the freezing air. Every time you turned, you expected to see a shadow detached from the wall, or a hand reaching out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.

"Honey, is everything okay? I'm scared in here!" you yelled out again.

Nothing. No grunt of frustration from the basement, no clanking of tools, no "I'm fine, babe." Just that rhythmic, wet thud-thud from below that had suddenly stopped the moment you spoke.

You stopped in the middle of the room, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs it felt like it was trying to break out. You felt so exposed in the center of the room, like a target.

Your breath hitched, turning into a strangled, whimpering sound that died instantly in your throat. You froze, your muscles locking up so tight it felt like you might snap. The room was deathly quiet, save for the rhythmic, metallic drip-drip-drip echoing from the basement door, and now—this.

The creak of the floorboards had been soft, practiced. Whoever it was had moved with the silence of a predator.

Before your brain could even register the need to scream, a massive, calloused hand clamped firmly over your mouth. The skin was rough, like sandpaper against your lips, and it smelled faintly of metal—like oil and old iron.

You thrashed, your heels digging into the floorboards, but the grip didn’t budge. It was absolute. A second, equally heavy arm wrapped around your waist, hauling your back flush against a chest that was hard as concrete. The heat radiating off him was immense, almost feverish, and he was breathing heavy, ragged gulps of air against the shell of your ear.

Your eyes bulged, darting toward the flashlight beam still cutting through the dark on the floor. You clawed at the hand over your mouth, your fingernails digging into his skin, but his grip only tightened, his fingers bruising your cheeks.

"So warm," he rasped, his voice vibrating through his chest and into your spine. It was Bucky’s voice, the low, gravelly timbre you knew by heart, but the delivery was wrong—it was jagged, frantic, laced with a manic edge that made your blood turn to ice. "You smell like fear, sweetheart."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. You needed to know. You needed to see who was holding you— because he sounds like Bucky, but it wasn't your Bucky. As he shifted his weight, his hold on your mouth loosening just a fraction, you risked it. You wrenched your head to the side, forcing your eyes towards his face, catching a glimpse of him in the dim, flickering light of the dying fire.

Your vision swam. You expected to see Bucky’s face, his familiar features twisted in grief or madness—but instead, you were staring at a nightmare.

Pinned to his face was a clown mask. It was old, the plastic yellowed and cracked, the painted smile was wide and warped, peeling away to reveal dark, stained foam underneath. One of the painted eyes was smudged with a thick, oily grime, and the other was a hollow, empty slit.

Through that slit, you saw a blue iris—Bucky’s iris—but it was wild, bloodshot, and rolling, completely devoid of any recognition or love.

He moved his hand from your waist, now putting pressure against your stomach, deliberate and heavy, his big palm splayed over your abdomen— a tactile reminder that he was in total control. You could feel the rigid, corded muscles of his arm beneath his shirt, and beneath that, the steady, thundering beat of his heart. It was too fast. It was the rhythm of someone who had completely detached from reality.

"Are you scared of me?" his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that used to make your knees weak. Now, it just made your skin crawl.

The mask was pressed so close to your head that you could hear his shallow, wet inhales through the tiny, cracked ventilation holes of the plastic. The smell was suffocating—stale tobacco, dried mud, and the metallic tang of something that definitely didn't belong in a living room.

"You're shaking," he whispered, a wet, rattling sound escaping his throat that might have been a laugh or a sob. "I can feel your pulse jumping against me. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Like a little bird trapped in my palms."

He shifted his weight, and for a split second, the firelight caught the side of the clown mask. The peeling, red paint around the mouth seemed to stretch into a wider, more impossible grin as he tilted his head. He looked like something that had crawled out of a childhood nightmare to take shape in the physical world.

"Tell me," he hissed, his thumb digging into your skin, his touch lingering in a way that felt both intimate and predatory. "Tell me you’re scared. Tell me you know that no one is coming for you."

He loosened his hand over your mouth just a fraction, a jagged, desperate invitation for you to speak, his blue eye—the only part of him that felt remotely human—staring into yours through the slit in the plastic with an unblinking, manic intensity.

"Bucky, you're scaring me," you whimpered, the words muffled and garbled against his palm. "This isn't funny. Please... take it off."

For a long, agonizing second, he didn't move. He didn't breathe. The only sound in the room was the settling of the floorboards and the frantic, shallow whistle of your own lungs. Then, he let out a low, vibrating sound—a laugh that felt like gravel grinding against glass. It wasn't a joke; it was a rhythmic, pulsing wheeze that seemed to echo inside the hollow plastic of the mask.

"Funny?" He repeated the word, his voice distorting into a surreal, nasally pitch against the mask’s surface.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he forced you to turn until you were facing him fully, the firelight catching the grotesque, peeling paint of the clown’s grin. Through the narrow slit of the eye, his blue iris darted frantically, wild and bloodshot, scanning your face with a hunger that had nothing to do with love.

He leaned in, the plastic of his mask scraping against your forehead, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You think this is a bit? A trick?"

His hand moved from your stomach, his fingers sliding up to tangle harshly in your hair, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to stare at the painted nightmare inches from your own. He squeezed your jaw, his thumb pressing deep into the soft, tender skin just beneath your ear, forcing your head to tilt until your neck strained. The plastic of the mask was ice-cold against your forehead, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating off his body.

"Up here? The mountain is quiet," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the hollow plastic, thick and distorted. "And Hannah and Beth told me exactly what I need to do to keep you from ever leaving me."

The silence that followed his words wasn't just empty; it was suffocating. You stood there, frozen, your gaze locked on the empty, black slit of the mask’s eye. Behind that plastic, Bucky—or whatever was left of him—was waiting for a reaction.

"Hannah and Beth?" you breathed, the name coming out as a strangled, broken plea. "Bucky, stop. Please, you're not making any sense. They’re... they’re gone."

He tightened his grip on your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone until you winced. "They’re not gone," he hissed, his voice dropping into a raspy, guttural growl that made the skin on your arms crawl. "They’re right here. They’re in the snow. They’ve been whispering to me since we stepped off that cable car, I need to keep you mine.”

"Bucky," you choked out, your voice vibrating with a jagged, high-pitched tremor. "Bucky, you are scaring the shit out of me."

He froze. For a heartbeat, the only thing you could hear was your own blood rushing in your ears. Then, a low, wet sound bubbled up from behind the plastic mask—a deep, rhythmic wheeze that might have been a laugh if there was any humanity left in it.

"Scared?" he murmured, the word distorted by the mask, sounding hollow and metallic. "Good. That’s the point, sweetheart. Fear is the only thing that makes you real."

He didn't pull away. Instead, his free hand dipped into his pocket, the movement smooth and predatory. The light of the dying fire glinted off something cold and sharp as he pulled out a long, serrated hunting knife.

He didn't hold it like a weapon; he held it like a caress.

He brought the tip of the blade to the hollow of your throat, pressing just hard enough to leave a white indentation in your skin. Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to trace the steel along the curve of your jaw, the cold metal biting into the heat of your pulse point.

"You're shaking," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, honeyed rasp that made your stomach drop. He tilted his head, the mask’s peeling, painted smile hovering mere inches from yours. "Does it turn you on? To know that I could end it right now? That I’m the only thing between you and the dark?"

He dragged the flat of the blade down your neck, the metal tracing the path of your jugular with a terrifying, heavy precision. He was breathing heavily against your skin, his chest heaving against your own, his grip on your hair shifting to pull you even closer, forcing you to look at the blade reflecting the orange embers.

He looked like a nightmare painted in greasepaint, his blue eyes—dilated until the irises were nearly gone, filled with a wild, possessive hunger that made your breath hitch in a way that was half-sob, half-gasp.

"Tell me you feel it," he hissed against your ear, the knife stopping just above your collarbone. “Tell me you gonna stay with me forever”

"Bucky, please," you whimpered, your voice cracking as you tried to pull back, but his hand in your hair only tightened, yanking your head back until your throat was completely exposed. "Stop, you're hurting me."

He let out that same manic, hollow giggle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your own. "Hurting you? No, sweetheart. I’m just keeping you."

"Tell me," he rasped again, the sound distorted and wet behind the plastic. He pushed the flat of the blade deeper into the skin of your neck, his knuckles white as he twisted his fist in your hair, forcing your head back until you were staring at the ceiling beams.

You couldn't breathe. Your voice was trapped in a throat that felt like it was closing up. "Bucky... please," you wheezed, the word barely a tremor.

His manic, bubbling giggle filled the room, a low sound that vibrated right through your chest. "Please? Please what, sweetheart? Please keep you? Please never let you go?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The predatory hunger in his eyes—visible through the slit of the mask—darkened into something devoid of all recognition. The possessiveness in his grip became cruel, his fingers digging into your scalp until you winced, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

"You're making too much noise," he hissed, his voice dropping into a guttural, final tone.

Without warning, his grip on your hair tightened, turning into a vice. Before you could even scream, he yanked you away from the warmth of the hearth with violent force. You stumbled, your boots skidding on the floorboards as he dragged you toward the shadows of the hallway.

You clawed at his arm, your fingernails digging into his skin, but he was unstoppable. He spun you around, his momentum carrying you both toward the hard, cedar-paneled wall of the foyer.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered, a sound that was half-growl, half-caress.

He didn't hesitate. With a sudden, explosive jerk of his arm, he slammed your head against the hard timber of the wall.

The impact was sickening—a dull, heavy thud that echoed through the silence of the lodge. For a split second, there was a flash of white-hot pain, followed by the terrifying, ringing sound of nothingness. The floorboards rushed up to meet you, and as you collapsed, the last thing you saw was the grin of the clown mask looming over you, its static smile looking down at your limp form with an endless, hungry delight.

Then, everything went black.

[melkafucks]

birthday girl

dbf!bucky x f!reader

summary: when you came back from college to celebrate your birthday, you expected a quiet evening with parents but when your dads friend james join the party? a lot can happen

wc: 13k warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut!, unprotected p in v (don't do it), mean!bucky, implied age gap reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, kissing, dirty talk, rough sex, finger sucking, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, mention of pregnancy, alcohol consumption, degradation, a bit of daddy kink, risk of being caught, no aftercare (im sorry),

You hadn’t planned on much for your birthday—maybe a quiet dinner, a glass of wine, an early night. So walking into your childhood home and finding it full of people caught you completely off guard.

Streamers hung from the doorway. A banner stretched across the living room wall. Music played softly in the background, blending with the sound of laughter and conversation. The table was covered in food—your favorites, of course.

“Surprise!” your mom laughed, pulling you into a hug before you could even react.

“Oh my God—what is all this?” you asked, laughing as your dad wrapped his arms around you too.

“We couldn’t let this birthday pass quietly,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re home. That’s reason enough.”

You smiled, warmth settling in your chest as you greeted relatives and family friends. Time passed easily—talking, laughing, opening gifts. Eventually, you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, relaxed and happy.

“Am I late?” a familiar voice called out, amused and unapologetic.

Your dad laughed loudly. “You’re always late.”

“Where’s the birthday girl?” the man asked. “Feels like I haven’t seen her in years.”

Your dad gestured toward the sofa. “Right there.”

You looked up—and froze.

James Barnes stood in the doorway, jacket still on, gift in hand, broad shoulders filling the frame. His hair was darker at the roots now, threaded with silver, beard neatly trimmed, lines around his eyes that only made his grin more dangerous. His gaze landed on you and lingered, slow and assessing, before his smile widened.

“There she is,” he said. “Happy birthday sweetheart”

“Hi, James,” you replied, standing. “I—I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said easily.

He hugged you, arms strong and solid around your back, holding on just a second longer than necessary. When he pulled away, his eyes flicked over you before he caught himself. “You got taller” he added, a low chuckle in his voice.

He handed you the gift—a small notebook, your initials stitched into the cover. “Got you something.”

“Thank you, you shouldn't have” you smiled.

“There’s something inside,” he said quietly. “Read it later. Don’t need everyone seeing how soft I’ve gotten.”

The night passed in a blur after that. You caught him watching you more than once from across the room, his attention following you even while he talked to others. You caught yourself glancing at him too, eyeing his bicep, his salt and pepper beard. He looked absolutely delicious. Gradually, guests began to leave. Eventually, it was just you, your parents, and Bucky. Like always, your dad insisted he stay the night, and of course he agreed.

When your parents went to their bedroom, you drifted into the kitchen to clean up. The radio still hummed softly in the background.

“Hey,” Bucky said from the living room. “Stop working your ass off on your birthday.”

“Just a second,” you replied with a laugh. “I want it to look a little less like a disaster. I mean come on” you said gesturing towards the mess.

“I said stop,” he repeated, firmer now.

You turned to see him standing, one hand extended toward you, palm open, his expression stern and demanding, leaving no room for argument. You sighed dramatically, set the cloth down, and walked over. “Alright, alright. You win.”

“Good,” he said, pleased, as you sat beside him on the sofa.

You glanced at the glass in his hand. “What are you drinking?” You asked innocently, trying to keep it as casual as possible.

“Whiskey.” He paused, then held it out. “Wanna try?”

“Sure,” you said, taking it. Your fingers brushed his—just briefly, but too long to be accidental.

You took a sip and immediately winced, unpleased frown forming on your face  “Okay, that’s awful.” you chuckled

He laughed. “Can’t handle it?”

“It’s not that I can't handle it, it’s just-”

Before you could finish, he reached out, thumb brushing your chin where a drop had spilled. “Such a messy girl,” he murmured. His hand didn’t move away. Instead, it lowered, settling on your knee. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate—He knew what he was doing.

You inhaled sharply, eyes flicking down to where his hand rested on your bare skin. Just the sight of it sent a wave of heat through your body. After all, your sex life or much better, lack of it was taking its toll on you. College boys suck heavily and you were single for over two years so of course a touch like that would make you feel things.. it was normal, even if it was your dad's friend, right?

“Shh… it’s fine,” he chuckled, his voice low.

