Rockstar Bucky thinking of how he cant get you out of his head from that one night he saw you at the concert.
Ah! I wrote something that just came to me! Thank you so much for the ask cause it shook something lose in my brain! It's not much, but I had fun writing on it.
Time to shake off the dust...
Alone
dark! Bucky Barnes x Black! reader
No sexy times but certaintly some questionable actions are had.
He hit a shrill, sick guttural wail as the lyrics rushed from his lips. Sweat, flung and sprinkled off his body, like molten silver, while his head and body undulated to a hard rocking beat. The pulsing lights of the stage flashed over the lean, pale, and dewy plains of his bare skin; his jeans hung low on his hips as he twirled with the microphone.
He was sex and danger, a song-singing wraith that tempted and teased devotion but only if you submitted first. Preferably on your knees. The black vibranium arm glinted in the strobe like a heartbeat. The stage was set. The crowd chanted and waved for more, crying out, desperate for his life, his voice, his body, and James Buchanan Barnes ate it up.
The Winter Soldier was a star, and he didn’t give a fuck if people wanted him, hated him. No. He was a fucking god, and he took their prayers, their pleas, let them seep into his skin, crawl into his lungs, and he’d breathed out icy flames in the shape of verses.
His voice wasn’t the only thing that had the crowd creaming their pants. His hands trilled over the guitar like it was another limb. Fingers slid and stroked over the strings, caressing them like a clit or teasing a tip. Then he’d whip his hand over the taut wires like he was punishing them for reacting, daring them to break. And for good measure, he’d jut his sweaty groin into the back of the guitar, rolling his hips as he sang into the microphone as if he could fuck the riff into their minds.
Into you.
Up here, he could live forever. Everything he’d done in the last seventy years is wiped, like the blinding white of his brain cells convulsing as they flipped the switch to erase his memory. It doesn’t exist.
Didn’t matter up here. He had fuck you time to waste, and he hit every song like it could have been his last.
After the show, he’d walk off the stage and grab a towel from a groupie who wanted him. He lost that particular taste two weeks ago. The causal fucking, always the same, some person wanting to taste the Soldier’s torrid outro.
You’d changed him.
That much was evident to his bandmate’s with their comments. They’d offer sin, and he would look toward a heaven. One he hadn’t really considered since escaping Hydra. Of course, his Ma’s dreams for him were always bigger than his. Maybe in this, he was only fulfilling a hope delayed.
He shouldn’t want it, doesn’t deserve it that much, he’s sure of. But it had not stopped him from peppering your apartment with listening devices, cleverly concealed cameras. A few in your bathroom, kitchen, living room, and for good measure, four in your bedroom.
At home, the sound of your breathing soothed him at night when he sat perched in front of his computer. The gentle cadence of your soft breaths filters through his headphones. He decided it was like a song, the delicate intro of something that could last forever, like one of his tunes. He watched your day through the screen, listening in on your life while his pale, silvery blue eyes narrowed in on the curve of your ass.
God, you had been so beautiful that night, he thinks, while he clicks on footage from your bathroom. All wild abandon, the sultry movements of your body to his music in the crowd only fed the hunger in him.
He would treat you right. Hold you close, fuck you till you were full and then do it again so you’d forget your name. Forget everything but him. And if you didn’t want it?
That only made it more intoxicating. The idea pumped both ways from his chest, down to his cock and up to his brain, leaving him lightheaded at the thought of you being a fighter.
Bucky could only imagine how swollen and used you could be under his hands when he was finished with you. But he had passed the thought of jerking off for the hundredth time to the rythm of your breaths. No, it was time for action.
**
You slept. And dreamed of mellifluous things, because your body was a honey pot. Your mind had to be gentle, unlike his, Bucky thought as he watched you.
His sweetness. The dearest melody he knows.
Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell with the exertion of holding back. His mind raced with what to do with you first. The images pushed through his mind, and he started to sweat at just the thought of it.
“You have no idea…” Bucky spoke, his voice low and soft, frayed around the edges like his resolve.
“...how soft you look to me…” He said in an almost mournful whisper.
You didn’t even move, sleeping hard, you breathed softly through parted pouty lips, and Bucky could only think about what they felt like on his body. He hadn’t felt this level of calm since before the war. It prickled his skin. Felt foreign at first, but he allowed it to settle in his heart right next to you.
He rasped out your name, and you twitched in your bed. Any normal person wouldn’t be here. He isn’t. He hasn’t been that in a very long time, and there’s something about you that offers some semblance of that. Someone to help mask the memories of pummeling heads until they were a bloody pulp.
Bucky undressed right next to your bed, never taking his eyes off your figure under the blanket. You didn’t move until he slid in next to the warmth of your body. He pressed the line of his bare body against your back. His metal arm rested on your waist and pulled you closer. He waited.
You awoke, then realized and thrashed, twisted, tried to scream until he wrapped both his arms around yours. His thighs bracketed yours while he folded his legs, wounding around yours until you gave up. Panting and gulping down air, you started to tremble.
“Shush..” He breathed hot in your ear, he said your name like it was precious. “It’s me Bucky.”
“Get the fuck off -” And then you felt the cooler metal pressing into your bicep and choked out a tearful sob. It was true.
“No, no. Don’t do that.” He cooed, low, like he was soothing a wild thing he knew you to be. His girl. “I’m here now. I’ve watched your life, sweetness, you’re alone, like me. We need each other, babydoll.”
When he was satisfied you wouldn’t move, his metal arm shifted, pulling away, his fingers caressed your face. Your skin is hot and damp from tears, his vibranium fingers cool and smooth.
He twisted your head to look at him in the dark of your room. Around cracks from the curtains, the slivers of light from the streetlamps cut over his features, making lines sharp, dangerous as you look at where his eyes should be.
“We won’t ever be alone again.” He promised.
____________
I ran out of steam, but holy shit my first 1k fic in a very long time.
thinking about a Bucky who calls you doll and treats you like one.
Bucky who picks what you wear, what you eat, where you go, mostly importantly. Why would you need to think, to move, to act when he has everything under control? I’m talking manhandling, I’m talking about fucking you dumb when you dare to try and test it.
is he a ceo? is he high strung nepo baby, is he himself? I don’t care, run with it, add whatever you want, I love your work and am just horny
omg hello......pls continue to be horny here!
-------
He was born into power.
Old-money name, new-money empire, a father who carved out a business dynasty and a son who was raised to run it sharper, colder, smarter.
Bucky Barnes, CEO of Barnes International, raised on privilege and pressure until the two fused into something diamond-hard.
And then there’s you—
the softest accessory in his entire world.
Which is exactly how he likes it.
“Arms up, doll.”
You obey before you even realize you’re doing it. He stands behind you in the mirror of his penthouse dressing room, rolling up the sleeves of his navy dress shirt, veins flexing as he lifts a hanger.
He never lets you pick your outfits anymore.
Why would you?
Why should you?
He knows the fabrics that cling just right, the colors that make his coworkers look twice, the skirts that pool prettily around your thighs when he drags you across his lap.
He slips the silk slip down over your head, smoothing it over your waist like he’s ironing out wrinkles. Like he’s sculpting you.
“Perfect.” His voice drops, pleased. “My pretty little doll.”
You melt at the praise. You always do.
It’s part of why he took over the thinking for you.
The world is hard.
He is harder.
He holds your jaw with two fingers when he feeds you breakfast, guiding the fork to your lips like you’re porcelain—expensive, delicate, breakable.
“You’re not having coffee today.”
You pout. He raises a brow.
“That attitude telling me you need caffeine, or that you need a reminder?”
You swallow your argument.
Good.
He smiles like a man who’s won yet another deal.
He decides your appointments.
Your meals.
Your schedule.
Your outfits.
Where you go.
Who you see.
What you do.
And when you look up at him, wide-eyed and quiet, he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip like you’re thanking him.
But secretly?
You live to test him.
It happens after dinner—your little rebellion.
You try stepping out of the car before he circles around to open your door.
A tiny rebellion. Barely anything.
Still, he freezes.
Slowly closes his eyes.
Then exhales a quiet, dangerous laugh as he straightens up.
“Oh, doll. You really wanna play that game tonight?”
You take one step back.
He takes two forward.
Then suddenly your spine hits the car door as he cages you in, his hand wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just claiming.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “Thinking.”
You part your lips to argue.
He tightens his grip just enough to steal it from you.
“Did I tell you to get out of the car?”
“…no.”
“Did you wait for me?”
“…no.”
He smiles.
You feel it in your bones.
“Good,” he whispers, fingers sliding to your jaw as he tilts your head up. “Because now I get to fuck the attitude out of you.”
Your back hits the mattress seconds later. He drags you down the sheets by your ankle like he’s pulling a toy toward him, climbing over you with that slow, devastating confidence.
His hand grabs your thigh; the other pins your wrists above your head.
“You wanna act like you can think for yourself?” he growls against your neck. “Fine. Let’s see how long you can hold onto a thought.”
He pushes into you in one deep, brutal thrust.
Your breath punches out of you.
Your head empties instantly.
“There she is,” he groans, pace punishing. “My stupid little doll.”
Your legs shake around his hips, but he holds you open, body folding yours like he’s arranging a ragdoll exactly how he wants it.
“You were mouthy an hour ago,” he smirks against your jaw, fucking you harder, deeper. “Where’d all that go, hm?”
You babble something useless.
“That’s right,” he snarls, hand sliding between your thighs as he rubs you exactly how he knows destroys you. “Not a thought in that pretty head now.”
Your moan cracks at the end.
“Good girl,” he praises through gritted teeth. “Let me do the thinking. You just lie there and take it.”
His thrusts get sharper.
Your mind goes white.
He bites down on your shoulder as you break apart, clawing at him, sobbing out his name like it’s the only thing you know.
And maybe it is.
By the time he follows, spilling into you with a rough groan, you’re limp—exactly how he likes you.
His perfect little doll.
He tucks you close, stroking your hair, voice going warm again.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Don’t think. Don’t worry. That’s my job.”
And you believe him.
Because in his world?
Obedience is safety.
Control is devotion.