Before you could stop yourself, your legs parted slightly, instinctive, inviting. He noticed. Of course he did. 

“Oh.” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face, “You like that.” His thumb pressed in, slow and deliberate. “You like having my dirty hands on you, sweetheart? What do you think your daddy would say about this, huh?” His hand slid higher on your thigh, unhurried, possessive, and heat rushed to your face as your thoughts scattered, words failing you completely. It felt unreal, like something you’d dream up and wake up from embarrassment.

“Hm?” he prompted softly. “Use your words. Let me hear you.”

“I do…” you whispered, barely audible. The words felt fragile the moment they left you, like admitting something you hadn’t even let yourself think all the way through. Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears. Part of you wanted to look away, to laugh it off, to pretend the heat curling low in your stomach wasn’t real. But you didn’t.

“I do what?” he pressed, tone coaxing, almost amused. “I need more than that, doll.”

“I like your hands on me, James” you admitted shyly, voice trembling.

“That’s it,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “Atta girl. It wasn't so hard, was it?” His hand left your thigh only to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick, pressing his thumb against it until your mouth parted. You obeyed without thinking, lips closing around his thumb, tongue swirling slowly as you sucked, soft and needy. He let out a low grunt, eyes darkening. “Jesus… look at you. Drooling all over me like a dumb slut while your parents sleep in the next room.” He pulled his thumb free with a wet pop, and you whined quietly at the sudden loss, frustration curling tight in your chest.

“James… please,” you whimpered, barely louder than a breath.

“Oh?” he teased, mockingly sweet. “Begging already? Little finger sucking got you all worked up, huh?” He smirked. “You wouldn’t mind if I checked, right?” His hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingertips brushing over your underwear—soaked, betraying you instantly. A moan slipped out before you could stop it, and suddenly his other hand grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks as he leaned in close.

“Be. Fucking. Quiet,” he growled, tightening his grip.

You nodded quickly, eyes wide, pulse racing as his fingers moved with more intent, more pressure, circling around your swollen aching core. You chased his mouth desperately, trying to kiss him in a clumsy attempt to silence yourself, to swallow the sounds he was pulling from you. He clicked his tongue softly. “Tsk, tsk… this is how good girls behave now?”

“Please, Bucky,” you breathed. “I need you… please kiss me.”

“Better,” he murmured, before crashing his mouth into yours. The kiss was messy and consuming—teeth grazing your lip, tongue pushing in without mercy as he took control completely. His hand slipped further, fingers sliding beneath your underwear, sinking inside you with ease. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulder as your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the rough, relentless rhythm of his fingers. The sounds you made felt obscene in the quiet house, wet and desperate, far too loud.

“Fuck,” he panted against your lips. “So tight. So perfect. I can only imagine how good you’d feel stretched around my cock, sweetheart.” Your mind went blank at the words, desire drowning out everything else as you clung to him.

“James—please,” you babbled, breathless and ruined. “I need you. I need to feel you. Please.”

That was it. His jaw clenched, restraint snapping. He pulled back abruptly, standing in one sharp movement.

“What are you—” you started, confused, before he grabbed you without warning, hauling you over his shoulder. Your breath hitched as he carried you out of the living room and toward the stairs, his grip firm and unyielding.

“Quiet,” he warned again, already moving upstairs.

He shoved the door to your room open with one rough push. When he finally carried you inside, he lowered you onto the bed and closed the door behind him with a soft click—quiet, deliberate, like a promise.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging over you as you shifted beneath him. “Look at you. All squirmy and wet for me. Who would’ve thought you are such a slut?” He loomed over you, presence overwhelming, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable now, straining against the fabric.

“Be a good girl and take it off,” he ordered sternly, already starting to undress himself, gaze never leaving you as he expected you to follow. You did, hands trembling as you stripped until you were bare beneath him, sprawled on the bed, exposed and aching, feeling his attention like a physical weight.

You looked up at him—his chest broad and defined, dark hair scattered across his torso, muscular arms flexing as he freed himself. His cock was thick and hard, flushed red, the tip already slick with precum. He lowered himself over you, pressing kisses along your neck, your collarbones, your chest. His mouth closed around your hardened nipple, tongue flicking, lips sucking gently until you whined helplessly, his hard length resting against your aching core.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “You taste like heaven, I could spend hours buried in those perfect tits”

He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and teased you with the tip, dragging it slowly between your folds, coating himself in your slick. Your hips bucked instinctively.

“Please, James,” you whined pathetically. “Stop teasing me.”

“So many degrees,” he mocked softly, “and you get dumb over my cock. Real sweet.” He mocked, pressing in just the tip, stretching you slowly, not enough to ease the ache coiling tight in your stomach.

“Ah—fuck,” he hissed. “You’re gripping me so hard already, gonna make me come before I even bury myself inside”

Then, in one sharp movement, he slammed into you, burying himself to the hilt. Not giving you time to adjust to his size he started fucking in, like he wanted to destroy you just withe the force of his thrusts.

“Ah—fuck, Bucky,” you cried out shamelessly, the stretch brutal and perfect, raw and overwhelming in a way you’d never felt before. He split you open completely, unforgiving, and the sound tore out of you before you could stop it.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it.” His thrusts were hard and punishing, deliberate and relentless, hips crashing into yours without mercy. The room filled with the wet slap of skin and his rough grunts, each drive of his body stealing the air from your lungs. Your parents downstairs might as well not have existed.

Your nails clawed down his back as he fucked into you again and again, dragging sounds out of you that felt ugly and needy, sounds you didn’t recognize as your own. Your face went slack and stupid beneath him—mouth hanging open, words dissolving into broken babble, a sheen of drool slipping past your lips. Your breasts bounced helplessly with every violent snap of his hips, your body taking whatever he gave you.

“Look at you,” he sneered, gripping your jaw. “Fucked stupid already.” His thumb smeared the drool across your mouth, deliberately humiliating. “Such a dumb whore for daddy you can’t even think straight, can you? Just laying there and taking it like you were made for nothing else.”

“Yes… yes… yes, Bucky!” you babbled mindlessly, breathless and trembling, words tumbling out without thought.

“If you keep it up, I might just knock you up, huh? Make you full of me, all round with my baby” he said smugly between grunts.

Before you could even think, you nodded, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. Thought of him owning you clouding your judgement completely.

“Oh yeah? You like that? Thought of you carrying my kid, knocked up like some cheap whore by a man twice your age?” he mocked, voice low, rough, and cruel, eyes dark as he slammed into you again.

“Be good for me then. Take it. Take it all, baby,” he grunted, his movements sloppy now, chasing his peak. Every thrust was punishing, deliberate, leaving you gasping and trembling beneath him.

He buried himself fully in you, twitching and spilling inside with a guttural moan, coating your insides in his release as he held you down. He collapsed over you, panting hard  “Here… here, sweetie,” he murmured into your neck, rocking slowly. “Gotta make sure it sticks” he added, staying buried deep, his voice dark and possessive, every word a reminder that this was his and his only.

He kissed your cheek and rolled onto his back, voice rough but controlled. “Go clean yourself up,” he said, already pulling his underwear back on.

He sat up beside you for a moment, hand soft against your cheek, giving a gentle pat. “Go… go now,” he urged, voice low but insistent. Then, almost impatiently, he stood.

You disappeared into the bathroom, heart still racing, hands trembling as you wiped yourself down. When you came back, the bed was empty. He was gone. Out of the house? In guest room? You couldn’t tell. The quiet pressed in, the stillness of the room almost heavier than the tension before. The lingering heat of his presence remained, a subtle ache that made you shiver.

Slowly, you reached for the notebook he’d given you earlier. Opening it, your eyes fell on the words on the first page:

“Always here for you, you know where to find me—love, Uncle Bucky.”

You traced the ink with your finger, heart tightening. The words felt heavy with meaning—care and danger wrapped up together, just like him. A shiver ran down your spine—not just from what had happened, but from the thought that this man, so rough and so impossible, had already carved a space in your life you couldn’t escape.

He had left, yes, but the memory lingered, sharp and raw, and somewhere beneath it all, you knew this was only the beginning.

[melkafucks]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100 LIKES !!

im so grateful for every single like and repost on my blog! I just cant wait to give you more of my writing! sending love to all of my fellow bucky lovers <3

[theoracleofsin]

hunting season

Prompt: @melkafucks requested bloody scenes with Lee Bodecker and the prompt "Look what you made me do to you, this is what you fucking wanted?" for my Valentine's Dead Dove event ! Pairing: Sheriff Lee Bodecker x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,2k Tags: DDDNE (dead dove do not eat); EXTREMELY dubcon but not fully noncon; porn without plot; knife play; blood play; masochism; power imbalance (Sheriff Lee...); rough sex; degradation; use of handcuffs; outdoor sex; p in v; unprotected sex; creampie; possessive & dark Lee Bodecker

Woods around Knockemstiff are thick and dark, thin strays of moonlight managing to pierce the canopy. Your legs move faster than they ever have, lungs pumping oxygen through your body as your bare feet tear over roots and stones. Branches claw at your arms, ripping through the thin fabric of your dress. Behind you, you can hear him, the unhurried crunch of boots coming from someone who knows all too well that you can’t outrun him forever.

Sheriff Lee Bodecker never needs to rush.

You pushed him too far this time. Smart mouth at the diner, a refusal to keep quiet when his hand had lingered too long on your hip while he paid for his coffee. A late-night call to come down to the station for "questioning", which ended up with you slipping out the back instead, heart hammering, knowing exactly what kind of questioning he had in mind. Unfortunately for you, Lee anticipated this. He’d gone after you before you had barely stepped foot into the dark woods.

A root catches your ankle and you go down hard, palm scraping dirt. Your breath is knocked out of you in a sharp gasp, and you struggle to get back up before a heavy hand clamps around the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the leaf litter.

Fuck.

“Gotcha now, sugar,” Le drawls, slow southern syrup dripping off every syllable like always. “Now why’dcha have to run? Got me all tired for nothin’.”

You try to twist, to buck him off of you, but his grip tightens until stars burst behind your eyes. His free hand yanks your wrists behind your back, cuffing them together with the ease of someone who’s done this way too many times, and the click of metal sounds deafening in your ears.

“Let me go,” you hiss, cheek still pressed into the hard floor.

“Now why in the hell would I do that? You ran, sugar. Made me chase you clear out here like damn deer in season.” Lee leans down close, hot breath fanning your ear. “You like bein’ hunted, don’tcha? Like knowin’ I’m comin’ for ya.”

Hate grows in your gut, not because you hate him but because you hate the way your body answers to him. How heat pools in your belly even as fear claws up your throat, how your panties get a little wetter at the thought of him catching you.

Lee shifts, hauling you up by the arm until you are on your knees in front of him. Moonlight catches on the blade he pulls from his belt, a slim hunting knife, edge glinting silver. Immediately you freeze, eyes widening.

“Lee…”

“Hush now, sugar,” he says, pressing the flat of the blade under the chin and tilting your face up so you had to meet his blue eyes. “Been teasin’ me for months, girl. Actin’ like you don’t want my hands all over ya. But we both know that ain’t the truth, don’t we?”

The knife trails down, slow as molasses, tracing the line of your throat, over your collarbone. You swallow hard against the steel and he hooks the neckline of your dress and tugs, fabric parting with a soft rip. Cool night air hits your skin, nipples tightening instantly.

You know you should scream. In your head, your instinct is to fight harder, try to escape even with your cuffed hands behind your back. But when Lee presses the blade hard enough to break skin, tiny beads of blood welling along the shallow cut in the valley between your breasts, a jolt lights through your spine and straight between your legs. The pain melts into something warm and liquid, something you try to deny even when your entire body sings for it.

“Look what’cha made me do. Is this what ya fuckin’ wanted?” Lee watches your face, eyes narrowing as your lips part on a shaky breath. He drags the blade lower, carving a thin red line down the center of your chest, stopping just above your navel. The cut is not deep enough to scar badly somewhere in the near future, but it is enough to burn and make every breath ache. Blood trickles slow, warm against your chilled skin. Your thighs press together without meaning to, and you whine softly.

“There she is,” he murmurs, clearly pleased with your unwanted reactions. “Bleedin’ pretty for me and enjoyin’ it. Knew you was fucked up just like that, sugar. Goddamn sight.”

Lee shoves you back down, chest onto the forest floor. Leaves stick to the blood smearing across your skin, but you ignore the feeling as you can hear the sound of him working his belt open behind you, the sound awfully filthy and loud. You try to twist away once, mostly pride taking over, but he catches your hip, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t ya dare,” he warns. “Ya run again, I’ll stick that blade somewhere else you won’t like.”

Rough fingers push your dress up until it pools around your waist and tear your underwear aside like it is nothing. The head of his thick cock nudges against you, feeling how soaked you are before he slides in with one hard thrust. You cry out, back arching as the stretch burns you from the inside. Always the rough man that he is, barely patient, Lee doesn’t give you any time to adjust to his girth and simply starts fucking into you with punishing strokes, knife gripped tight in his fist.

He presses the blade to your thigh, draws small shallow lines that bring flares of pain; but instead of whining in suffering, your cunt clenches hard around his cock, the agony and fullness twisting together until you can’t discern between the two of them.

“That’s it, sugar,” he growls, hips snapping forward, the other hand gripping your hair and fisting it around his fingers. “Fuckin’ take it while you bleed for your sheriff.”

Tears streak your face, mixing with dirt and sweat, but your hips rock up to meet his anyway. Pain is everywhere, across your chest, in your thighs. And yet, it’s perfect. You hate him for knowing that you can’t stop this, hate him for knowing exactly how much your body is willing to take the pain only to be rewarded with pleasure. And of course, you hate yourself more for craving it.

Lee brings the knife to his tongue, licks along the blade and then leans down to crash his mouth against yours in a messy kiss. Copper taste of your own blood on his tongue when he licks deep into your mouth.