And you—soft, pliable, adored—
were made to be kept.
note, all my drawings posted here are heavily X reader implied**
while i get my ass to writing, i figured i might as well post these doodles, kinda nervous since i dont know how well drawn x readers do.
hopefully it will give the same affect and maybe i will do more of these
this is dark stalker/yandere! bucky, hes been on my mind for long. i needed to draw instead of write it. still not used to drawing actual faces so i apologize if he doesnt look like seb ;-;
please let me know if this is at all desirable, cause im really nervous doing this. thank you for your time 😭
winter soldier x married dr. reader
word count: 6k
prompts: erotophonophilia // bloodplay // knifeplay
disclaimer: murder. gore. very graphic depictions of violence, blood, knives. cheating. deliberate infliction of pain. bloodplay. knifeplay. rough but fully consensual sex. offensive depictions/language regarding mental health. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.
*please note: if you are having thoughts like those depicted in this fic, please seek professional help.
a/n: apologies for making you all wait three months for this...
✦ part one ~ playlist ~ bri's kinktober 2025 ✦
no matter how much you’ve waited for this moment, you’re not prepared for the sight of it.
you’d like to lie and say you hadn’t imagined the vision of exactly what’s in front of you now. you wish you could lie and pretend like you hadn’t taken to heart, memorized, and played out in your head all the scenarios he had theorized to you about how he’d take care of the issue.
the issue.
that’s what he’s become, what the man who you believed to be the love of your life is now reduced to: he’s nothing more than the issue. he’s the only thing keeping you from being able to fully devote yourself to the man who wants you, the man who appreciates you as you are.
he should scare you. his ability to take a life without breaking a sweat should concern you, should send you running in a direction far the opposite way. you should most certainly not find yourself to be intrigued, to be curious about hearing the ways he’s killed a million different men before, because that’s the opposite of what you spent your entire life training for.
doctor. medic. healer. however you choose to call yourself, it doesn’t matter, because has it ever truly reflected you deep down?
it most certainly doesn’t reflect the dark, twisted thoughts that spiral within your head of what he’s capable of. of what he could, would do to anyone you wanted, if only you said the word.
perhaps that’s the part that truly scares you: having the ability to enact your darkest fantasies through him. having a man like him, a killer, at your beck and call. a man who would do your bidding without even needing to be asked.
until now, it’s all been hidden, stuffed down, shoved back and locked in the darkest corners of your mind where no one can ever find them, including yourself.
and yet he’s the key that unlocks all those doors, giving way to the dark fantasies you know are wrong. letting you dwell in the truth that you like the blood, and the gore, and the sight of inflicted pain and disfigurement.
while all your classmates struggled to hold back from gagging in your first cadaver lab in medical school, you had the time of your life dissecting and destructing. learning the most sensitive and weakest points of a body, all the ways a person could so easily be put to death.
but you never let yourself accept it. you were sane enough to recognize your faults, to recognize the fact that your thoughts weren’t appropriate or ethical in any sense. you knew better than that.
you knew that you could use your intrigue for something productive, so that’s exactly what you did: you harnessed your love for the carnage into a useful skill that you could make a living out of, to repair the damage that you so deeply craved to be surrounded by.
years later, when the opportunity to work with a highly privatized organization presented itself, you knew something was up. no way were you going to pass on getting to be a part of whatever dark and sinister operations they were dealing in.
and clearly, it all worked out for the best, using your education while silently peeping through the keyhole in the door where you kept your secrets. hearing whispers of the jobs the infamous soldier went on, murmurs of how easily he could rip a person’s head from their body.
you were aware of his enhancements. you knew he was superhuman, by some means, although learning the information from your superiors was like pulling teeth. you didn’t hesitate to play the card that you just had to know, otherwise you couldn’t properly tend to him in order to satisfy your own personal curiosities.
you lived vicariously through him, hearing bits and pieces from coworkers. on the rare occasion, you would get to hear it firsthand from him, whenever he deemed it an opportune moment to share. you could picture the scenes in your head, images of him making use of nothing more than his own brute strength to viciously take someone’s life.
it was invigorating.
you never expected you’d be given the opportunity to see him at work, so up close and personal.
you never expected this, though.
this being the sight of the asset, standing over your husband, blood seeping out of a million orifices he’s carved into your other half’s skin with the pointed tip of his freshly sharpened knife.
except that’s why you’re here. this man is no longer the person you view as your other half, the torturer standing over him is.
the prospect excites you more than anything you’ve ever experienced in your life. to be seen, appreciated, and wholly owned by a man with the guts to do whatever is necessary to get the job done. a man who cares about not a soul, not a single body other than yours.
a man unafraid of bloodshed, of war, of embracing his insanity.
and you long to follow in his footsteps.
~~~
no one dares bat an eye when he begins to act differently around you.
no questions asked, no side eyes, no subtle comments about the sudden change in your dynamic, because they know better. they know better than to aggravate him, know better than to interfere with him when his mind is set, because the consequences?
the consequences of pissing him off are life and death.
you’ve enjoyed working in your position since you started, partially aware of the underlying dark intent of the organization you were employed by. getting close to the mysterious asset they possessed that enacted the most crucial affairs of all. tapping into your own corrupt thoughts that you hid from the world.
being a part of something that well and truly intrigued you.
the fact that you now spend most of your time clocked in with his hands on you, in you, encapsulating your entire being, is just a bonus on top of it all.
he doesn’t try to keep it a secret that you’re his. and no one dares question you about what happened with your husband, about whether or not you’re actually doing the job you were hired for anymroe, because they’re too fearful of your other half who won’t hesitate to go ballistic on them.
his work doesn’t falter. if anything, he’s grown more efficient, quicker and swifter in his operations.
and as long as his missions get completed, there’s no desire for his superiors to interfere.
you get to hear about it, now. every time you’re in his hold, a metal hand gripping your neck and a flesh hand working between your thighs, he gifts you with whispers of how he watched the blood spray from his latest victim’s jugular. each instance you find yourself on your knees in front of him, jaw aching around him as he holds you in place while you drool all over his skin, you’re blessed with the story of how his recent job pled and begged for his life as the soldier’s metal hand tightened around his neck until he couldn’t beg anymore.
all of it only makes your orgasm that much more intense.
he doesn’t exercise any restraint when it comes to touching you, not anymore. where there was an invisible boundary before, there isn’t one now. he knows your intentions, your desires, all of them a perfect match of his own.
he won’t waste a single minute trying to hold himself back from getting what he wants anymore.
not when he finally has you.
~~~
to your surprise, he waits.
he waits to take care of the issue, to come up with a strategic plan of exactly what he intends to inflict upon the man who kept you from him for so long. the imbecile who couldn’t appreciate you, nothing more than an obstacle in the way of the two of you finding your way to one another.
so he is going to take his time and wait, even if it means letting you go home to that idiot at the end of every day. even if it means letting you clock out and go back to your pretend little life with your pathetic excuse of a husband who can’t see the reality of the world and his marriage outside the bubble he lives in. he’s going to let your husband delude himself for just a little while longer.
because when all is said and done, you’re his, and you always will be.
one way or another.
when you go home without your ring adorning your finger after your first rendezvous with the asset, you’re nervous. you can’t help but be markedly concerned about what the reaction might be when you lie to your husband, pretending that you accidentally lost it. you’re concerned about what he could possibly accuse you of–ignoring the fact that his accusation would be correct– thanks to the fact that there’s nothing left but the soft tan line where the band used to lay.
you wonder if you’ll find a new one, a better one, on your hand come the end of your marriage.
the thought of that reminds you that it doesn’t matter what the imbecile thinks, because soon enough, he won’t be a problem anymore. you’ll be free of him and the monotonous, miserable life you lived with him.
you’ll be happy and you’ll never be bored ever again. not when the asset is a living representation of every wrong and immoral thought that’s ever plagued your mind, and you don’t have to hide it from yourself ever again.
you shouldn’t have been surprised when there was no reaction from your husband, when he didn’t even spare you a second glance given the fact that the primary visual symbol of your love was gone from its home on your finger. you shouldn’t have been upset by it, especially not after the colossal way you’d gone and violated your vows and disrespected your husband.
but you were. you were pissed that he didn’t have a care in the world, that the deep bruises that were left on your skin didn’t cause him to think twice about whether or not he’d been the one to leave them there the night before.
if there was even a single doubt left in your mind before then, there most certainly wasn’t one now.
you didn’t hesitate the next day, immediately seeking out the asset to give you everything you needed and more, all while encouraging him to do it. to do what you had previously been so scared of, to put an end to your misery.
to put an end to the life of your dreadful spouse who did nothing but cause you torment.
and yet still, he waited. he waited with the promise that it would all be worth it, that every time that moron tried to touch what was his, he would regret it.
oh, how he was right.