“Come while it hurts, sugar,” he rasps against your lips. “Show me how bad ya need this.”

The next thrust hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that makes lights explode behind your eyes. Combined with the sting of the cuts on your skin, the relentless rhythm, you shatter with a broken sob, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Lee groans low in his throat, pace faltering briefly as your thighs shake and he chases his own end. He buries himself to the hilt one last time and cums with a curse on his lips, flooding you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

When he pulls out slow, his eyes watch the way you leak around the emptiness, your blood and his release mixing sticky on your thighs, turning into the prettiest shade of pink he’s ever seen. Lee wipes the blade clean on your ruined dress before sheathing it, and unlocks the cuffs with surprising gentleness, rubbing your wrists until the blood is circulating normally again."

“Good girl,” he says quietly into your ear. “Now I know ya ain’t runnin’ again.”

[melkafucks]

coworkers

bucky barnes x reader wc: 700

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊coworker bucky fucks you in office bathroom₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧

The air in the tiny bathroom was thick and humid, smelling of industrial soap and the sharp, clean scent of Bucky’s cologne. He had you pinned against the sink.

"You’re always so loud out there," Bucky breathed, his voice a jagged edge of a whisper. He stepped in closer, his heavy frame crushing yours, making you feel small in a way that made your blood hum. "Giving me attitude in the breakroom. Thinking you're so smart."

He didn't wait for an answer. His metal hand hooked under your thigh, yanking your leg up around his waist with a strength that was blunt and effortless. You let out a sharp intake of breath, and he immediately clamped his hand over your mouth, muffled and firm.

"I told you. Quiet," he sneered, though his eyes were blown wide, dark with a hunger that wasn't hateful at all.

He didn't bother being gentle. With his free hand, he worked his trousers down just enough, to free his already throbbing cock. When he lined himself up, he paused, staring you down with a mean, challenging smirk. "Look at you. All that talk, and you’re shaking for me in a fucking office bathroom."

He sinked into you with a sudden, heavy thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs. You buckled against him, your muffled scream dying against his palm. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold metal of his thumb rubbing against your cheek while the rest of him was a furnace, driving into you with a rhythmic, punishing pace.

"Yeah," he grunted, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he picked up speed. "Take it. You wanted to be the boss today? How’s this for a report?"

Each hit sent your head back against the mirror with a dull thud. He was relentless, his movements stiff and demanding, forcing you to find your rhythm with him or lose your balance entirely. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke low and dirty, describing exactly what he was doing to you, his words dripping with a mocking sort of praise.

"You're so tight, it’s gonna be a wonder if you can even walk straight out there," he hissed, his hips snapping forward. "Is this what you’re thinking about when you’re glaring at me across the conference table? Me making you a mess in a place like this?"

He felt you peaking, your body tensing and your fingers digging into the leather of his jacket. He didn't slow down; he pushed harder, his breath coming in short, harsh hitches.

"Don't you dare make a sound," he warned, his voice straining. "I want to hear you choke on it."

Bucky didn’t pull away when he finished. He stayed crowded against you, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he let out a long, shaky breath into the crook of your neck. The sudden, hot weight of him filling you was overwhelming, making your knees feel like jelly.

"Look at that," he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration. He glanced down to where he was still pressed against you, then back up to your flushed face. "I didn't think you'd let me get that careless. You’re usually so... controlled."

He gave a sharp, teasing thrust, a wet, slick sound echoing off the tile that made you gasp and grab his shoulders for balance.

"Careful," he chuckled, the sound mean and low in his throat. "You’re leaking, sweetheart. You’re gonna have a real hard time sitting through that briefing with me dripping out of you."

He finally stepped back, the loss of his heat making the air feel suddenly freezing. He watched with a predatory sort of satisfaction as you tried to steady yourself against the sink, your legs trembling.

"You’re a mess," he said, reaching out with his metal hand to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, dragging it down. "Going to be thinking about me every time you feel that slide down your thigh? Every time you have to shift in your chair because I’m still inside you?"

You nodded mindlessly at his words

He leaned in one last time, his nose brushing yours, his breath smelling like mint and adrenaline. "I wonder if the Director will notice how distracted you are. Or if he'll just think you're finally losing your edge."

He straightened his jacket, his expression smoothing out into that cool, professional mask he wore in the halls—except for the lingering heat in his eyes.

"Clean yourself up," he said, turning toward the door without a backward glance. "Don't be late. I’d hate for everyone to wonder what kept you."

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

I don’t care how disgusting or fucked up a fic is. NO writer should EVER be harassed for writing taboo fics, especially when the warnings are properly tagged and you choose to go ahead and read them on your own free will.

you’re not morally superior for harassing real people for the sake of fictional characters and fictional stories. you’re just a bully.

[melkafucks]

bodeckers sweetest girl

lee bodecker x reader

summary: as a sheriffs girlfriend, you should behave yourself, and if you don't? lee is here to fix it in his own twisted way wc: 3k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angry fucking, hand over mouth, rough sex, cockwarming, lee is an asshole(obviously), degradation, a lot of crying, toxic!lee, reader is in love and he is just horrible, slight dd/lg undertones?. (lmk if I missed anything)

Lately, the nights have felt longer.

You knew what you were getting into when you started dating Lee Bodecker—a sheriff who lived at the station more than he did at home, a man with responsibility carved into his spine. You told yourself you were strong enough for it. Patient enough. Independent enough.

But knowing didn’t stop the quiet from settling into your chest when the clock crept past ten. Didn’t stop the ache of sleeping alone, or the way you reached for him in the dark and found only cold sheets. Somewhere between borrowed shirts and rushed kisses before dawn, you’d gotten addicted to him. Too fast. Too deep.

So you got dressed. Told yourself it was fine. That you just wanted to see him.

The station was almost eerily silent at night, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the air smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. Lee’s office was lit, a square of warmth at the end of the hall. You hesitated only a second before knocking.

From inside, his voice comes rough and irritated, muffled through the wood. “Who the fuck is that” he mumbled under his breath. Then, louder, controlled: “come in”

You open the door slowly, peeking your head through the crack first, like you’re asking permission just to exist there. “Hiiiiii leeee” you say in your sweetest voice, grin wide, eyes bright despite the nerves curling in your stomach.

He looks up, expression hard, brows drawn together. “Baby? what are you doing here its almost 11” There’s no warmth in his tone. No softness. Just confusion edged with irritation. His desk is buried in reports, documents stacked high like walls between you and him. A half-drunk glass of whiskey sits near his hand, untouched long enough for the ice to melt.

“I- i just missed you…” you mutter, gaze dropping instantly. Your fingers twist anxiously in the hem of your dress.

“First of all look at me when you are speaking and second of all you saw me this morning sweetface what more do you want from me huh?”

The words sting. You force yourself closer anyway. “But Leeee” you whine softly, face scrunching as you step toward him, trying to coax something gentler out of him.

“Use your big girl words, whining will not get you anywhere here”

Heat creeps up your neck. You finally look at him—big-eyed, embarrassed, painfully aware of how small you feel standing there. Still, the need doesn’t fade. “I missed you and i- i wanted to see you”

He studies you for a long moment. “i dont believe its the real reason you came here baby” Suspicion sharpens his tone, but then his hand pats his lap. “Come here”

Your body moves before your brain can catch up. You cross the room quickly, excitement flaring just at the thought of being close. You sit on his lap, your dress riding up as your thighs press against his, the contact grounding you and unraveling you all at once.

“I came here because I need you” you whisper, voice barely steady.

“What was that? i can't hear you baby” His fingers brush through your hair, casual, smug, like he already knows he has you.

“I came here because I need you lee… i missed you”

“Oh you do now?” The subtle movement of his hips beneath you steals your breath, reminds you how much control he has without even trying.

“What about my sweetest girl keeping me warm while I finish my paperwork? Can you do that for me baby? Will it be enough for you?”

You nod quickly, desperation slipping into your voice. “Yes yes please! It will be enough, i'll be good i promise” You said not even trying to hide your excitement.

“Up” he commanded roughly.

The single word cut through you, sharp and absolute, leaving no space for hesitation. Your body reacts before your thoughts could catch up, muscles tightening as heat pooled low in your stomach. You stood up immediately, heart pounding, eyes fixed on him as if waiting for permission that had already been given.

He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, the sound loud in the quiet room, moving his pants and underwear just enough to free his hard and already leaking precum cock. There was something unhurried about him now—confident, certain—like he knew exactly how much control he had over you in this moment.

“Come on, take what you need” he said softly with a smirk on his face.

The shift in his tone made your breath hitch. Not gentle, not kind—just calm, assured, like he was offering something he already owned. Your fingers trembled slightly as you bunched up your dress, movements clumsy with want and nerves tangled together.

You straddled him slowly, lowering yourself onto his cock with a strangled grunt, the stretch familiar and overwhelming all at once. You had taken him many times before, yet every single time your mind still stuttered at how full he made you feel, how your body always seemed to yield to him despite knowing exactly what to expect.

As you settled down, full and aching, you wrapped your arms around his neck, seeking grounding, closeness, something steady. You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, clinging for just a second longer than necessary—like if you held on tight enough, you could keep this moment from tipping into something else.

“No moving until i finish it, got it?” he said, emphasizing his words with just a slight buck of his hips, as he continued on working on his reports.

The command landed heavy, not loud but absolute, reinforced by that subtle movement meant to remind you exactly who was in control. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a warning. It was an expectation. You felt it settle into you just as deeply as the authority in his voice, grounding you in place even as your body reacted.

You nodded, the motion small and careful, trying very hard not to even shift. Every muscle felt tense with restraint, your breath shallow as you focused on staying still. But the stretch of him was too good—too perfect—filling you in a way that made your thoughts blur. Your body felt acutely aware of every second, every sensation amplified by the forced stillness.

Minutes stretched thin. Time lost its shape. Was it ten minutes? Fifteen? An hour? You had no idea. All you knew was the quiet scratch of his pen, the rustle of papers, the occasional lift of his glass. The world had narrowed down to waiting and holding and wanting.

You shifted just a bit—to feel him more, to steal the smallest sliver of relief from the maddening state you were trapped in. It wasn’t defiance so much as instinct, your body begging for release in the only way it knew how. Lee didn’t react at all. His face stayed focused, calm, unbothered as he sipped his drink, eyes scanning document after document, pen moving steadily like nothing about this affected him.

“Quit squirming” he said in his low, commanding tone.

The words should have been enough. They sent a sharp shiver through you, made your eyes widen, heat rushing through your body as the authority in his voice wrapped tight around your spine. You knew you should stop. You knew you were supposed to obey.

But needing him felt louder than reason. Louder than restraint. Being unable to do anything, unable to touch or move or plead, felt like its own kind of torture. This was hell—sweet and slow and unbearable—but then again, it wouldn’t be nearly as intoxicating without riling your favorite officer just a little, would it? So you shift again, just a bit, and well… that does it.

“What did i fucking said to you, what did i said?” His hand in your hair is sudden and rough, forcing your head back until your eyes meet his. There’s anger there now—real, sharp, frightening. Before you can speak, he yanks you out of his lap, shoves you back, steadies you only to turn you over the desk. He covered your mouth with his big palm, his other hand moving your dress up, so your bare ass was all to his view, without another word he bottomed out in one rough thrust making you scream out behind his hand.

The words hit you before your mind could catch up, sharp and furious, stripped of any softness that might have existed moments ago. His palm over your mouth stole your voice, muffling the sound into something helpless, your breath coming fast and uneven against his skin. The sudden shift from command to punishment, left you reeling, body overwhelmed as your thoughts scattered under the force of it.

You clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, senses flooding all at once. The room felt smaller, tighter, his presence pressing in from every side, leaving you nowhere to retreat—physically or emotionally. The authority in his movements made it impossible to tell where want ended and fear began, both tangled together until you couldn’t separate them anymore.

“Cant last a minute without my cock, you are so fucking pathetic” he said as he roughly rammed into you, his palm left your mouth just to press your face down on the desk holding you in place as he continued to mercilessly fuck into your soaked cunt.

His voice stayed harsh, unyielding, each word meant to remind you of exactly where you stood beneath him. When his hand left your mouth only to force you down again, it felt less like freedom and more like correction—guiding, controlling, making sure you stayed exactly where he wanted you. The desk creaked beneath you, cold and uncomfortably real, grounding you in the moment even as your emotions spiraled.

Your thoughts blurred into fragments—heat, pressure, the weight of his hand between your shoulders, the sound of his breathing behind you. You felt small under him, pinned not just by strength but by expectation, by the unspoken rule that you were meant to take everything he gave without question.

“Lee, its too much! I'm sorry!” you whined.

The words spill out of you strained and breathless, more plea than protest, tangled with panic and need. Your voice cracks on his name, thin and desperate, as if saying it might remind him you’re more than just a body pressed beneath his hands. Your apology comes instinctively, a reflex born from wanting to ease the tension, to make things softer again—even as you know it’s already too late.

“You dont get to say that now, you needed my cock so much you will fucking take it” he panted out, his voice laced with anger and need.

His words are sharp, final, leaving no room for argument. There’s no hesitation in him, no space for mercy—just heat and control and the unmistakable edge of frustration. His breathing is heavy behind you, uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together, and that intensity presses into you just as firmly as his grip.

“Fuck fuck take it take it baby uh-” he grunted as he came, painting your insides with his cum, the warmth of him, mixed with his harsh words making your head spin.

The moment hits all at once—too fast, too overwhelming—leaving you dizzy and hollow at the same time. Your body reacts before your emotions can catch up, nerves firing while your mind struggles to ground itself. The mix of his voice, his weight, and the finality of it leaves you stunned, breath coming shallow as everything blurs together.

He moves himself back, the sudden absence almost jarring, slumping into his chair with a tired finality. Without looking at you, he zips up his pants, movements efficient and detached, like closing another file instead of finishing something intimate.

You’re left bent over the desk, spent and trembling, palms pressed into the surface as you try to steady your breathing. Frustration knots in your chest—not just physical, but emotional too—your body still buzzing while the space between you feels wider than ever. You straighten slowly, leaning on the desk for support. You can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unreadable. Something about the silence feels wrong—colder than before.

“Go home and let me fucking work now” he said coldly.

There was no heat left in his voice—no edge of passion or intensity—just flat dismissal, like you were an inconvenience he was done dealing with. The words landed heavy and final, slicing through the fragile silence that followed everything else.

You immediately turned to face him, eyes wide, disbelief freezing you in place. For a split second, you genuinely wondered if you’d misheard him. Your boyfriend—after all of that—was telling you to leave? Just like that? 

“Don't look at me like that, I told you to be good and you disobeyed, and you expect me to let you come on my cock? or stay?” he scoffed mockingly.

The scoff hurt more than the words themselves. It was full of contempt, like your reaction annoyed him, like your feelings were an inconvenience he didn’t have time for. Your heart dropped hard into your stomach, twisting painfully as shame crept up your spine. The imbalance between you felt suffocating now—him seated comfortably behind his desk, fully in control, and you standing there exposed and shaken.

“Baby i- im sorry i didn't mean to-” you stumbled over your words, panic bleeding into your voice.

Tears welled up despite your effort to hold them back, blurring your vision as you reached out instinctively. You just wanted reassurance—something to anchor you, to tell you that you hadn’t completely lost him. Your fingers barely got close before he swatted your hand away, the motion sharp and irritated, like brushing off something insignificant.

The rejection was immediate and unmistakable.

It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, deliberate, and final in a way that made your chest ache. He didn’t look at you like his girlfriend anymore. He looked at you like a problem he wanted gone.

“Toys don't complain, the obey but you disappointed me today, so go home now. We will talk later” he said coldly, his eyes dark and dead serious.

There was no hesitation in him. No regret. His voice was steady, controlled, stripped of any warmth it might have held earlier. The words weren’t shouted—they didn’t need to be. They were delivered like a verdict, final and unquestionable. His eyes stayed on you, hard and unblinking, as if daring you to argue, to beg, to make this harder than he wanted it to be.

We will talk later.

Not now. Not when you were standing there shaken and exposed, heart cracking open in real time. Later—on his terms, when it was convenient for him. When you had already swallowed the hurt and learned your place again.

Something inside you snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, just quietly enough to hurt worse. The humiliation burned hot behind your eyes, your chest tight with everything you hadn’t been allowed to say.

This time you obeyed.

You turned away quickly, before he could see the tears spill, before your face betrayed how deeply his words had cut. You rushed out of his office, hands trembling as you shoved the door open, the sound of it slamming behind you sharp and echoing down the empty hallway.

The tears came immediately, hot and uncontrollable, streaking down your face as you moved farther away from him, from the light of his office, from the version of yourself who had walked in there hoping to be missed.

And for the first time that night, you were truly alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door closes behind you far too quietly.

Home doesn’t feel like home—it feels like a holding cell. The lights are too bright, the silence too loud. You don’t even bother taking your shoes off properly; you just stumble inside and lean against the wall, breath hitching as everything finally catches up to you.

You cry hard. Ugly. The kind that leaves your chest aching and your throat raw. You sit on the edge of the bed still in your dress, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to keep from breaking apart completely. Every few minutes, anger flares—hot and sharp—only to collapse back into hurt.

You check the clock. Once. Twice. Again.

Hours pass.

Your tears slow but don’t stop. They just turn quiet—sniffling, huffing breaths, your face buried in a pillow that smells faintly like him. You rehearse what you’ll say when he comes home. You imagine yelling. You imagine not speaking at all. Mostly, you imagine him not caring. Then, finally, the front door opens. The sound of his boots is slow, deliberate. Heavy. Familiar. Your stomach twists.

He pauses in the doorway, taking in your state. His eyes sweep over you, sharp, assessing, unreadable. “…Hey there,” he says, voice low, velveted with condescension.

Your tears spill over again. You can’t stop. You sniffle and huff, overwhelmed, and he doesn’t move immediately. He lets it happen. Let you unravel in front of him.

Then he crosses the room, calm and controlled, crouching in front of you like he’s inspecting a prized mess. His hands are on your knees, firm, steady. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, mockingly sweet, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “All messy, all crying… my poor, little sweetheart. Did you really think you could handle all that by yourself?”

You flinch, but can’t look away.

“Hmm,” he says, voice dripping amusement now, soft but with unmistakable authority. “Such a needy girl. And here I thought you were gonna be strong for me.” He shakes his head slowly, almost like he’s disappointed in a child. “Silly girl. You think you can just run off mad? You really are hopeless sometimes.”

Your lip trembles. You sniff, trying to speak, but he cuts you off gently.

“Shhh,” he says, pressing a thumb under your chin, lifting your face even more. “Don’t try to talk yet. I want you to feel this—understand why I’m here, why you need me.”

He smirks, leaning closer, just enough that his presence is overwhelming. “See? Look at me. You’re safe now. But don’t you forget… you made me mad tonight. Don’t think I’m letting you off that easily.”

His hand slides to your shoulder, squeezing just a fraction too firmly. “But it’s alright, my little girl. I forgive you… this time. And I like that you’re all teary and helpless. Makes it very clear who’s in charge, don’t you think sweetie?”

Your chest tightens. Heat rises in your cheeks. There’s comfort in his arms, yes, but it’s wrapped in control—control that you crave. He’s soft, yes—but only where it serves him. Only where it reminds you that he decides when it’s safe, when it’s over, when you’re allowed to breathe.

He tilts your face again, eyes locked on yours. “Come on now. Go wash your face, clean yourself up a bit. Then you’ll come to bed with me, okay?”

You nod, unable to speak, still shuddering from the tension of it all.

“Good girl,” he says softly, almost cooing, but there’s steel beneath it. “See? You listen when you’re calm. That’s what I like. That’s what keeps you my little girl.”

He leans in, brushing his lips to your temple. “And remember… I’m not just here to comfort you. I’m here to make sure you remember your place. You’re mine, my sweet, needy girl. And don’t forget it.”

You swallow, trembling, heart still racing—but somewhere in the back of your mind, you know he’s right. You need him. And in that twisted, condescending, manipulative way, he’s showing you exactly how much—and you can’t look away from him, because after all you are his sweetest girl.

[melkafucks]

tease too

dbf!bucky x reader

summary: you accepted your dads best friend invitation to the weekend in the cabin, will guilt eat you alive or will you surrender to your need? wc: 7k (I got carried away)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, implied age gap- reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, uncle kink(he is not readers real uncle!), unprotected p in v, s/d dynamic, petnames, oral f!recieving, degradation, breeding kink, creampie, mention of pregnancy, dacryphilia, aftercare king bucky(yay!) a/n: pt.2 of "tease" but it can be read as a standalone

After days of replaying what happened at the bar, the memories clung to you like smoke you couldn’t air out. His voice—low, warm, knowing—followed you everywhere. You hated how easily your body remembered him. The way his attention felt heavier than his touch ever could.

It was wrong. You knew that. You were old enough to know better, and he was too old to be thinking about you like that. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But guilt didn’t stop your hands from shaking when you thought about his soft words, or the way he’d looked at you like he already knew what you wanted before you dared to admit it.

You were sprawled across your couch, phone in hand, opening and closing your chat with him like it might burn you if you stared too long. Need and guilt twisted together until your head throbbed, and for a brief, dramatic moment, you wished it would just split open so you wouldn’t have to deal with this.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Eventually, you exhaled and typed the text—the one you knew he was waiting for.

Weekend away still on the table?

You tried to sound casual. Failing miserably. The second you hit send, you tossed your phone to the other end of the couch like it had betrayed you.

“What the fuck am I even doing,” you muttered, dragging your hands down your face.

You stayed frozen like that, elbows on your knees, face buried in your palms, breathing too fast. You told yourself you should block him. Delete the chat. Pretend none of this ever happened a few nights ago.

Then your phone chimed.

Your heart stalled—and then raced as you lunged for it.

Uncle Buck:Of course it is, sweetheart. Pick you up tomorrow at five?

You read it once. Twice. Five times.

His name on your screen made the guilt bloom sharp and hot in your chest. Uncle. God, it felt so wrong—so fucking wrong—that it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

And the worst part?

You didn’t say no.

At exactly five, you stepped out of your apartment building, a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your fingers worried the hem of your shirt, tugging and twisting the fabric like it might steady you. It didn’t. Your heart was lodged somewhere in your throat as you waited.

Then his car pulled up and came to a smooth stop in front of you.

Bucky stepped out, tall and unhurried, like he knew you’d still be standing there no matter how long he took. His hair was slicked back, dark and neat, and the black shirt he wore clung to his broad frame like it had been tailored just to remind you of exactly what you were getting into.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice low as he closed the distance between you.

Before you could overthink it, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in firmly. The scent of him hit you all at once—cologne, cigarettes, and worn leather—something familiar and intoxicating that made your head spin just a little.

You smiled, small and shy, even as your pulse betrayed you.

“Ready?” he asked, lips tugging into a gentle smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nodded.

He took your bag with ease, tossing it into the backseat before circling around and opening the passenger door for you. He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, eyes flicking over you in a way that felt anything but innocent.

“Hop in, baby,” he said softly. “We’ll be there in no time.”

And just like that, every doubt you’d rehearsed fell silent as you slid into the seat—because whatever this was, you were already too far in to pretend you didn’t want it.

The door shut with a solid click, sealing you inside the car with him. Leather creaked beneath you as you settled into the passenger seat, the smell of it mixing with him—familiar now, dangerous in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Bucky slid in behind the wheel and started the engine, one hand resting casually at the top as he pulled away from the curb. The car eased into traffic, smooth and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but here.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The radio hummed low in the background, some old song you half-recognized, but your attention kept drifting back to him. The way his jaw flexed when he checked the mirrors. The way his grip tightened just slightly on the wheel when the light turned yellow.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how close he was. Too close. Not close enough.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment, glancing at you briefly before looking back at the road.

You shrugged, fingers lacing together in your lap. “Just… thinking.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Dangerous habit.”

Your breath hitched at that—not because of the words, but the tone. Like he knew exactly what kind of thoughts you were trying—and failing—to keep to yourself.

Another stretch of silence followed, heavier this time. His arm rested along the center console, relaxed, open. Close enough that if you moved even an inch, you’d brush against him. You didn’t. You told yourself you wouldn’t.

“Long week?” he asked, softer now.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Feels like it never really ended.”

He hummed in agreement. “That’s why we’re getting away.” Then, after a pause, almost absently, “You deserve that.”

The words settled deep, warm and unsettling all at once.

At a red light, his eyes flicked to you again—longer this time. Intent. You felt seen in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Relax,” he murmured, turning back to the road as the light changed. “You’re safe with me.”

The road narrowed until it was barely more than a ribbon of gravel cutting through the trees. Pines towered on either side, dense and unmoving, their branches knitting together overhead like they were intent on swallowing the path whole. The air felt cooler here, heavier, carrying the sharp scent of earth and sap even through the closed windows.

Bucky slowed the car, tires crunching softly as a cabin came into view.

It sat tucked deep in the forest, deliberately hidden—dark wood and stone blending with the surroundings, like it had grown there rather than been built. The porch stretched wide across the front, supported by thick beams, a single warm light glowing beside the door. 

He pulled into the small clearing and cut the engine.

The sudden quiet rang in your ears.

You stepped out of the car and took it in properly this time. The cabin was bigger up close, solid and steady, with tall windows that reflected the trees instead of revealing anything inside. Smoke curled faintly from a stone chimney, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air.

No neighbors. No cell signal. Nothing but forest in every direction.

Bucky grabbed your bag from the backseat and came to stand beside you, close enough that you felt his presence before you consciously registered it.

“Pretty quiet, huh?” he said, calm, almost amused.

You nodded, eyes still tracing the line of the roof, the porch, the dark windows. “It’s… secluded.”

“That was the idea.”

His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as he guided you toward the steps—light, casual, but unmistakably intentional. The porch creaked under your weight, the sound loud in the stillness, grounding you in the reality of where you were.

Just the two of you. Miles from anywhere else.

As he unlocked the door, you glanced once more at the trees hemming the cabin in on all sides, their shadows stretching long as the sun dipped lower.

Whatever rules you’d brought with you felt flimsy out here.

Inside, the cabin was warmer than you expected.

A fire was already crackling in the stone fireplace, casting slow-moving shadows across the wooden walls. Everything smelled like cedar and smoke, clean but lived-in. Thick blankets were folded neatly over the back of a wide couch, a worn rug stretched across the floor, and shelves lined with old books and mismatched mugs made the space feel intentionally personal—like someone spent real time here. Like he did.

Bucky dropped your bag near the stairs without comment and shrugged off his jacket, rolling his shoulders as if finally relaxing. He moved through the space with ease, familiar with every creak of the floorboards, every switch and drawer.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, already heading toward the small kitchen.

You hovered for a moment before sitting on the couch, fingers brushing over the fabric of a blanket. It was soft. Too soft. The fire popped quietly, the sound filling the silence without breaking it.

You sat there together, close but not touching, the firelight flickering between you. Outside, the forest pressed in, but in here everything felt… contained. Protected. Intimate in a way that made your thoughts slow down and wander.

“You’re wound tight,” he said, not unkindly but it wasn’t a question.

You looked up at him. “You don’t think this is… strange?”

He crossed the room and sat beside you—not too close, not far. Deliberate. Grounded. His presence immediately shifted the air, like the room had decided who it belonged to.

“No,” he said simply.

That answer caught you off guard. “You don’t?”

“No.” He leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch behind you, close enough to feel without touching. “You’re here because you wanted to be. I’m here because I asked you to come. That’s not complicated.”