“what the hell is this?” your husband had asked into the empty space when he woke from a drug-induced sleep, arms and legs bound to the rickety chair he sat on.
you hid in the corner of the concrete room, nothing more than an onlooker as the soldier stood in front of him, blocking your view as he began to cause a ruckus with his attempts to pull at the ropes that held him down.
you noticed the way the soldier’s entire body almost quivered in anticipation, entirely elated to finally be in this moment where he could act out every cruel fantasy he had concocted of putting the final nail in the coffin of your marriage. he stood covered in leather, his typical mission-ready gear you’ve seen more often now than you ever did before you began breaking every professional protocol in the book.
he carried with him nothing more than a single dagger, a freshly sharpened tip at the end of the blade, pointed enough to slice through skin without requiring any effort whatsoever. he gripped it tightly in his flesh hand, knuckles turning white as he forced himself to hold back. this isn’t just any other job where the goal is to put an end to a life, no; this one is personal.
the asset stared down at the man in front of him, weak and at the mercy of whatever sadistic desires his twisted mind could formulate.
for as much as you’ve gotten to hear about his jobs, the stories of the tortures he’s exacted upon his victims, you still didn’t have a clue of what was about to go down. you’ve spent far too much time laying next to the man of the hour late in bed at night, fantasizing about how your new partner would drain the life from his eyes. piecing together what you’ve heard from him with your own insane ideas…
and yet, you still had no clue what you were about to witness.
you didn’t catch much of what the man in the chair said as your blood rushed behind your ears, overwhelmed with anxiety and excitement as you anticipated whatever the soldier would choose to do next.
as your chest pounds and your mind races, you think about how reasonably, you shouldn’t be here at all. for deniability purposes, you should be far away from this place, not daring to set foot anywhere near the vicinity.
but you just couldn’t help yourself. you couldn’t hold yourself back from begging the soldier to let you watch him work, to offer you the chance to see the scene play out with your own eyes.
and when he said yes without hesitating, promising that everything would be taken care of, you were sold.
which is how you ended up here, your heart pounding in your ribcage and blood pulsing through your veins all too quickly. your mind was unable to make out a single word your husband yelled as the soldier took a step closer, taking the knife in hand and pressing the tip of it to the center of his chest.
but you heard the way he screamed when the knife dug into his skin, seamlessly tearing through the fabric of his shirt and tracing a thin line down the front of torso. you saw the way his blood began to weep from the incision, soaking the ripped cotton in patchy splotches that grew larger as the knife dug deeper into his skin.
you heard the way he never stopped yelling as the man in front of him began alternating carving jagged and sharp lines anywhere he pleased.
which brings you to now.
the image in front of you, the asset at work, enjoying every second of it?
everything you’d ever envisioned, as intriguing as you imagined this scene to be, could never live up to the reality of how intense it truly is. your imagination could never have pictured how every cell in your body is vibrating, shaking, somehow simultaneously scared to death and incredibly turned on.
you couldn’t possibly be more ecstatic than you are in this moment, because this is it. this is your out. your freedom is being served to you on a silver platter by none other than him.
your freedom to chain yourself to another man, a man capable of everything. a man capable of killing on command and thus capable of putting a permanent end to the loveless marriage you’ve endured for years.
at least you’re fulfilling your vow of “until death do us part.”
the reality that your life is in someone else’s hands, someone better than your stupid husband, someone that truly cares to have and to hold you? someone who actually cares about your feelings and your happiness?
you thought that’s what you had with the man you took your vows with.
the man currently screaming and whining like the cowardly little bitch he is.
you watch the soldier withdraw his knife from the most recent laceration he’s imprinted into your husband’s skin before proceeding to walk around the chair and stand directly behind him. he wraps his metal fingers around the back of his victim’s neck and yanks his head backwards, a flesh hand coming to his forehead and yanking on his skin to force his teary eyes to part.
it’s only at this moment, when the soldier forces him to look, forces him to observe who the shadowy figure in the corner is that he sees you standing there. the moment when he finally recognizes that it’s his very own wife watching on, deriving her own sick pleasure from his life being put to a brutal end.
when your eyes meet his, you’re almost startled for a moment. but when you see the look of betrayal in his gaze, the realization hitting him, your heart is uplifted.
your gaze flicks over to see the way the soldier bends down, leaning into your husband’s ear as he tilts his head upwards to look you dead in the eyes as he says to the man, “yeah, you see her? your own wife, a doctor, and she’s gonna let you bleed to death. how’s that feel?”
you’re too busy staring back into those beautiful blues, too entranced with the promise of what he means to you, of what he would do for you that you don’t hear a single one of the pleas that fill the air. you’re sure your name is called out a few times, lots of desperate begging, but your mind is too focused on the captivating vision of your beautiful soldier across from you.
he holds your gaze for a few moments you think you could live in forever.
how could you have made him wait so long? how could you make him wait an entire year for the chance to touch you, to show you the glorious reality you could have had all along? how could you have been so stupid as to subject yourself to nothing but misery when you could have had the world with him?
all happens in due time, you suppose.
whatever screams that fill the air must finally disturb the soldier enough to steal his attention away from you. he diverts his line of sight away from yours and tracks down to the man babbling in his hold. metal fingers untangle themselves from their seat on the base of your husband’s neck, reaching for the bloodied dagger that rests in his tactical belt and withdrawing it from its holster.
his flesh hand tears itself away from the victim’s forehead and finds a new home on his chin, fingers digging into the sides of his face to pry his mouth wide open. your own jaw falls in tandem with your husband’s as the soldier wrestles his knife between your husband’s teeth, using his harsh grip on his jaw to yank down until you hear a crack, the sound of his jaw coming unhinged. the resulting shrieks do reach your ears this time, causing goosebumps to rise all over the surface of your skin. you watch as the dagger digs deeper between his lips, the asset proceeding to carve the muscle of his tongue right out of his mouth.
it’s a sight unlike any you’ve ever seen.
your feet begin walking before you even realize it, warmth brewing low in your stomach. you’ve seen enough now; you’ve gotten your fill of watching him have his fun.
you want to have your fun now.
you quickly step towards him with a single thought in your head. you deliberately ignore the fact that you’re stepping in small pools of blood on the floor as you make your way towards him, deliberately blocking out the pained screams of the man in the chair who has now lost his ability to speak any intelligible words.
the soldier is taken aback when you materialize next to him suddenly, too distracted by his current ministrations to notice your approach. you bring a hand to rest on his bicep and his motions instantly still as you appear next to him.
he doesn’t say a word, his eyes roaming your face as your own gaze turns towards the man in the chair in front of him, your husband, near dead from blood loss at this point.
the issue no longer keeping the two of you apart.
“enough,” you whisper, turning your gaze back to meet the bright blues that narrow at you when he hears the word emanate from your mouth.
he doesn’t have to speak for his confusion to be clear. enough? how can this possibly be enough when he longs to do so much more damage? you’ve both waited so long for this moment, and you’re putting an end to it prematurely?
“I need you,” you say firmly, your wishes laid clear for him.
and that’s all it takes. out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way the soldier’s hand withdraws the dagger from your husband’s throat and seamlessly finds its way to the front of his neck. those blue eyes never once leave yours the entire time as he slits deep into the flesh of his neck, deep enough for the remaining blood in the body to spill out and put an official end to your marriage.
your marriage, no longer a thing of the present, but the past. no longer a wife, but a widow.
free to do whatever you wish.
the next few moments pass in a blur as he crowds you, infiltrating your space and grabbing you with two firm hands on either side of your waist. you hear the knife clatter to the ground beside him as his hands manhandle you backwards a few steps before dragging the both of you to the floor beneath you.
you really shouldn’t have expected any different when you feel him already hard under his cargo pants the second he’s on you. you’ve learned by now that this is typical after every mission, always ready for him to unleash on you the second he’s back, letting go of the rest of his pent up energy in the warmth of your cunt.
you always love it. and now, you understand it so much better, getting to witness such a gory scene and understanding why he always returns with his pants straining.
you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dripping down to your ankles from the sight of him violently taking the life of the man who could never be good enough for you.
you love the way he instantly lets loose, unwilling and unable to hold himself back as he begins grinding down on you beneath him, desperately rutting his dick against your lower belly despite all the layers of clothing between your bodies.
his hands dig into your waist, thumbs bruising your skin with the force he’s using to hold you in place. you can’t help the small whines that fall from your throat, a mix of the pain and pleasure you feel as he uses your body to seek out the friction he so desperately craves.
as your mind whirs, focusing in on your own needy ache between your legs, your hand begins to trail down your torso to seek relief. that catches his attention, however, as his entire body instantly goes taut above yours and his metal fingers clasp themselves around your wrist to stop you.
the whimper you let out is quiet but pained. your own hips buck up against him to try and achieve the same goal you sought with your hand, but it’s no use as his flesh fingers dip down from your waist to your abdomen to press you down into the floor.
you force your body to relax as your face cinches tightly, brows pressed together and biting your lip to hold onto your composure. the lack of contact feels like torture worse than you’ve ever known before as he keeps you in place and doesn’t let go of your wrist no matter how you try to yank it from his grasp. he adjusts his positioning above you, pressing his weight off your body and onto his knees where they sit on either side of your hips.
and then you feel something on your chest, nothing more than the feel of a tickling between your breasts. you will your eyes to open and crane your head up from the floor enough to make out what’s causing the sensation.
there lays the tip of his knife, covered in blood, pressing down against your shirt.
your breathing hitches for a moment as the vision of him doing this to your husband not more than a few minutes ago replays in your head. you force your eyes to stay open and your mouth shut as he drags it slowly up towards the hemline of your shirt at your neck, notching the end of the blade underneath the fabric and beginning to slice it open to reveal your body to his gaze.
not once does the knife slice your skin, nor does he dare leave a single scratch on your skin. you’re far too precious for that.
he’d much rather ruin you with your nose pressed to his abs and your lips stretched thin around his cock.
your top is ruined by now, sliced clean down the center from top to bottom. you direct your gaze away from the knife up to where his eyes are open wide, staring down at your skin now bared to him. you keep your eyes on his as he looks down at the flesh of your breasts peeking out from under your bra.
once again, without leaving a single scratch on your skin, he tears the front of the bra apart with the dagger before dropping it onto the ground beside you, having served its purpose, now forgotten.
he’s seen you naked on numerous occasions, spread across your desk, the floor, even communal work spaces… but never once like this.
despite the destruction of your ring, despite the fact that you’ve affirmed to him that you’re his, let him lay his claim to you, you’ve never only been his until this moment. the cold, lifeless, silent body that sits in the chair is the proof that you’re free from the last shackles of your old life.
no one else will ever be entitled to you the way he is.
his flesh fingers find their home wrapped around your neck, just tight enough to satisfy the very need that courses through him. your breathing is unchanged as he holds you to the floor with a single hand, pinning you in place, unable to move an inch under his grasp. his free hand begins working to rip the torn fabric away from your torso entirely until it’s no longer a hindrance for whatever he plans to do to you next.
he moves quickly and efficiently, tossing the ruined garments in different directions before making to shove your pants down to your knees. you stay still as a statue, watching on as he assesses the sight of you: chest heaving, eyes blown back, every ounce of your body screaming for more contact and yet still holding yourself back until he finally decides to give it to you.
you’re perfect, doing exactly what he wants without needing to be told. understanding and appreciating what goes on in his sick and twisted mind, the same exact thoughts swirling within your own head. you’re a vision unlike anything else underneath him as the pools of blood collect around you.
his metal fingers find their way to the lace that sits on your hips. he trails his fingers over where it lays against your skin, dipping underneath the band and pulling on it before snapping it back against your flesh. he stares at you, watching for your reaction, a soft gasp of shock at the small pinching sensation the action inflicts.
with his flesh fingers wrapped around your neck, he feels it. he senses the change in your breath, feels the sharp gust of air flowing through your trachea in response to his little test.
he tightens his grip just enough around your neck as he does it again, pulling the fabric tauter this time to watch your reaction to the crack against your skin, sharper than the one previous and eliciting a louder sound from you.
under his palm, he can feel your throat working to create that little noise and the way you inhale shakily. it’s so intoxicating, so enticing to think that if he wanted to, he could take that delicate breath away without even trying.
except you trust him. you watched him torture your former husband until the point of his death, and you still trust him to lay his hands on you. you trust him with your life.
he pulls his hand away from the lace undergarment, and your eyes strain to watch whatever it is he intends to do next. his head tilts to the side as he looks down at the ground beside him.
there’s a small pooling of blood on the floor where his gaze tracks to.
you’re not prepared for him to suddenly run his fingertips through the mess, even less so when he brings those fingertips to press up against your cunt, still covered in lace, now soaked through with your arousal.