“It feels complicated to me, because it is Buck” you admitted.

He turned his head then, eyes settling on you with quiet intensity. “That’s because you’re looking for reasons to make it wrong.”

You are looking for a reason to make it wrong– his words echoed in your head, because he was right. You were overthinking it, it was wrong– yes, but now you are here and you should actually enjoy it right? 

You exhaled sharply, tension loosening from your shoulders as you nodded. “Yeah… you are—you are right,” you said quietly, the words feeling heavy but honest as they left your mouth.

Bucky watched you for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he reached for your hand.

His grip was warm and steady, fingers firm as he lifted it, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that felt deliberate—reassuring, not rushed. He pressed a slow kiss to the back of your hand, lips lingering just long enough to make your chest tighten.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

He looked up at you then, smiling—not sharp, not teasing. Warm. Certain. “Turn off that pretty little mind of yours and just relax, okay?”

There was no edge to it. No demand. Just quiet confidence, like he fully expected you to trust him—and knew you already did.

You nodded again, almost without thinking.

Satisfied, he let go of your hand and stood, rolling his shoulders like he’d made a decision. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

You followed him instantly. Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hands confident as he chopped vegetables with easy precision. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was oddly soothing.

“Do you—” you started, then stopped yourself.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you want help?” you asked, voice soft, a little unsure. “I can do something. Chop… or stir. Anything.”

His mouth curved into a fond smile.

“C’mere,” he said gently, setting the knife down. He reached for a bottle on the counter and poured a glass of red wine, deep and rich. “Here. For you.”

He handed it to you, fingers brushing yours, and then—before you could protest—guided you by the waist just enough to lift you up onto the counter beside him. It was effortless, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Sit,” he said, calm and warm. “I’ve got this.”

You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed, but didn’t argue. “You’re very bossy in the kitchen.”

“Only when I know what I’m doing,” he replied, turning back to the stove.

You sipped the wine, watching him work. He moved with an easy focus—adding oil to the pan, letting it heat just right before tossing in garlic. The smell bloomed instantly, warm and inviting, filling the cabin. He stirred slowly, patient, like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.

“You look good up there,” he said casually, not even looking at you.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. “I’m literally just sitting.”

“Exactly,” he said, glancing at you now. “Relaxed. That suits you.”

You swung your legs slightly, toes brushing the cabinet below. “You cook like this often?”

He nodded. “When I’m here. Helps quiet things down.” He added vegetables to the pan, seasoning without measuring, trusting instinct. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you pointed out with an annoyed expression.

He smiled to himself. “You asked to help. That counts.”

The praise was simple, unforced—but it settled warmly in your chest. You watched the way his hands moved, steady and sure, the way he tasted the sauce and adjusted it just slightly before nodding in approval.

“See?” he said. “Perfect.”

You took another sip of wine, the fire crackling behind you, the forest silent outside. The moment felt small and domestic and safe—like something borrowed from a life you hadn’t known you wanted. The fire flickered behind you, casting golden light across the kitchen as Bucky stirred the sauce, humming quietly to himself. You perched on the counter, legs swinging slightly, the wine warming your chest and loosening the words you’d been holding in.

“Bucky…” you started softly, voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at you, one eyebrow raised, waiting. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. “Can… can you kiss me?”

The words left your mouth faster than you expected, but there was no taking them back.

He paused mid-stir, eyes locking onto yours. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath with you. Then, slowly, deliberately, he set the spoon down and stepped closer, his presence filling the space.

“You want me to?” he asked, voice low, steady, as if the idea had never been in question—but he liked hearing it from you anyway.

You nodded, heart hammering. “I… I do.”

A small, satisfied smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, and when his hand brushed lightly against your waist to steady you, it wasn’t forceful—just grounding. His other hand lifted yours slightly, tilting it so your palm met his lips. He pressed a kiss there first, soft, slow, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make your knees go weak. Then, slowly, he closed the space between you, eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a kiss to your lips. Gentle, measured, but certain.

Pulling back slightly, he rested his forehead against yours, voice low and teasing. “See? That wasn’t so scary now, was it?”

You laughed softly, breathless, shaking your head. “No… not with you.”

You slid carefully off the counter, wine glass in hand, and followed Bucky to the small wooden table in the corner of the cabin. The firelight spilled over the space, making the room glow with warmth. Plates were already set, simple but inviting, and the scent of the meal he’d prepared filled the air—garlic, herbs, something hearty that made your stomach tighten in anticipation.

Bucky gestured for you to sit, then took his own seat across from you, a soft, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Here,” he said, pushing your glass slightly closer to you. “Drink. You earned it.”

You giggled nervously, fingers curling around the stem. “I… barely did anything,” you admitted.

“That counts,” he said firmly, voice calm, steady, like he was stating a fact rather than arguing. “Asking to help. Sitting through my cooking, looking all pretty. That’s all earned.”

You flushed, sipping the wine. “You’re very… encouraging,” you said softly, unsure whether to feel flattered or embarrassed.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, eyes on you. “I’m honest. You’re doing great, and I want you to know it.”

Your heart thumped, and for a moment you forgot to drink. “I… don’t usually get compliments like that,” you admitted quietly, staring at the table. “Or… attention.”

Bucky’s smile softened. “Good,” he murmured. “Because you deserve it. You deserve someone who notices you.”

You swallowed, warmth spreading through your chest at the certainty in his voice. “Even… even if it’s… weird?” you asked, voice hesitant. “Because… us… here… it’s… a little strange, right?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t care if it’s strange,” he said, firm. “I care that it’s real. That you’re here. That we’re here. Nothing else matters.”

The last bites of dinner were gone, plates cleared to the side, leaving only the warm glow of the fire and the faint scent of garlic and herbs in the cabin. You sank into the couch, wine glass in hand, the warmth from both the fire and the wine making your limbs feel loose, almost too relaxed.

Bucky followed, settling beside you with the easy confidence you’d come to expect. He draped one arm along the back of the couch behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him without even realizing it.

“Quiet after dinner suits you,” he said softly, voice low, casual, but with an undertone that made your pulse spike.

You laughed nervously, setting your glass down on the side table. “I’m… comfortable,” you admitted.

He shifted closer, letting his fingers brush lightly against your arm, soft, teasing. “I’ve noticed,” he murmured. His eyes flicked to yours briefly, then back to the fire, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shivered slightly at the touch, biting your lip. “You’re… being… dangerous,” you whispered.

“Dangerous?” He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, as if the word intrigued him more than it frightened him. “You think me sitting here, doing this… is dangerous?”

“Yes,” you admitted, voice quiet, trembling just a little. “Because now I… can’t stop thinking about… that night. At the bar.”

His hand moved deliberately, fingers tracing the back of yours now, brushing across your skin in the slowest, lightest caress. “Oh? That night?” His voice dropped lower, soft and teasing, like he was savoring the memory. “I remember it too. Every look. Every sweet little sound you made for me.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat pooling across your chest. “I… I shouldn’t have let you…”

“Shouldn’t have?” His hand paused, thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “Sweetheart, you wanted it. You just didn’t say it out loud yet.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest. “It felt… intense. Too intense and wrong.”

He leaned slightly closer, so close that your shoulder brushed his. “Good,” he murmured, almost a purr. “Intensity’s meant to be felt. Not fought.”

His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns across the back of your hand and up your forearm, deliberate and confident, not leaving anything to doubt. Your chest tightened under the firelight, both from his touch and the words that made your mind spin.

“And you,” he said softly, voice steady but edged with that low tease that always made you melt, “you liked it. Don’t even pretend otherwise.”

You exhaled, a mix of laughter and disbelief escaping you. “I… maybe I did,” you whispered.

His smirk deepened. “Maybe?” He leaned back, thumb still brushing yours. “I’ll take ‘maybe’ for now. But I know the truth, sweetheart. You remember it too well. You’ve been thinking about it every second since.”

Before you could respond and deny it even just a bit, he pressed his lips to yours—slow, firm, and inescapable. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was claiming, dominant, and teasing, daring you to pull away.

You froze for half a second… then melted against him. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer without breaking the kiss. He let you catch your breath for just a moment, resting his forehead against yours, eyes smoldering with amusement and certainty.

“You like that,” he murmured, voice low, almost a growl. “You like me taking charge.”

You exhaled sharply, words barely forming. “I… I think I do.”

His smirk widened. “Think? That’s cute. Don’t think too hard, baby. Just feel— let uncle Bucky take care of you”

He kissed you again, slower this time, tracing the line of your lips with teasing pressure. One hand brushed your hair back from your face while the other rested firm and possessive at your hip, holding you in place as if you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your lips, voice dripping with confidence. “So tense. So wound up. And yet… still letting me do this.”

You shivered under the heat of his gaze, the press of his body, the cocky certainty of him claiming this moment. “Bucky…” you breathed, voice shaky.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Don’t talk. Just… let me.”

You were still catching your breath from the last kiss, heart pounding, when Bucky’s smirk deepened.

Before you could even react, his hands were at your waist, firm and unyielding, guiding you with a decisive strength. In one swift, smooth motion, he shifted you—your legs straddling his lap now, your chest just above his, your warmth pressing against him.

“See?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, hand resting at the small of your back to steady you. “I told you… I like being in control.”

You froze for a second, heat rushing through every nerve in your body. “B-Bucky…” Your voice was shaky, breath hitching, both nervous and excited at the same time.

He caught your gaze, smirk cocky, eyes dark and certain. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not right now. Not while I have you like this.”

Your fingers instinctively brushed against his chest, hesitant, almost testing, while his hands stayed firm, guiding your movement with deliberate ease. Every shift of your hips, every small sway, was under his control—yet somehow, it felt natural, even safe, in the middle of the tension.

“Just like that” he murmured against your temple, voice low, confident. “Make yourself feel good on me sweetie.”

His jeans brushed against you as he shifted slightly,making your clothed core brush against rough denim of his jeans, you bit your lip, a soft, startled whimper escaping you despite yourself. The sensation wasn’t anything you could name—but it was enough to make your knees go weak.

“Yes baby, feel how hard I am for you” he murmured, voice low and teasing, eyes dark as they held yours. “Relax. Just… feel this. Me. Right. Here.” he replied, bucking his hips.

Bucky’s voice dropped low into your ear, deep and rough, vibrating against your skin. “Tell me what you need from me. Go on… tell your favourite uncle what you need.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching, pulse hammering in your ears. Every nerve in your body hummed, alive and electric. You felt heat pooling in your stomach, your knees weak, your fingers fidgeting nervously. The sound of his voice, the tone of it—cocky, commanding, certain—made you feral in ways you hadn’t expected.

“You– I need you, Bucky please!” you whined helplessly, voice trembling. Your body pressed instinctively closer to his, reacting before your mind could catch up. The warmth of him, the steady dominance in his presence, made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and completely seen. You pressed against him, shivering, wanting more even as your mind shouted caution.

You let out a quiet, almost helpless whimper, the sound betraying how flustered you felt, how completely he’d unsettled you with a single glance, a single tone of voice.

“You are such a slut for me, huh?”

Heat rose to your cheeks, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Every word, every glance, every shift of his weight made you feel caught between embarrassment, desire, and the thrill of being under his control.

Then, in one swift, commanding movement, he ripped open your blouse, leaving your chest bare in front of him. Buttons flew across the room, and for a moment you were stunned, chest tight, breath shaky. The feral mix of awe, embarrassment, and helplessness made your heart hammer in your chest.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering, watching every reaction. His lips curved into a cocky, satisfied smirk, exuding dominance in a way that made you simultaneously nervous and thrilled.

“You can’t hide how much you like this,” he murmured, voice low, firm, and teasing all at once. “You can’t pretend you’re not mine in moments like this.” emphasizing his words with a sharp slap on your bare tits.

Your hands fluttered against his chest, almost desperate, almost trying to anchor yourself, but his presence was too overpowering, too controlled. Every second under his gaze made your stomach tighten, your skin tingle, and your mind spin with a dizzying mix of nervousness, excitement, and surrender.

His mouth eagerly latched onto your bare, hardened nipples, sucking and licking with a delicious intensity that left you gasping for breath. Each tantalizing tug sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, drawing soft, unfiltered moans from your chest. You felt vulnerable yet exhilarated, completely lost in the bliss of the moment.

Bucky shifted, lowering you easily onto the couch, his body looming over yours with a blend of protective strength and raw desire. As he pressed his warm lips against your bare chest, he traveled down with deliberate slowness, kissing a path down your stomach, anticipation coiled tightly within you, every kiss igniting a flicker of excitement through your body.

He lingered just above your waistband, a teasing smile playing on his lips as he commanded, “I need these off now.” His voice was low and authoritative, sending a shiver of need crawling up your spine. Bucky’s hands helped you shed your jeans and underwear, leaving you completely bare and exposed beneath him.

You could feel the rush of blood pounding in your ears, a mix of nerves and anticipation making your heart race. Bucky's mouth continued its tantalizing journey lower, trailing soft, fiery kisses along your thighs as he spread your legs. He paused, looking up at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, before licking a long, delicious stripe along your soaked slit.

Bucky’s gaze locked onto yours with a fiery intensity  of his piercing blue eyes. As he settled between your spread legs, the anticipation thrummed in the air, igniting your skin with a delicious sense of vulnerability.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your cunt, his voice a deep, steady rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “So beautiful and ready for me.” The praise dripped from his lips, each word stirring something inside you.

With a teasing smile, he pressed soft kisses along your inner thighs, his breath warm and tantalizing against your sensitive skin. “You taste so good,” he breathed, the words wrapping around “I can’t get enough.” With that, his tongue flicked out, a bold, exploratory taste that sent shockwaves of pleasure through you.

He began to devour you, his mouth working with expert precision, he savored every bit of you. His tongue teased and swirled around your sensitive folds, urging soft moans from your lips. “That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, his voice thick with desire. “Just like that. Let me hear you.”