“getting off to the sight of a man’s death,” he grits out as he begins rubbing you over the fabric, blood seeping through and mixing with your slick. “‘s like you were fucking made for me.”
you whine as he taunts his metal fingertips up and down, the teasing nothing more than a cruelty with how badly you need him. you’re sure he knows how bad you crave for him to actually touch you, how bad you need him to just fuck you on the cold hard ground right now, even as your husband bleeds out beside you–
“please,” you whine, and the sound is music to his ears. it’s a confession of your desire for him, of your submission to him. now and for the rest of your lives, for as long as you both shall live.
“again,” he hisses as his fingers break away from where they touch you to dip back into the pool of blood on the floor. when you do as he says, continuing to beg him so prettily, he’s more than willing to oblige and reward your obedience.
“again,” he repeats, his metal fingers dripping with the blood of your former spouse as he pushes them past the barrier of lace and finding their home inside your dripping cunt.
like a mantra, you repeat “please” over and over again as he slowly begins fucking you on his red-coated fingers. with every breath you take, every word you vocalize, he feels it under his palm still wrapped around your delicate little throat.
and with each vibration against his hand, his composure begins to falter quicker.
“tell me how much you like this,” he commands. you’re a mess, falling apart so easily as he finally touches you for real, but you immediately begin responding in earnest.
“I love it, I love it–”
“yeah? love knowing I killed your husband, that his blood is on both of our hands?” he questions you with a raised voice.
“yes–”
“then let go. right now, come for me.”
like a good little puppet, your body listens without hesitation as you convulse underneath him. your moans echo throughout the room, ringing in his ears loudly as he feels every single working of your throat under his palm.
“perfect,” he grits as you come down from the high, but his fingers never stop their ministrations. he keeps moving with urgency as he watches your facial expressions contort with the overstimulation.
“soldat, too much–”
“another. prove you’re mine and do as I say.”
you would never dare disobey a direct order.
after another few minutes of writhing underneath him, growing more and more squirmy by the second, your body can no longer resist being thrown into a painfully pleasurable orgasm.
“perfect,” he repeats once more, as though speaking to himself, “and all mine.”
he withdraws both his hands from their respective spots on your skin, giving you the opportunity to sit up, resting your weight on your elbows to give you a better view of the sight in front of you: both his hands come to his belt, pulling at the leather with ease as he unbuckles the clasp.
your mind is running so slowly after the two orgasms he forced out of you that it feels like you’ve barely even blinked before your pants are gone and he’s hitching both your knees over his shoulders.
your head begins catching up with him by this point, enough so for you to regain some semblance of your consciousness. you become aware of the fact that he’s still fully clothed, his pants barely shoved out of the way, while you’re laying underneath him completely naked. the thought sends another jolt down your spine and another moan passes your lips.
you love the way he looks at you. you love how he treats you with care, but still pushes just far enough to bend you without breaking. you love how he fucks you with intent and passion unlike the imbecile who came before him.
and then, once more, you’re reminded that you’re free. free to make your own choices, and free to commit yourself to the man above you.
“say it,” he hisses as he presses closer to you, bending your body at your hips as he hovers above you and shoves your knees up next to your cheeks. you feel him drag the tip of his cock through the mix of blood and your slick as he waits for your reply.
“I’m yours,” you affirm. “you own me.”
he lets out a grunt of approval at your response, shoving forward and filling you to the brim in one movement. the noise you let out in response is deafening, your whole body trying to surge towards his and pull away from the intrusion at the same time.
but there’s nowhere for you to run, nor would you even want to.
you’re completely unaware of how your body can possibly bend this way as he leans in close enough to crash your lips together, his metal hand coming to rest underneath your head before his hips begin snapping against yours.
you’re so distracted by his roughness that you can’t even attempt kissing him back. instead, he swallows each and every gasp you let out as he moves with fervor, seeking out your collective releases as fast as possible.
his fingers that rest under your head tug at your hair, pulling just right to exact that pinching sensation to sooner overwhelm your senses and break you down until you’re nothing but a stupid, fucked-out mess.
your hands grab at whatever you can reach, his neck, his hair, eventually settling on the tops of his shoulders to try and ground yourself with each rough thrust he gifts you. you’re stuck underneath him where he has you pinned, and all you can do is hang on for dear life.
“please,” you whine into his mouth, your fingers digging deeper into the leather clad on his skin. “need to come.”
“for who?”
“you, just you–”
“do it.”
his flesh fingers remove themselves from your waist and barely even graze your clit before you’re crying out, your entire body shaking as your release takes over, squeezing his cock like a vice as your walls pulse around him.
he’s not far behind, his hips snapping into yours even more harshly for a few more thrusts before his own pained groan falls from his lips and a warmth fillls your belly. he doesn’t stop just yet, continuing to fuck his cum back into you as though he wants to make sure it’ll take this time.
as the fog in your head clears, his words ring out, “you’re mine. don’t you ever fucking forget that.”
You find him by the bass first—low and heavy, beating like a second pulse beneath your ribs—then by the heat of his body when he steps in behind you on the dance floor. A brush, a breath, the scrape of denim across the back of your thighs. You don’t turn around. You know that scent: clean soap, leather, the cold-electric tang of metal that always clings to him like weather. You tilt your head so your mouth grazes the line of his jaw as he bends to speak. The house lights strobe, violet then blue then blackout, and his voice lands in your ear like a hand closing.
“Hands,” he says, and his mouth doesn’t even move with the word. “Where are they?”
“Behaving,” you murmur, and you’re smiling when you say it because you want the warning, the pinch, the promise. Your fingers are laced at the back of your neck like you’re in cuffs, elbows lifted, bare skin offered to the press of bodies pushing and swaying around you.
“Mm.” He hums. His vibranium hand finds your hip, not gentle; his flesh one slips into the ends of your hair. The crowd swallows you both, strangers and sweat and the shiver of cold air falling from the AC unit above like rain. You tipped two tequila sodas down your throat and pretended not to see the way he watched you from the bar—how you laughed too loud at nothing, how you let a stranger’s hands sit on your waist for one song too long. A game. A dare. The line you draw just to watch him step over it.
“Where are you?” he asks, like a courtesy he already knows the answer to.
“Green,” you say, and you stand up a little taller in it. “Sir.”
That does it. He breathes out through his nose, small and sharp, and then he takes your wrists in his metal hand and brings them down and forward, guides you through the press of bodies, cutting between dancers like a knife splits fabric. You go because you always do, because it feels like being caught, because you want to; the bouncer rubber-stamped everyone hours ago and the floor is sticky underfoot and the DJ is splicing something filthy into something fun and you are laughing, breathless, until he isn’t laughing and then you aren’t either.
The corner is dark—one of those bad-lit hollows where a stack of out-of-service speakers lives like furniture. A column throws a triangle of shadow across a low banquette. The strobes don’t reach. There’s a puddle of color leaking in from the dance floor, just enough to make everything look like it’s underwater.
Bucky turns, backs into the corner, and sits. He spreads his knees. Denim pulls tight over his thighs, black tee riding up enough for a slice of stomach. The metal arm rests along the back of the bench like a bar; his flesh hand pats his right thigh.
“Up,” he says.
“What lesson is this?” you ask, soft, because the game is half the heat. You curl a finger in his collar and feel him swallow.
“The one where you learn,” he says, and the corner of his mouth twitches, “what happens when you show off what’s mine.”
“My what, Bucky?”
He smiles then, but it’s not kind. “Your everything.”
You climb. One knee on the bench, then the other, dress sliding up your thigh, the hem bunched in his fist as he drags you into place. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he looks at you; he never does. He looks like a man about to eat, about to pray. He settles you on his right thigh with practised hands, angles your hips, aligns you over the hard muscle of his quadriceps. Your core hits heat. The seam of his jeans seats between your lips, right where you need it. Your hands come up to his shoulders and he tsks, catches your wrists and lays them flat against the wall over his head, palms slick on concrete.
“Hold, sweetheart,” he says, and when you arch against the wall, testing, the metal hand closes around your wrists like a cuff. “I didn’t say let go.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He rocks his leg once, just a twitch, and lightning arcs out along your nerves. The club pours itself around you; a woman shrieks laughter near the bar; someone drops a bottle and it shatters like ice; the bass shudders the wall you’re pressed to.
“Feel where I want you?” he asks, voice a thread under the noise.
“Yes.”
“Show me.” He holds your gaze. “Ride.”
You move.
It’s a slow drag at first, tentative, finding the angle—forward, down, back—notching the seam against your clit, letting the rough weave scrape exactly where your body sings. You make a soft sound you can’t help, and his eyes get darker like you’ve fed him something.
“That’s it,” he says. “Take what you need.”
You grind down harder. The denim bites and your dress is a useless suggestion around your waist and heat licks up your spine. Bucky anchors you with one hand caging your wrists and the other a heavy press at the small of your back. Every time you start to speed up, chasing the rhythm your body craves, he tightens his fingers and slows you back down, forcing you to roll instead of rut. Deliberate. Mean.