Each stroke of his tongue was laced with dominance—a reminder of his power over your pleasure. He reveled in your reactions, the way your body instinctively responded to him, arching and quivering under his ministrations. “You’re doing so well,” he praised, his eyes flickering up to meet yours. “Just for me. I love this.”

The intensity of his focus only heightened your pleasure, pushing you closer to the edge. Bucky’s mouth worked with relentless determination, his tongue plunging deeper as his nose softly bumped against your sensitive clit, pushing you closer to the edge. “That’s my good girl,” he whispered breathlessly, the praise sending jolts of electricity through you. “Just let go for me.”

You could feel your heart racing, your body tightening with every flick and lap of his tongue. The world around you faded, leaving only the intoxicating sensations of his lips, the heat of his body, and the delicious sound of your moans filling the air. 

The air in the living room was thick, heavy with the scent of him and the salt of your own skin. You were slumped back against the cushions, limbs feeling like they were made of concrete, your heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Your breath was coming in shallow hitches,  eyes fluttering shut as you tried to catch breath.

But Bucky wasn't letting you drift away– not now.

He crawled up the length of you, his heavy weight settling firmly between your thighs. He didn't move to close the distance for a kiss–- instead, he propped himself up on his forearms, looking down at you with a dark, unhinged sort of hunger. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead clinging to his sweat covered skin, his eyes were blown out, focused entirely on your flushed face.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. He reached down, his metal fingers cold and unforgiving as they hooked under your chin, forcing you to look at him. "A total mess. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look right now?” You tried to turn your head, a soft whimper escaping you, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you still.

"Don't look away," he growled, a mean little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You wanted this. You’ve been begging for it with every shy little look you've given me today. And now that I’ve actually touched you, you can barely handle it. You’re so sensitive, aren't you? So easy to break."

He leaned down, his hot breath fanning over your ear, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. "You’re just a little bird, aren't you? My good, quiet girl."

The contrast of the praise against the bite in his tone made your stomach flip. You reached up, your fingers grasping at his shoulders, pulling him closer, but he resisted, holding himself just out of reach.

"You want me inside you?" he asked directly, his tone mocking. He nudged his knee firmly against your center, making you gasp. "Tell me. Use your words. Tell me how much you need me to ruin you after I just spent all that time making you feel so good."

"Bucky, please," you breathed, your voice small and desperate.

"Please what?" He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes tracking the way your chest heaved. "Say it. Tell me you want your uncle to take what he wants. Tell me you’re mine."

"I'm yours," you choked out, the shyness warring with the sheer need he was building in you. "Please... I'm all yours uncle Bucky. Just do it."

Bucky stayed hovered over you for a moment, enjoying the way you looked beneath him—cheeks flushed, chest heaving, and legs still trembling from what he’d just done with his tongue. He let out a dark, huffed breath of a laugh, his eyes scanning your disheveled state with a look that was more predator than protector.

Slowly, deliberately, he sat back on his heels, never breaking eye contact as he reached for the button of his tactical trousers.

The sound of the zipper cutting through the quiet room felt incredibly loud. You watched, your mouth going dry, as he pushed the heavy fabric down. When he freed himself, you couldn't help the way your eyes widened. He was thick, heavy, and already slick with anticipation—he looked intimidating.

"Close your mouth," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, though that mean little smirk stayed firmly in place. "You look like a fish gasping for air. Did you think I was done with you just because you had your little moment?"

He didn't wait for you to answer. He grabbed your ankles, dragging you down the cushions until your hips were right at the edge of the seat, dangling open and vulnerable. He stepped into the space between your knees, his large, scarred hands framing your thighs and squeezing hard enough that you knew there’d be faint thumbprints tomorrow.

"Look at this," he taunted, gesturing to the heavy length of him as he nudged it against your entrance. "You're so small. You really think you can take all of this? You think you’re big enough to take me?"

You let out a shaky breath, your hands reaching out to grab his waist, but he swatted them away.

"Hands down," he commanded. "I didn't tell you to touch me. You just stay there and take it."

Then, without a hint of hesitation, he tilted his hips and drove in.

The sheer size of him felt like he was splitting you apart, filling every empty inch of you until you felt like you might break. A sharp, shocked cry left your lips, your head hitting the back of the couch as your eyes rolled back.

"Look at me," he barked, and you scrambled to obey, blinking through the haze of tears and heat.

He started to move—long, punishing strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming back again. The sound was filthy: the wet, slapping rhythm of his skin hitting yours and the heavy creak of the couch under his weight.

"Yeah, that's it," he groaned, his expression turning truly unhinged as the friction started to get to him. He leaned down, his metal hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat. "You're so tight for me. It’s almost like you were made to be used like this. To be ruined by someone you’re supposed to respect."

He was hammering into you now, his pace becoming a brutal, relentless blur. Every time his hips connected with yours, a sob-like moan escaped you. You felt completely conquered, a submissive mess under the weight of his ego and his body. You were needy, whining for more even as he treated you like you were nothing more than a toy.

"You're a good little thing, aren't you?" he rasped, the praise sounding almost like an insult in his gravelly tone. "Taking it all. So quiet. So obedient. Does it make you feel like a little slut, having your dad's friend fuck the words right out of your mouth?"

He didn't give you time to answer, his mouth crashing down onto yours in a kiss that tasted like salt and desperation, his tongue demanding entry just as forcefully as the rest of him. You clutched at his forearms, your nails scratching against his skin, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being completely, utterly claimed.

Bucky’s pace didn't slow—if anything, he got meaner, his movements turning frantic and heavy as he felt you starting to unravel beneath him. He could hear the way your breath was hitching into broken, wet sobs, your face flushed a deep crimson as you looked up at him with those wide, ruined eyes.

"That's it, cry for me," he whispered, his voice dark and cruel as he leaned down, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He gripped both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them against the back of the couch so you were completely exposed, splayed out and helpless. "You look so pathetic like this. Just a sobbing, shaking mess because of what I'm doing to you."

He hiked your legs up higher over his shoulders, driving even deeper, hitting that spot that made your toes curl and a high, keening moan tear from your throat. He let out a low, rough chuckle that sent a shiver of pure terror and heat down your spine.

"You're taking it so well," he taunted, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, rhythmic thud. "What if I didn't pull out? What if I just left you full of me? Imagine that. Walking around the house, sitting at dinner with your dad, knowing you're carrying around exactly what I gave you on this couch."

The thought made your heart skip a beat, a mixture of shame and desperate want flooding your system. You shook your head, your hair flying wildly against the cushions. "Bucky... please..."

"Please what? Please do it?" He mocked, a truly unhinged glint in his eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be marked by me. To have everyone know you belong me. You're such a needy little brat. You want me to knock you up just so you have an excuse to keep me coming back to you."

He was losing his grip on his own restraint now, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. The friction was becoming too much, the heat of your body squeezing him so tightly he couldn't think straight. He let go of your wrists, instead burying his metal hand deep into the cushions next to your head, the frame of the couch groaning under his strength.

"I’m going to ruin you," he growled, his voice breaking into a guttural snarl. "I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to walk straight for a week. You’re mine. You hear me? Just a shy little thing for me to break whenever I want."

You were bawling now, the pleasure so intense it felt like pain, your moans turning into wordless pleas as you felt your climax building. You arched your back, your heels digging into his back, begging for the end.

"Look at me!" he commanded, and you forced your eyes open, meeting his predatory stare.

He didn't pull away. He didn't even try to be careful. With one final, devastating thrust that felt like it reached your soul, he let out a choked, animalistic sound. He buried himself as deep as possible, his body locking up as he came, filling you with a heat that felt like a brand.

Bucky’s posture was still rigid, his large frame looming over you as he tried to navigate the shift in the room. He was hovering, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you but wasn't sure if he was allowed to anymore. The mask of the anger had slipped, leaving behind a man who looked frustrated with himself, his brows furrowed in a dark, brooding line.

"I shouldn't have said that stuff," he muttered, his voice low and gritty, lacking the cruelty from before but still heavy with a dominating edge. "The 'toy' talk... it was out of line. I get a little unhinged when I’m in you, and I start pushing buttons I shouldn't touch. I’m a mess, doll. I don’t want you thinking—"

"Bucky," you interrupted, your voice small but steady.

He didn't stop, his words starting to tumble out faster, that pitiful, self-loathing streak of his starting to show. "I just don't want you to look at me and see some monster who enjoys hurting—"

"Bucky, stop," you said, reaching up and placing your hand over his mouth.

The physical contact silenced him instantly. He froze, his blue eyes wide and fixed on yours, looking like a stray dog waiting for a blow. You took a shaky breath, smoothing your palm over his scruffy jaw.

"I’m okay," you whispered, offering him a shy, genuine smile that reached your eyes. "Really. I liked it. All of it. The talk, the way you... I liked that you weren't gentle."

He blinked, the tension in his shoulders dropping just an inch. He searched your face for any sign of a lie, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm harder against his cheek.

"You liked it?" he repeated, his voice dropping back into that possessive, low register. The guilt was still there, but it was being overtaken by a dark sense of relief.

"I did," you confessed, your face heating up as your shyness returned. "I'm all yours, remember? You can't scare me away that easily."

A slow, much more grounded smirk pulled at his lips. It wasn't mean this time, but it was definitely still dominating. He leaned in, nipping at your earlobe before pulling you firmly against his chest, making sure you felt every inch of his solid weight.

"Good girl," he hummed, the vibration of his voice echoing in your chest. "Just making sure you know who's in charge, even when I'm being an idiot. Now, let’s get you cleaned up okay?”

Bucky stood up, his movements much slower and more careful now. He didn't say much as he reached down, his large hands hooking under your arms to hoist you up from the couch. Your legs felt like jelly, a soft sound of protest escaping you as your feet hit the floor, but he caught you easily, tucking you into his side.

He led you to the bathroom, the cool air of the hallway hitting your heated skin. He didn't make you do anything– instead, he sat you on the edge of the tub while he ran the water, testing the temperature with his flesh hand until it was just right. He found a soft washcloth, soaking it and wringing it out before kneeling between your knees.

The room was quiet, just the sound of the water dripping and the hum of the fan. Bucky was focused, his expression solemn as he gently wiped away the traces of the night from your body. His touch was incredibly light, a complete 180 from the way he had been gripping you minutes before. He didn't make any more jokes or mean comments; he just took care of you with a steady, grounding presence.

Once you were clean and wrapped in one of his oversized t-shirts that smelled like cedar and laundry soap, he led you back to the bedroom.

He climbed into the bed first, propping himself up against the headboard and opening his arm in a silent invitation. You crawled in beside him, collapsing against his chest with a tired sigh. The transition from the high intensity of the couch to the quiet safety of his arms made your eyes feel heavy almost instantly.

Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, while his other hand found its way into your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp.

"You're exhausted," he whispered, his chin resting on the top of your head.

"Mm," you hummed, your eyes already drifting shut. You felt completely safe, the lingering ache in your muscles a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he'd claimed you.

"I'm not going anywhere, doll," he promised. He pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, tucking it in tight. He stayed awake for a while, just watching the rhythm of your breathing even out. The "mean" version of him was tucked away for the night, replaced by the man who would do anything to keep you warm.

As you finally drifted off, the last thing you felt was the press of his lips against your temple and the steady, heavy beat of his heart under your ear.

[melkafucks]

tease

dbf!bucky x reader

summary: what could go wrong when you accidentally meetup with your dads best friend in a bar? nothing inappropriate right? wc: 3k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, implied age gap- reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, public fingering(they doin it under the table ok?), risk of getting caught, kissing, bucky is such a tease (lmk if I missed anything) a/n: pt 2 here

The bar in your hometown hasn’t changed.

Same low amber lights. Same scuffed wooden tables. Same jukebox humming something old and familiar in the background. It smells like spilled beer and citrus cleaner and nostalgia you didn’t ask for.

You came here to disappear.

You’re tucked into a booth near the wall, phone glowing faintly in your hand as you scroll without really reading anything. Your drink sits untouched for too long, ice melting, condensation slick against your fingers when you finally lift it. Work has been loud lately. Demanding. You needed quiet—even if it was the kind that buzzes around you instead of settling inside.

You don’t look up when the door opens.

You barely register the heavier footsteps, the brief lull in conversation, the way the air seems to shift—

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” The voice is low. Familiar in a way that hits you straight in the chest.

You freeze.

Slowly, you look up.

Your heart stutters when you see him.

“James?” you breathe, shock widening your eyes.

Bucky Barnes stands at the edge of your booth, jacket half-unzipped, hair a little longer than the last time you saw him, eyes already locked on you like he’s been standing there longer than he should admit. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—surprise, maybe, followed quickly by amusement.

“Guess I don’t go by that much anymore,” he says lightly. “But yeah. It’s me.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. Of all the bars. Of all the nights.

He gestures toward the empty space beside you. “You mind if I join you?” He asks, but his body is already angling toward the booth, confident and unhurried. Like he knows you won’t say no.

“I—uh—sure,” you manage.

He slides in, the vinyl creaking softly under his weight. The booth suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. His presence fills it effortlessly.

At first, it’s innocent.

He asks about your job, listening with a focus that makes you feel strangely seen. He asks how long you’re staying in town, whether you’re seeing family. Mentions your dad once or twice—casually, like it’s nothing—but each time makes something twist low in your stomach.

“You always this busy?” he asks, swirling his drink slowly.

“Lately,” you shrug. “I needed a break.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes lingering on you. “I can see that.”

You don’t know what he means by it, but the way he says it makes your cheeks warm anyway.

You don’t notice his knee brushing yours at first.

It’s light. Almost accidental. Just enough to register.

You stiffen.

He doesn’t move away, instead, he keeps talking like nothing happened, voice smooth, calm, teasing just beneath the surface. “You’ve gotten quieter,” he says. “Used to be more chatty.”

“I’m not quiet, never been” you protest softly.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing. “Sure you are.”

He leans back then, stretching his arm along the back of the booth—behind you. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that you’re acutely aware of the space he’s taken, the way he’s framed you without asking.

Your knee shifts.

His follows.

Your breath catches.

He glances down briefly, then back up at your face, brows lifting in mild curiosity. “What?”

“You’re—” You stop yourself, swallowing. “We’re kind of close.”

He looks around theatrically, then back at you. “Looks like a normal booth to me.”

Your heart is pounding now, guilt creeping in sharp and fast. You should move. You should say something. You should leave. Instead, you sit there, hands folded tightly in your lap, every nerve ending tuned to him.

“Your dad would kill me,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

Bucky’s smile deepens just a little. “Good thing I haven’t done anything worth killin’ me over.” Conversation continues, but it feels different now. He leans closer when he talks. Drops his voice. His words brush your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You always been this shy, you seem flustered?” he murmurs.

You shake your head, embarrassed. “Not with everyone.”

“That so?” His tone turns playful. “Guess I should feel special.”

His knee presses more firmly against yours now. Not enough to force. Just enough to claim space.

“Bucky,” you whisper, heart racing. “You shouldn’t.”

“I told you, I'm not doing anything” he says easily, like it doesn’t bother him at all.

His hand settles on your thigh—warm, deliberate. Not squeezing. Not rushing. Just there.

“I’m still not doin’ anything,” he murmurs, lips close to your ear. “You’re the one lettin’ me sit here.”

Your breath comes shallow. His thumb shifts slightly higher, just enough to make your stomach flip.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, almost fond. “Probably it is.”

He doesn’t move his hand away, instead, he leans closer, voice a quiet tease meant only for you. “You gonna tell me to stop?”

You don’t answer.

His fingers inch higher on your thigh, slow and patient, like he knows you’re already lost.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs.

And even as guilt coils tight in your chest—even as you know this line was never meant to be crossed—you stay right where you are. His hand moves again—slow, deliberate—sliding just enough to make your breath hitch.

Not where you expect.

Not where you’re ready for.

Your eyes widen, pulse roaring in your ears, and you look at him like you’ve been caught doing something you didn’t mean to let happen. He notices immediately. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. Amused. “Stay with me.”

His thumb drags lightly against your underwear, almost absentminded, like he’s testing your reaction rather than touching you outright. You suck in a breath, nails digging into the edge of the booth.

“Bucky—” you whisper.

He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear, his words a quiet warning wrapped in teasing calm. “Don’t go quiet on me now.” Then, softer—closer—“Talk to me baby.” The pet name slips out like it belongs there, like he’s been calling you that for years. It hits you harder than his touch ever could.

Your whole body is tense, heat curling low in your stomach, guilt pressing sharp against your ribs. You know this is wrong. You know exactly whose best friend he is.

And still—you don’t move his hand away.

His breath is warm against your skin, his presence overwhelming without him ever having to rush or force anything. He doesn’t need to. He already knows.

“There you go,” he murmurs when you don’t pull back, satisfaction quiet but unmistakable. “Knew you’d stay.”

The bar feels distant now—the music, the voices, the world outside this booth. All you can focus on is him: the way he’s crowding your space, the way he’s letting you make the choice while pretending he’s innocent.

His fingers shifts again, firmer this time, slipping under your embarrassingly soaked panties—not rushing, not clumsy. Intentional.

You jolt, breath catching sharp enough that you have to bite it back immediately. The booth suddenly feels too exposed, the bar too loud, every laugh and clink of glass a threat.

Bucky notices.

Of course he does.

He leans in, shoulder angling just enough to shield you from the rest of the room, mouth close to your ear. His voice drops to a murmur—steady, controlled.

“Hey,” he warns softly. “Be quiet for me. I know you can do that.”

The words send a shock straight through you.

His fingers move again—slow pressure, deliberate, like he’s testing exactly how much you can take without making a sound. You grip the edge of the seat, knuckles white, pulse roaring in your ears. This is wrong in many ways, you are in public and he is your dads friend– this is so wrong.

Someone laughs nearby. Too close.

You freeze.

Bucky’s thumb stills—not pulling away, just holding you there. Patient. His breath is warm against your skin when he speaks again.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Don’t get distracted now.”

Your gaze snaps to his, wide and panicked and burning all at once. His expression is maddeningly calm—mouth curved in a faint smile, eyes dark with quiet satisfaction.

“That’s it,” he says softly. “Good.”

A shadow passes the booth. You feel it before you see it—movement, voices shifting closer. Your heart hammers so hard you’re sure someone must hear it.

Bucky doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans in just a little more, his fingers slipping inside you just a bit—testing. “If anyone looks over here,” he murmurs, “you’re just sittin’ with me. Nothin’ more.”

His fingers presses again, a little deeper just enough to remind you he’s still there, still in control.

“And you’re doin’ such a good job,” he adds quietly. “Stayin’ nice and quiet for me”

He leans in closer, close enough that his voice feels like it’s inside your head instead of your ear.

“Good. That’s it. Just like that.” he cooed, now shamelessly pumping his fingers in and out of your sensitive cunt.

The booth creaks faintly as he shifts, angling himself just enough to hide you better, to claim the space without making a scene. To anyone else, it looks casual. Intimate, maybe—but harmless.

Someone laughs nearby. You tense instinctively.

Bucky notices immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soothing and firm all at once. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The reassurance hits harder than the command.

“That’s my girl,” he adds softly when you manage to steady yourself.

Your chest tightens at the praise, heat blooming low and slow. You’ve never been talked to like this—never been guided instead of rushed, controlled without force.

“You keep your eyes forward. On me, or your drink. Not the door. Not the room.”he whispers, slower now. 

You nod, tiny and obedient. But your heart is pounding, head spinning from the thrill. Your lips parted almost instinctively and you let out a shaky breath.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Careful. That’s almost a sound.”

Your cheeks burn.

“That’s okay,” he adds immediately, softer. “You’re doin’ so good for me. I know this is hard.”

The sweetness in his voice makes your throat tight.

“You’re safe,” he continues. “Nothin’s gonna happen unless I let it. And I promise—I won’t let you mess this up.”

You swallow, nodding again, clinging to his calm like an anchor.

“Good,” he whispers, pride threading through the word. “Such a good listener.”

His forehead brushes your temple for half a second—barely a touch—but it feels intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You keep followin’ my lead,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

And somehow, even with the guilt curling in your stomach, even knowing you shouldn’t be here—You believe him.

The bell above the door jingles again, sharp and unavoidable. Your heart skips. Bucky freezes for a split second, but his hand… doesn’t stop.

You feel the heat, the pressure, his presence tight and teasing. Every inch of the booth suddenly sharper, smaller, more dangerous.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly into your ear, lips barely brushing your temple. “Heads up.”

You glance toward him, confused.

“Oh- i forgot to tell you,” he says, calm and teasing, voice low and deliberate. “I was waiting for your daddy”

Your chest tightens. Your stomach coils. Panic and heat collide in your chest. You know he’s not stopping—his fingers are steady, his hand patient. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound.

“You hear me?” he whispers. “Don’t even think about movin’. Keep quiet. Eyes forward.”

The sound of your dad’s voice grows closer. His laughter, the shuffle of his coat, the unmistakable weight of him walking through the bar.

Bucky leans closer, teasing, whispering rules like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Don’t ruin it now.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. Guilt bites, sharp, but so does the thrill. You’re shaking slightly, but you obey, keeping your posture small, your eyes locked on your drink.

“Perfect,” he continues, low and measured. “Nice and quiet. Don’t even think about breathing too loud.”

​​And then… your dad approaches the booth. He smiles, oblivious to what’s happening beneath the table.

Your dad leans down slightly, giving you a warm smile. “There you are, sweetheart! Bucky took good care of you, I assume?”

Bucky straightens, slipping into perfect casual mode. He lets his hand drift off your soaked cunt, resting easily on the edge of the booth. “Always,” he says smoothly. “Had to make sure she didn’t get into trouble alone in the bar… so I talked to her while waiting for you.”

“Good,” your dad replies, chuckling. “I owe you one, James.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky says, tipping his head toward your dad, still keeping it light. His eyes flick to yours for a brief second—sharp, teasing. “I think she did most of the work herself anyway.”

You flush, trying not to move or make a sound-at this point you don't even trust yourself.

“Well,” your dad says, glancing between the two of you, “let’s grab a table. We can catch up properly.”

Bucky grins, leaning down just enough so only you hear. “Try not to miss me too much” he murmurs, teasing and calm.

Then he straightens, claps your dad lightly on the shoulder, and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “Lead the way.”

Before you can react, he’s walking beside your dad, perfectly composed, leaving you sitting there flushed, trembling, and entirely undone, the memory of his whispers and teasing still pressing against your skin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You sit frozen in the booth, heart hammering, cheeks burning. The words your dad exchanged with Bucky still echo in your ears, but the memory of Bucky’s teasing whispers makes it impossible to focus. You knew it was inappropriate. Wrong. Totally wrong.

And yet… the way he stood up, leaned back, and walked away with that casual grin—it was cruel. Almost like he was daring you to react.

You’re trembling. Alone. Stunned. Every nerve on edge.

Then you see him move again.

Bucky rises from the table across the room, slow, deliberate, eyes locking with yours. That smirk. That quiet, infuriating confidence.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, voice low, teasing, and entirely certain it’s your choice even though it doesn’t feel like it.

Your chest leaps, stomach twisting, heat rising along with your panic. You barely think—you just get up, heart pounding.

He moves toward the bathroom, and somehow, your legs carry you there before your brain catches up. Bucky steps first, shoulders relaxed, movements slow and deliberate, like he’s in complete control of the world. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, sterile and bright, but that does nothing to calm the heat pooling in your chest.

You follow immediately, heart hammering, breath short, cheeks flushed. “B-Bucky…” your voice comes out small, whiny, almost a plea. “I… I don’t—”

He cuts you off with a sharp glance, one brow raised, lips curling into that infuriating smirk. “Don’t what, sweetheart?”

You stop mid-step, knees weak. “I… I can’t help it,” you admit, voice trembling. “I… I just—”

“That’s what I thought,” he interrupts, stepping closer, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from him. He’s not touching yet—he doesn’t need to—but the presence alone makes it impossible to think straight. “Look at you… needy and confused. Little bit of guilt, huh?”

You whimper softly, unable to stop yourself. “I… I shouldn’t—”

“No,” he says, low and firm, voice sharp enough to make you flinch, “you shouldn’t. But here you are. Obedient little thing, following me without question.”

You feel yourself melt under his gaze, desperate and exposed. “I… I can’t help it,” you repeat, whiny and breathless.

Bucky’s smirk widens. “I know. That’s the point.”

He steps closer, circling you just enough that you’re trapped against the wall, eyes wide, trembling. “You’re thinking you should leave, don’t get caught… but you can’t even resist me. You’re pathetic.”

Your breath catches at the words, the sharp thrill of guilt tangled with need. “Bucky… please…” you murmur, more needy than you’ve ever been, almost whining.

He chuckles softly, cruel and satisfied. “Oh, look at you. Begging already. You’re insatiable, aren’t you?”

You nod frantically, cheeks burning, unable to form coherent words. Bucky steps closer, closing the space between you until the world outside the bathroom disappears. You can barely think—heart hammering, breath uneven, cheeks burning.

He leans in slowly, smirk tugging at his lips, and brushes his mouth against yours. The first touch is soft, teasing, deliberate. Your hands rise instinctively, fumbling against his chest as your breath catches.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to make you stumble back slightly into the wall. Warm, commanding, and frustratingly confident, he moves like he’s claiming every inch of the space between you—but still letting you feel like it’s your choice.

Your knees weaken, your hands clutching at him, trembling. He grins against your lips, low and satisfied.

“You’re so distracted,” he murmurs between kisses, voice teasing, almost cruel. “Messy, needy… and I love it.”

You whimper softly, half from embarrassment, half from the overwhelming pull of wanting him even though your brain is screaming you shouldn’t. His hands cup your face gently, tilting it as he leans in again, kissing you with slow dominance that leaves you gasping. You press back instinctively, lost in the heat, letting the world fade away.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back. His eyes flick toward the door, amused, dangerous, teasing.

“Your daddy’s gonna start worrying what I’m doing in here so long,” he murmurs, smirk curling his lips. His tone is equal parts cocky and mischievous, and you flush hotter than before, heart racing, knowing he’s savoring the effect he’s having on you.

You’re standing there, cheeks flushed, chest pounding, trying to catch your breath. Your hair is messy, your hands trembling slightly, and every nerve in your body is still buzzing from the closeness, the teasing, the almost-too-intense kisses.

Bucky leans against the sink, one arm casually resting, smirk tugging at his lips. “Mmm,” he hums, eyes dark with amusement. “You’re a mess.”

You whine softly, stepping closer, desperate, voice trembling. “Bucky… don’t… don’t stop. Please…”

He tilts his head, watching you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your neediness. “Oh? You want more?”

“Yes!” you breathe, almost begging. “Please… I… I can’t… just leave me like this…”

He chuckles, a low, teasing sound that makes your stomach twist. He’s calm, unhurried, every bit the dominant tease. “I’d love to,” he says, mock sincerity dripping from his words. “But… I have to go back to your dad.”

You freeze, eyes widening, lips parting in protest. “No! Please… just a little—just stay! Please, Bucky…”

He shakes his head slowly, mock-serious. “Oh, sweetheart…” His smirk deepens, voice soft, cruelly playful. “Begging already? And for what… another round?”

“Yes! I… I need you!” you gasp, hands trembling as you reach toward him.

He steps just out of reach, watching you fumble like a predator enjoying the hunt. “Mmm… cute. But no. Not right now.”

You blink, stunned and desperate, heart hammering. “B-but why?”