“Please,” you say, and you hate the way it breaks.
“Already?” He tips his head, mock-pitying. “You were so brave out there. Smiling at strangers. Could’ve sworn you didn’t need me at all.”
“I need you,” you breathe. It tastes like confessing on a church floor. “I always need you.”
“I know,” he says, and then—kindness, reward—he lifts his thigh under you and you slide with a sticky, obscene glide that pulls an involuntary plea out of your mouth.
He presses his mouth to your ear. “You don’t get to come until I say,” he tells you, conversational, like he’s enumerating rules you’ve already broken. “You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t—” you gasp as he flexes his quad, “—I don’t get to come until you say.”
“There’s my girl.”
The dance floor is close enough that you could stretch an arm out and touch it. Close enough that a guy with glitter smeared across his collarbone stumbles by and catches your eye with a grin before he’s gone. Close enough that the music owns the air in your lungs and the lighting cuts Bucky into moving pieces—brow, cheekbone, mouth, throat, the glint down his left arm that screams you’re playing with bright sharp things, sweetheart, be careful.
He doesn’t want careful.
He wants you wide open and obedient.
“Faster,” he says, and you do, rolling your hips with more pressure, more greed, the seam torquing against your clit until your mouth falls open. The bench bites your knees. His hand at your back slides to your jaw and then your throat, fingers splayed wide, not squeezing—just a promise waiting. “Look at me,” he says, and you do, because you know better than to look away when he sounds like that. “That’s it. Show me your face while you make a mess on my jeans.”
You can feel yourself—slick, eager, the damp smear his thigh drags as you work yourself harder. He watches every second and gives you nothing but the bulk of his leg, the restraint at your wrists, the wordless hit of ownership in his eyes. You want his mouth and his fingers and the weight of him; you want his belt loose and his zipper down; you want to sit on him, sink down slow, take him so deep you forget your own name. He knows all of it because he taught you how.
“Bucky,” you whisper, a warning you can’t quite shape.
He smiles again, lazy and devastating. “Not yet,” he says.
He makes you stop on the edge three times. Each denial is a hook in your belly, a hard yank away from light; you shake with it, sweat running down your spine, thighs burning. The third time you whine in frustration and he laughs, pleased, thumb brushing the racing pulse in your throat.
“What?” he asks, faux-innocent. “You thought you’d get to show off and get my kindness? That how you thought this worked?”
“You’re not kind,” you say, and it’s a compliment, not a complaint.
He hums agreement, mouth soft with fondness that makes you want to cry. “You do look pretty when you beg, though.” He drags his thigh forward and your hips follow helplessly. “Use me.”
You do—because he told you to, because you crave the way he tells you what to do, because the sound you make when you follow orders is as much his as your body is. You rock faster, your slick catching at the denim, the friction a glorious ache that makes your vision spark. He tips his head, considers, then slides his flesh hand between your body and his to press two fingers against you, through the thin cotton of your panties, cruelly light. Your whole body jerks like he’s cracked something open inside you.
“Wet,” he mutters, reverent. “Fuck, you’re soaking me.”
“Yours,” you breathe, because it makes him gentler sometimes. Not now. Now his eyes flare and the fingers circling your clit go a shade harder, a millimeter faster.
“You are.” He sounds calm. He’s not. You can feel the tension in him, the coiled want, the heat rolling off his skin like summer. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
“Say who you’re doing this for.”
“You,” you gasp. “You, you, you—”
“Eyes on me.” His thumb lifts to your jaw again, a reminder, and you obey, pupils blown, mouth open. “Hold.”
He pulls his fingers away. You could cry with it. He pats your cheek twice—good girl, brave pet—and then he shifts his leg beneath you, notching his quad higher so the seam aligns like a blade exactly where you want it. He holds your wrists tighter. He leans in until his nose skims your cheekbone and his breath hits your ear.
“When I say, you let go,” he says. “Not before. Not after. If you disobey me I’ll put you on your knees in the middle of this floor and make you apologize to every single person who hears you choke on my cock. Do you understand?”
It goes through you like a spark and you clench around nothing, dizzy with it.
“Yes sir,” you say, and it’s a broken prayer.
He nods. Approval. Permission to fly.
“Ride,” he says again, and this time he lets you.
You grind down like you’re starving. You are. You fuck yourself on his thigh and the world narrows to a single point of friction, to the hot rasp of fabric on skin, to the solid immovable muscle under you and the iron grip of his fingers and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. He makes you do the work of it and you would pay for this; you would scream for this; you are breathless and shaking and so close your mouth has forgotten how to form words.
“Please,” you hear yourself say, wrecked. “Please, Bucky, please, I’m—”
He tightens his hand at your throat, a little. Enough to pull your focus like a leash. The room tilts and the music falls a few inches away and your pulse becomes the bassline.
“Now,” he says.
You fall.
It hits like a breakage, like the bottom dropping out of an elevator; your body bows and you clamp down hard around nothing and everything at once. Heat rips up through you and you’re coming, hard and helpless, soaking through thin cotton and onto his jeans, riding his thigh in messy, frantic bursts while he holds you exactly where he wants you. You hear yourself—loud, too loud—your cry torn right out of your throat, and you can’t stop it, can’t even think to want to, because he told you to and your body obeys and the sound rolls out into the crowd like a flare.
Heads turn.
A handful of people look; one woman laughs, delighted; someone wolf-whistles; someone else claps twice, like they saw a trick performed to completion. You don’t see any of them. All you see is the way Bucky’s eyes go heavy and dark with possession and something like awe.
“That’s my girl,” he says, low and ruined, pride roughing his voice. “Good. Good. That’s it.” He lets the pressure at your throat melt away and cups the back of your head, pulling you into his chest while the aftershocks fuck you to pieces. “You let go on my say-so, didn’t you? You did so well for me.”
You shake against him. You can’t stop moving. The oversensitivity is a bright ache but you ride it, twitching, gasping, whining into his collar because you can’t bite the sounds back and he doesn’t want you to.
When it starts to crest down from impossible to unbearable, he eases you. His fingers go slow on your hip. The press at your back turns to a stroke. He breathes you down like he’s landing an airplane—steady, steady, easy—and the world comes back into shape around you: laughter, glass, a hundred conversations. You sag. He holds.
“Up,” he says after a moment, softer. You try. Your knees don’t work. He chuckles, smug. “I said up, not alone.” He shifts his metal hand from your wrists and you feel the air rush back into your shoulders. He holds you by the waist and lifts, half-standing himself, setting you on the bench beside him. You sink. Your dress slides down your thighs and his hand goes under the hem, palm wide and warm on your knee, grounding you.
“You okay?” he asks. It’s the voice he uses in the quiet after, the one that belongs to nobody else.
“Yeah,” you say, and you tip forward and press your forehead to his jaw. “s good.”
“Good.” He kisses your temple, quick, like he can’t help it. Then, just to be an asshole, he drags two fingers over the wet patch he can see on his jeans and lifts them to his mouth. He tastes you, lazy, his eyes on yours the whole time. You make a sound you don’t have a name for.
“Bucky—”
“Mm?”
“That was—” You break off, searching for a word that isn’t ruinous or perfect or yours. You end up with, “Mean.”
He grins. “You love me mean.”
“I do.”
“Then let me keep teaching you.” He stands, rolls his shoulders back, resets himself inside his jeans with a casual adjust that makes you bite your lip. He looks like a study in restraint, like the throttle is open inside him and he’s still walking. “Think we owe the nice people a drink for the show?”
“Or a curtain,” you say, dry, and he laughs, head tipping back.
He scans the room, reading it the way he reads a battlefield: exits, sightlines, how the crowd moves. Then his gaze cuts back to you, and your stomach flips because you know that look. It’s the one that means he’s not done and you don’t get to be done either.
He holds out his hand.
You take it.
He leads you across the edge of the dance floor, skirting the throbbing center, body a constant barrier at your back. People move; they always do. His presence cleaves a path like a ship. He steers you past the line for the bathroom, past the smoking door, to a short private hall marked employees only that’s half-open, the lock obviously broken a century ago.
“Bucky,” you hiss, thrilled. “We can’t—”
“We can,” he says, and the authority in it makes your knees go soft. “And we will, unless you want to stop. Do you want to stop?”
You swallow. Your heart is trying to beat its way out through your throat. “No.”
“Color.”
“Green.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good girl.”
The hallway is dim and narrow and smells faintly of bleach. The door to the back stoop is propped with a brick; a box of spare napkins sits half-crushed under a Sanitation Schedule sign. He lifts you before your brain catches up, palms under your thighs, and you yelp, hands flying to his shoulders automatically. He pins you to the wall next to the door, hips crowding you, and the first drag of his jeans against your sensitive body makes you squirm and gasp. He shushes you, amused, then slips his hand under your dress again, fingers sliding under the edge of your panties to find you with indecent precision.
“Christ,” he says, almost to himself. “Still dripping.”
“Your fault,” you say, breathless. He strokes you once, slow, a slick slide that makes your eyes cross.
“I’ll take the blame.” He presses his thumb to your clit and your hips jump. “Think you learned?”
“Yes.”
“What did we learn?”
“That I don’t get to come until you say,” you whisper. “That I’m yours. That I—” He adds a second finger and you lose the sentence, clenching down with a desperate sound that earns you a soft ah, sweetheart against your mouth. “That I’m yours in public too.”
“Everywhere,” he says, and then he kisses you, deep and filthy and possessive, tongue licking into you like he plans to steal every air molecule you don’t need. You kiss back like drowning, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, fingers in his hair. He crooks his fingers inside you and finds a new lever in your spine and your head hits the wall with a soft thump. The door to the hallway bangs once as someone pushes it and then thinks better, the sliver of brighter light slicing across Bucky’s cheekbone and then gone.
He pulls back, breath ragged, and it strikes you, the way it always does, that the man who just made you come so hard you saw stars is also the man who lifts you with one arm like you weigh nothing, who checks your color like he’s reading a gauge, who knows exactly how mean to be. You reach up and cup his face and he leans into your palm for one heartbeat like a benediction.
“I’m going to make you come again,” he says, practical. “Quietly this time.”
“That seems unlikely.”
He grins, teeth. “You’ll try for me.”
You do try. You chew your lip and bury your face in his shoulder and muffle your sounds in his neck as he works you with his hand, slow and ruthless, thumb drawing slick circles over your clit. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. He says your name in your ear like a sin and the world telescopes down to the hot pressure building under his hand, to the wet push-pull of his fingers inside you, to the way he says good every time you shudder and clamp down around him. The bass finds you even here, a distant thump that keeps time with your heartbeat.
“Now,” he murmurs, and you come again, softer but no less deep, your body bowing in his grip. He rides you through it, hand firm at your hip to keep you from sliding down the wall, lips at your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, kissing you like reward.
When you sag, he lowers you with care until your feet find the floor. Your legs shake. He steadies you and then, without ceremony, turns on the faucet over the mop sink and wets a wad of napkins, wringing them out. He crouches, knuckles dusting your knee as he looks up your body, checking. You nod. He cleans you gently, efficient and tender, the cracked-tile kind of romance he’s best at. He strips your panties off with a slide and a soft, triumphant sound, stuffs them into his back pocket like evidence.
“Bucky,” you protest weakly.
“Souvenir,” he says, unapologetic. “You’ll get them back if you’re good. In the car.” He stands, tucks a stray hair behind your ear, palms your cheek. “Water?”
“Yes,” you say, and then, because you’re you and he loves you for it, “Kiss first.”
He does. It’s sweet, now. He presses his forehead to yours, that quiet that only exists in the eye of the storm you made together. You breathe him in, let your system come down.
“Ready to face your public?” he asks after a beat, amused.
“Absolutely not,” you say, but your smile gives you away. “If anyone looks at me—”
“They can look.” His mouth quirks. “They can know. That’s part of it, isn’t it?”
It is. The dark corner of the club, the hush in the hallway, the way your body waits to obey until he says now. The fact that if anyone paid attention, if anyone cared to know, they’d see the truth of you written in the shine on his jeans and the wobble in your step and the smudged lip gloss on his mouth. You are his favorite secret and his favorite spectacle and tonight, both things at once.
“Come on,” he says, and tugs your dress down like a gentleman. He smooths the hem. He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I owe you that drink.”
“You owe me two,” you say, attempting dignity and failing because your knees choose that moment to betray you again and you catch his arm with a graceless little grab.
“I’ll buy you three.” He opens the door with his shoulder. The noise swallows you whole. The lights are laughing. He leans into your ear, voice velvet. “And then I’m going to take you home and fuck you slow for being so good for me, and later I’m going to fuck you mean for making me show the whole city who you belong to, and you’re going to thank me for both.”
You shiver. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl,” he says, and when you step back into the pulsing heat and the bright, the room looks different because you are, and his hand on the small of your back says mine, mine, mine in a language everyone can read.
At the bar, the bartender gives Bucky a knowing look and you bury your face in his shoulder, laughing at yourself. He orders water for you without asking and whiskey for himself, slides the glass into your hand, watches you drain it, then immediately orders another. A woman two stools down raises her drink toward you and winks; Bucky’s mouth twitches, half a threat, half a smile. You take your second water like penance and let your legs recover.
He leans on the bar, forearms tight, ink at his wrist peeking. He looks at you the way men look at finish lines and home and the first good day after a bad winter. He looks wrecked and satisfied and still hungry.
“What did we learn?” he asks again, quieter now, private.
You lick your lips. You hold his gaze; you hold yourself in it.
“That I’m yours,” you say. “That I don’t get to come until you say. That I love you mean, and you love me safe.”
He exhales, a sound like relief. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’ll do.”
The DJ flips the track. The floor erupts. Somewhere a laugh breaks into a squeal. Somewhere a glass hits tile and shatters like stars. You stand next to your man with water in your hand and your heart in your throat, and when he hooks his fingers in your belt loop and drags you close, you go like you were born to.
“Dance with me,” he says, and it’s not a request.
“Always.” You slide into him, into the heat of bodies, into the bass. His hand settles low. The crowd swallows you both again. And even though you’re one of a thousand moving pieces under the lights, even though the music is too loud for anything but want, when he lowers his mouth to your ear and says your name, it feels like the only thing anyone in the room can hear.
-yandere themes, violence (nothing detailed nor happening to reader)
A/N: been wanting to do this for a while but since i completely dropped the fandom i was planning to remake for this i figured doing it with WS! bucky. i might do bucky as well but since i love winter soldier a bit more, this is what im doing. lowkey might draw this later
kinda realized after debating opening up my notes app doing this AU with Winter Soldier... it might be a bit uh difficult. so creative liberties my beloved
i love amy au (basically yandere falls in love w the rival/target)
works best with male reader in mind, but gn works too. no ocs, initial darling is mentioned as 'X' instead of a proper name.
~
you never got when people said that they were being stared through. until this specific moment in time. yet as your acquaintance, not exactly a friend was standing right there, so was the tall figure too. his hands gripped firmly on X's waist, his stare felt pricing yet, not quite there. it was hard to properly pay attention to what your long known acquaintance was talking to you about. they acted so weirdly casual while you felt like your nerves were ants burning under a magnifying glass.
it was getting increasingly more difficult trying not to flick your gaze over, knowing it would make you start to tremble. so you carried on, painfully. the moment it was over and your peer let you go, you ran off, still feeling the heated gaze on your back.
coming back home to rest after having spent most of the day avoiding X. the one thing you were trying to avoid most was staring directly at you from your table seats.
you texted X after you believed you got to a safe distance. wondering what the hell and who the hell was that. they texted back quickly, about "oh!! i forgot to introduce you two, he's just a little protective."
staring blankly at your phone, you were heavily doubting the use of the word little, (later finding out he attacked someone and almost killed them the next day). you didn't trust any of this and it set you incredibly on edge. eventually you got a name, well more of names. the feeling in your hand going softly numb while your body stiffened.
his fist (which you just noticed was metal) was clenching and unclenching. you knew you had to play this carefully or— you didn't even want to think about the worst. the awkward staring contest the man started, eerily he mumbled X's name. you stood at a odd posture with your brows furrowed. not understanding what the man wanted, his posture grew tense and the air thickened dangerously. "your relations with X,"
it gave more of the idea of what the soldier wanted. so you hoped the stumbling words that left your mouth was satisfactory. not beginning with the easier stuff but more of what X made hidden with causal relationships. the pain from your posture was really setting in while the soldier seemed satisfied.
you don't know when he left but you sucked in air, it felt like you hadn't in a very long time. exhausted, the only thing on your mind was to rest and never wake up. every bone in your body ached from the mental stress. while the skin made every hair rise. the whiplash from the soldier breaking into your house to get more information on X was startling. the timing was never consistent but it happened everyday without fail. learning this man was a trained assassin, why did he even need you? there was only so many times you could even talk about X and remember the shared moments between the two of you.
when you couldn't avoid X's presence and actually had to do your job with them, the Soldier was always by their side. a familiar feeling of his stare on you was getting more frequent. some part of you started to relax a little.
X had talked to you casually, never bringing up the 'soldat' even when you asked about him quietly. they seemed at unease, the air felt different when he wasn't clung to their shoulder. before you got up to leave they mentioned how close you two were getting. new behavior they hadn't seen before from him. it left you standing awkwardly in thought after X had just left. the incident that happened before it couldn't be because of you right..? a weird familiar feeling crept up. shoving the thought away and looking behind your shoulder, nothing was amiss apart from inside your mind.
eventually X texted you being happy that you and bucky were getting along. that no incidents has happened yet. by this point you weren't even shocked a little, only hoping to get a little bit of peace. yet the question only lingered in your mind, why a man like the soldier even needed you to get information he probably already had. the hope that he would just get bored a leave you to be with X was conflicting. dare you even admit to enjoying his aggressive presence. yet as you find stuff that definitely aren't yours you start to question yourself a bit more.
things only coming to a head when a person of your distaste, which you had a spat with earlier that day, ended badly injured.
then the soldier was in your home again, he refused to leave so you tried to make him comfortable in your house. his eyes ran over your form like he was checking for something. eventually taking whatever you gave in food or drink. when you went to bed you weren't expecting him to be there to watch in the corner. it freaked you out not knowing when he came into your room but you relaxed after a minute. truth be told, you felt safe within the space the soldier was willing to give to you.
he was still in your house when you woke up, still there with you when you went to work. back with you in your home. you still mentioned stuff about X, not knowing what else he would want. but when his continued to follow only you, its like he never knew X existed. you spoke their name once more and the soldier growled in warning.
he got closer to you that day, staring in your eyes. like he was trying to swallow you whole with just his sight. he backed you up against the wall, caging you against it. the threat always lingered in the back of your head, he could kill you at any moment but within this one, it was like it was never a thought he had. he spoke your name softly, "mine."
there you understood what had shifted, everything clicking into place. X was abandoned and he wanted you. and you were willing to give him exactly what he wanted.
summary: your doting landlord shows up in the middle of a thunderstorm with nowhere else to go. you’re oblivious to his advances and he can only be so patient… so, he takes matters into his own hands.
warnings: age gap, non-consent / dubious consent, manipulation, stalking, drugging, video-recording without consent, pussy pronouns, dumbification, degradation, spitting, mention of a gun
word count: 4.6k
authors note: this is messy and rushed please forgive me i just had to get it out of my system. i will edit this tomorrow … maybe. this is purely for me. thxxx <33
18+ content. minors do not interact!
drip… drip… drip…
the droplets had slowed to a steady rhythm, plopping into the silver bucket with a trying slap. yet again, water bloomed from the peak of your wooden roof. while the downpour of rain might’ve sounded awfully relaxing, the idea of giving your landlord a reason to say i told you so was not.