“Because,” he says, calm, cocky, teasing in the way only he can pull off, “your daddy’s waiting, and I don’t want him to worry. Can’t have that now, can I?”

You whimper softly, frustrated and needy, cheeks burning hotter than ever. “I… I don’t care! Please…”

He smirks again, turning toward the door with a slow, almost lazy swagger. “I care. And that’s exactly why you’re going to have to wait, sweetheart.”

You leaned against the sink, cheeks burning, hands trembling, heart hammering. Your mind is a chaotic mess of we shouldn’t and I can’t help myself—and somewhere in the back of your brain, you know Bucky is fully aware of it.

He steps toward the door, one last glance over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips, and that calm, infuriating dominance radiates from him.

“You know,” he says, voice low, teasing, every syllable deliberate, “if you’re feeling lonely next weekend…”

You blink, heart skipping. “What… what do you mean?”

He smirks, leaning just slightly into the doorway. “Free weekend. Cabin in the woods. No distractions. Just you, me… and whatever trouble we get into.”

Your stomach twists, a mixture of excitement and guilt making you flush hotter than ever. “I… I can’t…”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, ignoring your protest. “Sure you can. You’ve got my number. Just… call me.”

Your chest tightens. “Call you?”

He winks, voice low and teasing. “Don’t overthink it. Just… call me.”

And then, just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the bathroom, hands still trembling, cheeks burning, and every nerve in your body buzzing.

You lean against the sink, breathing uneven, trying to steady yourself. But the truth hits you fast and undeniable: this isn’t the end.

It’s just the start.

pt 2: tease too

[melkafucks]

birthday girl

dbf!bucky x f!reader

summary: when you came back from college to celebrate your birthday, you expected a quiet evening with parents but when your dads friend james join the party? a lot can happen

wc: 13k warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut!, unprotected p in v (don't do it), mean!bucky, implied age gap reader is in her mid 20s and bucky is in his 40s, kissing, dirty talk, rough sex, finger sucking, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, mention of pregnancy, alcohol consumption, degradation, a bit of daddy kink, risk of being caught, no aftercare (im sorry),

You hadn’t planned on much for your birthday—maybe a quiet dinner, a glass of wine, an early night. So walking into your childhood home and finding it full of people caught you completely off guard.

Streamers hung from the doorway. A banner stretched across the living room wall. Music played softly in the background, blending with the sound of laughter and conversation. The table was covered in food—your favorites, of course.

“Surprise!” your mom laughed, pulling you into a hug before you could even react.

“Oh my God—what is all this?” you asked, laughing as your dad wrapped his arms around you too.

“We couldn’t let this birthday pass quietly,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re home. That’s reason enough.”

You smiled, warmth settling in your chest as you greeted relatives and family friends. Time passed easily—talking, laughing, opening gifts. Eventually, you found yourself curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, relaxed and happy.

“Am I late?” a familiar voice called out, amused and unapologetic.

Your dad laughed loudly. “You’re always late.”

“Where’s the birthday girl?” the man asked. “Feels like I haven’t seen her in years.”

Your dad gestured toward the sofa. “Right there.”

You looked up—and froze.

James Barnes stood in the doorway, jacket still on, gift in hand, broad shoulders filling the frame. His hair was darker at the roots now, threaded with silver, beard neatly trimmed, lines around his eyes that only made his grin more dangerous. His gaze landed on you and lingered, slow and assessing, before his smile widened.

“There she is,” he said. “Happy birthday sweetheart”

“Hi, James,” you replied, standing. “I—I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said easily.

He hugged you, arms strong and solid around your back, holding on just a second longer than necessary. When he pulled away, his eyes flicked over you before he caught himself. “You got taller” he added, a low chuckle in his voice.

He handed you the gift—a small notebook, your initials stitched into the cover. “Got you something.”

“Thank you, you shouldn't have” you smiled.

“There’s something inside,” he said quietly. “Read it later. Don’t need everyone seeing how soft I’ve gotten.”

The night passed in a blur after that. You caught him watching you more than once from across the room, his attention following you even while he talked to others. You caught yourself glancing at him too, eyeing his bicep, his salt and pepper beard. He looked absolutely delicious. Gradually, guests began to leave. Eventually, it was just you, your parents, and Bucky. Like always, your dad insisted he stay the night, and of course he agreed.

When your parents went to their bedroom, you drifted into the kitchen to clean up. The radio still hummed softly in the background.

“Hey,” Bucky said from the living room. “Stop working your ass off on your birthday.”

“Just a second,” you replied with a laugh. “I want it to look a little less like a disaster. I mean come on” you said gesturing towards the mess.

“I said stop,” he repeated, firmer now.

You turned to see him standing, one hand extended toward you, palm open, his expression stern and demanding, leaving no room for argument. You sighed dramatically, set the cloth down, and walked over. “Alright, alright. You win.”

“Good,” he said, pleased, as you sat beside him on the sofa.

You glanced at the glass in his hand. “What are you drinking?” You asked innocently, trying to keep it as casual as possible.

“Whiskey.” He paused, then held it out. “Wanna try?”

“Sure,” you said, taking it. Your fingers brushed his—just briefly, but too long to be accidental.

You took a sip and immediately winced, unpleased frown forming on your face  “Okay, that’s awful.” you chuckled

He laughed. “Can’t handle it?”

“It’s not that I can't handle it, it’s just-”

Before you could finish, he reached out, thumb brushing your chin where a drop had spilled. “Such a messy girl,” he murmured. His hand didn’t move away. Instead, it lowered, settling on your knee. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate—He knew what he was doing.

You inhaled sharply, eyes flicking down to where his hand rested on your bare skin. Just the sight of it sent a wave of heat through your body. After all, your sex life or much better, lack of it was taking its toll on you. College boys suck heavily and you were single for over two years so of course a touch like that would make you feel things.. it was normal, even if it was your dad's friend, right?

“Shh… it’s fine,” he chuckled, his voice low.

Before you could stop yourself, your legs parted slightly, instinctive, inviting. He noticed. Of course he did. 

“Oh.” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face, “You like that.” His thumb pressed in, slow and deliberate. “You like having my dirty hands on you, sweetheart? What do you think your daddy would say about this, huh?” His hand slid higher on your thigh, unhurried, possessive, and heat rushed to your face as your thoughts scattered, words failing you completely. It felt unreal, like something you’d dream up and wake up from embarrassment.

“Hm?” he prompted softly. “Use your words. Let me hear you.”

“I do…” you whispered, barely audible. The words felt fragile the moment they left you, like admitting something you hadn’t even let yourself think all the way through. Your heart thudded too loudly in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears. Part of you wanted to look away, to laugh it off, to pretend the heat curling low in your stomach wasn’t real. But you didn’t.

“I do what?” he pressed, tone coaxing, almost amused. “I need more than that, doll.”

“I like your hands on me, James” you admitted shyly, voice trembling.

“That’s it,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “Atta girl. It wasn't so hard, was it?” His hand left your thigh only to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick, pressing his thumb against it until your mouth parted. You obeyed without thinking, lips closing around his thumb, tongue swirling slowly as you sucked, soft and needy. He let out a low grunt, eyes darkening. “Jesus… look at you. Drooling all over me like a dumb slut while your parents sleep in the next room.” He pulled his thumb free with a wet pop, and you whined quietly at the sudden loss, frustration curling tight in your chest.

“James… please,” you whimpered, barely louder than a breath.

“Oh?” he teased, mockingly sweet. “Begging already? Little finger sucking got you all worked up, huh?” He smirked. “You wouldn’t mind if I checked, right?” His hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingertips brushing over your underwear—soaked, betraying you instantly. A moan slipped out before you could stop it, and suddenly his other hand grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks as he leaned in close.

“Be. Fucking. Quiet,” he growled, tightening his grip.

You nodded quickly, eyes wide, pulse racing as his fingers moved with more intent, more pressure, circling around your swollen aching core. You chased his mouth desperately, trying to kiss him in a clumsy attempt to silence yourself, to swallow the sounds he was pulling from you. He clicked his tongue softly. “Tsk, tsk… this is how good girls behave now?”

“Please, Bucky,” you breathed. “I need you… please kiss me.”

“Better,” he murmured, before crashing his mouth into yours. The kiss was messy and consuming—teeth grazing your lip, tongue pushing in without mercy as he took control completely. His hand slipped further, fingers sliding beneath your underwear, sinking inside you with ease. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulder as your hips bucked instinctively, chasing the rough, relentless rhythm of his fingers. The sounds you made felt obscene in the quiet house, wet and desperate, far too loud.

“Fuck,” he panted against your lips. “So tight. So perfect. I can only imagine how good you’d feel stretched around my cock, sweetheart.” Your mind went blank at the words, desire drowning out everything else as you clung to him.

“James—please,” you babbled, breathless and ruined. “I need you. I need to feel you. Please.”

That was it. His jaw clenched, restraint snapping. He pulled back abruptly, standing in one sharp movement.

“What are you—” you started, confused, before he grabbed you without warning, hauling you over his shoulder. Your breath hitched as he carried you out of the living room and toward the stairs, his grip firm and unyielding.

“Quiet,” he warned again, already moving upstairs.

He shoved the door to your room open with one rough push. When he finally carried you inside, he lowered you onto the bed and closed the door behind him with a soft click—quiet, deliberate, like a promise.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging over you as you shifted beneath him. “Look at you. All squirmy and wet for me. Who would’ve thought you are such a slut?” He loomed over you, presence overwhelming, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable now, straining against the fabric.

“Be a good girl and take it off,” he ordered sternly, already starting to undress himself, gaze never leaving you as he expected you to follow. You did, hands trembling as you stripped until you were bare beneath him, sprawled on the bed, exposed and aching, feeling his attention like a physical weight.

You looked up at him—his chest broad and defined, dark hair scattered across his torso, muscular arms flexing as he freed himself. His cock was thick and hard, flushed red, the tip already slick with precum. He lowered himself over you, pressing kisses along your neck, your collarbones, your chest. His mouth closed around your hardened nipple, tongue flicking, lips sucking gently until you whined helplessly, his hard length resting against your aching core.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “You taste like heaven, I could spend hours buried in those perfect tits”

He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and teased you with the tip, dragging it slowly between your folds, coating himself in your slick. Your hips bucked instinctively.

“Please, James,” you whined pathetically. “Stop teasing me.”

“So many degrees,” he mocked softly, “and you get dumb over my cock. Real sweet.” He mocked, pressing in just the tip, stretching you slowly, not enough to ease the ache coiling tight in your stomach.

“Ah—fuck,” he hissed. “You’re gripping me so hard already, gonna make me come before I even bury myself inside”

Then, in one sharp movement, he slammed into you, burying himself to the hilt. Not giving you time to adjust to his size he started fucking in, like he wanted to destroy you just withe the force of his thrusts.

“Ah—fuck, Bucky,” you cried out shamelessly, the stretch brutal and perfect, raw and overwhelming in a way you’d never felt before. He split you open completely, unforgiving, and the sound tore out of you before you could stop it.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it.” His thrusts were hard and punishing, deliberate and relentless, hips crashing into yours without mercy. The room filled with the wet slap of skin and his rough grunts, each drive of his body stealing the air from your lungs. Your parents downstairs might as well not have existed.

Your nails clawed down his back as he fucked into you again and again, dragging sounds out of you that felt ugly and needy, sounds you didn’t recognize as your own. Your face went slack and stupid beneath him—mouth hanging open, words dissolving into broken babble, a sheen of drool slipping past your lips. Your breasts bounced helplessly with every violent snap of his hips, your body taking whatever he gave you.

“Look at you,” he sneered, gripping your jaw. “Fucked stupid already.” His thumb smeared the drool across your mouth, deliberately humiliating. “Such a dumb whore for daddy you can’t even think straight, can you? Just laying there and taking it like you were made for nothing else.”

“Yes… yes… yes, Bucky!” you babbled mindlessly, breathless and trembling, words tumbling out without thought.

“If you keep it up, I might just knock you up, huh? Make you full of me, all round with my baby” he said smugly between grunts.

Before you could even think, you nodded, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. Thought of him owning you clouding your judgement completely.

“Oh yeah? You like that? Thought of you carrying my kid, knocked up like some cheap whore by a man twice your age?” he mocked, voice low, rough, and cruel, eyes dark as he slammed into you again.

“Be good for me then. Take it. Take it all, baby,” he grunted, his movements sloppy now, chasing his peak. Every thrust was punishing, deliberate, leaving you gasping and trembling beneath him.

He buried himself fully in you, twitching and spilling inside with a guttural moan, coating your insides in his release as he held you down. He collapsed over you, panting hard  “Here… here, sweetie,” he murmured into your neck, rocking slowly. “Gotta make sure it sticks” he added, staying buried deep, his voice dark and possessive, every word a reminder that this was his and his only.

He kissed your cheek and rolled onto his back, voice rough but controlled. “Go clean yourself up,” he said, already pulling his underwear back on.

He sat up beside you for a moment, hand soft against your cheek, giving a gentle pat. “Go… go now,” he urged, voice low but insistent. Then, almost impatiently, he stood.

You disappeared into the bathroom, heart still racing, hands trembling as you wiped yourself down. When you came back, the bed was empty. He was gone. Out of the house? In guest room? You couldn’t tell. The quiet pressed in, the stillness of the room almost heavier than the tension before. The lingering heat of his presence remained, a subtle ache that made you shiver.

Slowly, you reached for the notebook he’d given you earlier. Opening it, your eyes fell on the words on the first page:

“Always here for you, you know where to find me—love, Uncle Bucky.”

You traced the ink with your finger, heart tightening. The words felt heavy with meaning—care and danger wrapped up together, just like him. A shiver ran down your spine—not just from what had happened, but from the thought that this man, so rough and so impossible, had already carved a space in your life you couldn’t escape.

He had left, yes, but the memory lingered, sharp and raw, and somewhere beneath it all, you knew this was only the beginning.