“you sure you don’t want me to put some reinforcements on that old leak?” bucky asked for the second time earlier that afternoon, his calloused hand coming down heavy on the bed of his beloved, beaten ford ranger— a 1960s relic. you had to wonder how long it had been in his family with how the mahogany paint had started to chip in long, thin metal scratches. “y’know you won’t be able to get off of the mountain once the storm hits.”
perhaps he was just trying to be amiable— an unassuming, bearish old man looking out for the little girl in the middle of the woods all by herself. he did always compare you to his daughter, after all; you were the same age, it’s only natural he should look out for you. however, you’d stopped asking questions once you realized his answers were always suspiciously vague. something about the aloof glint in his eye perturbed you.
he wasn’t what you would expect in a landlord. gruff-looking; deep tissue scars littered the small patches of tan skin that he couldn’t conceal, with lips always pressed together in a firm, downturned line. the crease between his brows never relinquished. he would surely wrinkle soon, you thought.
it was neglected, enshrouded by vibrant trees and perpetual winding roads. you drank in the fresh air like water, cold and crisp with each gulp. the cabin itself left a charming impression, with crater-sized holes in the foundation and boarded-up windows. he encouraged you to look past the suspiciously red, wet spatter on the wood-burning stove. you suppose it was your fault for answering the faceless kijiji profile with one single listing, but what other choice did you have with an obnoxious snack-stealer of a roommate and shoeboxes listed at twice your monthly salary. the disjointed tour bucky gave you was followed up with a deal he knew you couldn’t turn down.
“seven-fifty is all i can ask.” your ears perked up like a stupid, naive dog, and bucky knew he had you; kennelled and all. you were far younger than what he was anticipating; a pretty little thing he bargained would be harder to sell on the shithole, especially after he’d sniped the service drop. bucky would break the news to you with a sympathetic smile. once you’d signed the lease, of course.
“the ad said a thousand.”
“even once i fix it up, i don’t think it would be fair.” unlike your father taught you, you took the first offer.
you shook his hand then; cold and stiff, even through the leather glove. it swallowed yours with a tight, mechanical squeeze and you realized then that the sheer size of him should make you feel imperilled; a foot taller than you, wide enough to nearly breach the front doorway and biceps so defined you could see them under a battered henley and a thick wool jacket.
you were labelling boxes the next night and unpacking them a week later. just as bucky promised, your new home looked good as new with smooth maple floors and a spotless wood-burning stove. you didn’t see much of him after he handed over the keys. even when he did drop by, he’d only murmur out a few pleasantries at most.
it took you a month to realize that you didn’t have access to the seedy shed out back. you mentioned the padlock the next time he stopped in to mow the lawn, and the best he could come up with is that he’d lost it years ago.
“my bad, sweetheart,” bucky slanted his head with a sympathetic curl of his lips. “i’ll come back next week with some bolt cutters, yeah? i’ll get it cleaned out for you, too.” he gave you a pat on the shoulder as he slipped past you. even after cutting the fresh grass, he always smelled of iron and sweat. his touch inspired a roiling in your gut that couldn’t possibly be distinguished between dread or amatory butterflies.
the first time you made the trek down to the nearest payphone to call for his help was about that pesky leak of yours. you could hear the smirk in his voice, and he must’ve carried it all the way to your house for it was just as prominent when you swung open the door. your smile was sheepish as you led him to scene you’d been whining about; in the middle of your bedroom, conveniently enough. it smelled sweetly of you, with tightly tucked sheets and eerily organized delicious details of your everyday life. bucky suddenly felt guilty for muddying it up with his big boots and unwieldy latter.
you were mousy; restless and awkward at his feet. you twiddled with your thumbs and resisted the agonizing itch to glance up your landlords shirt while he was oh-so vulnerable; arms outstretched with his head tilted back in a poor attempt to get a better view of what he was working with. you made it a total of four minutes before you instilled your wholehearted, blind trust into him. you shifted from your right foot to your left, squeaking out a pathetic excuse about a pie in the oven. it was only natural for him to wonder if you’d done all of this for him.
when he was finished his work, bucky clapped his hands clean against his chest and followed the sharp, succulent scent that wafted down the hall from the kitchen. you invited him to stay for dinner— well, you didn’t have to ask with that frilly apron tied at your waist and that sweet strained smile. he welcomed himself to a seat, and so, you made him a plate. he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a home cooked meal— eighty years, at least. he patched up the inside, just for now, he explained between eager bites of food. he would have to wait for the supplies to fix the outside. you sent him home with a nicely wrapped container of leftovers, and he kept coming back like a hungry, stray dog.
bucky wanted to leave it at that— he really did, but he felt responsible for you. he didn’t plant the cameras for any reason beyond securing your safety. you slept with your bedroom window cracked open in nothing but a t-shirt. you constantly slammed your delicate limbs on pieces of furniture like a helpless fawn, crying yourself to sleep and painting on a pretty little smile for him the very next day. you were a young, unsullied girl all by herself, and he didn’t hold it against you that you didn’t trust him yet. if anything, he was glad you could be so clever. he was a big, strange man. he couldn’t possibly expect you to make the first move.
on his way out after collecting july’s rent, he sliced a radiator hose under your hood, and then he waited. it took two days for his phone to ring; frightened and faint as you blubbered on about how you’d broken down on the side of the road. “i didn’t know who else to call.” you hiccuped.
bucky’s balls grew heavier with each word. he told you to stay put, tone taut like a true sergeant. he found you fifteen minutes later alongside the nearby lake, and thirty minutes after that, your car was up and running. “it’s your lucky day, doll. i got a spare in the truck,” and then he was elbow-deep into your hood while you sat in the front seat, chewing on your nails. the job could’ve been done in ten, but you didn’t have any air conditioning in the meantime, and he liked to see you sweat.
bucky wasn’t sure how he could be more imposing. of course, he’d pegged you as naïve, but first it was the leak, then it was your car. a month ago, he toyed with your water pressure valves. he removed the cylinder from your front door lock. he’d gotten so desperate that last week he pulled on a balaclava and broke your front window with his fist. christ, had you even noticed the missing panties?
“i’ll be okay, mr. barnes,” you promised your landlord as he climbed into his truck. the wooden shingles had been weighing down the bed for weeks, but as far as you knew they wouldn’t be arriving until after tonight. you surely wished otherwise once the thunderstorm started. now, not only would you have to drain the bucket in the middle of your bedroom each hour, but the constant stream of trickling was a tune that not even a clap of lightning or the rumble of thunder could wash out. you hauled yourself out to the living room, curled up on the couch where you ignore the peculiar human-like shadows and shapes that are embodied by the storm from your bay window. you screw your eyes shut, and just as you trick your brain into sleep, there’s a heavy knock on the door that sends your gut spiralling.
the romance of spying on you through cameras had died; bucky needed to feel your pulse underneath his fingertips— or maybe he didn’t particularly like that he couldn’t see what you were doing once you’d left your bedroom. his vibranium fist fell hard against your front door. his patience was thinning, and just as he was about to fish out his copy of your key, the overly talkative door creaked open before him.
bucky was barely illuminated by your piddling porch light, hugging himself in a hapless attempt to shield from the cold. his black hood served no purpose now with his hair and shoulders soaked. the way his biceps flexed gave you reason enough to step aside, but when he started to shiver, you ushered him in. the silk pyjama set you wore only fueled his mundane delusions.
“i’m sorry,” he uttered with an apologetic grin. he stripped off his brown leather jacket, and then his hoodie. when he handed them off to you, his arm glinted. you tried not to stare. “i’m sure i startled you, kid. i was driving back home from the city and one of my tires popped.”
like a good homemaker, you hung his wet clothes and led him into the common room. your soft blankets and plush pillows were littered all over the couch, invoking a bashful apology. you started an attempt that would surely fail; collecting them all, when you felt a cold hand stretch across your lower back.
“s’okay,” he reassured you once you’d spun to face him. “i mean… i’ll need something to sleep with, too.” his voice was soft and repentant, grabbing one of the more modest blankets to toss on the ground. there was a roll of thunder, then he gestured to the couch. “that leak start again?”
you nodded your head. a timid curl of your lips would’ve gone unnoticed by most, but not him. he hummed, and his expression said everything his lips didn’t; what did i say?
“do you drink tea?” you asked him.
“black.” he answered. you disappeared like a well-trained animal to dance around your kitchen, leaves in tow. lightning came down once, and then again. the overhead light flickered, and then it was nothingness. now that the pot was done squealing, the cabin went silent enough to hear bucky’s steady breath from two rooms down. when you huffed, navigating your way through the void with two hot saucers, you heard his deep, throaty chuckle.
“you got a match for this thing?” bucky asked, his disembodied voice coming from the direction of the wood-burning stove. you crouched down until the china clinked against the table, and then, jostled your hand forward into the unknown until your fingertips dragged across the cast iron grove you always left them in. nothing. your brows furrowed.
“in the kitchen… i’ll be back.” you stumbled your way through the dark without calculation and with minimal damage; one stubbed toe and a hit to the radius. your smothered cries of pain didn’t fall on deaf ears, but bucky spared you the embarrassment when you returned.
the only light in the entire cabin came from the fire that he fed from the stove. he took one end of the couch, and you claimed the other. however, the single cushion between the two of you didn’t serve as much of a barrier. while you sipped your tea, he asked you aimless questions. “were you born around here?” “oh, so no family nearby?” “that’s no good… must be lonely, all by yourself.” “you shouldn’t be up here alone.”
first, all of bucky’s words started to blend together, and then your head started to spin until it hit the back of the couch. you could feel the gentle thrum of his voice beat through your chest, and then his hot palm on your forehead. “you okay?”
bucky’s words escaped you. they were a distant echo while you grasped at the last straws of cognizance. paralysis seized your muscles and cold seeped into your bones. even if you wanted to panic, the most you could feel was the sick churn of your stomach. you blinked.
“i didn’t know what else to do, baby girl.” bucky’s voice was slick with condescension— high-pitched and dejected like you’d given him no other choice. he was the prey and you were the beastly predator that had crowded him into a corner. your psyche falls further and further into a pit of disorient.
“aw… s’okay. let it out.” his words came out in soft murmurs of pity, thick fingers carding through your soft strands of hair in some deranged essay at comfort. you hadn’t noticed that you’d begun to sob.
“it’s not your fault. how’re you supposed t’know what’s good for you?” bucky sucked in a sigh this time. you felt helpless, specifically when his palm dwindled down to the delicate curve of your jaw. his thumb and forefinger locked around the hallow of your cheeks and squeezed. his digits whirl just below your ears, and you’re exceedingly aware that he could crush your skull like a grape.
“you just gotta understand that i’m looking out for you, yeah?” bucky chewed on each word. the veins in his neck were protruding enough to pop. the fire dances along his troubled expression— lips downturned and brows furrowed.
“there are a hundred dirty fuckin’ bastards around here that could really take advantage of you, princess,“ there’s a soft drone to his voice now. his inflection was that of a disappointed father; bedevilled by an obligation to correct misbehaviour. this pained him.
“what would you do without me? hm?” it had been so many years since bucky had a warm, winsome body to touch. he might’ve been a victim to limerence; his idea of courting was clouded by a past of blood, guts and gore. tenderness was a skill to be learned and protection went against everything that had been etched into the deepest corners of his brain— but it was innate with you. he’d seen the dregs of society; he’d kill each one of them again, for you.
what did you expect him to think when you twirled around in girlish dresses and baked him peach pie? you offered him drinks like a good housewife and fed him like a proper man. there was no other mark clearer to ask for his devotion. you were shy, and he didn’t mind making the first move. why else would you gaze up at him those toothsome doe eyes every time he stopped by? why else did you make such of a show of fingering yourself to no avail after he left? if bucky could get away with this, what would a truly nasty man do to you?
the gun you’d spotted in the denim of his front pocket two weeks ago and the foul smell from the shed he’d yet to clean out. you’d heard his whispered curses in russian and the mechanical creak of his left fist. his stare was vacant behind that beguiling smile of his. you often conspired about his past, but it all led to dead-ends. there was an orgy of evidence you’d chosen to ignore and you felt stupidly credulous.
tendrils of false hope clawed up and into your chest when you trawled your hand just far enough to clench the saucer on the table. you clutched it with ferocious intention, it was just such a shame that you moved so sluggishly. there was a rowdy clap of thunder.
bucky seized your feeble attempt at escape with a gentle squeeze of his hand and a stifled chuckle. he drove it into the cushion next to your head, cementing you into the couch. the yearn to fight emerged from the pit of your stomach and tore through your chest. you couldn’t move and he didn’t even have to try.
“quit cryin’.” you were heaving, tears spilling over again. like a child needing to be pacified, he quickly silenced you with the pad of his thumb— heavy and thick and salty on your tongue. you sucked. “yeah… that shut you up real quick, didn’t it?”
he drove the digit toward the back of your throat with a trying smile. he wasn’t satiated until you gagged, and then, he hooked it at the corner of your mouth. “girl like you shouldn’t be up on the mountain all alone, need a man to take care o’ya.” his words slipped out in an impassive murmur, all while he hunched over until his face was inches from yours. he tilted your chin with him, wet his lips, and poked out his tongue to swipe along the ridge of your own. the searing string of saliva tingled and burned.
until then, you’d been muzzled by fear; the loud blood pumping through your ears had silenced the ache between your legs and better yet, the surplus of anxious thoughts that gnawed at your composure, or lack-thereof. the smell of him engulfed you.
“yeah? say yeah for me, baby,” you crumble with a whimper, followed by a “yes” that was cut short when drove his thumb into your jaw. like he wanted, it went slack. he was frenzied; forcing his taut tongue into your mouth, slow and wet until he was licking into you. you felt like the catch of the day, being devoured and ripped apart with hot, hungry hands. if only his jaw would unhinge and take you whole.
the last of your vigour was used to kiss bucky back. he wasn’t ignorant to the pitiful twitch of your fingertips and toes— like the final aftershocks of life before you went limp. you were completely at his mercy. when he pulled away, your eyes said it all; wide and desperate. he reciprocated by dropping the heavy weight of himself between your hips so you could feel the tight strain of his stiff length in his dark denim jeans. you eyed him while he hallowed his cheeks out, collecting all of the spit in his mouth to empty into yours. one hand covered your lips while the other plugged your nose. your whine ignited a fire in his chest, while yours grew painfully tight without any choice but to swallow. so you do.
“‘m doin’ ya a favour, doll. you’ll see.” bucky’s voice is gravelly. the pet names fall too naturally off of his lips for comfort. they shoot directly down your spine and into your panties in a way you swore was involuntary. you couldn’t help how your body responded, after all.
“just wanted her to be nice and relaxed for me… that’s all.” his voice was a whisper this time as he dragged his lips down the tender flesh of your neck. he moved you like a lifeless doll; his large palms trailed over the swell of your ass, touch surprisingly gentle when he hauls your hips up and your sleep shorts down. your panties peel off of you with a slick, shamefully sticky sound.
“stop!” your horror could only be punctuated by soft, unintelligible cries and ragged breathing. bucky chose to misunderstand you. he was possessed by his need— he couldn’t fall asleep at night without wondering how warm your body would be next to his or what your hair must smell like. now that he’d gotten a taste of the real thing, he wouldn’t be able to get his fill. the metal of his left hand was cool when he positioned your knees into your chest and pinned them in place. you felt exposed in a way you never had before.
he prods you open then. without warning, curling inch by inch and bone by bone of the same finger you’d just lapped at. you don’t have the luxury of thoughts anymore— the hot stretch between your thighs is all-consuming. he scissors you open with his two front fingers.
“oh,” bucky breathed out. your legs served as a barrier between the two of you; his grey v-neck flat against your calf, your cheek crushed into your knee. you bent to his every will, his hard bulge nestled nicely between the soft fat of your thighs. “what was that y’were sayin’? don’t want this?” the lewd squelch of his digits dipping into you were crawling up his spine and into his skull. it was hard not to split you open like a starved, hungry animal.
“‘cause she’s just gushing, doll.” you were grateful he couldn’t see the way your face flushed, but he could sure feel how your hole stuttered. your stomach dipped and you let out a pathetic whine.
it feels bearable in the beginning, and then, he’s knuckle deep in your cunt. his rhythm is slow but purposeful, as if to test the stretch of your delicate, pink insides. you were quiet in defiance, but you couldn’t control the tremble of your bottom lip.
bucky took it as a challenge. his expectant eyes were trained exclusively on yours, refusing to break eye contact. the wading sounds filled the silence, hefty and rough fingertips kissing your cervix until you choked out a helpless moan. the itch to squirm or raise your hips for more couldn’t be satisfied. you wondered how it would feel it you could.
your eyes were wet again, watching bucky tug himself free from the confines of the denim of his jeans. they hadn’t even made it half way down his thighs. for once, you stared. “pretty little girl up here all alone? what did y’think would happen, petal?”
you were heavy and pliant in his arms. his thighs were meaty and warm when they split your knees open wide enough to split your glistening, swollen seam and bully the thick base his cock inside that tight, molten hole of yours. it took a minute, but when he finally bottomed-out, a guttural moan sounded from bucky’s chest. the warmth of you sucked him in— unbridled.
“yeah? feels good when you listen to me, doesn’t it?” that demeaning, drawn-out tone of his is harsh against your collarbone. he litters your skin in bruises, sure to remind you of tonight in the upcoming days. “just gotta let me fuck it out of you, m’kay?” his knees were driven into the couch, thrusts slow and restrained. “just gotta let it happen. it’ll feel good once i’m done, i promise.”
there was a flurry of emotion and drugs blinding you, but there was no denying the way his words made your core weep. your body betrayed you with a responsive whimper. his tip was burrowing into you, the underside of his shaft soothing the parts inside that ached most.
“takin’ me like she was made to,” his fingertips dragged along the curve of your waist, up and into your hair where he locked your silky strands between his fists. he ruts into your heat with a steady rock of his hips. a pair of dog tags hung low on his neck, swinging like a pendulum with each abdomen-tensing curl of his groin. they jingle jeeringly above your face that contorts in forbidden pleasure.
bucky leans down nice and low for you, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear. you can hear his smirk before he even speaks. “you’re even more compliant than i imagined.”
your eyes roll into the back of your head— from overstimulation or disgust, you weren’t so sure. what choice did you have? the laced tea still burned in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t swallow the moans.
the cool vibranium of his hand goes unnoticed against the meat of your ass. more importantly, you could feel his fat sac coil up and into his body each time he stuffed you to the hilt.
“just a warm set of holes, aren’t you?” the sound is obscene; the overflowing essence of you soaking the sheets each time he’s enveloped inside. you squeeze this time, and he shudders. his cock was a perfect fit.
you don’t answer though. your eyes are faraway until he drags his fingers across your face in one swift slap. you’re brought to life with a feeble “don’t stop”.
bucky would typically pride himself in his stamina, but he’d gone so long without a pretty girl in his life. he was depraved, and the way you looked up at him was enough to make him bust. fuck, he usually only made it halfway down the mountain before he had to pull over and fuck his hand to climax.
“how could you keep this pretty pussy from me?” bucky’s voice was accusatory; breathless. the building pressure in your abdomen was decompressed when he tugged himself out and flipped you over. he caged you in from behind, hips digging into your ass while he coaxed his pulsing cock back inside of you. your neck was strangled by the weight of his bicep and forearm, while the cold vibranium of his left pinky ghosted along your clit that so desperately throbbed for attention. his chest heaved against your back, and you felt the curls at his groin wet with your slick. your weight rested between him and the couch.
“s’okay, princess. just let it happen. y’know it’s gonna either way.”
with drool pooling at the corner of your lips, your cavern contracted in ways that took your breath away. you came with a soft cry, driving your hips back onto his with the little power you had. your toes even twitched, and bucky chuckled derisively in your ear. you were quickly engrossed with shame.
bucky didn’t take long to follow— filling you with hot, long spurts of cum. while his muscles tightened, your vision became blurry. your hole pulsated and your thighs started to tremble. you could feel the warmth of him seep inside of your every niche. it took him a few minutes of ragged breathing and muscle spasms to unsheath, freeing the creamy seed of his that spilled out and onto your couch. your eyes were half-lidded, but your conscious was starting to waver.
the storm had passed, and it was quiet apart from the seldom crackle from the fire. by the time you’d garnered up the will to move, he’d wrapped his arms around your torso. “i’m gonna take care of you. i’m not goin’ anywhere.” his voice was soft against the shell of your ear like it was supposed to be reassuring; it was a threat.
